| [Jun. 10th, 2013|04:51 am] |
The world wavered, like a reflection in unquiet water, when the crescent moon-masked ANBU eased Ryouma upright. He flung out a hand to catch himself; the ANBU caught him by the elbow in a firm, steady grip. “Careful,” he said.
Ryouma nodded. He dropped the hand into his lap. It was streaked with blood from elbow to fingertips, and the cold light of the glowstick picked up the tremors that he couldn’t stop.
His right hand was still there, with an angry, swollen red line under flaking blood across his wrist. Two fingers and a thumb still worked. But the medic was very carefully not making promises, and two fingers and a thumb couldn’t form a seal.
He tried flexing again. The middle finger barely twitched. He found his left hand, cupped it under his right, and tried pressing the fingers closed.
“Just let your hand relax, Tousaki,” the medic said. “Moon, you want to do up a splint on that for me? It needs to be immobilized.”
Kakashi looked over, face unreadable in mask and darkness. There was blood all over his right arm and side, and more blood streaking down his left shoulder; he didn’t look as if he minded much. The medic made a hissing sound, and poked at something in his shoulder. Kakashi looked away again.
“You got it,” Moon said briskly. He hefted Ryouma up again, with a little more help this time; Ryouma’s legs were beginning to come back, and he could scuttle awkwardly where Moon guided him, to a solid slab of rock a few feet away. Moon braced him up with his back to the rock and then crouched down in front of him, pulling a med kit out of his belt pouch. “Hell of a day for you, huh?” His voice had gentled a little; the smoky baritone sounded almost familiar. His gloved hands were warm.
Ryouma was, he was beginning to realize, very cold.
And still shaking. He leaned his head back against the rock, staring up at the knife-cut of starry sky above the valley rim, and thought about pretending that the hand being swiftly and competently wrapped in splints and bandages wasn’t his.
After a moment he stirred, catching the ANBU’s notice. The pale ceramic mask, painted only with a slicing crimson crescent through the left eye, tilted up at him inquiringly.
“Guess I’m washin’ out here,” Ryouma said, as steadily as he could. His tongue was still thick, prone to slurring. He couldn’t quite make it a question.
“Are you dead?” the ANBU asked.
Ryouma blinked. “Not yet.”
“Then you’re good.” The ANBU finished wrapping bandage around Ryouma’s wrist, tore the bandage neatly, and tied it off. “Think you can drink something?”
“You’re looking forward to watching me drool, aren’t you?” Well, maybe not; that had come out reasonably articulate. He worked his jaw, testingly, and decided, “Yes.”
The ANBU hesitated a moment, then said dryly, “No comment.” He unhooked the canteen from his belt, screwed the cap off the top, and held it out. Ryouma took it left-handed, and only spilled a little.
“Thanks,” he said, handing it back. His tongue felt almost normal again, and the tremors were beginning to ease. His wrist was also starting to throb savagely, as shocked nerves began to finally re-establish connections. He flexed the fingers almost unconsciously, but the tight bandaging didn’t let him move far.
Kakashi was still sitting quietly, behind the moon-masked ANBU’s tattooed left shoulder, as the medic’s green-glowing hands hovered over knitting flesh. Beyond him, a lump of shadow lay crumpled among shards of broken stone. Ryouma wet his lips, and raised his voice. “Thanks, Hatake.”
|
|