. (afrit) wrote in doorslogs, @ 2013-05-20 13:54:00 |
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Entry tags: | supergirl |
Who: Kara → March
What: Narrative: Medical treatment
Where: Passages → Hospital
When: Nowish
Warnings/Rating: Nope
March had been dragging himself through the door every time Kara got herself kicked. For Kara, the Kryptonite was so bad it rendered her unconscious. For March, it was just the bullet that hurt like nothing he'd ever felt before. But it wasn't the pain that had him crawling back on through to Helena's apartment in Gotham.
It was the blood.
He knew he couldn't lose consciousness and let anyone mess with all that damn blood, not without him warning them about his status. He was still carrying the guilt of possibly infecting Ford, and he sure didn't need new folks to worry about. It was the damn blood that kept him crawling back through. Surely someone in that damn place would fix the girl. He knew enough to know she wasn't healing like she should have done, and he assumed someone there could figure it out.
But no one did, and days passed, and every damn time he got kicked it was harder to get back in, harder to keep his damn eyes open and make that crawl.
Until the day came when he couldn't manage the doorknob. Crawling, he could manage. But he couldn't manage that damn knob. Kara's Sanctuary door - the one that didn't lead back into Helena's apartment - didn't have a knob. But that door wouldn't show itself for anything, and March slouched against the wall and gave up.
He had no idea how much time passed like that, but he gained and lost consciousness in spurts, and he started making slow progress to the door of the hotel. He was bleeding sluggishly now, and he managed to keep pressure on his belly to stop from bleeding on the rug, where someone might inadvertently come into contact with it.
He had no idea how much time passed, but he eventually made it outside and into the Las Vegas sun. He normally hated that damn sun, but right then March was plenty happy to feel it on his face. And it wasn't real long before a car stopped for the sick looking man on the sidewalk.
"Don't touch me. Call 911." That was all it took.
The hospital was cold and sterile, and March didn't remember a damn thing after telling the paramedics his status over and over, just in case they weren't listening. But he knew he was in a PCU ward now, and he knew there would be a big old paper on his door that told everyone who came in to wear some damn gloves. It would be written so other folks didn't know what it meant, but March didn't care. No one would be getting sick, and he didn't feel like he was dying. It was all he needed.
He let that medicated sleep drag him under, and he didn't fight it even the slightest bit. He'd worry about breaking out and getting back through the Door after sleeping some. With that damn bullet out, maybe Kara could heal him up normal again.