"That sounds like a party," Evan snorted when the man mentioned the barrel of laughs that ensued after he'd been bitten. "I don't think being Immune is anything to envy. It just means you're harder to kill." It may not have been the cheeriest of thoughts, no, but it was true and Evan was nothing if not a little slice of pessimistic realism in this shitty situation. It was probably an unpopoular opinion, too. Most people preached about how they were glad to be alive, how lucky they were, but Evan just… couldn't see it that way. Not with how he carried the memory of Olivia, Steph and his mom suffering.
Evan snorted derisively when the man proclaimed him an "on the front line" sort. Yeah. By force. "Glad you seem to think I'm so resilient," he mused as he glanced down at the wound. He was so smooth. He'd done a nice number on himself, hadn't he? The question the man asked made him snap his head back up. It wasn't that it was an out of the ordinary question, it just… had so many unpleasant annotations with it and Evan hated – absolutely loathed – thinking of the incident that started everything. And that question dredged it all up. "Back in the beginning," he mumbled in response, his eyes instantly darkening at the thought of his wife's birthday party and the ensuing week of torment, waiting for what he thought was the inevitable.
Maybe he'd have had a different outlook if the three missing parts of his family had been Immune too. Or at least Olivia… he thought somewhat selfishly.
Dragging himself back up from the negativity, though perhaps clamming up a little more than he had before, he laughed once hollowly when the man told him that it was best to fuck up with style. "I guess," he agreed. "I'm not entirely sure how much style goes into falling on your own blade, but hell, if it gets me style points? It's okay with me."
The offer of painkillers would have normally been rebuked by Evan immediately. You needed to have your wits about you nowadays, and anything that could dull this kind of ache took wits away. It was a dangerous game, but with the pain he was in and the thought of the attack on his family suddenly fresh and new on his mind, he found himself nodding. "I think I could get on board with that," he agreed. "Thanks," he added, knowing that it might be the last nice thing he said to the man until after he stitched the wound.
Evan's eyes wandered down to the man's work as he prepared the needle and thread, completely aware that this would hurt like hell. And he thought he was prepared for it. He hissed again and slammed his eyes shut, his body tensing as he felt every single bit of the needle's movement, and the thread following it. "Fuckin' peachy," he seethed, followed by a string of French curses under his breath.