He'd been waiting for it, in no small part because March in New York wasn't near as warm as it was billed - though it was small change compared to Minnesota, where the first day of spring invariably involved snow - but he was still a little surprised when the hero in question crawled through his window and nearly sprawled across the floor, all without missing a word.
"Yeah, I'm Dr. Blake. Erik," he offered. Stepping over to close the window, he winced a little as he surveyed the extent of visible damage, and the measures taken to staunch the bleeding. "You know, I've seen worse," he said thoughtfully. Rarely such a variety on any one body, but he'd still seen worse. It was almost, but not quite, comforting.
All it meant was that this was a warrior, and should be honored appropriately. "Bring me a six pack and we'll call it good." What mattered was getting the wounds tended, and he was here and wouldn't ask questions he really didn't want to know the answers to.
"Hop up on the table," he instructed, moving to thoroughly wash his hands - up to the elbow, humming the main chorus of an appropriate song to mark the time, on instinct - and dry them on a towel his discarded before pulling on a pair of gloves.
He ran through a mental triage, and selected a heavy pair of scissors from his case, laying out the pads of gauze next to it, and after those, the needles loaded with lengths of thread next to it. "Let's deal with the gash first," he said with all the surety that came with being a surgeon, the rock star of the medical profession. "It's going to hurt. And I'm going to need to cut off that part of your costume," he warned. Once he figured how to remove the webbing pad, that is.