Work Text:
The four of them finally pulled up to the base, where Doc ushered his three partners into the makeshift med bay.
Deimos was limping, slightly hunched over with something sticking out of his abdomen, one slung over the shoulder of Sanford, who was cradling a broken arm while trying to hide the bullet wound on his shoulder that was very obviously soaking through his white shirt; Hank towering close behind them, carrying his severed right arm in his left.
"…Hey," Sanford said, breaking the silence, shifting his weight to better support Deimos.
"Welcome back," Doc replied, analyzing the three in front of him, trying to decide which of them needed the most immediate attention. Based on previous patterns, he knew that no matter which one he deemed most in need of attention first would insist that one of the others be taken care of first. Hank was the worst about it. He would probably rather staple his own arm back on and risk infection than be treated before the smaller two.
"Get Deimos on the table," they decided, already slipping off their jacket and grabbing various tools and equipment, setting them on the cart next tot the operating table. Ignoring Deimos's faint and frankly weak protests, they tugged on a pair of rubber gloves, and gently pushed up Deimos's shirt to inspect the wound. The object sticking out of his abdomen was in fact, a knife. He was glad that none of them had tried to take it out otherwise things might be a lot worse.
"Sit, the both of you. I can't focus when you hover," they said, unintentionally harsh. The hovering was distracting, yes, but Hank and Sanford did so out of anxiety and love. Nevertheless, the two moved to the chairs near the operating table, Sanford leaning against Hank's shoulder.
Doc soaked a cloth in isopropyl alcohol, warning the barely-conscious Deimos that it was going to sting.
Deimos groaned as the cold alcohol touched his broken skin, cursing breathily, subconsciously trying to move away from it.
"Stop moving," he said, a touch harsher than intended. Then, softer, "I know it hurts but try and keep still as best you can." They finished cleaning the wound, setting aside the alcohol and rag to be cleaned afterwards. The next step was to pack and dress the wound. They pulled off their gloves and turned to grab gauze and bandages from one of the cabinets, glancing over to check on the other two. Hank gave him a slight nod, indicating that everything was alright.
Doc finished dressing and bandaging the wound on Deimos's torso. "I'll need to look at it again in a couple of days to remove the gauze and likely suture the wound closed," they explained as they helped him off the table, where he traded seats with Sanford.
Sanford had felt about ready to fall asleep, resting against Hank's shoulder. The adrenaline had finally drained and the pain was fully settling in. He'd been so focused on keeping Deimos awake and alive, ignoring his own injuries because someone he loved needed him. But now, all he wanted to do was collapse into bed, preferably with Deimos on his chest. For the time being, he'd focus on keeping his broken bones from grinding against each other and applying pressure to stem the bleeding from the bullet wound. It was a nonlethal shot, but that didn't mean that it didn't hurt like hell.
Doc swapped to a new pair of gloves to inspect the wounds. "Only a minor fracture, just needs a splint to keep the bones in place while it heals," he said, deciding that would be applied after dealing with the bullet lodged in his bicep. Luckily it wound up being somewhat close to the surface. Doc soaked a pair of tweezers in isopropyl alcohol to sterilize them and a small set of forceps before using both of them in tandem to probe for the bullet.
Sanford hissed slightly at the feeling of the tweezers/forceps in his arm. The feeling of Doc probing in his arm was obviously not pleasant, tipping more towards painful, but it wasn't the worst pain he'd felt even that day. He was used to just toughing out pain, as were his other three partners. It wasn't ideal but it was basically necessary for survival here and in their line of work. He glanced down to watch Doc work. It was almost mesmerizing to watch them work, with how focused they got. He knew that medical work required intense focus, but still it was interesting watching how their body language shifted between actively working on a body and doing intel gathering or talking with them.
Doc extracted the bullet, dropping it into a receptacle to be disposed of as properly as he possibly could later. It was a struggle following certain medical protocols in a barren wasteland but he tried to where he could. "Now to bandage and splint up that fracture," he said, reaching for the bandages on the cart next to the operating table. He wrapped the bandage snugly around Sanford's bicep, but not so tight that blood circulation would be cut off. Then he fitted him with a splint to brace the bones as they healed. "All done. Take Deimos with you, you both need the rest," Doc said softly, the earlier harshness in his voice gone. He didn't like seeing any of them hurting this much, never did, but it unfortunately came with the territory of where and how they worked.
"Thanks, Doc," Sanford murmured, sliding off the operating table, gently nudging Deimos awake, taking his arm to help him up and out of the med bay. Deimos leaned against Sanford as they walked, grateful to feel his partner in his arms again. Soon the two would be passed out, tangled up in each other's arms.
Doc watched the two leave before turning back to the operating table, starting slightly at finding Hank already on the operating table, "Jesus. Always forget how quietly you move."
A quiet chuckle emanated from under Hank's mask as he slid his jacket off, casting it aside at the head of the operating table.
"Shirt off too," Doc ordered, "I want to make sure you're not hiding any other injuries from me." He knew Hank well enough at this point to know how good he was at hiding injuries. He could feel the slight eye roll hidden under Hank's goggles as he pulled his shirt off too.
His arms—attached and otherwise—and torso were covered in scars and stitches. He was a physical display of Doc's medical handiwork, and they'd be lying if they said they weren't a little proud of it. Of him.
He was almost their creation, in a way. Taken apart and put back together so many times. Stitched together with small patches of skin harvested from scavenged bodies on missions.
Hank was beautiful.
Doc shook himself out of admiring his creation—his partner—who was staring back at him. "Right, no visible injuries. None on your legs?" he asked, "I'll know if you're lying."
Hank shook his head. He appreciated how thorough Doc always was, even if often in the moment it annoyed him. He knew they wanted to make sure he was in as tip top shape as he could be, and that his method of "slap a bandage over it and call it a day" was not always going to cut it anymore.
Doc pulled out the needle and thread, expertly threading the needle on the first try, giving himself slightly more than enough thread just in case, "You want to be numbed at all? I think we still have some, but I might need to send you guys out on a supply run soon."
"No. Save it for the other two," Hank signed.
Doc knew that would be the answer, but he asked anyway, simply out of habit. He made a mental note to check the stores of medicine and other medical equipment later. For now, he turned his focus back to stitching Hank's arm back on.
The act of putting Hank back together was almost meditative for the both of them. Doc first had to carefully reconnect the nerves and veins in his shoulder and fit the joints back together. He'd gotten this down to a pretty decent system, almost perfected at this point. After that was stitching the skin back together, connecting the arm with the rest of his torso.
Doc 's focus heightened as he began stitching. He wanted each stitch to be as close to perfect as possible, to the point where everything else in the world faded away into the background.
Hank still felt pain, yes, it was one of the few things that kept him clinging to the last shreds of his humanity. That and the love he felt for his partners. He hadn't felt love like this before them, and frankly wasn't sure if he'd feel love like this after them. He didn't want to even entertain the thought of there being an "after them." They were his world at this point, and he treasured them, as anyone would their own partners.
"Arm out to the side, please." The quiet murmur shook Hank from his thoughts and he complied almost immediately. Hank rarely took orders from other people, but Doc was the main exception.
"Good to see that the nerves all connected up nicely, as with the joint," Doc noted as he finished stitching up his shoulder, knotting and cutting off the small excess amount of string, "Grasp and release your hand for me, like you're making a fist and releasing." They stepped back to admire their handiwork on their partner, watching as he obeyed. They smiled under their mask, "Perfect. Get that shirt back on and let's go find Sanford and Deimos."