[He's pretty proud of how crisp that rings in the now-heavy atmosphere of the place. 'The place' being this living room he still isn't entirely sure isn't going to land his dumb ass in more trouble than it's worth (couldn't he just sleep in the bar, under the counters, nestled with a bottle of clear whatever-the-fuck?). It suddenly smells like blood and burns, and it doesn't take a second to figure out why. It does take a blink-and-miss-it moment to set aside the clear bottle of (whatever-the-fuck) alcohol, to stand from a chair in the lame kitchenette adjacent to the living area and steady himself. He's reaching for the med kit and shooting Karen a look that's a bizarre twist of sympathy and the desire to get her to shut up, like it's something he's well-versed in.
Spoilers: he is.
And of course Frank is hurt worse (though Hawkeye still doesn't have a name for the bastard); he's been apparently playing in an open fire. Triage report says Karen's arms are and will remain beat to a pulp, but at least she's still got her pretty face. His hands are working to sort through gels and ointments and scissors and wraps.
He figures it must hurt like a bitch to just stand there bleeding and waiting. He's occasionally stealing glances at Karen moreso than he is at Frank (there's not much in the way of decision-making going 'round his head), so it's only natural he pipes up to address her first.] So what's a girl like you doing runnin' around with a chump like that? [This is important.]
Wink twice if he's holdin' you hostage. I'll negotiate.
no subject
[He's pretty proud of how crisp that rings in the now-heavy atmosphere of the place. 'The place' being this living room he still isn't entirely sure isn't going to land his dumb ass in more trouble than it's worth (couldn't he just sleep in the bar, under the counters, nestled with a bottle of clear whatever-the-fuck?). It suddenly smells like blood and burns, and it doesn't take a second to figure out why. It does take a blink-and-miss-it moment to set aside the clear bottle of (whatever-the-fuck) alcohol, to stand from a chair in the lame kitchenette adjacent to the living area and steady himself. He's reaching for the med kit and shooting Karen a look that's a bizarre twist of sympathy and the desire to get her to shut up, like it's something he's well-versed in.
Spoilers: he is.
And of course Frank is hurt worse (though Hawkeye still doesn't have a name for the bastard); he's been apparently playing in an open fire. Triage report says Karen's arms are and will remain beat to a pulp, but at least she's still got her pretty face. His hands are working to sort through gels and ointments and scissors and wraps.
He figures it must hurt like a bitch to just stand there bleeding and waiting. He's occasionally stealing glances at Karen moreso than he is at Frank (there's not much in the way of decision-making going 'round his head), so it's only natural he pipes up to address her first.] So what's a girl like you doing runnin' around with a chump like that? [This is important.]
Wink twice if he's holdin' you hostage. I'll negotiate.