"...is that. Oh god. There's a white thing in there, oh fuck, that's your - that's your rib, isn't it. That -"
"Don't throw up on me," Matt said, in between tight, shallow breaths.
"Oh man, I -" and that quick rushing noise was all Foggy. Matt heard him staggering quickly to the bathroom. It wasn't fatal; it wasn't even all that bad, but the cut across his ribs was deep enough that bone showed through. It hurt, yes, but not that badly; he didn't need to be cut that deeply before bone showed. The smell and sound of vomit actually made him feel worse than the cut itself, and it wasn't Foggy's fault, obviously, but - listening to him, smelling the sharp, sick stomach bile - Matt thought, a little selfishly, of not bothering the next time something like this happened. It'd be fine. Claire would be back in a day or two.
"Sorry," Foggy said, coming back into the room. He smelled like mouthwash and sick, which was almost worse than straight vomit. "I. Matt, you need to go to the hospital."
"No," Matt said. "This is a knife wound, they have to report those. It'll be fine, I'll talk you through it, it's easier than it looks."
Foggy stood still; Matt could hear how fast his heart was racing. "OK, get a - you have tequila, right? Or a Xanax? Take that to relax your hands, and come back." He made his voice as low and encouraging as he could, because it really hurt and he had a blinding headache. Someone had tossed him against the wall, that was right, his neck felt not good.
"This is not a situation that is going to be improved by getting drunk, oh my god," Foggy moaned. Matt heard the rasp of skin on stubble; he was rubbing his cheek. He got it, it was new, it was gross, but he hurt a lot and it would be really great if Foggy could get with the program here. "Okay," Foggy said. "Okay, I'm good, I'm fine, just - hold still."
**
"My god," Claire said, three days later, "tell me who did these stitches and I will cuss them out, this is embarrassing, it's a wonder it's only a little infected."
"Uh," Matt said. "Ow!"
"Matt," she said, "this is actually important. Nobody's gonna get fired, but this kind of work? Sloppy. Seriously unprofessional. I need to know."
He didn't know why he was so embarrassed. "Foggy did it," he mumbled.
She took a deep, careful breath. And then another one. "Your...lawyer friend."
"Yes," Matt said.
"You thought your lawyer friend should sew up a cut deep enough to expose bone."
"Yes."
"Do you understand that I have a degree?" she asked him. "Do you get that I went to school for this?"
"Ow," Matt said.
"Yes," Claire said, pitilessly. "It hurts because it's infected, and it's infected because you apparently thought that playing Operation with your untrained friend at his house was a smart idea? No sympathy for you, buster."
Re: Matt/Foggy or Matt&Foggy - Medical mishaps fill
"...is that. Oh god. There's a white thing in there, oh fuck, that's your - that's your rib, isn't it. That -"
"Don't throw up on me," Matt said, in between tight, shallow breaths.
"Oh man, I -" and that quick rushing noise was all Foggy. Matt heard him staggering quickly to the bathroom. It wasn't fatal; it wasn't even all that bad, but the cut across his ribs was deep enough that bone showed through. It hurt, yes, but not that badly; he didn't need to be cut that deeply before bone showed. The smell and sound of vomit actually made him feel worse than the cut itself, and it wasn't Foggy's fault, obviously, but - listening to him, smelling the sharp, sick stomach bile - Matt thought, a little selfishly, of not bothering the next time something like this happened. It'd be fine. Claire would be back in a day or two.
"Sorry," Foggy said, coming back into the room. He smelled like mouthwash and sick, which was almost worse than straight vomit. "I. Matt, you need to go to the hospital."
"No," Matt said. "This is a knife wound, they have to report those. It'll be fine, I'll talk you through it, it's easier than it looks."
Foggy stood still; Matt could hear how fast his heart was racing. "OK, get a - you have tequila, right? Or a Xanax? Take that to relax your hands, and come back." He made his voice as low and encouraging as he could, because it really hurt and he had a blinding headache. Someone had tossed him against the wall, that was right, his neck felt not good.
"This is not a situation that is going to be improved by getting drunk, oh my god," Foggy moaned. Matt heard the rasp of skin on stubble; he was rubbing his cheek. He got it, it was new, it was gross, but he hurt a lot and it would be really great if Foggy could get with the program here. "Okay," Foggy said. "Okay, I'm good, I'm fine, just - hold still."
**
"My god," Claire said, three days later, "tell me who did these stitches and I will cuss them out, this is embarrassing, it's a wonder it's only a little infected."
"Uh," Matt said. "Ow!"
"Matt," she said, "this is actually important. Nobody's gonna get fired, but this kind of work? Sloppy. Seriously unprofessional. I need to know."
He didn't know why he was so embarrassed. "Foggy did it," he mumbled.
She took a deep, careful breath. And then another one. "Your...lawyer friend."
"Yes," Matt said.
"You thought your lawyer friend should sew up a cut deep enough to expose bone."
"Yes."
"Do you understand that I have a degree?" she asked him. "Do you get that I went to school for this?"
"Ow," Matt said.
"Yes," Claire said, pitilessly. "It hurts because it's infected, and it's infected because you apparently thought that playing Operation with your untrained friend at his house was a smart idea? No sympathy for you, buster."