nysalogs | april catch-all.

[ He justifies it only because he's not bringing hounds to the man's door — the only kindness he can afford. It's this or limp halfway across town, his spaces in Wyver have dwindled to the minimal, and if Ana finds him like this it will be a Conversation, ("Hi, I got fucked up by a bear." "There aren't any bears in Wyver." Yikes.) There is a long, ugly gash across the thigh, from a set of vicious claws. Shallow, but bleeding — other cuts and slashes in the clothes, on the skin. He's got spares in his bag, but hasn't changed out of the blood-soaked ones. The cut on his forehead has been hurriedly but precisely taped up to keep his vision clear and the rest — are courtesy Jim's first aid kit. ]

[ Well he's about to find out what Jim Kirk keeps in his first aid kit. He lets himself in silently, gets to work as quietly as possible, sparing only a glance for when the occupant comes up and opens his mouth presumably to say what the hell. ]

[ Blandly, ]

Nice place.

[ They're both lucky, that Jim's as quick as he is - because after the kidnapping spree, he doesn't move for his phaser (always on stun), but for a fucking knife. But he recognizes the broad shoulders and surprisingly graceful movements of his intruder, and his spring to action stalls before it really gets going. ]

No it isn't.

[ It's a nothing place, barely qualifying as an apartment and looking almost as if it has no inhabitant. There's a cramped kitchenette and an empty space in which a table and a bed are crammed; nothing in the way of personal affects or touches, plain and empty except for whatever's in the fridge and a box of pieces he was tinkering with on the table, put away for now.

Jim gets up, turns a light on (a shitty, single overhead magic gas lamp contraption, thanks Wyver), and looks Alan over. Whether he likes it or not. ]

[ He moves away from the light — it illuminates about half the figure, showing only the gash, yet to be tended to. There's a sad line here, about how limned by the dark in an empty fucking room is the only way Bruce Wayne knows honesty. ]

No, it isn't.

[ After a moment, when his eyes have had time to take in every detail. His own room is equally unimpressive, every possession of real value squirrelled away in a secure location, outside the city. It should track as unusual — a person of Jim's outward demeanour having this in quarters he's spent weeks in, but this isn't the first time Bruce has seen a seemingly open window that leads into a blizzard. He put a lot of effort back in the day looking as shallow as a puddle. Make the outline convincing enough, and people will assume what they want, never seeing the deep, cold places that exist otherwise. ]

[ No comment. Just a flick of recognition. ]

[ Don't you give him that look, Jim's sensible enough to seek appropriate medical attention when necessary, unlike present company.

Hmmph. Jim steps away, nodding over to - a chair, or his spartan bed, you pick. ] Sit.

[ Out of a cupboard over the steampunk fridge comes a thin pack, a little worn; it's easy to conceal beneath his clothes on his back of his chest like this, which he's done with some regularity. He flops it onto the table and then moves to the sink to wash his hands. ]

[ He chooses the bed: sheets are easier to change and wash than cushions, and it lets him stretch. ]

I can manage.

[ He's never seemed like a guy looking for an out, but Bruce offers it anyway. ]

I know. [ This much is obvious: Alan Foster (If That Is Your Real Name) is a uniquely capable individual. Jim doesn't doubt he can patch himself up, but since he decided to crash Jim's pad to do it in, he gets to endure a little attention over it.

Besides, things are always a little sturdier when they aren't done upside down.

No line or suggestive eyebrows about the older man being in his bed; he's shot Jim down a couple times so far, and while he wasn't overly serious about the kneejerk flirtations, no still means no. He pulls a chair up beside so he can see what he's doing. ]

You expose it to anything weird?

[ No lines about the choice or how swiftly the math was done. It slots into place with his other observations. ]

No, they're just lacerations.

[ Just lacerations. Like just a broken spine too, the only thing to do with constant pain is to be cavalier about it. ]

Made with sterile blades, huh? [ Not actually giving him shit, there's a kind of humor in the casual question. That's not him asking, really, it's Bones, though the doctor would be spitting acid. Jim, personally, understands.

Anyway, thanks for getting tagged in such an intimate part of your body, birdman. Jim peels back the shredded opening in his trousers, has to cut away a little more to get a clear enough space to clean the gash. The items in his medkit aren't the same ones from the survival kit handed out at the station - home-made packets of this and that, cobbled together with items from Thesa and his own knowledge of chemistry.

He's not a professional, but he's serviceable medic. Steady, though not legendary, hands. ]

[ A kind of humor. A kind of understanding buried in that too — what the fuck, man. Serves him right for breaking into this room, of all rooms. He's got nothing in this world but all these things that crawl in uncomfortably, they simmers in his veins. He wishes for venom. ]

[ Alfred would have a few choice words. It helps to feel them. ]

[ Anyway. Bruce tears off part of the sleeve, looking curiously at a small cut that looks like a simple graze, but it's genuinely almost healed. ]

Do you have another needle?

You want stitches?

[ Jim glances up, eyebrows knitted together slightly. ] I have one, yeah.

[ That he hadn't planned on using. He flops the medkit on the older man's stomach. Enjoy. Meanwhile he's going to use tape to hold a portion of the gash on his leg together and apply ... something. It'll probably feel like skin glue, move like skin glue, but it's somewhat miraculously holding a lot better as it dries. Not as efficient or effective as a regen, but better than stitches. ]

Unless you had a —

[ New sensation. Boyish wonder is well beyond him in a world that no longer held much wonder, but intense curiosity leads to the look, the silence as he watches the skin glue. Softer, ]

— better idea.

[ His hand had reached for the needle, trusting what was familiar, but it hasn't done more than that. Jesus, Jim must think this is the Stone Ages, if he's got this on his hands. ]

What's that?

A protein-modified octyl cyanoacrylate, [ Jim says, testing to make sure the first portion has set before moving on to a lower part. The smell will probably be hitting Alan any second now, an unpleasant burning plastic undercut with something a little like ginger. ] In this instance it's a polymerizing bacteriostat. And I definitely overcooked it... [ he pokes the warped edge of the first stripe, gently, with a pinkie finger, watching it turn a little orange. ] Usually it's superheated briefly with actual medical equipment but I just used a phaser and.. [ mumble. ]

It's fine, though. I've used it and I'm allergic to like, half the binders in medication that exist, and it was alright.

[ His nose wrinkles briefly, cataloguing it. Wound adhesive. Bruce waits a moment before pressing on the skin around it with care, so he can see how it's sealed up. ]

You don't happen to know a John Watson, over at the Sanctuary?

No. Should I?

[ There's still some blood oozing where it's not patched up yet, so Jim's careful, making sure it's as clean as he can get it before spreading the gloop on. ]

This is just chemistry, [ Jim says absently. It's not actual medical care, it's a bandage. ] But at least if you pull it, you won't also rip open perforated edges on your skin.

[ If Alan is starting to think that humanity eventually decided stitches are super unsafe and unhygienic, he'd be correct. ]

He'll be happy to know this.

[ Given that John's complaints have largely been about how medicine is practiced here, locally. Imagine there'd be a lot to talk about for what happens in the future. ]

Even if it is "just chemistry".

[ Bruce knows the apothecaries for more than needing to expose himself to their drugs, he's substituted several types of pharmaceuticals using as many of the local ingredients as possible. Better painkillers, sleep aids — his own anti-anxiety meds are safely replenished when all of that was done. ]

Sure, just give me his contact info. [ Slightly wry, because it is just chemistry-- chemistry that he's considered sharing with natives, honestly, but he's not sure how Violating The Prime Directive that would be, or how badly mis-managed attempts might go. He's willing to play medical meth lab with himself, but other people? MMm. ]

Alright, tiger. [ It should sound flirtatious; it doesn't. ] Sit still for a few minutes to let it cure. Shouldn't take so long on any smaller ones.

Sure.

[ His phone is securely in a pocket on his belt, a quick unlock and Jim's pings with a new message to John's inbox. ]

No, that's enough. They'll heal.

[ suspiciously?? quickly?? He can't justify using this when they're going to seal up the moment he's in the same room as Diana. ]

Alright.

[ You weirdo is silently implied.

And so, Jim is just ... going to clean up, now, because it's not like tall dark and spooky came to socialize. (It's also not like Jim doesn't still think he's pretty cute FOR THE RECORD he's just not that kind of guy when someone is radiating Fuck Off. This is only slightly a mixed signal, for how much Jim recognizes competency.) ]

[ There's a sticky sort of silence his end, Bruce isn't really in the neighbourhood for thank yous. Most people aren't so calm when a random guy breaks into their house and bleeds all over their floor, but he expected nothing like that from Jim. It's good to have it in front of him. Good to rely on — ]

[ Shit. Feelings are an instant bye, Bruce is gone when Jim turns around. ]

april catch-all.

JIM KIRK;

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