Work Text:
Several things happened when Nix reset the bone.
The first, as expected, was the crunch. Then, of course, the yell.
The third, Gottlieb was not prepared for. A soft whoosh in the air and a dull whump . That idiot had smacked Nix in the face.
“Dammit, McLaine. Hold still or I’ll break the other one.” Sticky warmth pooled over half of his vision. Those fucking rings .
Gottlieb grabbed a length of gauze, wrapping it around the side of his head in one single motion before getting back to work. He’d have to clean it after he put Chester’s arm back together.
After he stitched up Du Maurier.
After he got through this crisis with B Wing.
After he forced Kitsuragi to take his prescription, like a stubborn horse.
After he forced the horse to take its prescription.
It was dark when his office was finally emptied of fires to put out. No rest for the wicked, they said, and he liked to be able to earn it. He held a breath and quickly ripped the bloody gauze away.
But wait.
Pryce had a way of announcing himself before entering the room. Call it charisma, presence, or knowing the bastard for forty years. Gottlieb puffed on his honey cigarillo as he wet a rag with warm water, gently washing the dried blood away.
“Well?” he said to the man behind him.
Pryce didn’t laugh, but there was something in the air.
“McLaine got you good,” He rounded behind Gottlieb to sit on the rotating stool. “It’s all they’re talking about. You spurting blood while that idiot cries.”
Nix grunted. The blood was stuck on there good—dried clumps of it clung to his eyebrows, his eyelashes. It clung to the deep wrinkles around his eye, which he still could not quite open.
“All he does is cry.”
“And make problems.”
“And make problems.”
He dipped the rag back into the bowl, squeezing the water out.
“Here.” Pryce pulled the rag from Gottlieb’s hand. He squeezed, and blood ran in a watery tributary through the hairs on his hand before dripping onto the floor.
“No need, no need…”
“Shut up and turn towards me.”
There was nothing gentle about it. Pryce pulled his skin taut, rubbing the rag against it in thick circles.
The pressure of it rocked his head, the wound pulling open. Pryce rested a hand on Gottlieb’s neck, keeping him steady.
Nix frowned, puffing smoke into Pryce’s face. Pryce frowned, breathing it all in.
“You should have taken care of this hours ago, Nix.”
“This precinct won’t last if I take so much as a piss break, you know that.”
“Arrogant fool,” he agreed. “Stop moving. You’ll need stitches. He got you good.”
“I can get that.”
“Sit, Nix.” His hand was warm on his neck through the collar of his shirt and down his wool vest.
“You’re right. Who am I to deny an old man his sewing practice?”
Ptolemy’s lip twitched up at that.
“That’s the spirit.”