27809 / 33334 — tom the realist
Someone whistled, high and piercing, drawing his attention. Behind him were three men. One stout with a close buzz cut, toting a small white box emblazoned with a red cross. Bringing up the rear was a redhead in plaid, with a particularly sour frown. Their vanguard—tow-headed, young, and extraordinarily ruddy—still held his hands near his mouth, pinkies partially raised.
“Cavalry’s here!” he announced, grinning.
The second one trudged in from behind him. “Medic’s here, more like,” he said, grumpily.
He gently nudged Galen out of the way with a ‘hello’ and an ‘excuse me’, then knelt and popped the lid off the box. Digging out a rather large dressing, he tore it open with his teeth and pressed it hastily against Johnny’s head. “Move your hand, Carmichael. Can’t see your brains, so at least that’s good.”
“…Could really use a smoke right now, Tom,” Johnny croaked. There was a pack in the front left pocket of Tom’s vest, and he would’ve reached for one himself if he weren’t so sure he’d miss.
“No smoking. No mooching, either.” Tom reached around to wrap the gauze around his cranium. “Let’s just hope you’re not bleeding internally. If you are?” He completed the first pass and went for another. “You were kind of a moron sometimes, like right now—” His eyes flicked over to Galen, who did not notice. “—but overall, was nice knowing you. Got any last messages you want delivered?”
The injured party scowled in response. “No, asshole…not gonna die. C’n I at least lay down? Please say yeah.”
Tom fought with the ends; they always gave him trouble. “Lay down sure, but I won’t let you go to sleep ‘cause I don’t know if you’ll wake back up again if you do. Lucky we’re relatively close to a hospital, so the EMTs should be here to cart your ass off pretty soon.” The corner of his mouth turned up as he nailed the knot. “Then you’ll get some morphine. Won’t that be a treat?”
