Post by helena on Sept 15, 2011 1:44:15 GMT -5
Getting Vic from the balcony of the apartment building to her car in the garage had been an effort involving careful dragging—she had be gentle with his shoulder; patience, and extra caution. She didn't think many people would question why Huntress was dragging an unconscious Question. Sure they may have been questions about how they'd gotten there, but she didn't need any attention. There was no telling who would be loyal to the FBI and possibly call them in if word had gotten out about his escape. There were too many possibilities with the Feds being called in so she proceeded with caution until reaching her car.
She gently placed him on the ground and pulled her keys from the utility belt around her waist. She unlocked the passenger door of her blue, 1969 Dodge Charger as far as it would go before returning to hook her arms beneath Vic's shoulders to drag him the rest of the way. She situated him in the front seat, making sure to buckle him in and then shut the door. Soon enough, or what seemed like ages to her, she was finally in the driver's seat, metallic roof above her head and cruising out of the garage. She took the quickest route she knew that would take her back to her home in the suburbia of South Gotham. She didn't remove her cowl. It was one thing if Huntress was seen with Question, another entirely if it was Helena. She glanced over at him periodically as she drove, making sure he was alright. She knew he'd been shot in both the ankle and the shoulder, but if he had any internal injuries, she didn't know. She didn't know what he'd been through to escape from the clutches of the FBI. She knew, however, that finding out just how injured he was would have to wait until she pulled into the garage that adjoined to her house.
Minutes and some effort of again pulling Vic later, he was in her bed. She had removed his jacket and had all the tools she'd need to tend to his gunshot wounds, and a can of the aerosol that would remove his mask and restore his natural hair color. She took the can in hand first and with a cough as she inhaled the gas as well, removed his mask. Anger, disgust, and concern all arose through her throat at the blood and bruising. She knew just by looking at him in the light that his nose was broken. She reached up, glad he was out before touching it gingerly and then, gritting her teeth, set it back in place, hearing the crack of the bone. It made her nauseous not because of the sound itself, but because it was Vic's. She decided that cleaning the blood from his face could come last, his bullet wounds were more important. She moved to his feet and gently pried his one shoe off and carefully removed the sock and rolled up the leg of his trousers. She inspected the wound and saw no exit hole. She picked up the slender, metal tongs she'd disinfected with alcohol before she'd even begun her examination and gradually inserted them. She was relieved to find no bullet—he'd apparently removed it himself and she blanched at that thought.
She cleaned the blood from his ankle with a wet, warm cloth and then cleaned the wound with alcohol and another antiseptic before wrapping it in a clean, dry bandage. She removed his other shoe and sock as well, throwing both orange pieces to the floor to clean up after she was finished. Next she climbed into the bed a short, distance, allowing her knees to sink into the mattress.
Her fingers worked nimbly to loosen first his tie, which was discarded as carelessly as his socks. Vic was more important than it, not that fall would have harmed the non-sentient thing anyway. Next to go was that vest of his that he'd apparently decided to wear. It joined the tie and then her hands were working on his shirt, that yellow button-up he wore. She vaguely wondered where his fedora was as she unbuttoned the blood-stained fabric. Her eyes glanced to his head and as she slowly brought them down to return to her work, she startled when she saw Vic staring at her.
“How long have you been awake?” She asked softly, not sure if he was even actually fully-conscious.
She gently placed him on the ground and pulled her keys from the utility belt around her waist. She unlocked the passenger door of her blue, 1969 Dodge Charger as far as it would go before returning to hook her arms beneath Vic's shoulders to drag him the rest of the way. She situated him in the front seat, making sure to buckle him in and then shut the door. Soon enough, or what seemed like ages to her, she was finally in the driver's seat, metallic roof above her head and cruising out of the garage. She took the quickest route she knew that would take her back to her home in the suburbia of South Gotham. She didn't remove her cowl. It was one thing if Huntress was seen with Question, another entirely if it was Helena. She glanced over at him periodically as she drove, making sure he was alright. She knew he'd been shot in both the ankle and the shoulder, but if he had any internal injuries, she didn't know. She didn't know what he'd been through to escape from the clutches of the FBI. She knew, however, that finding out just how injured he was would have to wait until she pulled into the garage that adjoined to her house.
Minutes and some effort of again pulling Vic later, he was in her bed. She had removed his jacket and had all the tools she'd need to tend to his gunshot wounds, and a can of the aerosol that would remove his mask and restore his natural hair color. She took the can in hand first and with a cough as she inhaled the gas as well, removed his mask. Anger, disgust, and concern all arose through her throat at the blood and bruising. She knew just by looking at him in the light that his nose was broken. She reached up, glad he was out before touching it gingerly and then, gritting her teeth, set it back in place, hearing the crack of the bone. It made her nauseous not because of the sound itself, but because it was Vic's. She decided that cleaning the blood from his face could come last, his bullet wounds were more important. She moved to his feet and gently pried his one shoe off and carefully removed the sock and rolled up the leg of his trousers. She inspected the wound and saw no exit hole. She picked up the slender, metal tongs she'd disinfected with alcohol before she'd even begun her examination and gradually inserted them. She was relieved to find no bullet—he'd apparently removed it himself and she blanched at that thought.
She cleaned the blood from his ankle with a wet, warm cloth and then cleaned the wound with alcohol and another antiseptic before wrapping it in a clean, dry bandage. She removed his other shoe and sock as well, throwing both orange pieces to the floor to clean up after she was finished. Next she climbed into the bed a short, distance, allowing her knees to sink into the mattress.
Her fingers worked nimbly to loosen first his tie, which was discarded as carelessly as his socks. Vic was more important than it, not that fall would have harmed the non-sentient thing anyway. Next to go was that vest of his that he'd apparently decided to wear. It joined the tie and then her hands were working on his shirt, that yellow button-up he wore. She vaguely wondered where his fedora was as she unbuttoned the blood-stained fabric. Her eyes glanced to his head and as she slowly brought them down to return to her work, she startled when she saw Vic staring at her.
“How long have you been awake?” She asked softly, not sure if he was even actually fully-conscious.