"Breathe," he reminds him, mind running its fingers past pages on signs, symptoms, and procedures. "You're safe."
A hand in his hand, and it is slick with blood. Midoriya works with his other hand to get what he needs from his belt. Gloves off, disinfectant ready, all of it passes in sharp relief. It should be a blur in light of how tiredly Midoriya slouches like a puppet with strings cut, but he will remember every bump of woven bandage under his fingers, every warm drop of paleblood daubed away. And he will not fall, supporting the shuddering one next to him with his weight. This is the one wound he can tend to out of so many wounds unseen.
He loops an arm around Paul and hauls him up, ignoring the weakness in his own legs. He guides him to sit in the back of the truck, where he pulls a blanket from the baggage and wraps it tightly around him.
He wipes Paul's face clean. (He's careful with the delicate skin under Paul's eyes.) Water is in order, and a steady arm--one that isn't his. Midoriya is too connected to everything that's shaken Paul, and his face is still streaked with his own warmblood besides. These are the thoughts that clip mechanically past each other as he resists the urge to put an arm around someone in need.
no subject
A hand in his hand, and it is slick with blood. Midoriya works with his other hand to get what he needs from his belt. Gloves off, disinfectant ready, all of it passes in sharp relief. It should be a blur in light of how tiredly Midoriya slouches like a puppet with strings cut, but he will remember every bump of woven bandage under his fingers, every warm drop of paleblood daubed away. And he will not fall, supporting the shuddering one next to him with his weight. This is the one wound he can tend to out of so many wounds unseen.
He loops an arm around Paul and hauls him up, ignoring the weakness in his own legs. He guides him to sit in the back of the truck, where he pulls a blanket from the baggage and wraps it tightly around him.
He wipes Paul's face clean. (He's careful with the delicate skin under Paul's eyes.) Water is in order, and a steady arm--one that isn't his. Midoriya is too connected to everything that's shaken Paul, and his face is still streaked with his own warmblood besides. These are the thoughts that clip mechanically past each other as he resists the urge to put an arm around someone in need.