A Friend In Need


Grant_icon.gif Gwen_icon.gif

Summary: …is a friend indeed, but a friend who bleeds is better.

Date It Happened: December 18, 2002

A Friend In Need

Grant's Mansion

It is very, very late at night. The hands of the clock have passed twelve, and Grant is…well, doing whatever Grant may be doing at this hour, which might include sleep, or might include the question being whoever instead of whatever. Regardless of this, the sound of tires on the gravel of his drive through are heard, and there's a pounding on his front door.

It's not so much the pounding as it is the ruckus the dogs make because of the pounding that brings Grant down. Dobermans aren't gigantic dogs, but they sure sound enormous. It'd be enough to wake the dead. After descending the stairs in a hurry, still tying his robe, he calls them off the door where they've gathered in a roiling mass of ferocity, then takes a peek out the peephole before turning the locks and pulling the chain. Somehow he manages to look alert and awake when he opens the door.

Gwen is leaning against his doorframe, one arm crossed over her body, hand clasped around the arm that is pressed to it. She is very, very pale. "Grant," she begins, her breath shallow, "I need help - " she doesn't finish the statement, because her eyes roll back and her knees start to buckle and the slide of her body leaves a smear of blood on the door.

What better reason to be awake and alert than a bleeding woman passing out on your doorstep? Grant's not a slow thinker, and as soon as it's evident that Gwen is dropping, he leaps forward to catch her. He manages to get her before she hits the floor, grimaces a little at the awkward positioning, then eases her into a position more conducive to carrying and lifts her again. The door is pushed closed with a foot and hastily locked, then Grant heads for the stairs again, taking them as quickly as he can. There's a first aid kit in the master bathroom, which it doesn't take too long to reach.

Now see, here's the reason Gwen came to Grant. Even while unconscious, her body gives off electrical energy. Blue pulses course over her skin, rippling over Grant, fortunately to no avail. The bleeding shoulder is revealed; Gwen's been shot. Not only is she going into shock, but the metal of the bullet lodged in her shoulder is making it worse. There is simply no one else she knew of who could help her. She comes too fairly shortly once in the bathroom and says, "I need - Grant, I need you to get it out…" her voice is mumbly. "Can talk you through it."

Grant was a good choice to come to about this, too — not only because he can actually do this without going into cardiac arrest the moment he touches Gwen, but because he's cool under pressure. Even as he lays Gwen out in the tub — cold, perhaps, but easy to wash later — and retrieves the first aid kit from the cupboard, he's calm and collected. "Mmn, so long as you stay conscious," he utters. "What will I need?" The question of how the bullet got there can wait.

Gwen continues to breathe shallowly, "Alcohol. Mmm, both kinds…bandages. Tweezers. Thread." She looks up at him. "I'll be fine…thank you."

"You won't be if I waste time on superfluous questions," responds Grant smoothly as he digs through the kit. Alcohol, bandages, tweezers, and a sutures kit are present — but of course, booze is not. He sets aside the other things within easy reach, then rises to his feet again. "Alcohol is a blood-thinner. If you get drunk, you'll bleed worse. Are you sure?" Even he knows a little about such things.

"What was that about superfluous questions?" she asks through clenched teeth. Resisting the urge to snap at him to get her some fucking vodka (because even she knows that won't endear the person trying to help her), she says, "Just help me get my shirt off." Oh, boy. At last, Grant gets to undress her. Of course, it might be wiser just to cut it away, and this scenario doesn't exactly bring on the sexy.

No, not really. And Grant doesn't even crack wise. He just goes for the scissors in the kit and checks their edge against his thumb. "I hope you're not terribly attached to it," he says as he applies blades to fabric. First from the edge of the sleeve of the injured arm to the neck, then from the neck down to the hem of the shirt. This allows the shirt to be peeled off from the opposite side without having to lift or move the injured arm. "I'll buy you a new one," he adds as an afterthought, tossing aside the bloodied thing.

The wound is gaping but has since clotted, and looks much bloodier than it actually is. The wound itself is fairly clean. "I need you to pour the alcohol on the wound," she hisses, "And then heat the tweezers, and then you need to go hunting for the bullet. I don't think it's that deep."

Oh, this will be great fun. Grant frowns a little, then rises. "I'll fetch a lighter and something for you to bite down on." He's not gone long and returns with a wooden spoon. There weren't many options. This he hands to Gwen, then he uncaps the alcohol and seats himself on the edge of the tub, bottle poised over the wound. "Ready?" He waits two seconds, then pours on a fairly notable amount. No use flinching away and not sanitizing the whole thing. That causes infections. While she recovers from that, he sets about heating tweezers (though not too hot) on the lighter.

Gwen eyes the spoon with contempt, though her teeth clench down hard of their own accord in her mouth when he pours on the alcohol. One of her hands tightens into a fist, electrical currents running visibly down her body, sparking out from her fingertips, even running down the lengths of her hair.

Fortunately the bathtub doesn't conduct well, otherwise he'd be doing this in the dark. It is a bit of a dazzling sight, however — not one he focuses on long, mind, but takes note of. With the tweezers heated, he eases himself down into the tub beside Gwen and gently eases her to brace against his knee. It's easier for him without having to lean over the edge of the basin. Before he begins, however, he purses his lips and sighs. "I might be able to help take a bit of the edge off," he states. "My power can hypnotize some. It might not be completely effective, but it might be distracting enough to take your mind off things." He sounds hesitant to even bring it up, knowing Gwen's apprehension of him.

Gwen's teeth remain gritted, and she talks through them. "No, just get it over with." She does not cry, but her eyes are liquid, and take on a peculiar backlight as electrical energy continues to course through her.

"Suit yourself." He's not inclined to argue. Grant doesn't fear for his life, but he does like his house, and he'd like to keep that house undamaged. Somehow, he doesn't think an electrical bomb exploding in the bathroom would be beneficial to the house. So bracing his free hand against Gwen's collarbone — a measure to keep her from squirming about more than anything — he inserts the tweezers and proceeds to dig. And while he's definitely not finding this enjoyable, he's unflinching and not overly gentle about it either. His aim is to get the bullet out as quickly as possible, not to wilt like a pansy and spend half an hour poking around in Gwen's shoulder.

And Gwen appreciates it, in theory. It only takes a few seconds - maybe about ten in all, but they're an agonizing ten seconds, until Grant can finally pluck out the bullet and Gwen lets out a gasp of relief, though the fun has only just gotten started. "Clean it out and sew me up." she instructs in a terse voice. "If can't, I can do it myself." Because she's butch like that.

"Undoubtedly." Grant drops the slug on the floor with a small clatter, then reaches for the suture kit and alcohol. "No doubt something you've learned through necessity." Now that the worst of it's over, he feels a little more talkative. More alcohol is applied, then washed over needle and thread to sterilize before he proceeds to stitch up the hole — something at which he is surprisingly adept. These hands aren't just for piano playing. "Who caught you in their jewelry box?" he asks as he works.

Gwen occaisionally makes a little grunt in acknowledgement of the pain, but otherwise she doesn't let herself get histrionic about it. "You going to throw me out if I tell you that's none of your business? Part of the job requires a certain level of client confidentiality, you know." Her mouth quirks with an ironic set. "You should understand that."

Grant smiles just faintly at the remark, but he's focused entirely on his work. "Don't be ridiculous," he intones. "I would have to be a monster to throw you out — and despite whatever you may think, I am no monster." The last is said lightly, almost teasingly, and with a further upward pull of the corner of his mouth. He finishes the sutures, ties them off, then goes for the gauze and bandages to begin dressing the wound. "You can have the spare bedroom. You've lost too much blood to be driving anywhere and need rest."

"I have some resources I can tap tomorrow for the extra help, just…not at this hour." Gwen says, and closes her eyes briefly. "Thanks. Though I don't suppose there's any vodka to go with that bedroom?"

"You're more than welcome to any extra help I can offer," utters Grant. "As you can see, I'm available at any hour." He secures the bandages and sets the rest of the kit aside before getting to his feet and climbing out of the tub. "There is vodka a-plenty to go with the bedroom, but let's see if we can get you there first, hm?" He bends to lift her up in his arms again. Why risk having her faint and tear something? Not exactly the scenario he'd had in mind when it comes to carrying shirtless Gwen to the bedroom, alas.

"You seem to be managing just fine." Her eyelashes are fluttering as shock begins to make her drowzy. Maybe she won't need the vodka. She might just pass out. "You're pretty strong for a pencil pushing lawyer who sits around a desk all day." Funny, Gwen doesn't seem to be minding him carrying her, and the electric courses running through her have died down. Every now and then an arc travels along her body, but they just ground out when they try to arc to Grant.

"I like to keep in shape," is the affable response. "It's useful for those moments when women show up bleeding on my doorstep." The drowsiness is not lost on him. She probably won't need the vodka, which is all right with him. The wound probably needs time to clot anyway. Grant opens the bedroom door easily without having to shift much weight anywhere (it's not like he hasn't done this before) and then moves to lay Gwen on the bed. He proceeds to remove her footwear for comfort. "Do you have any food allergies? I would prefer not to kill you with something I make for breakfast."

"No…" Gwen murmurs drowsily. She's wearing what appears to be boots, but with soft soles so she's soundless when she walks. They're probably custom made for her. She lays docilely enough on the bed while they're removed. "I'll see you in the morning…" she drifts, and within moments, despite the pain, she's out.

The boots are set near the bed, and Grant gently pulls the covers up, mindful of the shoulder regardless of how asleep Gwen is falling. "Mm-hmm." He bends down to place a kiss on her forehead, lingering perhaps a moment longer than he should. "Sleep well, Gwen." He hesitates a moment at her bedside, then turns and heads out of the bedroom, closing the door quietly in his wake. He might be half a demon, but he's too much of a gentleman to hang out at the foot of the bed and watch her sleep. Besides, he has a bathroom to clean and a door to fully lock before he also calls it a night.

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License