I Concur With Your Statement


megan_icon.gif ryans3_icon.gif

Scene Title I Concur With Your Statement
Synopsis Ryans checks in on Megan after the raid.
Date October 18, 2011

Pollepel Island

The raid … didn't go quite as planned. It wasn't a total failure, but it was definitely rough. Megan didn't even realize that she was grazed until she got back to the island and the adrenaline wore off. So instead of heading to her quarters, she heads for the infirmary — which thankfully is empty right now. She's sitting on one of the hard chairs in just the black turtleneck she wore on the raid and her underwear, twisted sideways to rater awkwardly stitch a gash high on the outer curve of her thigh caused by shrapnel. It's not going to be pretty, but it's not like she cares about the scar itself — there's just nobody else around right now to sew it up.

She would be alone until the sound of heavy booted feet echoes down the corridor to the infirmary, ahead of the tall frame of Special Activities co-lead, Benjamin Ryans. Ducking his head, more out of instinct then fear of bumping his head, the man hazards a glance around. Clearly, he is looking for a certain medic.

He still looks as rough as he did when they escaped the scene of their last mission, sans the body armor he had been wearing. Face dirty, cut from flying glass. "Megan?" He calls, with very little inflection in his voice, before his blue eyes catch sight of her. A brow ticks up ever so slightly, before he enters the infirmary. "There you are." The flatness of his tone, says that he is not liking what he sees.

"Why didn't you say something?" Is offered as an afterthought, a little gentler, as he approached.

She ties off the first stitch before answering, setting the hooked needle down on the tray next to her. She turns to sit more normally — sitting turned that way is not exactly comfortable, nor does it make breathing all that easy. Thank God for years of yoga. "Didn't realize it was there until I was almost into the castle… and besides, why bother anyone else?" Her tone is a little tight but Megan shoots him a smile even as her eyes assess the damage to his face one more time. She's already assessed it as being nothing that a good shower won't fix, but now in better light, she just double-checks visually. "It's a pain in the ass, no pun intended, but I can reach it. With a little effort. Why haul someone else out of bed?"

She pauses and considers her own opinion on the matter and then asks with a rather tentative kind of amusement, "Don't suppose you're any good with a needle and thread?"

"I think the last thing you would want me to do is stitch anything." Ryans rumbles out, with half amusement and the other bland fact. He is snagging a near-by chair, scraping it closer so that he can sit. "The SEALs teach you a lot of survival skills, but stitching up a wound nicely… Not so much."

He studies the wound some — Yes the wound! "I think we are all lucky to get out of there with only a few nicks and scrapes." He straightens and finally meets her eyes. "Need me to fetch anything at least? Gauze, disinfectant." There is a small pause before he adds, "whiskey," his mouth pulling up on one side enough to show a brief smile.

"If you're bogarting whiskey and not sharing, Benjamin," Megan retorts mildly, "we're going to have words." Glancing down at the wound, she shrugs slightly. "No one said it had to be done nicely. It only needs maybe half a dozen." She twists her body into that rather awkward position again and takes up the curved needle for another stitch. It's not major to her — it'll just take her a little longer to do it herself. And she's nothing if not self-sufficient.

"What were you looking for me for?" the redhead asks as she jabs the tip of the needle into her own (already numbed, obviously) leg.

"Well, words will have to be had," he quips flatly. "I've always got whiskey." It is true. His drink of choice. Ryans hasn't sat down yet, maybe due to what he was searching for. He watches her stitch for a moment, avoiding the comment that rolls around in his head about scars and the shape… of… things.

Ryans gives a little shake of his head, more at his own thoughts, then anything else. He covers up the reason for the gesture by asking. "I wanted to see if you had any of the painkillers you could spare." Though his main reason might have been to check on her. "I feel like I got thrown around. I'm younger, but not that young."

Megan slants a look up at him, the second stitch in place. "Grab the surgical tape over there? And share some of that damn whiskey, if you please. This is not the most fun thing I do." Her lips twist into a small smile. "The painkillers are in the cabinet next to the tape."

In the time it takes him to find what she needs, she's put a third stitch in place. It's not as neat and tidy as she'd do on someone else, but hey… Then she has to relax again. Sewing twisted around sucks. Now she puts her eyes fully on the man walking around her med bay. She doesn't miss much, and as he hands her the tape, she captures his wrist and meets his gaze head-on. "I'm fine." The reassurance is quiet and stated with a sense that she knows exactly what he was doing.

"I might be convinced to fetch it after your done," Ryans counters with a knowing glance down at the stitching going on. He isn't the type to just carry something like that around. He might be tempted too though - to start carrying it.

Things are retrieved rather quickly and efficiently. The bottle of meds is given a shake, as if to double check the contents. Too empty and he'd probably decide against it. Though, it still gets set on the tray without opening it. In doing so his wrist is caught.

Blue eyes regard her thoughtfully. It is hard to tell what is happening behind them; but, then he gives a slow nod. "I believe you, but I also know you risked exposing yourself." Ryans gives her a knowing look. "You…" He doesn't continue, he traps her hand between his wrist and his other hand. There is a soft sigh, as he gives her hand a squeeze and lets it go. "You did good out there and impressed the hell out of me." He offers more of a smile, gentle and thoughtful. "You are welcome on my team anytime."

Megan doesn't move, doesn't pull away for a long moment, her eyes searching for … something. Whatever it is, perhaps she found it; that faint smile is knowing as he squeezes her hand. Pulling the appendage back, she twists a bit to work on placing the last two stitches she wants in place. "Good to know," she tells him calmly.

She struggles slightly with the last stitch, her hand shaking. The angle of attack is not great, and the adrenaline surge that's carried her through to this point is starting to fade. Blowing out a slow breath and flinching as she finally puts the hooked needle down for the last time, the redhead murmurs, "Take the damn painkiller. And find one for me too, please."

Even as the word are leaving her mouth, Ryans is gently taking one of her hands in his rougher one, and placing a pill into it. "You need it more." He states flatly and matter of flatly, curling her fingers over it. The trembling is noticed, when fingers linger for a moment. "Let me at least help you get bandaged." Though he speaks softly, the deep pitch of his voice makes it carry more. He might not feel confident about stitching her up, but this he can do.

"You look ready to fall over, so as mission leader, I expect you to get some rest when I am done." Hands fall away so that Ryans can prepare to finish patching her up.

She shoots him a grateful glance on the offer to do the bandaging. "Do not fuck around with me," she tells him, taking the painkiller. "Take one too. There's enough ibuprofen to go around." It's something that's easy to get in quantity and have brought back from the mainland whenever anyone goes, so she has a LOT of it.

Shifting her perch, lifting one cheek off the chair again so he can get to the whole gash, Megan laughs quietly. "This is *not* how quite how I envisioned being in my underwear with you, you know," she tells him candidly, shaking her head.

Tape is ripped off at various lengths and tacked to the edge of the tray careful not to fold it on itself. "I will." He concedes, finally. Stubbornness in the face of the feminine version only lasts so long. And… because, he doesn't want to piss her off. Again.

The chair he pulled over, is pulled closer, before he settles his tall frame on it. Grabbing the gauze, he scoots closer, ready to start. Blue-eyes look up quickly with a hint of surprise, but then he is doing something rather rare for the old man; he chuckles. Not something mocking or mean, just a gentle rumble of sound. "Ms. Young… pardon an old man for saying so, but I concur with your statement." An amused smile stays as the gauze is placed with a surprising amount of gentleness.

Megan's chuckle is easy. And as her thigh is bandaged up, she remains amused. "You really should quit that shit. You may feel old, but you're not that much older than I am." Glancing at him as he finishes taping, she teases with her tongue firmly lodged in her cheek, "Nice to know where your mind's been, though."

"More like the other way away around." He comments lightly. Not a whole lot of people know he wasn't the 40 years that he looked. As the last piece of tape it placed, he smooths it down, with a swipe of his thumb. "I may look young, but I'm much other then you think." Ryans levels with her a look as he straightens in the chair. "Sometimes, looks can be deceiving." Just a fact.

Slapping his hands on his thighs, he moves to stand again; foot nudging the chair back. "Now.." He reaches over and snatches up her pants. He regards them for a moment, but finally tossed them on her lap, with a smirk. "Get dressed, young lady. I believe you wanted some Whiskey. After today's mission I know I could use one."

Megan knows a bit more than Ryans may think, and she simply shakes her head at him. "Sure — because you get to age twice." He's said as much to her, and she's sorted out the rest. Snatching her pants from the air, she slips both feet into them and gingerly moves to stand. It's sore, but she'll live.

"Whiskey is an absolute necessity at this moment," she agrees. Scooping up her boots and just carrying them though the cold floor seeps through her socks, Meg limps just a hair on the leg and walks with him. "Where to?"

Stride shortened and adjusted for her slower pace, Ryans doesn't move to assist. Not because he is not a gentleman, in fact, he is probably warring with himself currently. Not that it shows. "I think the dining hall." Ryans offers after a moment of thought.

Stepping aside so that she can proceed him through the door, a hand sweeping across himself in a rather gentlemanly way. "After you." He adds with a small smile, "In fact, I'll meet you there." Possibly to retrieve the bottle, but maybe so he can clear his head, too.

She simply nods, letting him do the gentlemanly thing without comment wherever he does it and not commenting when he doesn't. Megan is pretty easygoing all the way around.

By the time he finds her in the dining hall again, she's settled somewhat gingerly into a chair at a table near the back wall, where her head is leaned back and her eyes are closed. Fine lines of fatigue bracket her eyes and the hint of strain can be seen in the way her forehead wrinkles. It seems she might be catching a combat nap — one of those things that soldiers on a battlefield tend to learn very quickly to do.

The light tap of glasses on the table might interrupt any sleep she might be getting, followed by a heavier thump of a bottle, clearly filled with liquid. "You look about how I feel right now." Ryans at least looks a little cleaner, with the grime wiped off it, leaving only the angry red lines where glass cut his features in the explosion.

Out around so many more people, he seems more of the statue and less the man. Appearances, maybe, or his comfort level with others. The former Company agent take a moment to fill the glasses with care. Lips pressed into a line as he concentrates on it. Bottle settles gently back on the table, this time with the cap left off… just in case.

The glass is lifted as he offers a soft, "To a successful mission."

Megan's eyes open before he's barely set the glasses down. In that split second between awake and asleep, not quite cognizant of the smile that she gifts him, the redhead's expression is affectionate and sleepy. It's gone almost before he registers it, and she is pushing upright to take the glass and touch hers to his. "To having a tomorrow," she murmurs softly.

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