"Shit, Red, shit. This is bad."
"No, it's not, Lizzie. It's just a graze."
Another day on the run, another day being shot at. When did this become the new normal for Liz? Oh well, it doesn't matter right now because Red has been shot, Red is bleeding, and Lizzie is panicking.
She is sitting on the couch in their current safe house, staring fixedly at the blood slowly but surely soaking Red's shirt sleeve, while Red sits, apparently unperturbed, on an ottoman in front of her.
"Lizzie, really, it just a graze." Red murmurs to her, trying to talk her down.
"But it's bleeding so much, Red, why is there so much blood?"
"It must have nicked an artery, Lizzie, but its fine. As long as we get it bandaged quickly, it will stop. But it's too high up on my arm for me to do it. I need your help. Can you do it?"
He needs her help. Red needs her help. Red has been shot, Red is bleeding, Red needs her help.
Liz takes a deep breath.
Yes, she can do this. She nods.
"All right, I'll take my button-down off and you should be able to work around my t-shirt, all right?"
Oh, Red is taking off his shirt, how interesting. Well, not all his shirts, just one shirt, but it's still a layer less than he's ever let her see before and isn't this exciting?
No, Liz scolds herself, the attraction she may or may not harbor for Red and his muscly arms - he is certainly more built than one might expect from looking at him in his three-piece suits, isn't he? - has no place in this situation. She has to stitch and bandage a bullet wound. Everything else can wait.
Liz takes a deep breath and gently peels the top of Red's t-shirt sleeve away from the wound, trying to watch his face carefully at the same time for any indication that she's hurting him. He keeps a completely straight face however, staring calmly ahead, relaxed and at ease. But she doesn't want him to pretend he's not hurting just for her own piece of mind. And that certainly sounds like something Red would do.
"You'll tell me if I'm hurting you, right?"
"You won't."
"Red."
"Fine but Lizzie I've been through much worse, this won't kill me."
Liz rolls her eyes, not appreciating the reminder that she has, in fact, been present for some of the 'worse' he is referring to. She firmly pushes away the memory of him being gunned down by a sniper in the middle of the street. No, no time for that right now.
"Well, still. I'd like to avoid causing you any pain if possible, for some reason." She mutters the last part to herself, side-eyeing Red as she does so.
"Well, I thank you for the consideration, Lizzie. And I heard that."
Liz rolls her eyes again - Red will give her some sort of disorder, at this rate, she is sure of it - and plucks an antiseptic wipe from the first aid kit laid out on the coffee table in front of her and begins to clean all the dried and fresh blood from the area around the wound, ignoring Red's whining that the wipe is "cold, Lizzie, you could have warmed it first".
As the blood comes off Red's arm, clean, tan skin is revealed to Liz, and her heartbeat slows considerably. The graze really isn't that deep at all, everything is fine, this will be easy. But what are those dark lines there? Is that-
"Red, is that a tattoo?" Liz asks, peering at the strange markings as she scrubs at a few persistent specks of dried blood.
"Hmm? Oh yes, I got that when I was in the navy."
"What is it? It's kind of hard to tell."
"Well, that was the idea. It was the navy emblem but I had it removed after I attained criminal status. As you can understand, I had some hard feelings towards the US government at that point in my life and I wanted any evidence of them and the reckless devotion I so carelessly gave them in my youth to be expunged from my body."
Liz gets to work stitching up Red's shallow wound, letting his quiet, rumbling voice sooth her as she works.
"Well, no offense, but considering I can still see it, it doesn't seem like it was removed very well."
"Oh no, not at all. I was newly on the run at the time and unfortunately I didn't have the money or resources to go somewhere professional to have it done. I had to settle for a very sketchy underground tattoo parlor with an 'artist' - and I use that term loosely, Lizzie - who I do believe to this day has never actually received a valid permit. I feel sorry for anyone who has been forced to get something etched onto their body at that establishment. At the time however, I saw nothing wrong with the place. I was quite innocent in my youth, if you can believe it, Lizzie."
Lizzie laughs quietly, amused by Red's antics and dramatic storytelling, no doubt meant to help distract her from her current task. It does the job. Finished stitching, she reaches for dressing from the kit.
"Why didn't you ever have it removed properly, once you had the means?" She asks quietly.
"Oh, I don't know. No real reason, I suppose. I may also have considered it symbolic of my situation, in a way. Representative of what my life has turned me into. Faded and cracked but still there, present and persisting." He trails off thoughtfully, leaving Liz to wonder how he got to having such a low opinion of himself. And when exactly the thought of that made her heart ache for him.
"Well, I don't think you're any of those things." Liz assures him softly, securing his bandage with medical tape. "I think you're... Resilient and persevering. That's a little more positive, isn't it? And I like the tattoo. It suits you."
"... Thank you, Lizzie. That's very kind."
"You're welcome." She says, smiling softly and gently patting his uninjured forearm. She feels a small jolt as she touches his bare skin and isn't that interesting, but no, that's not for right now. Red has been shot, Red is cleaned up, Red is fine.
"And you're welcome for the flawless medical care, by the way. Honestly, they couldn't have done it better in an ER, I'm sure of it. I knew I should have been a doctor." Liz teases, pretending to sigh wistfully. Evidently, some of Red's dramatic flair is wearing off on her. And for some reason, that thought doesn't bother her nearly as much as it probably should.
She begins packing the unused supplies back in the first aid kit, hoping they won't have any more need for it - she doesn't think she can handle stitching Red up again, literally or figuratively - when she is stopped by Red's hand on hers.
"Thank you, Lizzie. For the first aid and the kind words. They mean a lot, coming from you." And he's smiling at her, the way he sometimes does, like he's seeing something when he looks at her, something precious, and she feels herself blush a little, somehow both uneasy and delighted with the attention.
She just smiles back and nods, closing the first aid kit and standing, patting his shoulder on the way to the kitchen.
"Drink?" She calls over her shoulder.
"Oh please, do you have to ask? I am a wounded man after all, Lizzie."
She snorts and gets two glasses from the cupboard. Scotch it is then.
And maybe Red will tell her some more stories before they turn in for the night.
She thinks she'd like that.