Derek's labored breathing echoes off the tiled bathroom walls—plink—as shards of glass—plink—drop into a metal trashcan. He leans against a sink, gripping the sides, and focuses on keeping his forehead from smashing into the mirror.
Chris grimaces as he pulls another large piece free and adds it—plink—to the pile. His clothes are fingerpainted with Derek's blood, and he adds another smeared swirl, because his fingers keep slipping on the last large piece. He switches hands and braces against Derek's upper arm for better leverage.
The shard moves, and Derek glass looks like the knife as it starts to slide out, narrow, pointed, and long. It seems impossible that it didn't go clean through and out Derek's chest. Chris wipes his fingers off again and applies steady pressure. Derek makes a pained sound and curls in on himself a little.
"Almost," Chris says quietly, and then it's out. He stares at it a second and wonders where the curved blade might've hit if it were him, if he'd had died instantly or lingered when it did.
He swallows and drops the glass into the can.
"We should be able to get the jacket off now," he says to the back of Derek's head.
Derek just breathes for a second, a little foggy from the concussive force of the blast, and then straightens and drops his arms. Chris does most of the work, because he can see debris field. Pain lances through him when moving a muscle makes it slice itself open again against an edge of glass. The flinching only makes it worse, and his breath gets caught in his throat until the whole sensation passes.
The jacket makes a soft slap when it hits the floor.
"Shirt, too," Chris tells him, and Derek's whole body sags in irritation.
He reaches back with one hand and flicks a claw through the thick fabric of the collar—the only part he can imagine Chris having difficulty tearing through. Argent huffs and then lifts the warm, blood fabric away from his skin. He tears halfway down Derek's back, like spreading ribs.
Derek glances up at the mirror to see Chris's expression. He isn't surprised to find it grim. Chris meets his gaze for a second and then refocuses on his task. He moves to rifle through the medical kit they grabbed from the bullpen and comes back with a pair of tweezers.
"The rest of these are small, and you've healed around them," Chris tells him in a low, rough voice. Derek can hear him swallow. "I'm going to have to dig in to get them out," he says. "It's going to hurt."
For a moment, nothing happens, and Derek slowly realizes that Argent is waiting for his permission to proceed. Amusement bubbles up through his stupor at how strangely formal it is, but then, he thinks, it's a welcome change to be asked.
"Go ahead," he says with more of a tremble than he'd like.
Chris presses a hand to an uninjured portion of his back to steady them both and slides the tweezers in. For a while, Argent works in silence.
Plink.
Plink.
Plink.
He stops when Derek can't hold back a groan or muttered swear and acts, Derek thinks, like they're kin. He's fairly sure Chris doesn't even know he's doing it: shushing, muttering reassurances, giving him a chance to stop shaking. Acting, in short, like a dad.
Argent has the tweezers deep into Derek's shoulder when he says, "I thought you weren't going to risk your life to save mine."
Derek looks up at his reflection, but he's too busy concentrating. "I didn't."
Chris glances at him then, doubt in the shock of his blue eyes. "You didn't think a bomb blast was risking your life?"
Derek sighs and tries not to shrug the shoulder Chris is working on. "I was going to get blown up anyway. Figured it wasn't going to hurt me more."
Another piece of glass comes free, and Chris wipes away the blood with the flap of Derek's shirt so he can see what's left to do.
"Really," he says, deadpan, and shifts over to inspect near Derek's spine.
For a long time, Derek doesn't reply. He rolls the aches from the shoulder that's cleaned up and waits like a good patient. Eventually, Chris wipes his back free of blood again and declares it the best he can do. He smells like Derek's blood and looks like war.
"Sorry about the shirt," he says as Derek turns around stretching the pains from having been hunched over so long.
Derek gives him a long look and says, "No."
Chris lifts his eyebrows silently in response.
Derek clarifies, "Not really."