John Wayne and adrenalin are both effective up to a point, but his shoulder's sick agony. By the time Kelly's finished telling the General about his hero son, Scotty's slumped against the side of the chair, wishing the shot had been fatal, or knocked him out at the very least.
Kelly takes charge, and Scotty lets him – giving instructions, securing the woman, calling for help, putting an arm round him, steadying him to the car. The words 'blood loss' have been spoken several times, enough for him to know that Kelly's worried. There's a pile of scarlet towels at his feet by the time they stumble out of the villa, but Kel's resolute, pressing a pad against his chest and holding it there for him, as his other arm seems to have checked out. Shock, he tries to tell Kelly, but beyond dragging a blanket along, Kel doesn't mention it.
His partner lets the General drive, opening the door for Gary, whose hands are going to be pretty useless for a while. Scotty remembers how he refused to untie Gary, shuddering as he hears in his mind the gasps of agony, remembers the instruction, "Kill the left arm." He'd be angry at the General, hate him maybe, if he had the strength.
Abraham bound his son to the altar and picked up his knife to slay his son. He chokes off the memory sternly. It's not something he thinks about.
He blinks. Somehow, during Scotty's reverie, his partner's got him wrapped in a blanket, settled in the back seat resting against Kelly's chest, Kelly's arm wrapped around him, holding a cloth gently against his wound, the other arm braced firmly against the front seat so as not to jar him.
Scotty opens his mouth for a quip, but, hit by a wave of dizziness, leans back, his head finding Kelly's shoulder. Kelly's murmuring words of comfort and encouragement steadily into his ear, underlain by the General's somewhat louder monologue about how proud he is of his son, and Gary's shy, delighted acknowledgement.
Scotty listens somewhat lightheadedly, only slightly distracted by the wetness on his chest, and suddenly, every trace of bitterness is swept away by the realization of what's always been there, but never seen so clearly and starkly as now.
Gary's happy at his father's love, his acceptance, although it's – what's that new term he read about? 'conditional.' The General only warmed to his son when he discovered he hadn't really "spilled like a ruptured watercan." He withheld his help, his affection, because he thought Gary talked under torture – called him a traitor (although anyone can talk, given enough pressure. Even with his brain only half-functioning, Scotty'd have thought a general would know that.)
"Kel," he says loudly, only it comes out as a gurgle.
"You wanna pipe down, Homer. You donated a few pints of blood to the bedbugs back at the villa, you know…"
"Would you…" He's chilly, and giggly. "Would you refuse to untie me?" He thinks he sounds coherent, but he's not really sure.
Kelly shushes him. "Save your breath, man. I think you nicked an artery, or maybe it's all that runnin' your mouth getting the circulation going…"
"You wouldn't refs… fus.." He's got to try harder. "You…you refuse to… Y'know, if… spilled secrets?"
"What's wrong with you, man? Just please, cool it, okay? A few more minutes and the finest Italian doctors will be lookin' at you, which isn't saying much, but…"
"Would ya, Kel? Mm?"
"What," his partner's voice is distracted, chafing his hands, wrapping his arms round Scotty, "are you runnin' your mouth about that can't the hell wait?"
The warmth makes him feel more alive. "Would you refuse to untie me, Kel?"
"What?" The blanket's drawn carefully up to cover his head, like Little Red Riding Hood. The thought makes him giggle.
"If they'd – if I'd been – if…" He shivers with the chill, feeling Kelly rubbing his arm briskly. "If I'd… talked?"
"You'd never talk." Uncharacteristically, Kelly's voice is—scared.
"But—if I did." Scotty feels warmer, steadier now. "Lessay I sp…spilled my guts. You wouldn't refuse to untie me, wouldya? Like… some people?"
"Of course I would." Kelly's right hand rubs steadily up and down his uninjured side. "I would," the hand leaves off chafing warmth into him to reach up and pull the blanket tighter around him, "leave you chained up to the side of a mountain with buzzards peckin' at your liver."
Scotty busts out laughing, gasping with pain and drawing sounds of disapproval from Kelly, but unable to stop. "Some classical scholar. Eagles, not buzzards. Buzzards." He snorts again. "Buzzards. Gotta cow that needs milkin', Paw…"
He realizes Kelly's misdirected him, but he sinks deep into the welcoming warmth, a smile on his face, welling up from the bottom of his soul, from the source that has dawned on him, the sudden realization always there, but stunning nonetheless. No matter what he's done, no matter what secrets he's divulged, he knows that if he's hurt, weak, damaged, he'll always end up here, in Kelly's arms. His partner's comfort is the one thing he can count on. No matter what he's done or who he's betrayed.
Abraham picked up his knife to slay his son. His eyes drift shut. Kelly's no father figure, but he'd bet that his partner would cuss a blue streak at any deity who dared so much as hint at such a test.
The amusement at that mental image gets him through an hour of surgery and seventeen stitches.