Twenty Four: Blood-Covered Hands

A/N: Set during 'Destination Moon'.

If there was one career path he knew he was never destined to walk down, it was the one that lead to becoming a nurse.

Not only would it involve an impractical uniform - despite his multiple hospital admissions, he could never work out the logic behind making nurses wear white uniforms when they were likely to come into contact with some sort of bodily fluid that would leave a stain - but it involved dealing with all sorts of illnesses and diseases that he had no desire in learning about from firsthand exposure.

Despite his misgivings about the profession, Tintin had always held the highest respect for nurses, sometimes even more than the doctors who told him for the hundredth time how lucky he was to be alive. After all, the doctors were never the ones who helped him from his bed for the first time in days to stumble to the toilet. They never cleaned up his vomit or gave him the bliss-inducing morphine when the pain became too much.

He was therefore quite displeased, however, when the nurse simply gave him the materials to change his dressing instead of doing it herself. "If we kept you in here to change them," she had said, "you'd be here for another six months. You'll have to start doing them on your own."

Tintin had grumbled internally, but maintained a polite façade as he was discharged. It was strange to be sleeping somewhere on the base that wasn't a hospital bed for the first time in weeks, and he found himself missing the constant bustle of the hospital ward. He hadn't realised how used to the noise he'd become.

Lying on his pillow in complete silence quickly became irritating. He'd given up on sleep at around one thirty, throwing himself out of the bed in annoyance. The cold temperature of the room assaulted his body as soon as he'd removed the covers, and he couldn't help but shiver. And these damn painkillers are supposed to make me sleepy, too! Very inconvenient.

His eyes squinted as he turned the lamp on, blinking furiously as they adjusted to the dim light. With one hand leaning on the bedside table, he rubbed his face as he sighed wearily. A strange discolouration out of the corner of his eye quickly caught his attention, and he groaned as he noticed the dried blood patch that now decorated his pillowcase. "Putain d'enfer! This will take ages to come out…"

Tearing the pillowcase away, he clutched it furiously as he marched into the bathroom, instantly turning the tap on full blast. He scrubbed at the blood vigorously, grabbing the bar of soap and rubbing some into the stain, though it did little to make it budge from the fabric. The housekeeping staff are going to have my arrière for this.

Turning the tap off, he draped the pillowcase over the edge of the bath, deciding he would leave it up to fate as to whether it the blood would disappear. He dried his hands with a clean towel before deciding he needed to investigate the source of the blood.

Although the surgeons had done a fantastic job in stitching the bullet graze, he would still be left without hair in that area for some time. He unravelled the large bandage that stretched around his head, taking some comfort in the fact that part the shaved area was starting to grow back, though the section underneath the dressing would remain hairless for the time being.

Fiddling with the edges, he hissed in pain as he tore the dressing away from his scalp, cringing at the site of his shaven head and deformed skin. The stitches had been removed a few days before his discharge, though the nurses had warned the wound would still be oozing for a while. It seems they were proven correct.

He opened the cabinets underneath the skin and retrieved a gauze packet and small container of saline. His fingers struggled with the packaging as he opened the gauze, depositing it on the counter and splashing it with the saline. He swore as he accidentally squeezed the saline tube with too much force, sending most of it flying into the sink. I really shouldn't be doing this…Why can't the nurses do it?!

A quick inspection of his supplies revealed he had just opened his last saline packet. I'll have to visit the ward tomorrow and collect some more. I'm sure they gave me more than that! Grasping the gauze with two fingers, he gingerly pressed it to the wound, gasping through the pain as he cleaned the area. This is so ridiculous. I wasn't even actually shot, for God's sake! Why did that bullet have to get so damn close!

Releasing a grunt of anger, he threw the gauze aside and smacked his hand on the counter, ignoring the pain that shot through his palm as it collided with the cool surface. I didn't mean to get shot at! I was just trying to protect the Professor.

Tintin took a few minutes to calm himself before grabbing the bar of soap, scrubbing his hands aggressively as his mind began to wander. His memory of that night was still hazy, and the doctors weren't sure if he would ever remember it in full - it was a serious concussion, after all - but he couldn't stop himself from trying to think it over. I know that I stopped them from getting most of the information about the rocket. The question is, how much do they know? I'll never forgive myself if the Professor's lifework is stolen by the Bordurians, just because I couldn't stop that man-

His attention was suddenly drawn away from his thoughts, as he realised the tap water had grown unbearably hot. Cursing quietly, he shut the tap off and instantly ran his hands under cold water in the bath, frustrated at the fact that he hadn't gotten all of the blood. This stuff definitely sticks to you.

When he felt his hands were appropriately soothed, he turned the bath water off, cringing at the pain in his back from having leant over for a period of time. He sat on the edge of the bath, his eyes focused on the blood that remained under his fingernails. It seemed as though it had buried itself into the nail beds themselves, for it didn't budge when he tried to pick it away.

Maybe I need to start investing in surgical-grade handwash…

Though I think I should put on a new dressing first.

A/N: Putain d'enfer = bloody hell

Arrière = backside