( That little bout of self-censorship gets a faintly amused look, but he doesn't call her on it. Figures maybe she's gotta kick the habit for her job or something, can't imagine any other reason a grown ass adult would bother. Then again, he's got a somewhat skewed perspective of the average adult's swearword vocabulary, what with spending almost two decades in the marines.
The WNBA didn't look twice — he scoffs once, in surprisingly good humor despite the pain still radiating through his brutalized hand. )
Yeah, you don't say. What are you, five foot five? You'd have to be a goddamn prodigy to make up for those missing inches, kid.
( Hell, she could've been, it's not like he knows. Just seems like a pretty safe assumption that without an extra six on her, she'd be hard-pressed to make the cut.
The pain's beginning to ebb, slowly, mostly imperceptibly, but each heartbeat throb shoots a couple fewer daggers through him. God damn, he hopes the reattaching business goes a little smoother. They got robots for that shit here, he's heard. Limb reattachment's an outpatient procedure, practically. Still gonna cost him out the ass, but at least he's only paying one clinic bill instead of two.
He makes to reach for the kit — right handed, so the movement's automatic, default. Only realizes it a second later, huffs out a sigh, and swaps to go digging through the kit with his left, seeking out a little meager bottle of painkillers. This over the counter stuff's barely gonna put a dent in it, but it's better than nothing. He'll hold the bottle against his chest with an arm, twist the cap off with his left, and swallow down a handful without even bothering to count 'em. Chase them down with a swig of his beer.
Only once they're all the way down does he finally come around to rasping out a little gratitude. )
Thank you. I know that was a lot, but you did good. I appreciate it. I don't know how bad it would'a been if it spread, and I'm happier never finding out.
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The WNBA didn't look twice — he scoffs once, in surprisingly good humor despite the pain still radiating through his brutalized hand. )
Yeah, you don't say. What are you, five foot five? You'd have to be a goddamn prodigy to make up for those missing inches, kid.
( Hell, she could've been, it's not like he knows. Just seems like a pretty safe assumption that without an extra six on her, she'd be hard-pressed to make the cut.
The pain's beginning to ebb, slowly, mostly imperceptibly, but each heartbeat throb shoots a couple fewer daggers through him. God damn, he hopes the reattaching business goes a little smoother. They got robots for that shit here, he's heard. Limb reattachment's an outpatient procedure, practically. Still gonna cost him out the ass, but at least he's only paying one clinic bill instead of two.
He makes to reach for the kit — right handed, so the movement's automatic, default. Only realizes it a second later, huffs out a sigh, and swaps to go digging through the kit with his left, seeking out a little meager bottle of painkillers. This over the counter stuff's barely gonna put a dent in it, but it's better than nothing. He'll hold the bottle against his chest with an arm, twist the cap off with his left, and swallow down a handful without even bothering to count 'em. Chase them down with a swig of his beer.
Only once they're all the way down does he finally come around to rasping out a little gratitude. )
Thank you. I know that was a lot, but you did good. I appreciate it. I don't know how bad it would'a been if it spread, and I'm happier never finding out.