shatterverse | (no subject)

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Rachel has been busy. Actually, Rachel hasn't been seen much around Metropolis. In fact, Rachel hasn't been seen much of anywhere... aside from Detroit.

She comes back to the apartment in Metropolis at night, because Tobias sleeps there, too, and would worry if she didn't. And while she's never seen him, Rachel has a sneaking suspicion that she's occasionally followed to Detroit, and watched. Even though all she's really doing there is watching, too.

Unless, you know, something happens. And she's in a position to do something about it. Things like that happen, you know.

(very often)

Sometimes, they happen a little more unexpectedly than she'd like, where she's not in a position to help someone being targeted but is actually the target. The things attacking her rarely ever know exactly what they're getting into and she's yet to deal with any serious damage from any of them. But today, one of them got lucky and surprised her. And the morphing power, while useful and incredibly powerful, is not an exact science.

Rachel has been unable to morph or demorph without reopening a four inch gash across her collarbone and chest. In her human body.

It's getting complicated. Not to keep it covered - her wardrobe has always been modest, if stylish. And not to keep it clean - Rachel is nothing if not fastidious in her appearance.

It's that she literally cannot morph until she heals and it is taking too damn long.

It's only been about two hours since she got the cut, of course. And right now, she's standing in an abandoned drug store back in Metropolis, in the back room of the pharmacy. She's stripped off her outer shirt, standing there in jeans and the top half of her morphing outfit. The gash is large and ugly but not dangerous, not when she's surrounded by bottles of alcohol and sterile bandages.

No, the real problem is... the gash is going to require stitches. Rachel has only performed stitches twice in her entire life, both times on someone else.

She's eyeballing the sealed pack of needle and thread with a deep frown. There's no way she's coming out of this without a scar.

Stupid Andalites and their imperfect science.

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"Vodka?" Dean suggests. "You know, popular anaesthetic? Dulls the pain?"

"Duh?"

He is not getting glared at any less. Actually, Rachel looks like she's seriously considering punching him again.

Consciously, this time.

"I can give a first hand account of it not dulling pain."

"... you drink it, Rachel."

Rachel glances at the bottle, nose wrinkling.

And shoves it back at Dean.

"It smells disgusting."

So screw you and your alcoholic ways.

"It helps," Dean says, and doesn't take it. "Serious."

"No."

Rachel's stubbornness: let her show you it. And if Dean isn't taking the bottle, she's setting it down on the floor and grasping blindly on the counter for the stitches pack.

Still pale and breathing hard.

"Are you helping me or not?"

Dean grabs it before she can, grumpy. "Only if you don't punch me again."

Rachel... blinks.

"I punched you?"

Dean stares at her.

Smirk.

"That explains why my hand hurts," she muses to herself, flexing fingers and red knuckles.

"Seriously," Dean grumbles, holding the needle in the flame of his lighter, suppressing a tiny grin himself, "I have no idea why the fuck I haven't shot you yet."

She grins, but it falters somewhat when she tries to sit up. It pulls and tears a little at the still-tender gash, which means she's hissing again.

But Rachel still manages a grin once she's propped up against the wall again, even if white-faced and sweating still.

"I'm cooler than you," she points out calmly. "And it's more than possible I'd just heal from it and shoot you back."

"Shut up," Dean suggests, smirking.

"... seriously, you should get drunk before I sew this up."

He still thinks he's going to get punched.

"I don't need to get drunk to deal with stitches," Rachel informs him with a roll of her eyes.

Stubborn? Oh yeah. Unaware of it? Not at all. Rachel would just rather run headfirst through an obstacle than drunkenly stumble through it.

"All right." Dean finally condescends to kneel next to her and lean down. "But seriously. No punching, or you're on your own."

"Wuss."

Dean eyes her.

Then he leans in to make the first stitch.

A sharp inhale through her nose.

That's all she's going to give him, turning her face away.

"Wuss."

"I'm not used to letting someone hurt me," she points out through clenched-teeth.

"I'm not doing it to hurt you." Dean leans back, mid-stitch, looking at her seriously. "Swear."

He gets a glare in return, slightly sharper for his being in mid-stitch.

"Yeah. Duh. That doesn't mean it feels good."

"Yeah, well, I'm sorry if it doesn't tickle," Dean grumbles, turning back to his work. "If you're gonna go get yourself chopped up, you're gonna hafta deal with this shit."

"Right, because I was doing that on purpose," Rachel growls, turning away.

(so he doesn't see her wince.)

"I'm not askin'," Dean points out, gruff (even while his hands are surprisingly gentle, and his stitches neat and small). "Did I say I wanted t'know?"