#grimnephilim

HE’S NOT A FAN of needing stitches, though he supposes it could’ve been worse. he could’ve been one of the few with missing limbs. OR DEAD. but he was here, alive and once again mastering the art of COMPLAINING. the doctor must not have it easy, having to help tend to many of them thanks to whatever the fuck happened back there. he could barely recall anything past a flash and things flying. he’d been drunk and whatever happened knocked him straight into sobriety (( and on his ass, too )). 

“how long do these need to stay in?”  he grumbled, a green gaze washing over carefully done sutures. 

Stiles had stayed at the site of the explosion as long as possible. Which meant he stayed until a medic saw him fall to his knees and they gave basically dragged him into the next ambulance. He is out and in of consciousness during the drive, already hooked up to a drip while they sort through his make shift bandages. There had been someone who had done first aid on Stiles, but instead of going to the hospital right away, he had spent the following hour or two searching for his boyfriend adn thentrying to help where he could. 

By the time he arrives in the E.R. he is aware enough again, that he can stumble his way along. He looks a complete mess, dust and blood covered. His right arm hangs uselessly at his side, deep gashes visible through torn cloth. It had been crushed under debris in the explosion, his ribs having taken the rest of the damage.