#sanford

(i also just recommended hum’s entire discography in general. they’re sososo good imo)

really REALLY enjoyed this song. may make a post abt the album later :] could not tell u how i ended up on wound infection from this but ill yap about it in the tags. ohhhh sanmos theyre so important to me.

in your arms you bring me down

trigger warnings: injuries, infected wounds

No one would blame you for thinking that after the death of the sun, Nevada became a lot colder. For some regions, scarce and evenly spaced out, this is true. In others, though, you can go out to the edge of the cliffs and peer down into the depths of the canyons, which are not dark inside.

Instead, they're iron-red on the inside, fiery, like metal fresh out of the furnace, still blazing hot and pliant, white ash flaking off, perfect for branding, or for forging. Take your pick. No one who's gone down there has come back to tell us what it's like, anyway. In any case, this volcanic spectacle is to blame for one of this world's many truisms: Nevada is an oven, and it'll cook the life out of you.

Sanford stands in the sickly-lit motel bathroom and stares at the angry, red stitches just under his left rib. Runs a finger over them- sensitive and hot to the touch. Infected for sure. Ugh, he could have sworn he was keeping up with routine cleaning.

But with the absolute clusterfuck that's been the past four days, it doesn't surprise him that he wasn't, or that his immune system couldn't keep up.

He sighs to no one in particular, resigned that this is a problem that'll need him to open the stitches. That will take him at least an hour.

"Sanford, wouldja hurry it up in there? I've gotta piss like, yesterday."

An hour neither he nor Deimos have.

"Yeah, yeah, gimme a second." Sanford grabs one of each antibiotic they have and swallows the handful of pills dry, washes out the bitter taste with the metallic-tasting water from the sink.

He's spoiled, really. Back before SQ, the only thing he noticed when it came to water was if it'd been boiled. Fuck the taste.

He puts the first aid kit up and leaves the bathroom. "All yours, bud."

Deimos is about to walk past when he stops himself, glancing down at Sanford's abdomen and whistling, odd and high pitched through his triangular teeth, "Shit, dude, that looks angry."

Sanford waves him off, going to pull on a tank top, "Yeah, it's givin me some shit."

"No like- it looks concerning." Deimos fully turns around to try and get a look at the wound.

"You look concerning." Sanford swats at him with a shirt, "Don't you have to piss?"

Deimos raises an indignant finger to argue. Sanford is, however, right, so he settles on using to fingers to make an "I've got my eyes on you" gesture before slipping into the bathroom.

Sanford begins double checking their weapons, loading their handguns.

"Okay, asshole," Deimos starts, exiting the bathroom, "I washed my hands and you've got some bullshit on your rib, let me look at it."

"I'm fine, Deimos. Really."

"Lemme rephrase," Deimos takes the gun out of Sanford's hands and tosses it into his bag, "I'm lookin at it. Sit down."

Sanford rolls his eyes, but obliges, sitting on the bed and crossing his legs, "You sound like Doc."

"EUGH," Deimos scrunches up his face like a disgruntled cat, "never say that again." He sits by Sanford's knees, leaning on his hand which is to the other side of Sanford's legs, and looks at the wound. "Touching it."

Sanford hisses through his teeth when Deimos grazes his fingers over it, frowning. "There's no way you didn't know this was infected."

Sanford groans, they've had this kind of argument before, "I took antibiotics, I can just thug it out for a day and--"

"Infected." He stresses, like Sanford isn't getting it. He grabs him by the shoulders, jostling him, attempting to keep it light, "Why didn't you say something?"

He lets Deimos jostle him, letting his head ragdoll for dramatics. Still, he huffs at him, "Because you'd do this and then we wouldn't finish up today and the target would move again."

Deimos blinks. "Yeah, I'd do this, because sepsis. Fuck the target, dude, we've got a week."

"And our pay gets docked if we don't have it done tomorrow."

"Fuck the pay." He says, like it's obvious. Like it's simple.

Sanford frowns, and Deimos continues before he can say anything, "Sanford. San. Babe. I am not letting you risk fucking sepsis over this. If he docks it, he docks it, what the fuck ever. We're not hurting for it."

"I wouldn't be risking sepsis, I took antibiotics-"

"What if it's viral?"

"Dei, that's so rare."

Deimos groans, running a hand over his face. "Just- lemme treat it? We can take it."

...okay, on second thought, Deimos is right. If it is infected, if something happens to them while they're out there and they didn't kill the infection, he could die. And it isn't as though he's living contract to contract anymore. And it's so fucking hot. Has it always been this hot? This doesn't help the "I don't have sepsis" argument. Sanford sighs.

"Fine, fine."

Deimos takes his face in his hands, kissing him, "Thaaank you, San."

"Yeah, yeah. You just want an excuse to touch me with my shirt off." Sanford grins.

"Didn't know I needed an excuse now."

"Uhuh," he gently shoves Deimos off, "Go get the first aid kit, frisky."