In truth, at the time, there hadn't been much thought to it. Things were manageable, even if there was always an element of risk in these engagements. It was risk they could handle, and had handled dozens of times already. Rosinante took no enjoyment in raiding Marine ships, but he understood the benefits, and so stood back, keeping his ability active and occasionally firing off shots just to keep the soldiers from finding ways to turn the tide. Nothing lethal, at least not intentionally.
But obviously they'd had other goals. Some marksman had wanted to make a name for himself, or had just gotten lucky. And Rosinante, well, he can't snatch bullets out of the air, so he'd done the only thing he could, as one big, durable target.
Same weak spots as anyone else, though.
Unconscious doesn't always mean completely unthinking, it turns out. For what feels like a very long time, he thinks he's swimming. Did he fall overboard? No, there's no water here, no light. The gunshot echoes in his ears, haunting him like a wisp of a memory, and he dreams of his father.
Eventually, the sounds of the operating room reach him. He screws his eyes shut against the light coming in through his eyelids, then coughs, mouth dry. His head feels like it's full of cotton.
"Law?" he croaks, and manages to open his eyes. Is Law all right?
It's an agonizing few minutes, keeping that heart beating manually. Law forgoes the machines, knowing the Tang could at any moment need the electricity to dive if things above should go south, without either him or his patient to intervene - knowing that should the engines need to race on, there is whatever infinitesimal chance the medbay machines could stutter. So it's his most well-trained crewmates with fingers laced and arms pumping on that barrel chest, and his own mouth on Cora-san's mouth, breathing the strongest breaths he can give at proper intervals. It feels obscene, not sexually but because it is so painfully unsexual, unsensual, mechanical and utilitarian and it isn't right, isn't how things are supposed to be when his labored breaths are passing those painted lips.
He can feel the other's pulse right itself, in the thump where Cora's throat brushes his wrist, with his hand on the other's jaw to keep it tilted, and it's like his own heart restarts as well. The relief that washes over him pulls the briefest, softest smile to his face, and for the first time in decades, without thinking, he thanks whatever gods there might be. The automatic cough is the sound of the White Lead church bells in Flevance.
And then, his name, and he's torn between sweet rapture and hysterical fury.
"You idiot," he answers, barking out of his mouth before the gentle I'm here that half-wanted to answer can make it to his lips. So much the better, as his surroundings rush back and he remembers he has an audience.
(He does not realize he has lipstick all over his mouth. That will be an embarrassment for later, one he'll feel despite knowing all parties present are well aware it's the result of contact purely utilitarian. Hell, maybe that'll make it worse.)
"Transfusion," he snarls at the others, nearly elbowing them out of the way so he can move to the other's chest and begin pulling it apart, painlessly as possible with the Room still up, and get to that injured, stupid, reckless heart. "Type S." As though they don't know, as though his attendants don't know every blood type of every crew member as well as he does, but he's working on fury and the automatic, default assumption that everyone around him is an idiot, right now.
"Don't look down unless you want to see your own organs," he returns his attention to his patient. "I can't believe you. How dare you." And the default state of verbally tearing everyone a new asshole. This is what stress does to a man.
Don't look down - well, of course he looks down, it's hard not to. What is it about being told not to look at something that makes his eyes immediately do that very thing? Especially since none of this feels very real, which is probably the result of some very powerful painkillers.
He glances down, then immediately regrets it and closes his eyes, feeling nauseous - though that also might not have anything to do with any of that. He feels nauseous anyway, vaguely, as much as he feels anything right now. He'd probably go pale, too, if he wasn't already suffering from blood loss. How much did he lose, he wonders idly? Dumb thoughts, intrusive, when he can't think straight. He tries to raise his arm and flop it across his face, but it feels like lead, and he gives up pretty much instantly.
He also knows better than to take Law's verbal assault too seriously. Yeah, okay, he could have gotten killed. He knows that. But Law could have gotten killed if he hadn't moved, and isn't that worse for everyone? It's not just about the two of them, it's about the whole crew.
And it's also about the two of them. He'll protect Law no matter what. Always has, or at least, he's always tried. It's practically a reflex. Like breathing.
"'M I gonna make it?" he mumbles, which might just be very very dry humor but he actually isn't sure if he meant it as a joke or not, which probably means both. His head is in a very weird place right now and he's looking forward to having some clarity back once Law has him all fixed up.
Which, he's pretty sure Law won't let there be any alternative, so he'd better make it, he decides. Can't let Law carry saving him all on his own little shoulders, Rosinante will pull through by sheer will and stupid Donquixote stubbornness, and that's final.
The decision is coupled with one more effort to move his arm to reach toward Law. He doesn't quite manage, but the gesture counts for something. Law's busy, anyway.
" - Don't be absurd." The break is almost inaudible, but only almost. Because, well, of course there's no alternative.
But that doesn't stop Law from so fucking clearly remembering blood on snow, and his small, stupid hands gesturing over Cora-san while yelling nonsense magic spells as though that was how devil fruits worked.
But that was then, and this is now, and now, he knows very, very well how his fruit works.
"You're in my medbay. And you're fucking lucky, is what you are." With the Room up, with his fruit, it's much easier, faster, far less (literally) traumatic to pull off skin and rib and muscle and find that little nick in the wall of Rosinante's heart. (While it's theoretically possible to just pull the heart out whole, work on it externally, Law's never liked the idea of doing that operatively - there are so many variables, so many things the heart does and controls and reacts to, that he much prefers to work on it in its environment, where he can see immediately anything that goes wrong. Popping it out uninjured is one thing; this is, emphatically, different.)
"And you should be under full general anaesthesia, probably, but right now I feel like yelling at you." No, it's because there's no time and because he doesn't really want to risk slowing down the organ he's operating on and risk it seizing, but he's going to be an ass about it.
"Lucky me," he echoes with a thin smile, eyes closed. Lucky he's got Law here to fix him, but also very certainly this is sarcasm because he's oh-so-very lucky that Law feels like yelling at him.
Not that he blames him one bit. It's one of Law's many reliable talents, yelling at him for doing dumb things. Been doing that a long time. Sort of makes it a comfort. If Law was quiet or being entirely too kind in his words then he might have to start getting a lot more worried.
"Don't like general anyway. I don't need to sleep through it." Because he's very big and tough and takes bullets like a champion, thanks.
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But obviously they'd had other goals. Some marksman had wanted to make a name for himself, or had just gotten lucky. And Rosinante, well, he can't snatch bullets out of the air, so he'd done the only thing he could, as one big, durable target.
Same weak spots as anyone else, though.
Unconscious doesn't always mean completely unthinking, it turns out. For what feels like a very long time, he thinks he's swimming. Did he fall overboard? No, there's no water here, no light. The gunshot echoes in his ears, haunting him like a wisp of a memory, and he dreams of his father.
Eventually, the sounds of the operating room reach him. He screws his eyes shut against the light coming in through his eyelids, then coughs, mouth dry. His head feels like it's full of cotton.
"Law?" he croaks, and manages to open his eyes. Is Law all right?
no subject
He can feel the other's pulse right itself, in the thump where Cora's throat brushes his wrist, with his hand on the other's jaw to keep it tilted, and it's like his own heart restarts as well. The relief that washes over him pulls the briefest, softest smile to his face, and for the first time in decades, without thinking, he thanks whatever gods there might be. The automatic cough is the sound of the White Lead church bells in Flevance.
And then, his name, and he's torn between sweet rapture and hysterical fury.
"You idiot," he answers, barking out of his mouth before the gentle I'm here that half-wanted to answer can make it to his lips. So much the better, as his surroundings rush back and he remembers he has an audience.
(He does not realize he has lipstick all over his mouth. That will be an embarrassment for later, one he'll feel despite knowing all parties present are well aware it's the result of contact purely utilitarian. Hell, maybe that'll make it worse.)
"Transfusion," he snarls at the others, nearly elbowing them out of the way so he can move to the other's chest and begin pulling it apart, painlessly as possible with the Room still up, and get to that injured, stupid, reckless heart. "Type S." As though they don't know, as though his attendants don't know every blood type of every crew member as well as he does, but he's working on fury and the automatic, default assumption that everyone around him is an idiot, right now.
"Don't look down unless you want to see your own organs," he returns his attention to his patient. "I can't believe you. How dare you." And the default state of verbally tearing everyone a new asshole. This is what stress does to a man.
no subject
He glances down, then immediately regrets it and closes his eyes, feeling nauseous - though that also might not have anything to do with any of that. He feels nauseous anyway, vaguely, as much as he feels anything right now. He'd probably go pale, too, if he wasn't already suffering from blood loss. How much did he lose, he wonders idly? Dumb thoughts, intrusive, when he can't think straight. He tries to raise his arm and flop it across his face, but it feels like lead, and he gives up pretty much instantly.
He also knows better than to take Law's verbal assault too seriously. Yeah, okay, he could have gotten killed. He knows that. But Law could have gotten killed if he hadn't moved, and isn't that worse for everyone? It's not just about the two of them, it's about the whole crew.
And it's also about the two of them. He'll protect Law no matter what. Always has, or at least, he's always tried. It's practically a reflex. Like breathing.
"'M I gonna make it?" he mumbles, which might just be very very dry humor but he actually isn't sure if he meant it as a joke or not, which probably means both. His head is in a very weird place right now and he's looking forward to having some clarity back once Law has him all fixed up.
Which, he's pretty sure Law won't let there be any alternative, so he'd better make it, he decides. Can't let Law carry saving him all on his own little shoulders, Rosinante will pull through by sheer will and stupid Donquixote stubbornness, and that's final.
The decision is coupled with one more effort to move his arm to reach toward Law. He doesn't quite manage, but the gesture counts for something. Law's busy, anyway.
no subject
But that doesn't stop Law from so fucking clearly remembering blood on snow, and his small, stupid hands gesturing over Cora-san while yelling nonsense magic spells as though that was how devil fruits worked.
But that was then, and this is now, and now, he knows very, very well how his fruit works.
"You're in my medbay. And you're fucking lucky, is what you are." With the Room up, with his fruit, it's much easier, faster, far less (literally) traumatic to pull off skin and rib and muscle and find that little nick in the wall of Rosinante's heart. (While it's theoretically possible to just pull the heart out whole, work on it externally, Law's never liked the idea of doing that operatively - there are so many variables, so many things the heart does and controls and reacts to, that he much prefers to work on it in its environment, where he can see immediately anything that goes wrong. Popping it out uninjured is one thing; this is, emphatically, different.)
"And you should be under full general anaesthesia, probably, but right now I feel like yelling at you." No, it's because there's no time and because he doesn't really want to risk slowing down the organ he's operating on and risk it seizing, but he's going to be an ass about it.
no subject
Not that he blames him one bit. It's one of Law's many reliable talents, yelling at him for doing dumb things. Been doing that a long time. Sort of makes it a comfort. If Law was quiet or being entirely too kind in his words then he might have to start getting a lot more worried.
"Don't like general anyway. I don't need to sleep through it." Because he's very big and tough and takes bullets like a champion, thanks.