That went well. Or at least, it looked like it'd gone well for all of five seconds.
But goddamn Wash just dropped and fuck there's blood and the sight of it alone makes him feel sick and no no nononono--
Dave's gone stark white, immediately darting to Wash's side, heedless of possible additional sniper fire. Fuck it, if he gets shot then he gets shot and they'll be finding out whether or not he's actually still immortal here, but Wash sure as hell isn't and there's blood...
And goddamn, why do these guys have to wear all this bullshit armor? Dave only gives it all a brief glance before going straight for the helmet, because he knows that shit comes off and he's not about to waste time fumbling with the rest of it. Pulls that shit off and tosses it wherever, too busy shoving a hand down the armor neck-hole to feel at Wash's throat for a pulse and thank fucking god there's still something there. Probably not for long, though.
He's not sure what Chief is doing, doesn't bothing looking to him for a moment. It's easiest to just shove aside the panic and nausea, force himself to keep a cool head and still slightly-trembling fingers. There probably isn't much time but time is his goddamn bitch and right now he has to do something useful so there's no room for all those distracting emotions.
Dave draws a breath, focuses on Wash's body alone -- the smallest area possible will be most managable for any prolonged stretch of time, but he doubts it'd be healthy to isolate and freeze just one part of a human body so it'll have to be the whole thing -- and he mentally takes hold of the flow of time there and it stops.
The pulse under his hands stops, but that's fine because Wash can't die if the blood isn't pulsing out of his body. The bloodflow is chronologically frozen in place along with all the organs that needs it, locked in that moment before a lethal threshold of bloodloss is crossed.
"Chief?" Dave breathes, voice carefully controlled. "A little help?"
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But goddamn Wash just dropped and fuck there's blood and the sight of it alone makes him feel sick and no no nononono--
Dave's gone stark white, immediately darting to Wash's side, heedless of possible additional sniper fire. Fuck it, if he gets shot then he gets shot and they'll be finding out whether or not he's actually still immortal here, but Wash sure as hell isn't and there's blood...
And goddamn, why do these guys have to wear all this bullshit armor? Dave only gives it all a brief glance before going straight for the helmet, because he knows that shit comes off and he's not about to waste time fumbling with the rest of it. Pulls that shit off and tosses it wherever, too busy shoving a hand down the armor neck-hole to feel at Wash's throat for a pulse and thank fucking god there's still something there. Probably not for long, though.
He's not sure what Chief is doing, doesn't bothing looking to him for a moment. It's easiest to just shove aside the panic and nausea, force himself to keep a cool head and still slightly-trembling fingers. There probably isn't much time but time is his goddamn bitch and right now he has to do something useful so there's no room for all those distracting emotions.
Dave draws a breath, focuses on Wash's body alone -- the smallest area possible will be most managable for any prolonged stretch of time, but he doubts it'd be healthy to isolate and freeze just one part of a human body so it'll have to be the whole thing -- and he mentally takes hold of the flow of time there and it stops.
The pulse under his hands stops, but that's fine because Wash can't die if the blood isn't pulsing out of his body. The bloodflow is chronologically frozen in place along with all the organs that needs it, locked in that moment before a lethal threshold of bloodloss is crossed.
"Chief?" Dave breathes, voice carefully controlled. "A little help?"