22 Stitches

Though Mingan enjoyed the hunt, he was not as bloodthirsty as the Kelpie. He was a wolf, not a monster. He hunted to feed himself and his own, and on this rare occasion to help and protect his own. So as John fed into his beastly nature, Mingan drank and waited.

Done with his rare feast, John came to Mingan's side, shoving at him with his muzzle. Groggy from blood loss and moonshine quality alcohol he'd consumed, it took some time for Mingan to come around. After some fumbling, he climbed onto the Kelpie's back.

The ranch house was quiet, only a porch light and the embers of a campfire lit the night. Once they were at the back porch, John bent, allowing Mingan to slide off and make his limping way into the house. John shifted forms and went to his side, cursing softly under his breath as they slipped quietly into the kitchen.

"You'd best get those jeans off," he told Mingan. "What a mess that shotgun made of you," he muttered. The kitchen was filled with the smell of blood, both Mingan's and the scent of the men who'd lost their lives.

"At least we had a good hunt." Mingan grinned, kicking off the tattered remains of his jeans, pulling loose his hastily wrapped bandages as he did so.

"Damn it man, you're bleeding all over the place." John muttered. "I'll get Sarah, she's better at dealing with this shit." John handed Mingan his own shirt. "Just put pressure on it," he said with a disgusted shake of his head and disappeared into the house.

Groggy, her hair mussed on one side, Sarah came into the room, blinking and rubbing her eyes. She flipped on lights and got down her supplies systematically. She'd grown used to patching the both of them up, but it was usually from long days on the trail and the hazards that came from working with cattle and horses. Gun-shot wounds weren't nearly as common.

"Damn it, Mingan," she muttered, pulling away the cloth to get a good look at the wound. "Why the hell do you have buckshot in your ass?"

"Thigh, he got my thigh."

"Back of the thigh, close enough to your ass. You ass," she muttered. "The good news, it looks like it grazed you. I don't think there's too much lodged in there." She poked around for good measure, and he winced and sucked in breath, clutching at the table. "Bad news, it took a good amount of flesh, making it nearly impossible to stitch."

"Just do what you have to," John cut in. "He'll heal one way or another. Just make it so he stops bleeding."

She turned to her husband, "I guess I can stitch up the worst of it if you help me pull the edges together." She said, shaking her head. "It's going to hurt like hell, and it won't be pretty."

"I can take a little pain," Mingan told her.

By the time Sarah had gotten the first set of stitches in, she and Mingan were both trembling, he from pain, her from exhaustion. John waved her off, finishing the outer set of stitches in quick succession. It wasn't a clean job, but at least it was done.

"Where are we going to put him up?" Sarah asked. "I'd put him on the couch, but injured like this, with his healing... the fewer that see the extent of his wounds the better."

"Put him up in the guest room. I'll send Elloreah to look after Maggie in our quarters. An empath might help ease the poor woman through her grief more quickly. I sure as hell would like my sitting room back," John said. Though he'd clearly enjoyed the feast, the trek back with Mingan had worn the old Kelpie down.

Mingan had some sense to worry at that before John was at his side, arm around him and forcing him to stand. The pain that rushed through him erased all thoughts of sympathy and Mingan cursed with every step. Sarah ushered bleary eyed people back into their rooms, giving explanations laced with magic disguising the extent of Mingan's wounds.

Elloreah stood at the doorway, concern painting her features. "What happened?" she asked, reaching for Mingan's arm. Her fingers brushed his skin, and he jerked away from her. He'd not activated the rune that blocked her influence, and now, raw with pain, the contact was startling.

Their eyes met briefly and her influence soothed him. Even the pain in his leg was dulled after that brief contact. Mingan could feel her eyes on him as John hauled him into the room. He settled into the bed, awkwardly, doing his best to avoid putting weight on his injured leg.

The pillow, the blankets, the entire bed smelled of her. He couldn't help but inhale her scent, finding even the lingering essence of her soothing. John put a hand on his shoulder and said something, but in his contented haze, he couldn't be bothered to take in the words nor formulate a response.