He's gotten shepherded up onto the kick of the ambulance himself, and he's okay with it, honestly. The uniforms are taping off the area, and Steve's checking out the house, so he's fine with taking a breather, unbuttoning his shirt so the EMT can slide it down his shoulder and clean out the bullet wound there.
A scuffle erupts in front of him: the girl, JC or whatever her name was, getting hauled off to a cruiser, dragged right by him by an HPD officer who doesn't actually bother to check in with him, but hey. Who's surprised by that?
She snaps a glare as she stumbles by, spits: "I hope it hurts!" right before she gets walked on by, while Danny watches with mild interest.
"Careful," he calls after them. "She bites."
A couple officers glance over, and go back to their conversation, sliding looks like he might possibly not see them every now and again, and he rolls his eyes, tries to focus on anything but the sting of stitches and antiseptic in his bicep, the dull burning throb aching in his muscle.
He doesn't have anything against this part. It's nice to have a second to think -- or it would be, if his thumb weren't rubbing back and forth across the plastic screen sunk into his inner wrist, if he'd realized he was doing it before the EMT slapped on a bandage and pronounced him done.
If he had something more pleasant to think about than this case. Or the guy currently picking through the shack in front of him. But he doesn't, because this is his life, this is, poetically enough, the hand he's been dealt.
Getting shot today was just the icing on the goddamn cake.
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branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2014-01-19 03:53 am (UTC)A scuffle erupts in front of him: the girl, JC or whatever her name was, getting hauled off to a cruiser, dragged right by him by an HPD officer who doesn't actually bother to check in with him, but hey. Who's surprised by that?
She snaps a glare as she stumbles by, spits: "I hope it hurts!" right before she gets walked on by, while Danny watches with mild interest.
"Careful," he calls after them. "She bites."
A couple officers glance over, and go back to their conversation, sliding looks like he might possibly not see them every now and again, and he rolls his eyes, tries to focus on anything but the sting of stitches and antiseptic in his bicep, the dull burning throb aching in his muscle.
He doesn't have anything against this part. It's nice to have a second to think -- or it would be, if his thumb weren't rubbing back and forth across the plastic screen sunk into his inner wrist, if he'd realized he was doing it before the EMT slapped on a bandage and pronounced him done.
If he had something more pleasant to think about than this case. Or the guy currently picking through the shack in front of him. But he doesn't, because this is his life, this is, poetically enough, the hand he's been dealt.
Getting shot today was just the icing on the goddamn cake.