So she wasn't among those who'd been searching for him? Didn't already know why he'd crashed?
Well, at worst she'll know he's lying. Though he could equally be too disoriented and concussed to remember. Go with that one. "I'm not sure. Some kind of malfunction…"
(Not gonna just give up that the Imps shot him out of the sky. That would lead to asking why.)
Getting his shirt off was another painful prospect. Still, probably a good idea. Setting his teeth to avoid making noise, Cassian pushed himself again somewhat upright, and accepted any help she'd give in opening and removing his shirt.
During this, partly to give himself more to focus on than just ow, he managed through his teeth: "Broken ribs. No trouble breathing, which is good; no pneumothorax. Possible spinal trauma—hard to move my legs. Concussion." Several words at the end got clipped off when he bit down against the pain. His knuckles were white and lower lip bleeding as he lowered himself back down.
He was thinner than he looked clothed. The bruises blossoming on his torso were in accord with his self-diagnosis. Anything actively bleeding was relatively superficial. More striking were the older scars: A pocking of shrapnel on shoulder going over to his back. The shine of blasterburn on his side. What looked like old knife wounds on his chest and forearm. Some faint, geometric surgical lines. Callouses from restraints around his wrists. And a jagged, raised mottling running down his side disappearing under the waistband of his pants. (It looked like someone had tried to dig something out of his side with an instrument not meant for the job. But what really made it the worst: it was stretched. He'd gotten it before he was finished growing.)
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2019-07-05 02:54 am (UTC)Well, at worst she'll know he's lying. Though he could equally be too disoriented and concussed to remember. Go with that one. "I'm not sure. Some kind of malfunction…"
(Not gonna just give up that the Imps shot him out of the sky. That would lead to asking why.)
Getting his shirt off was another painful prospect. Still, probably a good idea. Setting his teeth to avoid making noise, Cassian pushed himself again somewhat upright, and accepted any help she'd give in opening and removing his shirt.
During this, partly to give himself more to focus on than just ow, he managed through his teeth: "Broken ribs. No trouble breathing, which is good; no pneumothorax. Possible spinal trauma—hard to move my legs. Concussion." Several words at the end got clipped off when he bit down against the pain. His knuckles were white and lower lip bleeding as he lowered himself back down.
He was thinner than he looked clothed. The bruises blossoming on his torso were in accord with his self-diagnosis. Anything actively bleeding was relatively superficial. More striking were the older scars: A pocking of shrapnel on shoulder going over to his back. The shine of blasterburn on his side. What looked like old knife wounds on his chest and forearm. Some faint, geometric surgical lines. Callouses from restraints around his wrists. And a jagged, raised mottling running down his side disappearing under the waistband of his pants. (It looked like someone had tried to dig something out of his side with an instrument not meant for the job. But what really made it the worst: it was stretched. He'd gotten it before he was finished growing.)