Archive of Our Own

Legs pulls Martyn into his home/clinic/safe house with a hurry and a curse. 

“Close the door behind you!” He shouts at whoever’s following, figuring his words can’t count for invitation, and hoping whichever heavy boots have kept pace are from a friend. The lines of vampire and town, vampire and friend, and friend and foe have become so blurred lately he can’t take any chances. 

Thankfully the door slams shut and the steps keep pace. Legs all but throws Martyn onto the table he keeps clear just for situations like these. 

Martyn groans, “watch it, Doc,” and tries to curl onto his side. Legs plants an arm on his chest to keep him pinned. 

“Hold him,” he commands, and thankfully it's Ren who comes into his vision, arms like logs more than capable of keeping a squirming boy down, no matter his protests. 

With Martyn no longer at risk of rolling off the table, Legs rushes to his supplies. He splashes his arms in alcohol best he can to disinfect before running back. 

Without preamble, he takes his shears to the sleeve of Martyn’s leg. What greets him underneath is nothing short of horrific. Next to him, Ren gasps at the sight. 

Red, swollen, hot flesh wrapped in dirty too-tight bandages like the worst of the woundcare he saw on the front. 

“Why didn’t you come to me?” He demands. Martyn’s leg hair is caught in the bandages and dried blood, it's likely going to rip out when he takes them off. 

“Didn’t think it was too bad,” he whines, not entirely lucid, “Apo helped,” 

“Apo isn’t a doctor,” he spits. She should have known better than to conspire to hide something as serious as this. 

“We need to strip him,” he informs Ren, “see if he’s got any other injuries we don’t know about,” 

“Am I going to be okay?” Martyn asks with the high pitch of youth. 

“You’ll be lucky if I don’t have to amputate.” He bites out. Sure enough, the leg hair comes off with a rip as he peels the rotten bandages off to reveal the wound underneath. 

The flesh is split, but as Legs prods it seems the bone beneath is still intact. The edges of the wound, however, are bright red with infection. 

Most damningly, a red streak is crawling up his leg, past his knee. 

“You’re so funny, Doc.” Martyn giggles with exhaustion. Ren’s face goes white when he glances down at the injury. 

He steps back, out of Martyn’s sight, to shake his head. Ren’s expression crumples. 

“Okay, Martyn, just relax,” he says with a softer voice as he steps back up to his patient. “I’m going to give you something for the pain, it's going to make you sleepy, okay?” 

It won’t be enough, not once he gets started. He knows from experience that what he has isn’t enough. 

He hands a strip of cloth to Ren, “we’re going to cover your eyes to make it dark, and help you sleep, alright?” 

Martyn gives a lazy nod, and Ren ties the blindfold around his eyes. Legs prepares the painkiller solution. 

He administers the painkiller, then ties the tourniquet around the boy’s upper thigh, two finger widths from the red streak of infection hurtling towards his heart. 

“That’s a little tight,” Martyn complains. 

“Hold him down,” he commands, and Ren pins the boy to the table by his shoulders. 

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers. 

He starts cutting.