[Tonight is the first night Stephen has turned around from the nicer lounges: the theme is a 'no clothes' night, and while he's not ashamed of his body, that sort of party feels entirely too intimate to his tastes. But he's out already, and so he ducks inside the first lounge that will let him keep his clothes on. It's smaller than the other ones, quieter too, and most likely the place where the less savory residents of the Quarantine come, but nothing that can really deter him. Who knows, this place might churn out an interesting night.
He's on his way to the other end of the bar counter when he hears glass break before someone cursing, and he looks at the injured woman as she utters his name.]
That's my name, don't wear it out.
[Still, despite the dry tone, he makes his way to her, leaning over the counter to grab a few clean napkins, not trusting the rags there to be safe enough to be used to clean her cuts. Stephen assumes she's called him out to help her with the cuts: she either knows his other, older counter part, or she knew him from before. Or maybe from his future, but part of Strange still worries that might never come. Either way, he takes it as a call for help because of his medical knowledge and nothing else, clearly missing the incredulous looks she's giving him.
Sitting on a stool beside her, Stephen reaches for her hand: if she lets him, he gently plucks out the glass pieces stuck in her palm, his moves precise despite the tremors of his hands. It's been two years now since his accident, and while they still shake, his hands have grown stronger and steadier. He'll never operate again, but at least he can perform simple first aid. Once her hand is free of shards, he gives the cut a quick assessing look and presses the napkin into her palm before closing her hand into a fist.]
It doesn't look too deep, you won't be needing any stitches,
[he says a he orders her another round with his: Stephen knows all too well how hand injuries are painful, no doubt she'll need some liquid courage for once the pain hits.]
let me know if you want me to change something!
He's on his way to the other end of the bar counter when he hears glass break before someone cursing, and he looks at the injured woman as she utters his name.]
That's my name, don't wear it out.
[Still, despite the dry tone, he makes his way to her, leaning over the counter to grab a few clean napkins, not trusting the rags there to be safe enough to be used to clean her cuts. Stephen assumes she's called him out to help her with the cuts: she either knows his other, older counter part, or she knew him from before. Or maybe from his future, but part of Strange still worries that might never come. Either way, he takes it as a call for help because of his medical knowledge and nothing else, clearly missing the incredulous looks she's giving him.
Sitting on a stool beside her, Stephen reaches for her hand: if she lets him, he gently plucks out the glass pieces stuck in her palm, his moves precise despite the tremors of his hands. It's been two years now since his accident, and while they still shake, his hands have grown stronger and steadier. He'll never operate again, but at least he can perform simple first aid. Once her hand is free of shards, he gives the cut a quick assessing look and presses the napkin into her palm before closing her hand into a fist.]
It doesn't look too deep, you won't be needing any stitches,
[he says a he orders her another round with his: Stephen knows all too well how hand injuries are painful, no doubt she'll need some liquid courage for once the pain hits.]