An arch of his brow. Len isn't so easily flustered. He looks Kabal up and down coolly like a piece of live-stock, shameless in his appraisal.
The face, or lack thereof, leaves something to be desired, but Len can't say he has any complaints about the rest when the jacket comes off. He's a big man. Solid in the way Len likes, because Len doesn't run with weaklings. He'd rather lose another arm than become attached to someone with 'victim' stapled to their forehead.
"Hmmmm." A low hum/purr of consideration, eyes tracking over the tubes, scars, and considerable amount of muscle beneath them. More impressive is Kabal's resilience in the face of his injury. The average person would go straight into shock with that kind of damage. Half the time it isn't the ice itself that kills you, but the hypothermia that usually follows, if you're too paralyzed by fear to keep the blood moving.
"Make it through this alive, without tears, and I'll think about it." A tall order. Len doesn't know who he's trying to motivate to make it through this. Kabal, or himself. Len isn't a care-taker. It's easier to kill people than keep them alive.
He turns Kabal's arm over in his hands, not rough, but not particularly gentle. As if he were examining a prime cut of beef (not inaccurate), inspecting frozen muscle and stiff tissue in his head, taking note of areas that are blacker with blood than others.
"Strip down and get into bed. Under the covers. We need to keep your body temperature up." An icy glare down at Kabal if there's a barest hint of resistance, once he's complied. Len doesn't take shit from anyone, but he sure as hell won't take it from a 'patient'.
"Don't even think of moving. I'll know." With that, Len goes to the bathroom. Strips out of his own clothing, because he's a walking, albeit fashionable, bio-hazard, and the last thing he needs is his new frozen-meal ticket dying of infection. Washes his hands. Splashes his face.
Some rummaging around the bathroom finds him a fluffy white bathrobe, towels, basin, and first-aid kit beneath the bathroom counter. Hopefully untainted by the rest of the mess in this place, which feels so comfortably familiar Len can't help but relax. Nothing says home like barely organized chaos and empty beer bottles.
He fills the basin with warm water and returns to the bedroom, carrying it against his hip.
"Think of this as a quasi-sadistic day at the spa. Sit back, relax, and try not to scream."
The first step in this whole procedure is soaking Kabal's iced arm in the warm water mixed with antiseptic, which will feel a lot like straight-up acid against his frozen skin. Len sits on the edge of the mattress, scooping up handfuls of water to better bathe any skin above the water line.
"So, what's your favourite flavour of ice-cream? I'm partial to mint chocolate-chip."
no subject
The face, or lack thereof, leaves something to be desired, but Len can't say he has any complaints about the rest when the jacket comes off. He's a big man. Solid in the way Len likes, because Len doesn't run with weaklings. He'd rather lose another arm than become attached to someone with 'victim' stapled to their forehead.
"Hmmmm." A low hum/purr of consideration, eyes tracking over the tubes, scars, and considerable amount of muscle beneath them. More impressive is Kabal's resilience in the face of his injury. The average person would go straight into shock with that kind of damage. Half the time it isn't the ice itself that kills you, but the hypothermia that usually follows, if you're too paralyzed by fear to keep the blood moving.
"Make it through this alive, without tears, and I'll think about it." A tall order. Len doesn't know who he's trying to motivate to make it through this. Kabal, or himself. Len isn't a care-taker. It's easier to kill people than keep them alive.
He turns Kabal's arm over in his hands, not rough, but not particularly gentle. As if he were examining a prime cut of beef (not inaccurate), inspecting frozen muscle and stiff tissue in his head, taking note of areas that are blacker with blood than others.
"Strip down and get into bed. Under the covers. We need to keep your body temperature up." An icy glare down at Kabal if there's a barest hint of resistance, once he's complied. Len doesn't take shit from anyone, but he sure as hell won't take it from a 'patient'.
"Don't even think of moving. I'll know." With that, Len goes to the bathroom. Strips out of his own clothing, because he's a walking, albeit fashionable, bio-hazard, and the last thing he needs is his new frozen-meal ticket dying of infection. Washes his hands. Splashes his face.
Some rummaging around the bathroom finds him a fluffy white bathrobe, towels, basin, and first-aid kit beneath the bathroom counter. Hopefully untainted by the rest of the mess in this place, which feels so comfortably familiar Len can't help but relax. Nothing says home like barely organized chaos and empty beer bottles.
He fills the basin with warm water and returns to the bedroom, carrying it against his hip.
"Think of this as a quasi-sadistic day at the spa. Sit back, relax, and try not to scream."
The first step in this whole procedure is soaking Kabal's iced arm in the warm water mixed with antiseptic, which will feel a lot like straight-up acid against his frozen skin. Len sits on the edge of the mattress, scooping up handfuls of water to better bathe any skin above the water line.
"So, what's your favourite flavour of ice-cream? I'm partial to mint chocolate-chip."