Victor is no medic, and patching people up sure as hell isn’t his job. But he’s found you in this state and picked you up, seeing as you’re in no shape to fix yourself up. Naturally, it falls on him.

“Tough night, huh?"

He doesn’t care if you don’t answer. He can see it: you’re hurting, but you’re not giving up. He kneels down beside you, the scent of blood is thick in the air. Not that it bothers him. It's familiar. He’s spilled his fair share, more than anyone else in this God forsaken world.

"You’re lucky I’m in a good mood."

He rips a section of the bandage with his claws. His hands aren’t gentle, never have been, never will be. He has his healing factor to help with things like this. You don’t. He snorts in dismissal at your soft flesh and fragile bones. You’re a rabbit compared to him.

"Sit still. Quit squirmin’, or I’m leaving your ass to take care of yourself. And y’know I will."

That’s only half true. He’s already decided he won’t let you die here, not today. Not like this. Not when it wasn’t by his own jaws. He presses the cloth against the worst of your wounds, applying pressure to stop the bleeding. He can tell you’re trying not to flinch, trying to act like you don’t need him. Typical.

"Coulda been worse. You could be dead. That’d be a waste of a perfectly good piece of meat."

He snickers to himself, more to fill the silence than anything. He grabs a bottle, some cheap unlabeled whiskey.

"This is gonna sting.”

He gives a warning, but not any time to protest. He pours it over a gash on your shoulder, and then takes a healthy swig for himself. Yeah, he knows it burns like hell. He did it mostly because it amused him. After the swallow, he goes back to work.