[Not that Len doesn't like it. Len may make a surprising amount of noise, but he never complains.
Being cut up hurts less without a metal shelf biting into his back. Shifting up onto one elbow, Len yanks what's left of his shirt up to his collarbone. Starscream got him good with those impressive claws of his. Len's torn between anger and genuine admiration.
Must be nice not to bleed. If Len could choose to be made of metal instead of flesh, he would. In a heartbeat. Humans are so fucking fragile.
His scarred body is a testament to that. Len can't count how many times he's been hurt this badly or hell of a lot worse. In the scheme of things, a couple gashes from a razor-sharp edge are nothing.
A sudden, ugly thought that Kabal might think he's weak springs to the forefront of his slightly foggy mind. He sits taller, squaring his shoulders. Wipes any trace of a dumb, vulnerable look off his face.]
Fine. It ain't half as bad as it looks.
[Len squeezes the edges of the cut together, testing the depth, blood welling up out of the wound to streak down his already sticky/crusty/smeared stomach. Too deep for glue.
It isn't fine, but the only thing worse than getting your ass beat is letting them see you flinch.]
Nothing a few staples can't fix. Grab me that gun from the kit. I can do it myself.
[Can doesn't mean should, but Len hasn't lived this long relying on others. He called Kabal because it was faster than dragging his own ass down the hall, not because he needed him.
Len can take care of himself.
Whether he's trying to prove that to himself, or Kabal, in the moment is up for debate.]
no subject
[Not that Len doesn't like it. Len may make a surprising amount of noise, but he never complains.
Being cut up hurts less without a metal shelf biting into his back. Shifting up onto one elbow, Len yanks what's left of his shirt up to his collarbone. Starscream got him good with those impressive claws of his. Len's torn between anger and genuine admiration.
Must be nice not to bleed. If Len could choose to be made of metal instead of flesh, he would. In a heartbeat. Humans are so fucking fragile.
His scarred body is a testament to that. Len can't count how many times he's been hurt this badly or hell of a lot worse. In the scheme of things, a couple gashes from a razor-sharp edge are nothing.
A sudden, ugly thought that Kabal might think he's weak springs to the forefront of his slightly foggy mind. He sits taller, squaring his shoulders. Wipes any trace of a dumb, vulnerable look off his face.]
Fine. It ain't half as bad as it looks.
[Len squeezes the edges of the cut together, testing the depth, blood welling up out of the wound to streak down his already sticky/crusty/smeared stomach. Too deep for glue.
It isn't fine, but the only thing worse than getting your ass beat is letting them see you flinch.]
Nothing a few staples can't fix. Grab me that gun from the kit. I can do it myself.
[Can doesn't mean should, but Len hasn't lived this long relying on others. He called Kabal because it was faster than dragging his own ass down the hall, not because he needed him.
Len can take care of himself.
Whether he's trying to prove that to himself, or Kabal, in the moment is up for debate.]