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“I think you’re going to have to retire this poncho,” Bode tells him.
“This is my favorite one,” Cal wheezes at him. “No way.”
BD sounds off an agreement with Bode, then offers up a stim, because he’s the best buddy droid any man could ask for. “Yeah, that’ll help,” Cal says, holding up a hand for BD to eject the little green glowing tube into. He catches it easily despite the woosiness and looks down at himself, contemplating the best place to shove it to maximize the bit of bacta it’s got and really get that kick of adrenaline that’ll actually keep him moving.
There’s kind of a lot of options, between the two— wait, three —blaster holes that have been burnt into the fabric and the gash from a vibroblade that Bode is currently trying to stem the bleeding from. It’s all over his gloves, slippery with blood, but really, it’s not that deep. Cal’s just a bleeder.
Cal really doesn’t know what he’s fussing about.
He picks the cut if only because Bode gives him an incredulous look when Cal hovers over the blaster holes one at a time thoughtfully. It’s almost like Bode could hear him counting off eeny-miney-moe in his head. The stim shoots into his skin with blissful numbness almost immediately and Cal sighs, sitting back on his elbows to think about how he’s going to patch up the poncho this time.
“You’re not getting these stains out,” Bode tells him. He’s peering down at the slash he’s been holding together with his hands, making a face as he tries to lift the cloth away from Cal’s skin so it won’t knit together over any loose threads as the stim works rapidly.
“I don’t have to,” Cal tells him brightly. “It’s already red. I’ve bled on this one plenty.”
Bode raises his brows at Cal, then turns to BD-1. “Tell me he’s joking,” he asks the droid.
BD’s antennae flick back in a negative and the droid shakes its head.
“Cal,” Bode groans.
“It gets a little crusty,” Cal admits, “but it’ll be fine if I wash it and mend it.”
Bode does not look suitably reassured, which is kind of rude. He kind of thought Bode would get it. He wears red, too. Guess that’s more fashion than practicality.
Merrin would understand. Maybe.
Cal goes to stand up. Koboh lists slightly to the left as he does and Bode has to catch him with tacky bloodstained palms so he doesn't tip over with the rest of the planet. Stars buzz at the corners of his eyes. His back feels strangely wet and cold and he tries to peer over his shoulder, but that just sends the stars spinning.
“I might need another stim,” he tells BD. His droid's photoreceptors zoom in on him and then it taps a few steps over to crane its head at Cal's back before letting out an alarmed whoop.
Bode has to catch the stim that flies his way, swearing when he tilts Cal forward enough to see how bad a state his poncho is in. Or maybe he’s not actually concerned about the bloodstains and holes in his poncho at all, Cal thinks, as he feels a sharp stab near his spine.
“Did I get shot from behind?” Cal asks.
“Stabbed,” Bode says, now sounding both unimpressed and alarmed. “How did you not know?”
He tries to pat at his back, but Bode’s knocking his hands away. Still, from the wet and the growing numbness around his lower back from the stim, he’s pretty sure he knows whereabouts the blade— he’s assuming it’s another hit from that vibroblade and not shrapnel —went in. “I’ve been stabbed there before,” he says. “Or close enough. Nerves are shot on that side, so it’s all kind of… eh.”
“‘Eh’,” Bode echoes dubiously. “What does ‘eh’ mean, Cal?
Before Cal can really answer that, BD tells the story in a much more colorful way than he would, beeping unhappily at his slight downplay of the extent of the damage he got on Nur. He’d give his buddy a flat look if he wasn’t so sure that turning his head again would result in pitching over and passing out.
“...So you can’t even tell how much you’re—” Bode makes an annoyed sound, a click of his tongue that BD mimics with a bob of its head. “I’m taking the poncho off.” He’s already tugging at it.
“I can fix it,” Cal whines. Somehow he thinks if Bode does manage it, he’ll never actually see this poncho again.
“You gotta be alive to do that, Scrapper,” Bode reminds him as he shoves the back of it over his head to get at his back and check him over for other injuries that Cal’s deadened nerves can’t quite register the way they should anymore. Cal contemplates the darkness inside his poncho for a moment before it’s pulled free from around his head and abandoned in his lap.
Oh.
“That is a lot of blood,” he muses, touching the tacky fabric where the stain is practically sopping. Perhaps more than is technically salvageable. He looks at his wet fingertips and the deep red of his poncho and wonders how much salt Greez has handy to try and lift the stain, contemplating how he ought to ask for it without Greez realizing he's gotten stabbed again. He really doesn't want to deal with that scolding on top of Bode's.
He's still pondering potential excuses right up until he passes out.