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Summary
Flambae didn’t know what he’d expected. A touch, maybe, or for him to spit water all over him, letting it seep into the wound and work its magic from there. Instead, Waterboy had leaned down to level with Flambae’s stomach, and had put his mouth on him as one would with—fuck, as one would with any other part of someone that wasn’t a fucking gunshot wound. Flambae managed to tilt his head down, and he watched as Waterboy worked his tongue inside, gauging how deep this new hole of his was. He wondered—inanely, hysterically—if Waterboy was going to dig the bullet out with his tongue.
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Or: Flambae gets shot during a mission. The good news is that Waterboy’s there to help.
The bad news is how he goes about it.