"Oh," Matt says, perhaps ineffectually, but well. It's a surprise to him that he's only now made it to the couch, though he supposes it makes a certain amount of sense, too. Everything does stop hurting quite as badly, now that he's actually resting on the couch. "Thanks."
"Thanks," Bruce echoes, though his is directed at Foggy.
That said, he turns to look for the glasses, finds them without much trouble, and takes one to fill with water. He carries the now-full glass over to the couch when he's done, setting it down near one corner in the absence of a coffee table, and in hopes that no one will trip over it as he moves to grab his bag from where he left it on the floor.
He returns with that, too, helping himself to one of Matt's armchairs, and when Foggy returns, pulls two pill bottles out of it. He holds them up, one at a time, once he's finished with the blanket and so he can see what he has. "Painkiller. Antibiotic." A beat. "Every six hours and every twelve, respectively."
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"Thanks," Bruce echoes, though his is directed at Foggy.
That said, he turns to look for the glasses, finds them without much trouble, and takes one to fill with water. He carries the now-full glass over to the couch when he's done, setting it down near one corner in the absence of a coffee table, and in hopes that no one will trip over it as he moves to grab his bag from where he left it on the floor.
He returns with that, too, helping himself to one of Matt's armchairs, and when Foggy returns, pulls two pill bottles out of it. He holds them up, one at a time, once he's finished with the blanket and so he can see what he has. "Painkiller. Antibiotic." A beat. "Every six hours and every twelve, respectively."