Normal Disclaimers apply. I have no ownership of the film The Bourne Legacy, or the Bourne franchise.
Marta's heart was still hammering in her chest when she and Aaron finally stopped skidding against the pavement. Before she even had the chance to sit up, to even think, her mind was immediately disrupted by the searing pain across the back of her legs. For a moment, she floundered against the pavement until the agony died down to simply a painful throb. She pushed herself up to lean over Aaron, asking if he was okay, hoping it more than anything. His response was weak, but he smiled, and his heavy breathing was tinged with the sound of relieved laughter.
They grasped for each other's hand, taking a moment to simply catch their breath. Aaron kept his eyes on her, but she could see his focus pulling in and out. His pant leg was now soaked through from where he had been shot. For the moment, she was the one leaning on his hand for support, but she knew in his state, it would be up to her to help him get treated.
It was a blessing when a boatman approached them, responding to the uproar of their vehicular crash. Marta could barely breathe out the words as she begged him for his help, not even sure how well he would understand what she was saying. She watched him as he surveyed the damaged motorcycle and the mess from the crash behind them. Marta couldn't even bare to turn and look. Part of her was afraid the man may still find a way to get back up and pursue them, the other part was afraid to face what she had done to save the life of Aaron and herself. One more time, Marta breathed out another "please," hoping the boatman understood. The man's response was a tentative nod of his head, and then a quick motion of his hand to wave her to his boat. He turned and spoke to his son in their own language, who responded by running towards the boat and unlatching the gate sealing off the stairs.
By some force of will, Marta was able to pull herself up to her knees, and moved Aaron's hand up across her back so that his arm rested across her shoulders. His palm gripped around the joint of her shoulder as he argued, "I'm fine, I've got it," and forced his feet to the pavement, lifting them both off the ground quickly. Unfortunately, neither of them were much in the state to stand, and Marta could barely find her footing before they started to topple over. The boatman rushed to their side and supported Aaron from his other arm. Aaron continued to mutter, but even he had begun to realize that he had reached his limit as the three of them staggered towards the boat.
The worst by far was the pain of moving up the stairs. As Marta gripped the railing with what strength she still had, her other hand dug into the back of Aaron's jacket, pulling him along with her, the boatman trailing behind pushing with his hands on each of their backs. She concentrated only on moving them forward, letting the boy in front of them lead them back down into a cluttered, yet vacant room with a cot set against the wall and a hammock swinging in the opposite corner.
With the boatman's help, Marta set Aaron down on the cot and straightened his legs out so that she could take a closer look at his condition. He was still feverish. For the past few hours, he had been running as though fully recovered from the virus, but he had pushed himself too hard and too soon after recovery. Marta's foremost worry was with the bullet wound. She yanked Aaron's back-pack from her back to assess what she had to work with. Cloth, gauze, adhesive, a scalpel, threading, and a needle. She dug further into the bag, hoping to find a pair of tweezers, but even turning the bag inside out ended with naught. Frantically, she attempted to explain to the boatman that she needed tweezers and boiling water with English words and only slightly coherent hand movements. As they tried in vain to communicate, Aaron pulled awake long enough to translate a few words into Tagalog that sent the man and his son upstairs in a rush to search.
As she waited, she looked once again at the wound. His skin was feverish, and the fabric of his jeans was imbedded in part of the wound. Taking the entire pant leg off would likely only cause more pain and potentially increased bloodloss. She would have to cut the fabric around it. She looked up at Aaron's face, he was heavy with sweat, leaning helplessly against the wall at the head of the cot. If only she had had a few more minutes to grab the medicine she had been purchasing before any of this had started. As it was, Aaron would be forced to deal with her probing without any painkillers.
As if he could read her mind, he muttered under heaving breathing, "I can take it, Doc. Do what you need to do."
Only a moment later, the child came thundering down the steps, a tea kettle in one hand and a pair of tweezers in the other. Quickly, Marta laid the cloth along the floor so that she could pour the boiling water across the tools to sanitize them without spilling water everywhere. She followed that up by pouring more of the water across Aaron's wound, biting down on her bottom lip as Aaron gave a hiss of pain.
She would have to turn off her mind and focus. Leaning down on the floor next to the cot was painful for her legs, but she steadied her arms on the wood paneling of the cot and pulled away the fabric around the wound with the scalpel. She imagined that she was in a lab, doing a routine procedure. She imagined that Aaron was properly sedated and healthy. She imagined that she had actually cleaned a bullet out of a wound before. Aaron didn't fight her as she probed into his skin, and it wasn't long until the bullet was out and she was dousing the wound again with water. The stitching proved to be just as painstaking as fishing the bullet out. Each time she had to re-insert the needle, she bit her own lip in sympathy. Eventually, she reached the end, cutting the thread with the scalpel still laying beside her. The rest would be up to Aaron's genetics. But she knew his abilities well enough that she was confident that he would recover from this.
With a deep sigh, exhaustion hit her with a rush, she leaned her forehead against the wood of the cot for support. Her hands, which had been steady throughout the operation were now shaking uncontrollably. She could hear a babble of conversation between the boatman and his son, but she didn't have the energy to turn around. The first sensation she recognized was the feeling of Aaron's hand stroking the side of her head, his fingers lacing through her now mangled hair. She turned her head just enough that she could see his expression. He gave her an exhausted smile and said, "Thanks. You did great, Doc."
It looked as though he wanted to say more, but couldn't put the words together, all that came out was "Marta.." and a part of a sentence that never started. His hand in her hair eventually stopped stroking as well. He had finally passed out, and he would need a lot of rest to recover.
Marta reached up to wrap her hand around his free one, gripping tightly. It wasn't until then that she felt the boat start to tug, and looked to see that neither the boatman or his son was still with them. They must have left to set sail. She wondered briefly where they were going, if they were actually safe. She was too tired to give a lot of thought to the future right now. The hammock was just behind her, but she knew even trying to lift herself onto it would be too painful. Instead, she stayed where she was, surrounded by her tools and the mess she had made, but still with Aaron's comforting hand in her hair, and fell asleep.