[ Gorgug nods, and doesn't move immediately as Harold prepares him. Turns to face him, but he waits to see if Harold will take a chair or lean against the table--apparently, using the table as a chair, which works, too.
It's around then that Gorgug lowers his goggles, tapping the lens with his middle finger before he approaches. ]
No, it'll work. It'd suck if it didn't. [ There's a light note, trying to bring some humour when he comes to stand before Harold. He pulls up the wrist of his hoodie to reveal a wristband at the end of his glove, turning on a small circular dial before looking back to the wound, or its approximate location. The goggles helping to find that, along with registering the figure as human, all the useless parts that comes with scanning when all he needs is the focal point, to help him concentrate. ]
I have to press on it-- sorry, [ he apologises, trying to be gentle when he does lay his hands over the area not with too much pressure, but enough for Gorgug to feel heat through the fabric of clothing. But with that comes a further heat, Harold will feel, as the small stones embedded in the thick fingerless gloves that Gorgug wears start to glow themselves with a soft light, and they work as anchors to push through the energy being passed through: helping, as Gorgug stated, tissue to regenerate, for stick and muscle to stitch itself back together.
It might feel awkward, tender, with the light pressure coming from Gorgug's fingers, going through the stages healing all at once. But it passes through, takes about twenty seconds, to a minute at most, depending on how deep the bullet penetrated through into the abdomen.
Until Gorgug's touch in the area feels like nothing--it's just a touch, nothing else and nothing more. And Gorgug seems aware of when the wound has recovered, his goggles calculating, wanting to read other parts of Harold, but Gorgug takes a step back and lifts them up, peeking from under them to look at the man. ]
no subject
It's around then that Gorgug lowers his goggles, tapping the lens with his middle finger before he approaches. ]
No, it'll work. It'd suck if it didn't. [ There's a light note, trying to bring some humour when he comes to stand before Harold. He pulls up the wrist of his hoodie to reveal a wristband at the end of his glove, turning on a small circular dial before looking back to the wound, or its approximate location. The goggles helping to find that, along with registering the figure as human, all the useless parts that comes with scanning when all he needs is the focal point, to help him concentrate. ]
I have to press on it-- sorry, [ he apologises, trying to be gentle when he does lay his hands over the area not with too much pressure, but enough for Gorgug to feel heat through the fabric of clothing. But with that comes a further heat, Harold will feel, as the small stones embedded in the thick fingerless gloves that Gorgug wears start to glow themselves with a soft light, and they work as anchors to push through the energy being passed through: helping, as Gorgug stated, tissue to regenerate, for stick and muscle to stitch itself back together.
It might feel awkward, tender, with the light pressure coming from Gorgug's fingers, going through the stages healing all at once. But it passes through, takes about twenty seconds, to a minute at most, depending on how deep the bullet penetrated through into the abdomen.
Until Gorgug's touch in the area feels like nothing--it's just a touch, nothing else and nothing more. And Gorgug seems aware of when the wound has recovered, his goggles calculating, wanting to read other parts of Harold, but Gorgug takes a step back and lifts them up, peeking from under them to look at the man. ]
That's-- you good?