[ Technically, he's felt worse. Between a building falling on top of him and having a spike slowly shoved into his lung and nearly being skinned alive, this mostly just runs a close tie; but it's wrong. The way the pain spirals out deliberately, methodically. After seeing what it did to Fitz's hand, he has some idea of what's happening: his ribs are cracking, but there's no sane reason they should be.
Johnny's response is to grin like an idiot, even as his brow creases with pain. He can feel her small breaths under his palm, air rasping steadily through her throat. It's an improvement, even if the rest of it debateably isn't.
His free hand's there to meet her desperate grasp when she reaches out, taking a firm grip at her elbow and holding her steady. He holds even longer than she does, aside from the inevitable grimace; he knew what to expect. Except last time he tried this it was a paper cut, by comparison. He isn't expecting all of it.
Like the sudden, sharp throb in his shoulder, mirroring where the blood's thickly coating hers. He's watching her, keeping his focus up and keeping her focused, but he can't help the quick intake of breath when a wash of black rolls over his vision. Johnny holds on for another second, then reluctantly breaks skin contact, flinching back just enough to put a thin line of air between his hand and her neck.
Whether it's that or simple restraint, the transfer's cut. The heat surges back like a wave and then spreads out, soaks in, dissipates. Johnny fully intends to say something clever or ask her if she can move. Instead he falls back against the wall of the dumpster with an awkward thud, breathing heavily, grip on her arm still tight. ]
just murder your character more (also oops)
Johnny's response is to grin like an idiot, even as his brow creases with pain. He can feel her small breaths under his palm, air rasping steadily through her throat. It's an improvement, even if the rest of it debateably isn't.
His free hand's there to meet her desperate grasp when she reaches out, taking a firm grip at her elbow and holding her steady. He holds even longer than she does, aside from the inevitable grimace; he knew what to expect. Except last time he tried this it was a paper cut, by comparison. He isn't expecting all of it.
Like the sudden, sharp throb in his shoulder, mirroring where the blood's thickly coating hers. He's watching her, keeping his focus up and keeping her focused, but he can't help the quick intake of breath when a wash of black rolls over his vision. Johnny holds on for another second, then reluctantly breaks skin contact, flinching back just enough to put a thin line of air between his hand and her neck.
Whether it's that or simple restraint, the transfer's cut. The heat surges back like a wave and then spreads out, soaks in, dissipates. Johnny fully intends to say something clever or ask her if she can move. Instead he falls back against the wall of the dumpster with an awkward thud, breathing heavily, grip on her arm still tight. ]