[ Bigby's a damn mess. he's bleeding profusely from his shoulder, his shirt having been cut through and soaked with blood on both the front and half, showing he looks to have been stabbed by something. his right hip is even worse, blood dripping from a deep hole that has been left by another device of some sorts. it was enough to sink down his pant leg, leaving a nice little trail for the ducklings of Apartment #7 to avoid so as to not fall and ruin their clothes as well.
all of their attempts at telling him to stop are ignored. he limps his way down the hallway, one hand gliding along the wall with the other clenching his hip. if any of them catch up or try to stop them, Bigby just snarls, showing what looks to be teeth stained with even more crimson. at least he gives a bit of a response. ]
If I thought I was dying, I wouldn't have bothered getting the fuck up.
AND SOMETIME AFTER THAT → BAR & LOUNGE.
[ regardless of what Bigby's roomies are able to eventually do for him, his destination was... the bar. yes. he's hurting bad, and being as how he is no longer a Fable that can recover from wounds in an hour tops, he has to rely on other things to numb the pain. ―alcohol. ―he needs lots and lots of alcohol.
anyone sharing the same idea will find him hunched over a bar stool, a glass filled to the brim with triple distilled vodka. Bigby stares at it through slitted eyes for all of five seconds, taking a harsh swig in one before promptly pouring the remaining contents directly into the wound on his shoulder. a howl is his response, the burn too much for even a man whose pain threshold was typically unreal. does that mean he stops? absolutely not. a second glass is commanded to the robot bartender in the form of many curse words, repeating the same process of drinking a quarter of the liquor only to now pour it on the wound on his side.
something is seriously wrong with this guy. stop him, maybe? or try. just know that he's going to shut down any requests to being touched at this current moment. ]
AFTER FRANZISKA'S INVESTIGATION → VIEWING STAGE.
[ for someone who has been through quite the Night, Bigby is getting around. he's usually around for the investigations of dead people, after all, so he takes it upon himself to (eventually) stumble into the viewing stage in a state that can only be parts delirious and plain drunk. no one has been able to so much as get his clothes off of him yet, leaving him to look progressively worse as the hours piled on.
he leans against the closest thing he can lean on, which just so happens to be the former glass window that Veronica had her way with. Bigby doubles over it to get a better look at Franziska ― assuming she hasn't been moved by now; if she has, he is looking at... nothing ― tempting fate with how it seems like he was going to fall into the room and on the glass any second. it's probably not a good idea for him to roll his fresh, alcohol-stained wounds in glass. regardless, he is going to try his best to concentrate, speaking aloud for anyone to hear him. ]
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