"Don't sweat it. Nothing about me is average." In the mouth of another person, the words would be bragging. Hell, if Midnighter was in a different mood, it'd be bragging. But right now, it's only a bland statement of fact. "Doubt you were trained for science experiments."

Midnighter takes a moment to focus on the feeling in his shoulder before answering Archer; he has to concentrate on the pain and differentiate between it, something he generally blocks out until it becomes a dull buzz at the back of his mind. The computer hates the shit out of Archer and his metal needle, not understanding healing or medicine, only seeing weapon and attacker. It's a fair amount of background static to sift through in order to find a sensation he usually keeps locked off, but then again, nothing about him is average.

Especially fucking lately.

"A little, yeah. It's healing. You're doing good, doc."