Jackson Selvaggio

"I don't want to die without any scars." - Chuck Palahniuk Jackson Selvaggio || 29 || Gravikinesis

[aureliaxselvaggio]

“It could have.” There’s a certain grimness in her tone that reflects just exactly what that worse could have been. She couldn’t lose another family member and it doesn’t bear thinking about that Jackson might have ended up in the Initiative’s hands. Once again her eyes drift over his injuries, making note of each and every one of them so she can take repayment for them tenfold when the time comes. Lia wasn’t usually one for violence, despite being good at dishing it out when it came down to it she never usually liked resorting to it. However, this was one of those rare times that she was itching to inflict some pain and injuries onto other. The rage and hatred she’s feeling won’t accept anything else. “We’ll make them pay for it.” And it’s more of a vow than a statement. Her gaze falls to his wrist. “You had that looked at yet?” 

[jackson-selvaggio]

Jackson nods his head. Even with the head injury and the dazed look to his face, he can agree to that. They will pay back every injury they sustained on the Initiative. The time for petty squabbles and in fighting was long since passed. They needed to focus their efforts on the Initiative. But all those thoughts were pushed to the back of his mind. In the moment, all he could do was nod his head in agreement and be glad that Lia was here, in front of him. That she was okay and he couldn’t get himself to let go of her hand. To make sure that wasn’t going to change any time soon. “No,” he answers when she refers to his wrist. 

[jackson-selvaggio]

5th of July || Eli & Jackson

[devouringbeast-blog]

It’s too much, between the healing wound too close to his heart and the way his brother walked in here with bad jokes on his tongue that just make him think he was scared. Maybe that’s all it is looking back at him now, implied with every word he’s not saying and half the ones he’s finally offering him now. He wasn’t there, he didn’t see Cal die or half to try and drag his lifeless body home. But he’s not selfish enough to think that hadn’t left a void, that Jackson wasn’t terrified of feeling that all over again, and it’s stupid to think things were strained enough that they wouldn’t.

There’s no limit to the kind of vengeance he’d want to bring down on the Initiative if the situations were reversed. He might be tempted to run again, but first he’d flood every street with their blood and let himself forget what his hands looked like when they weren’t stained with red.

Instead it’s his own, and instead he’s left with enough pain in his chest and a quiet horror every time he closes his eyes that he won’t open them again. It’s only marginally better than the alternative, but it’s harder than it should be to pretend he’s unaffected, and for a moment he can only shake his head. His fingers run a path through hair that definitely needs washing, scraping at his scalp like he can claw that restlessness and frustration from his skin.

“No. I don’t fuckin’ excuse you.” He lets out a breath, ribs expanding and aching when he does, hands falling in his lap. “I don’t wanna have a bullet punched through my chest before I can fuckin’ talk to my brother again. I don’t want you to look like you just went five rounds with the Hulk, or Lia to have to risk her life just to drag my ass out of the line of fire. I’m not okay with any of that shit so you’re gonna have to excuse me if I can’t joke about it right now. And yeah. I know how rich that is coming from me.”

[jackson-selvaggio]

It’s not the response he expects from his brother. He’d thought joking was the way to go. It usually was with Eli. But he just closes his mouth and nods his head, a silent sign that he can accept that. That he understands there’s nothing really funny about any of this. They’d lost people, it could have been worse, but it was bad enough. Many of them were wounded, including each of the remaining Selvaggios. 

He lifts a hand to scratch at the side of his face, because the only words he can say to that are, “Alright,” and he doesn’t think that’s good enough. If there’s an apology, it doesn’t leave his tongue because he can’t say what it would be for at this point. They were all in this together, they’d all made their own paths and if things had been going to shit before all of this, all he knew was that they couldn’t let it go the same way it had been heading. He needed to patch things up with his siblings and they needed to be the strength of the Syndicate. 

Unfortunately, it would also make them a target of the Initiative. And Jackson still wasn’t sure if his presence at Left Blank that night was the reason they were all in this mess or not. If it was, he’d have a lot to atone for and he didn’t think he’d be able to ever forgive himself if they didn’t get their people back. He also hadn’t come to any conclusions on what he’d do with himself from now on, either. 

“Maybe it’s the only thing I know how to do right now,” he admits. Because any other words just don’t come to him as naturally as they should. What he should say in this situation, what condolences or comfort he should offer. It’s never been in him to do those things and that much hasn’t changed after all his years so far. He doesn’t think it ever will. 

[bloodlessheart-blog1]

“Maybe. They’re not dead right now. I’m going to try and keep it that way.” It might not be a comforting answer, but she refuses to make promises like that. If she has to sit in front of him later and say it was too late, Eli had bled out too much before she got to him, or Lia had an aneurysm. She doesn’t want to make herself a liar. But their odds are better than they were, and if Nick’s on that list too, she doesn’t expect anyone in this house to care about him. It’s enough that she does.

He says he doesn’t anesthetic, and if it’s true or not, she doesn’t pull away to go hunting for it. “Don’t flinch,” she tells him, before she just starts stitching him up. And if she isn’t necessarily a gentle person, she is efficient, and the threads are clean and even.

“What else hurts?”

[jackson-selvaggio]

There’s a palpable relief at her words. That they’re not dead and she’s actively working on making sure they stay that way. His shoulders slump like the tense puppet strings holding him up have just been cut, but he doesn’t fall over completely and when she tells him not to flinch, he barely even registers as she starts stitching his head back together. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t react. Another pinch is nothing to the odd painful numbness coursing through him now. 

“Thank you,” he breathes the words quietly. A thank you for what she’s doing for him, and he doesn’t mean the stitches. That she’s watching out for his brother. For his sister. That she’s taking care of the people in this house who needed to be taken care of and he didn’t know the full extent of who was on that list. 

When she asks what else hurts, he lifts his arm slightly, sleeve still hiding the dark bruises of his wrist, but his fingers are numb and lifeless. He can remember the snap. 

[jackson-selvaggio]

5th of July || Eli & Jackson

[devouringbeast-blog]

His brother doesn’t say anything more about the hole in his chest, and he doesn’t know if he’s grateful for that or not. The silence is easier, ignoring that he almost died somehow safer than remembering what it felt like to lie on the floor of his father’s house feeling his life slip away. That kind of terror is a thing he’s only felt once in his life, watching the glassy eyed stare of Cal staring back up at him. He’d taken that bullet for Eli. Now he’d earned himself one of his own, and if it’s unfair that it didn’t kill him, no part of him really wants to die.

There are words he should say, some smartass comment about the bruises on his face or a happy birthday, but the way his brother came in here destroys them both. It’s exhausting keeping the smile on his face, the jokes ready on his tongue like there’s nothing wrong. It has his eyes closing for a moment, trying to tamp down every awful emotion that threatens to drown him.

When they open again he presses his hands against the mattress, trying to force himself into some kind of sitting position. The alternative makes him feel older than he is, and it’s little comfort that he isn’t the only one in the room looking at thirty anymore. His muscles protest, his chest aches, but he gets himself closer to upright, hands resting in his lap afterwards as he tries to suck in breath without letting that pain shatter him.  It makes it take longer for the question to sink in, a dull nod of his head his only answer at first. He heard. He knows.

“Yeah. Charlie. Who actually comes in here to hang out with me. Unlike some people apparently.” His head lifts, focusing on his brother where he occupies too familiar a position. “I’m probably good now, you know. You can stop sitting there like you’re just waiting for me to die.”

[jackson-selvaggio]

“It’s not my fault you were snoring every time I came in here,” Jackson tells him. The words are humorous, because Jackson had been in here more than he’d been anywhere else except for maybe his own bed those first few days. But it’s the next words that have him sitting up a little bit straighter, echoing his brother’s motions. Eli tells him that he can stop sitting there like he’s waiting for him to die and he lets out a slow breath. 

“I lost track of you at Left Blank,” he tells him. They’d both known the other was there. He’d sat down with Ailie to enjoy the night and he’d tipped his chin at his brother, but hadn’t known if there was too much tension still between them. That maybe Eli just wanted to enjoy his night with his New York friends and Charlie. No place for a brother who he couldn’t even get along with anymore. 

Then he’d gotten shot. And it all seemed idiotic. That they couldn’t get along, that they were playing any sort of politics with each other at all. That there wasn’t the very realistic possibility that the Initiative could claim either of them any day. And the he didn’t want the last interaction with his brother to be an uneasy tilt of his chin with so much distance between them. It was eye opening. 

“And the next time I saw you, you’d left a pretty good bloodstain on the floor. Just like Cal. And I can’t do that again,” he shakes his head and it’s as simple as that. He’d been afraid Eli was going to go the way of Cal and neither one of them had he been able to say goodbye to. Just like their father, too. “So excuse me if I’m waiting for you to get better so we can get our shit together again.” 

[aureliaxselvaggio]

It doesn’t matter to her that his tone is still cold and detached, it was something she’d grown accustomed to over the years. What matters is that he’s reaching for her hand, giving her that contact that shows her he cares more than words ever could. There’s a wry smile at his question, followed by an attempt at a nonchalant shrug. “I’ve been better. But I’ll be fine.” Her head is spinning too much, standing on her injured feet for any prolonged period is almost impossible and the faltering steps she takes to sit herself next to him probably give away the words she spoke as the white lie that they are. But it was intended to ease worry rather than deceive. The next ones she spoke where nothing but honest, however. “I’m glad you’re here.” As battered and bruised as they were they’d made it out alive. That was what mattered. Eyes scanned his face once more, noting every little cut and bruise and silently swearing vengeance on those who had inflicted them. “How about you? Other than the obvious.”

[jackson-selvaggio]

He nods his head and doesn’t comment on how she stumbles into the seat beside him. She’s hurt, but she’s on her feet and that’s more than he could ever ask for. They can heal. They will heal. She asks about him and he nods his head again because he doesn’t know if he really has an answer for that. He’d been trying to assess the damage. Broken nose for sure, head wound from the pistol whip. It’s his wrist he’s not sure about. Black and blue, swollen and he reaches for the sleeve to pull it up. He’d have to chance a guess that it was broken, because nothing else would cause that type of bruising. And he recognized what a broken bone felt like. It was a sad thing to admit, because they weren’t for the right reasons. “This is the worse I got,” he says, like a broken wrist isn’t really much. “Could have been a lot worse,” he looked at her, not mentioning the black bag that had been over his head. 

[jackson-selvaggio]

5th of July || Eli & Jackson

[devouringbeast-blog]

“Hey. That’s my line. Get your own.” His nose wrinkles in some mocking disgust, though it’s true enough. That had long been his only answer to the question, though Bruno had never followed through on it. Which was probably for the best. “Unoriginal fuck.”

It’s the best he can manage, far from a hundred percent and less willing or able to fake it. Humor had always been an easy fallback, and he clings to it now because it’s familiar and comfortable and nothing about this was. He’d been dying. There might still be a stain on the floorboards, but he hasn’t gotten far enough to see it. He hasn’t gotten much beyond the bathroom, and that in itself had been a trial some days. The world outside seems distant and far away, even knowing that they had people missing. Rhys, and that one had stung, because the man was on a short list of people he respected.

“Gonna leave a hell of a scar.“ He doesn’t know what else to say about it, whatever horror had swamped him when it happened shoved firmly to the back of his mind. Everyone was hurt or scared. It’s followed by a small shrug of his shoulders, a faint pulling at his muscles that mostly just feels tight today. He doesn’t ask who hooked him up with the regimen of antibiotics and painkillers, but there’s a reluctance to take the second. There’s a history of substance abuse that swears it might just lead to one more bad habit, but the hole in his chest screams louder sometimes.

“You better not’ve come in here just to take a nap.”

[jackson-selvaggio]

Jackson smirks at Eli’s defense towards the pony line. He was well aware it was his brother’s go to line, well aware Cal used to say it too because they’d gotten so used to each other. They’d picked up each others mannerisms and sayings, just like a true family did. There’d never been any question that they’d all been a true family. 

He doesn’t say anything to the bullet hole leaving a hell of a scar on his brother. He’s sure it’s only adding to ones he already has. They all have them. There’s no doubt a gunshot scar will leave an ugly mess on his brother, but it’s better than the alternative. He’d rather his brother have a scar than a fatal wound he wouldn’t recover from. And it had almost happened that way. There’d not been a guarantee he’d be alright until a few days after he’d almost bled out in that bed. 

“’Course I came in here to take a nap,” he says and even if it’s a joke, there’s the real possibility he might end up doing that. Especially if Eli falls asleep first. There’d be no reason to stay awake then and he’s too sore right now to get up and move a whole lot. “Why the hell else would I come in here?” He shifts a little bit in the chair, rolling his neck and positioning his arm so it’s less weight on the cast around his wrist. He tips his head back to look at Eli. It’s still unclear to him how much his brother’s been told and they don’t have a plan yet on what they’re going to do to get their people back, but things were just starting to settle down where they could start thinking about it. 

“I assume someone’s filled you in about who we’re missing?” 

[naomi-carson]

It was one thing to be in a firefight, knowing that any second your could die and that would be it, Naomi could deal with that and she fairly certain that it was a sort of chaos that she was painfully familiar with. Maybe even at peace with. However, it was a different thing to deal with the sight of Jackson being black bagged and dragged off. If she and Seamus hadn’t shown up and gone through the back, there was a strong chance that Jackson’s name would be among the missing. She’s not sure what she would do then and she doesn’t want to think about what they would do to him if he were captured. They were the ones that the Iniative was looking for after all.  “Of course. I always got your back, remember?” she says quietly as she presses the cool towel to an open cut on his face. 

The words are true enough, because she would always be there to watch his back, pull him out of a fire, stand by his side, or even take a bullet for him, but she can’t help but wish that she did more. That she could have gone in there to fight and brought back more people than just Seamus and Jackson. There’s a moment where she can’t hep but wonder if that must have looked strange to anyone. That the people she managed to get out of there were people she was closer to and knew better than most. Would anyone think she was playing favorites in her rescue attempt? The thought that someone might disgusts her, but even she can’t deny that while she would step in to protect any one of their own Jackson was on the top of her list. As she continues to do what she can to clean the blood off of him, her motions slow down. “Are you okay?”

[jackson-selvaggio]

“I remember,” he slurs and he doesn’t have to think about that answer. He knows it. He’s known it for a long time. After Eli had left, after his brother had died, Naomi had been the one who’d stuck around. When Bruno didn’t want to talk, when Lia was absent more than she was around, it was Naomi who he’d turned to more than anyone. More than Seamus, more than any other member of the Syndicate could really offer. So he remembers. How they’d spilled blood together, how they’ve watched out for each other, how she took a bullet for him and he doesn’t know if he’s ever gotten the chance to return the favor for any of it. Doesn’t think anything he’s done even comes close to what she had given him. 

The thoughts are too sentimental and it’s the first clue he has to the possibility he has a concussion. It’s not like him to get sentimental and choked up. She looks at him, motions slowing as she wipes the blood from his face. He doesn’t thinks he’s talking about the wounds. They will heal. She’s talking about that bag that got put over his head. About Ailie getting taking and about the possibilities of losing more than just a fight. He doesn’t know if Eli will live, doesn’t know who else is missing or if his sister will wake up. He doesn’t have those answers and he can’t rightfully answer her yes. So he doesn’t say anything at first. He doesn’t say anything he’s thinking, doesn’t delve into any of it except for the physical wounds he’d sustained. He looks down at his wrist. “Think it’s broken,” he says quietly, because they both know that’s not what she was asking. 

[jackson-selvaggio]

When do you think the Syndicate will be ready to rescue their missing members?

When we come up with a solid plan that limits our chances of failure. We can’t afford it. 

[jackson-selvaggio]

How was your birthday?

Uneventful. Think we had other things to worry about than a birthday. 

[jackson-selvaggio]

Do you think you could've fought harder at the Tavern?

If I thought I could have, I would have. 

[bloodlessheart-blog1]

There’s a nod of her head, but there’s some relief in the answer when it doesn’t add to her list. Though the distraction might be welcome at this point, a growing dread in the pit of her stomach what she’ll be left with when she has a moment to herself. If it isn’t a state that scared her much before, it loomed over her as too much of a real threat for her to rest comfortably now.

“They’re alive, sleeping, and I’ve already done what I can for them.” She frowns when his hand settles on her wrist, even if there’s little pressure. She’s still quick to remove it, pulling his hand away and letting it rest on his own knee. As soon as she’s free she goes back to work, deft fingers threading the needle with little thought involved. She kept her hands steady through two bullet holes, one of which was put through the only person left in the world who truly matters to her. Everyone else is dead or abandoned her. If Nick wants to leave her he’ll have to find a different method.

“You need to hold still. I’m not used to working on someone still breathing. And unless you’ve got any vodka I don’t have an anesthetic for you.”

[jackson-selvaggio]

He stills, letting her remove his hand, looking at it like he forgot that he’d been reaching out to grab her wrist. She’s threading a needle and she says she has not anesthetic and he shakes his head. “I don’t need it,” he tells her before focusing on what’s more important in the moment. “They’re going to be okay?” he inquires about his family. The thought that he might be the last Selvaggio standing too terrifying a prospect to process anything else in the moment. 

He lets her stitch him up and later he’ll remember to thank her for it. Later he’ll remember she’s not a part of the organization, but she’s here helping them like she is. Even with the only people she has ties to upstairs, she’d still ventured down here to see if she could help. He’ll remember it all later, but in the moment he’s still too dazed and concussed to do much of anything else. 

[jackson-selvaggio]

5th of July || Eli & Jackson

[devouringbeast-blog]

Eli’s concept of time had been fucked early on, unable to keep himself conscious for more than a few hours at a time. His body was worn and struggling to heal itself, and a conversation with Ryan had been enough to make it clear that she was most of the reason there was any blood left in his body. He’d tried to leave it all on the floor of his father’s house, and if that would’ve been a fitting way to go, it wasn’t anything he welcomed. He’d sworn a thousand times that he was too stubborn to die, but apparently there were just as many people too stubborn to let him.

Not that he was complaining. If he had any, it was the idea that he was all but confined to this bed, a thing that could only grate on him when he was conscious enough to realize it. He’d always been too reckless a soul, too active and too violent, and there was a dull awareness that he owed someone vengeance for this and couldn’t lift a finger to repay them.

The sound of footsteps has him opening his eyes, awake enough to hear someone come in, though it’s not until he focuses on his brother that it answers the question of whether it’s him or Charlie this time. But the words he greets him with just has a scoff escaping him. “Jesus. You miss your bitching quota without me conscious? I’m still here. That should be gift enough.”

[jackson-selvaggio]

“It’s not,” he says, though the lie is evident, at least to him. His tone and sense of humor had always been a little stunted, but he’d like to think that even after everything they’d been through, Eli could still recognize it as a joke. “I wanted a fucking pony.” It’s a line Eli’s used himself, he’s sure of it. Though the banter spewed between them was always hard to pinpoint which one of them started a joke first. It felt familiar and natural right now, something he’d been afraid he wouldn’t be able to do with his brother anymore. 

Slouched in the chair, he eyes his brother. He’s looking better today than he had for the first few days. When it had been touch and go. They were healing and while they still had a long recovery, Jackson could start to feel that restlessness settling in. Like they needed to do something. Especially with a few of their own still missing. Taken. A few civilians too, some of which Jackson knew. 

Leaning his head back, he settles in, eyes heavy because there’s still pain medication flowing in his system. It’s a sign that he doesn’t plan on leaving the chair any time soon. He’ll probably nap here for a while once his brother’s out again, but he’s not in a rush to get there. “How’s your bullet hole?” he asks, lifting his chin slightly at the words. 

[necroticemery-blog]

Regrouping.

[necroticemery-blog]

He had no idea who was okay and who wasn’t. Who was taken and who was alright and accounted for. And that was perhaps the most anxiety-inducing thing as he was speeding back to LA. Upon entering the large home, Em was quick to find a very bruised and beaten Jackson, asking him what he knew about what had happened. “Not much. Left Blank was hit with ours inside - no specifics beyond that.” He didn’t have to venture a guess that the man before him had been present at the time. His injuries spoke for him in that regard. “What happened in there?” He was eager to find out, skipping any pretense of real worry for the man before him. Jackson was sitting there alive after all, while others were in far worse positions currently. He idly wondered if Gwen had been there, still holding sensitive information in regards to her impending fate.

[jackson-selvaggio]

Emery confirms that he doesn’t know much and Jackson nods slightly. If anything, he’s glad the man wasn’t there. There’d been too many of them gathered, too many faces that may now be in files, too many names, too many of them still not accounted for. When he asks what happens, he shakes his head. “Initiative showed up with a Corinthian,” he says, the disdain he feels for that man coloring the words rigidly. “Rhys and Ailie are still unaccounted for,” he tells him, not knowing how he’ll take the information. So far, there were still others in question, but he’d seen Ailie get taken with his own eyes. He’d almost been one of them, the black bag over his head and everything. That he’d been granted freedom while they hadn’t, he still wasn’t dealing with it properly. “I don’t know how they knew the location.” 

[jackson-selvaggio]

5th of July || Eli & Jackson

While the rest of the city had been celebrating the holiday the previous day, Jackson had been in and out of different parts of the Estate. Checking in on people, resting because his head still pounded to the drumming of his heartbeat. His face was a myriad of blacks and blues still. One arm was in a sling and he’d gotten a cast finally on his wrist. No hospitals, he’d decided. So he’d had a contact hook him up with a Veterinarian outside of the city. Late at night, after hours, with the promise of a returned favor in response to his silence about the matter. 

Every day he’d been in to check on Eli, sometimes for hours. The few minutes he’d been in there yesterday with his brother, Eli had been asleep and he hadn’t bothered to wake him, taking the opportunity to get some much needed rest of his own. Today, however, he was happy to see Eli awake as he entered his room. He didn’t bother asking how he was doing or if he could come in. He simply headed over to a familiar chair he’d occupied those first couple of days after the attack and sat down, sinking low in it with his arm in a sling and stitches still in his face. Bruises a mask still across his skin, though the swelling of his eye was down. 

“You missed my birthday,” he said, frown on his face but not for long, it still hurt too much to keep the look there. It was a childish, silly thing to say because they both knew Jackson didn’t celebrate birthdays unless it was Eli or Lia dragged him out for a drink. He shook his head like he was disappointed. “Thought this year would be different and I’d at least get a Happy Fucking Birthday,” he jokes. It’s humor when there’s nothing funny about this situation. But he doesn’t know how to say anything else right now, his thoughts still too scattered and that feeling of relief that Eli’s going to be okay still too fresh. 

[bloodlessheart-blog1]

“Shut up.” She brushes off his protests as simply as that, little time or will to start arguing stubborn male pride. It’s probably for the best she never ended up at the bedside of patients who still had a pulse, too cold even on most of her better days to offer anything like comfort or compassion. It was self-preservation, but now it’s just habit. And she’s swift to start wiping blood from his forehead regardless, until she can better see the gash in his skin. It’ll need stitches, and she looks away to start searching for a needle in the first aid kit next to her without releasing his jaw.

“Which others?” she asks, but all she really needs to know is if someone else in this house is threatening to die. The list is already too long when it’s the only ones she cares about, but sitting by Nick’s bedside is only serving to keep her in some constant state of fear.

[jackson-selvaggio]

He does as she says and his mouth closes. She’s wiping at skin that’s so numb, he’s not looking forward to the moment the adrenaline starts to wear off and he starts feeling all these bruises and cuts. There’s a lot of blood on him, a lot more in his belly making him sick. Mixing with all that fear and rage. But it’s wearing off, he’s coming down from the high of the fight and there’s just a numbness and a pain settling in. 

“Eli,” he says immediately. Followed closely by, “My sister. I don’t know if...-” he trails off, his voice choking a bit in his throat and it takes him by surprise because normally his emotions are so calculated and stunted. But he’s feeling this with every pin prick in every nerve of his body. He stops talking, reaching up to let his hand rest on her wrist, but it’s more of a reflexive movement than anything. There’s no real strength behind it, more like he’s grabbing onto something to keep things from falling apart around him. He doesn’t know who needs help, who’s dead or who’s alive or somewhere in between. “I need to check on them,” he croaks out.

[naomi-carson]

Naomi stares dumbly down at the ice a she had handed him because this isn’t her expertise. She’s built to destroy, not to heal and put things back together again. And with her natural ability to put herself back to 100% even after the worst of beatings, it didn’t give her much reason to study the fine art of first aid. Although now that they were engaged int a full scale war, maybe it’s time to start leaning. Not for herself, but more for others even if she won’t be able to help with the bigger injuries like the one upstairs. Naomi tilts her head and scoots a little bit closer to take better look at the injuries on Jackson’s face and head.  She doesn’t even know where to begin to try and help him, but the most she can say is that in case he has a concussion, he better not fall asleep. The most she feels that she can do right now is help him clean up the blood. There’s another damp towel in her other hand and she lifts her arm to start wiping away at the blood on his face. If it’s forward of her, Jackson can just tell her to stop. She gently presses the towel to the side of his temple and prays that she’s not hurting him any more than he already is. “Not anymore. You know me. I bounce back fast.” she says quietly, momentarily glancing down at the large tear in her jacket where the bullet had torn a small chunk of flesh out. It looked like nothing had happened at all. 

[jackson-selvaggio]

Jackson swallows thickly, nodding his head. At least she was okay. He knew she healed, but it didn’t mean it didn’t hurt when she got hit. There’s still the memory of her taking a bullet in the heart. But she’d come back from that, just as she’d come back from anything, he believed. She starts wiping blood from his face, pressing the towel against where the worse of it had stuck to his skin. He lets her do what she wants, too dazed still to do much else. There’s another memory in his mind, though, and his eyes focus on her, despite being glassy and glazed. “You got me out.” It comes out as a statement and he means it as one. It’s not a question. It’s a statement of fact. But there’s an underlying meaning to him saying it. It’s a thank you. The feel of a hood over his head, of cuffs around his wrist and he knows he could have just as easily been sitting in an Initiative van or facility right now. It’s always been a possibility for him, but just how close he’d come awoke a new sort of fear in him for it. They don’t know his name, otherwise the Estate would be swarming right now. He wants to keep it that way. He doesn’t ever want to be in their hands, he has a family to protect. 

[devouringbeast-blog]

elijah selvaggio + family aesthetic