This is the Shock
Heavily influenced by the RP ring I'm part of, if you couldn't really tell. Self indulgence was the name of the game, and I think I hit that mark pretty well.Quality control can still suck a fat one.
Mobsterswitch, Deadeye Detective and Peccant Scofflaw. Gunshots and kismesises oh my.
The concrete is cold but Deadeye is colder. It eats at his bones and his thoughts and he thinks this is the shock, dazed and bloody and shaking from the sudden burst of a adrenaline. He's got to get up, get out, tracking down the two bit drug runner for his case can wait until he's not bleeding everywhere.
Gunshots are never fun. He'd only wanted to talk, frogdamnit.
He makes it to the next alleyway before his legs give out, the last dregs of adrenaline giving him enough energy to collapse in a controlled way and end up leaning against the wall instead of sprawled out and boneless. He should call Scout, or Brawler, or, fuck, a goddamn ambulance. His final moments are not going to be bleeding out in some dank and stinking alleyway. That's an injustice he will not abide.
His phone refuses to stay still in his vision, and Deadeye thinks this is still the shock, but the knowledge doesn't help his fingers any and his messages are garbled and incoherent. He stabs blindly at the call button and is relieved when the dial tone starts. Relief does not last long. He hasn't been paying attention and someone is there and they have his phone now, how did that happen.
He has enough left in him to tip his head back to see Scofflaw talking softly to what Deadeye assumes is the emergency services operator. He catches a quiet sorry, wrong number, and he thinks acidly no it bloody well wasn't before reality becomes too much to sustain and darkness claims him.
He wakes up, and the first thing he recognizes is pain. The second thing is a hand holding him down by the shoulder. Words come third, disjointed and nonsensical through the groggy haze of blood loss.
"Keep still," he thinks he hears, but then the black swallows him again.
The second time he wakes up he's more aware, there's less pain. He tries to move, only to be held in place. The hand in the small of his back keeping him from pushing himself upright is cold, a chill amongst the fire that has become his skin.
"Do you want me to botch this?" That's Scofflaw's voice, thick with scalding irritation. Deadeye stills, awkwardly trying to look over his shoulder. Scofflaw is bent forward, and Deadeye manages to catch sight of a bloodied needle before his back pulls and the bullet wound flares up.
He collapses with a strangled groan, trying his best to ignore the way Scofflaw's chill seeps into his bones. He's still and quiet as the mobster works, pain betrayed only by the clench and unclench of his fingers. It's uncomfortable work for the both of them, and Deadeye cannot untangle his thoughts from the grey haze of bloodloss and the bright, pricking pain of the needle.
By the time Scofflaw is knotting the thread with perhaps more force than is necessary Deadeye is boneless and ready to pass out again, barely registering the feeling of gauze as it's taped down. He can do nothing to help Scofflaw as he's drawn up to sit, braced by an arm across his shoulders.
"We're still fighting," Scofflaw says as he presses a plastic cup into Deadeye's shaking hands. The detective grunts in reply, takes the painkillers when they're offered, and manages to get his hands to stop trembling long enough to not spill the water. It's barely enough to wet his throat, but almost too much anyway, leaving Deadeye queasy and listless as Scofflaw picks at the buttons of his shirt.
"I can undress myself," he manages after shoving at Scofflaw's hands, ignoring the disdainful look. He gives up after a long moment of fumbling, resolutely does not snarl at Scofflaw's amused laugh.
"Fine." Talking is a little easier, at least, now it doesn't feel like Deadeye's throat has been paved with bitumen. Scofflaw takes over, every button undone one handed in the same space of time it would have taken Deadeye to accomplish one. That, in itself, is satisfyingly irritating to Deadeye, but it provides no distraction from the uncomfortable and somewhat painful process of actually removing his shirt.
It's a ruin, and Deadeye cannot even summon the effort it would require to chide Scofflaw for tossing the bloodied shirt to the floor. It's not like Deadeye will be wearing it again, after all. The sight of his bloody and forlorn article of clothing is obscured by the edge of the bed as Scofflaw helps him lay back down. There's a soft creak, and the weight at Deadeye's side is gone.
He sinks into a period of unsleeping, barely hearing Scofflaw creep around him. The burn and sting is lessening under the onslaught of the painkillers, leaving Deadeye relaxed if he doesn't try to move or breathe too hard. He hears Scofflaw return (who knows how much later), feels the other man's weight in the bed. Scoflaw's hands are still preternaturally chilly as he checks the gauze, as he pats Deadeye's shoulder in something like sympathy.
"W're still figh'n," Deadeye mumbles, and he can feel more than see Scofflaw's nod.
"Yeah, we are," the mobster agrees, pressing cold lips to Deadeye's temple. "But for now, I'll take care of you."
Oh, Deadeye thinks, this is the shock.