Flesh Wound
The safe house had been quiet that night. Jacket had napped at some point earlier in the day, and by the time he woke and ventured upstairs toward the kitchen, it was dark outside. All without any commotion to wake him. Maybe he had just slept deeply, he wasn’t sure.
Even after just the first set of stairs up to the living room, though, he wondered if nobody else was around. Or it was possible Dallas was up in his office working quietly, as tended to happen.
Jacket paused before reaching the stairs up to the kitchen, though -- the bathroom light was on, and for once, the door wasn’t shut. Instead someone stood at the sink, looked to be peering over his reflection. For the second or third time, Jacket had to spend a minute registering it was somebody familiar.
It was starting to feel like Henry was a child that Jimmy just kept dumping off at the safe house instead of leaving at a proper daycare. Or, in this case, Jacket wondered if Henry had ended up here of his volition; the man’s head looked to be bleeding, thus his examining it in the mirror, pale fingers trying to sift through dark hair. A thick streak of blood had crept down the side of his head and temple. It looked to be a few hours’ old at least.
Jacket still didn’t head the rest of the way up to the kitchen, but lingered there, studying the man, who looked a bit battered even besides his head. Jacket was in better condition - but, at the moment, he had come upstairs without his letterman on. The T-shirt he was left in bared the array of scars down his arms, all in different sizes and directions, most looking like they had once been knife wounds of some kind.
