"I mean, you really messed up, didn’t you? Big time."
If he didn’t have quite so many prideful bones in his body, he might have admitted that his current predicament was of his own device. The hook–rusty and jagged and familiar, and the basement–dim and red and cold.
The stairs give a low groan, and it draws his attention to the familiar figure, carefully stepping around a few unfriendly beartraps on the floor. Ace Visconti, fortunately-unfortunately. Two eyebrows quirk up at Jake, arms fold as he takes a long look at the other.
“Don’t say anything-“ Jake grits out, teeth pressed behind a frown.
“Great moves back there, running your mouth ‘front of Macmillan like that.” – And then catching yourself in a trap as soon as you vaulted a window. The frustration reads clear in the pinch between Jake's eyebrows. As always, there’s humour on Ace’s crooked grin as he carefully angles to get a hold on him. A muttered “Ready?” and he’s lifted down from the hook, biting into a gloved hand to stifle as much of the scream that tears from between his teeth as possible. They both stumble–Jake tries to catch himself anywhere but against Ace.
“I’m fine,” he huffs. With one hand over the open wound, and the other against the wall, he forces the whimper in his throat to stay there, eyebrows furrowed down in the utmost concentration. His fingers tremble where they clutch at the bloodied fabric.
Ace offers an arm to support him, gestures vaguely at the minefield by the stairs. “Think we can avoid these ones, sly?”
The look Jake directs back is somewhere between deadened and a scowl, and the gambler raises his hands in a slight surrendering motion; I’m sorry, you make it so easy. He’s teasing, as per his nature, but Jake’s pride is already injured enough to render his patience paper-thin.
Begrudgingly, he takes the support of Ace’s shoulder.