“I won’t let you be on your own, not when you’re like this.”
The words were growled more harshly than Mercury intended. Aching pride was worse than the torn flesh at his right bicep, and always, it served to leave him defensive with teeth bared and liable to wound. Containing the more caustic rebuttal of her concern was a conscious effort--monumental, in light of his exhaustion.
“I don’t need to be babysat. The guy’s already dead, if you’re worried about me running off to kill ‘im.”
After a stunt like that? Pulling a knife during what could have been just a routine, friendly brawl out behind a bar? Some people were just asking to die. Cherry wasn’t gonna like it, he already knew. He also knew he was gonna owe her an apology before the night was over if she stuck around--probably already did.
Mercury’s mouth was drawn in a hard line as he passed the needle through the candle flame until it glowed red. His left hand was preoccupied still with holding his jacket to the stab wound, movements clumsy and painful with his right. This wasn’t gonna be the first time he’d done haphazard stitches in a kitchen. Hell, it would have been a first, if he’d gone the expected route and submitted to harsh lighting, steel tables, and antiseptic instead.