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kookicat · 1 year

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Hair Braids and Bloody Bandages

They're worried, and it's making him uneasy under their gaze. Nate is the best at hiding it; head buried deep in Rucker's file, legs crossed, with one foot resting casually on his other knee. It'd fool the best, if that foot didn't keep twitching in a way that screams nervous energy. Eliot counts five twitches, feels his heart rate ramp up with each one and has to look away before number six, because there's already a coating of cool sweat starting to form on the curve of his spine. He downs the last of his beer, thinks about grabbing another and decides against it. He's already on his third, and the next day is going to suck enough without a hangover too.

Parker is busy picking the locks on a pair of battered wooden chests; Eliot isn't sure how or if they're relevant to the case, and he's not about to ask, because while she's busy with them, she's leaving him alone. She probably understands the best, because out of all of them, she's the only other one who regularly puts herself in physical danger to get the job done. The only one who relies on her body just as much as her mind. Her hands are steady, but there's a nasty little crease between her eyebrows that he doesn't like one bit. One chest clicks open, and she glances at him.

Eliot nods, tips his empty bottle at her, and forces a reassuring smile that he doesn't really feel. But even then, it's not like this. Not going in knowing she'll be bruised and bloody when she gets out, he thinks. Not knowing there's a damn fine line she has to walk, between selling the con and getting beaten to shit.

Sophie passes, neatly taking the empty beer bottle out of his hands and replacing it with a bottle of water that he doesn't really want, heading back to the couch she's claimed. She gets the same smile as Parker, the one that's carefully cultivated to hide the buzz of adrenaline dancing through him.

Sophie's the most anxious; her dislike of the sport clear and well stated, along with her opinion on Rucker. He opens the water, and she nods, once, before returning to the trashy romance novel she's pretending to read, though she hasn't turned a page in minutes. He's pretty sure she picked the book up at the airport on one of their jobs, and this is the first time she's even cracked the cover. The pages dance under her hands, and he realises that she's shaking. It makes him swallow hard, a sudden flare of nerves stealing his breath for a second before he gets his body back firmly under control.

Hardison is packing the ring bag with the same meticulous care he does everything, and something about the sight sends a quiver of nervous resignation through Eliot's gut. It’s the same feeling he used to get before deploying somewhere without a name, just a problem his squad needed to eliminate, on some foreign soil that's already soaked and stinking with blood.

Damn it, he thinks, and swipes his hands on his jeans. Not the first time I've taken a beating. Hell, it's not even the first time I've taken a dive, he thinks, but the nervous energy is only building. He glances at the clock, and knows the gym will be empty, because it's getting late.

"I'm going to the gym," he says and eases to his feet, almost flinching when they turn to look at him as one.

They're all talking at once, words mingling, but he catches their meaning easily. It’s touching, makes something deep in his chest go dangerously soft and tender and that’s the last thing he can afford to be, because the battle that’s coming can’t be won with kindness or compassion, just the penance of blood and bone-deep bruises. They know it as well as him, will be paying, even if the cost isn’t coming directly from their flesh.

"No, I'm fine," he says and makes himself smile. "I'll be back in a bit, don't worry." He wants to growl the words, but he can't do it, not while they're all looking at him like he's going to his execution in the morning. Like this might be the last time they see him.

Their eyes bore into his back all the way out of the door. He closes it quietly behind himself and tries not to sigh too loudly in relief. Love can be a burden as well as a blessing, and right now he’s feeling the weight heavy on his shoulders. Thank you, he thinks, sending it out to a God he’s not sure he still believes in, not after all the bad shit he’s seen and done. Still, he’s paying for that, a debt he’ll never repay in full, not that it’ll stop him from trying. Blood and sweat and pain are fine currencies, and ones he’s well versed in paying. Time to pay some more, he thinks, and heads towards the dark, rainy parking lot, and the gym beyond.

---

He doesn't bother flipping the main lights on in the gym; the moon is full and low, throwing enough light to illuminate the space as he moves through the jumble of equipment towards the changing room. The gym smells like sweat and effort, cut with the tang of leather and rosin. It's a familiar, comforting scent, loosens the tension in his shoulders, and by the time he reaches the changing room, he's feeling much steadier, the armour he spent years building firmly back in place. Like it or not, him and violence have an unbreakable and undeniable link, and he's been spending and receiving that particular coin for more of his life than not.

Putting himself on the line isn't anything new; he's been doing that since he was nine years old and big enough to get between his Pop's fist and his Mother's face. And yet, it is different, because he knows they're all blaming themselves for not finding a different way and that's the bit he's not used to, not used to people caring for him, past the skills he brings to the job and how capable of applying them he is at the right time. It’s disconcerting to realise they care for him as a person, that his wellbeing matters. He shakes his head, dismisses the thoughts, because they're the opposite of helpful and to pull this off, to keep the balance right and not walk away too broken, he needs all the focus he can get.

He strips off his hoodie and hangs it neatly, bending to take off his shoes. He's only sparring, so he doesn't feel the need to tape his feet, and he wants to feel the mat under them, get his bearings on any soft or slippery spots. Hair tangles around his fingers as he scrapes it back and he pauses, letting it fall as he digs in his bag for the tiny elastics that he keeps there.

He can't remember, exactly, when the braids started, just knows it was post Moreau, back when he didn't like himself very much and when connecting with something clean from his family history felt just like another way of hiding how far he'd fallen. There's still a bit of the shake in his fingers when he parts the hair, smoothing it under his fingers before he starts to braid. It's a soothing, methodical process and he makes quick work of the first, securing it with an elastic from between his teeth before he moves to the other side and starts again. Once it’s done, he pulls the rest of his hair back from his face in a messy half ponytail, and stands, rolling his shoulders to loosen them as he heads towards the ring.

The floor shifts and settles under his weight as he makes a quick lap around the enclosed space, and he bounces a little, listening to the ring creak. It doesn’t seem like it’s going to collapse, so he shrugs and stoops to pick up his gloves, slipping them on and flexing his hands against the mild constriction. It’s been a while since he wore gloves and they feel strange against his skin until he starts moving, gets his blood pumping. He starts off slow, gives his muscles the chance to warm up, which is a luxury he doesn’t often get, not when he’s punching bad guys to keep his people safe.

The moves are familiar, soothing and he gives himself over to the routine of them, letting them build the walls he uses to protect the soft parts of himself high and wide and thick, knowing he's going consenting to the sacrifice. A better man, or a worse one, would see the nobility in that, but he's right in the sweet spot where the blood on his hands weighs heavily enough that there's no grace in this act. It's simple, and terribly complicated all at once, brings to mind a Spanish proverb he'd read once, in a book with pages so brittle they crumbled under his fingertips; take what you want, God says, as long as you pay for it. He's not sure exactly how much want played into what he'd taken, but need certainly had, and he's paying the cost still. Isn't sure if he'll ever clear his slate, isn't sure if he even wants to, because the things he'd done feel like they should never be repaid.

The door creaks, and he tips his head, wondering which one of them it'll be. He's a betting man, and his money is on Sophie, so when her perfume wafts through the gym, he can't help but crack a smile. He expects her to speak, but she doesn't, not right away, just finds a comfortable spot next to the ring and watches him. He's vain enough to want to show off a little, display the skills he'd spent a lifetime building in a way he usually doesn't get to, because he's too busy using them to keep everyone safe.

He starts slow, running through a simple routine of punches and feints and dodges, can feel her eyes on him as he moves around the ring, one bit of his mind tracking changes in the floor even as he trades punches with his imaginary opponent, finishing with a one-two combination that would put even the toughest fighter down. He lets his hands drop, rolling his shoulders to ease the mild lactic burn in his muscles, and walks over to the edge of the ring.

She offers him a water bottle. "Don't worry, I brought it from the hotel," she says dryly.

"Thanks," he says and swallows a few mouthfuls. It's cold and sweet, and goes down easy.

"Eliot-" Sophie starts, and he's been around her long enough to know that they're about to have a Conversation, so he leans against the ropes and waits for her opening gambit.

---

The fight is awful; brutal in a way she doesn't expect. There's blood on Eliot's face, and bruises already blooming on his shoulders and arms. He takes a punch he would have usually blocked, the sickening crack-crunch of knuckles hitting unprotected flesh making her stomach turn. Another punch smacks into his cheek, snapping his head back hard enough to splatter blood on the ropes and send him reeling backwards until he catches his balance, shaking his head like he’s trying to clear the stars from his eyes.

Parker, beside her, is pale, sleeves pulled down over her hands as they watch Eliot get pummelled. It doesn't hide how tightly her fists are clenched or the way she keeps swallowing, like there’s something foul lodged in her mouth that she can’t force down.

The fight flips in an instant, the man they're more used to seeing breaking free and taking Tank down, hard, in a flurry of moves that have some of the hardcore wrestling fans cheering in awe. Tank goes limp under Eliot’s hands and the dark haired man looks up, eyes distant and dazed until he blinks, shaking his head as Hardison and Nate gather him up like a load of dirty laundry.

None of them relax until Hardison gets his hands on Eliot, nodding once as he cups the back of Eliot's neck, because it's the only place without blooming bruises.

"You good?" the hacker asks, and Eliot nods once, wearily, swiping a gloved hand over his bleeding lip. There's a shake in his fingers he can't quite control, and he shivers, heated muscles quickly going cold and stiff in the chilly gym air.

Hardison hands over a tshirt and hoodie- zip through, because he thinks of everything, and Eliot pulls them on, carefully, because he's battered enough that he's already hurting. Knows that once the endorphins and adrenaline wears off, he’s in for a bad time, but the thought of swallowing any meds makes his already dicey stomach churn even more.

"You good?" Hardison asks again, shoulders tight with concern. His fingers play over the strap of his bag, eyes running over Eliot.

Eliot isn’t sure what he’s looking for, but the other man seems to find it, because his chin dips in a tiny nod, but he doesn’t move away.

"Go," Eliot says, voice hoarse, and offers a hand for their usual handshake. The contact hurts, because even with the gloves, Eliot’s hands feel bruised and battered.

It's enough. It has to be, because Hardison is needed elsewhere, if they're going to pull any sort of success out of this mess. He claps Eliot once, on his shoulder and steps away, making room for the doc.

Eliot submits to the exam quietly and that's enough to set alarm bells ringing in Sophie's head. She threads through the crowd, one of her biggest, softest scarves in her hand. He's still sitting, elbows on his knees, hands clasped around the back of his neck like he has a monster headache. There’s blood on his knees, and she can’t tell where it’s from, hopes it isn’t his, until he shifts, looking up and she spots the cut through his eyebrow that’s steadily dripping. Even with the hoodie draped over his legs, he looks chilled and all Sophie wants, suddenly, is to go back in time a few hours and find a way to stop this fight from happening.

Parker is digging through their bags by the side of the ring. It’s not her usual, methodical search, but a semi-frantic hunt as she drops things on the floor next to her. She looks up, eyes flicking to Eliot, and Sophie nods, but keeps going, knowing Parker will catch up.

"Here," Parker says, and presses a bottle of ibuprofen into Sophie's free hand as they cross the ring. "We left the prescription stuff in the hotel room," she adds softly.

"He looks like he needs it," Sophie says, quietly, and Parker nods.

The doctor steps away, touching Sophie's arm as he passes. She glances at Eliot, wordlessly handing over the scarf with a quick nod, then turns her attention to the doctor. "What's the verdict, doc?" she asks.

"Concussion, for sure. Some cracked ribs, maybe a busted cheekbone, though it's impossible to tell without an x-ray and he's refusing that…" the Doc pauses, lips pressing together before he shakes his head and moves on. "He's going to be sore as hell in the morning, but I'm guessing he's been through that once or twice before. Damn fool thing he did, but damn brave, too." He shakes his head again, pats her arm and slips away to check on Tank.

Parker has claimed the closest seat, so Sophie sits down on the other side of Eliot, nails digging into her palms as she surveys the damage. He's halfway into the hoodie, face carefully blank as he tries to get his left arm in the sleeve. Parker reaches around, tugging the sleeve into place, neatly evading his hands as she fastens the zip, and sits back.

"What do you need?" Sophie asks, simply and he blinks at her like he was expecting a different question. She holds up the bottle of ibuprofen, and he shakes his head, mouth twisting, because he’s pretty sure the pills wouldn’t stay down.

There's blood in his mouth, tasting like old copper pennies and he swallows hard, touching the cut in his lip with the tip of his tongue. The fierce pounding in his head makes it hard to think, and his stomach is churning in a way that screams concussion. He's cold, despite the hoodie and the silk scarf that's magically spread itself over his legs.

"Can we get the hell out of here?" he asks at last, and the team - minus Nate, who is still tying up loose ends - gather around him like swirling leaves, gathering him up so that he's on his feet and heading towards the cool, dark parking lot before he has chance to think.

The gym door slams closed behind them and he closes his eyes, lets out a breath that he didn't know he was holding.

It's done, he thinks and pushes the gnawing ache in his bones to the back of his mind as he starts walking. Each step jars through him, like he has ground glass filling his joints, and the gatorade he’d swallowed churns uneasily in his stomach like it’s not quite sure if it wants to stay put. Just thinking about it makes the nausea worse, and he has to stop, pulling in slow breaths through his nose until the sensation passes.

A warm hand lands on his back, rubbing circles that are more soothing than he thinks he deserves. “Okay?” Sophie says, and he’s not quite sure if it’s an order or a question. Decides it’s an order, because he’s never been able to disobey one, and right now, he needs all the help he can get.

The hotel lights shine through the night like a sanctuary, and he fixes his blurring vision on them, nods once and starts walking.

---

The hotel is only a short walk away, but he's sweating and seriously uncomfortable by the time he gets there. Parker walks one one side, Sophie on the other, and it should bug him, but he's stiff and sore enough to almost welcome the mothering. The phantom warmth of Sophie’s hand on his back is a comfort he’d never admit to needing, but it helps, because it means she cares, and he’s battered enough for the affection to slink through the chinks in his armour. Knows how dangerous that is, to allow the softness in, but after what he just did, the small bit of grace feels hard earned.

Parker unlocks the suite door and he shuffles in, feeling three times his age. Hardison squeezes past them, heading for the bathroom to get the tub running while Sophie pulls out meds and ice packs. Parker digs in his duffle for the soft, worn sweats he only wears on really bad days and something about the entire, rehearsed routine makes him want to run back out into the damp night. Sends something like panic clawing at the back of his throat, because in his line of work, getting too close is dangerous, and he’s fallen for that trap once already, can’t forget the dark path it sent him down, or the things he’d done because of the attachment. They’re not like… him, he thinks, knows it for a fact, just like he knows his eyes are blue or water is wet or that the glinting silver edge of a knife can cut you deep without you feeling it. Still, he can’t help glancing back at the door, wonders if he could find another room and hunker down until the worst of the pain eases, slink back to the team like a stray when he’s feeling more himself. Not let them get so close, even though in the deepest part of himself they've already wormed so far into his heart he'd have to cut it out to be rid of them.

He blows out a harsh breath instead of retreating, limping over to the recliner so he can toe his sneakers off. Halfway down, he realises that sitting isn't his best idea; it's been a while since he wrestled and his muscles are protesting the abuse in a way that tells him standing back up is going to be about as much fun as a root canal, sans lidocaine. His ribs hurt, a bright flare of pain, and he presses his elbow to them as he sits down. The overhead light stabs into his brain like an ice pick, and he closes his eyes, waits for the throbbing to ease.

“Sorry, man,” Hardison says, and clicks the main light off, leaving the bathroom light on so the room is filled with a soft glow that's much easier to handle. “Better?” he asks, and Eliot peels his eyes open, blinking in relief.

“Yeah,” he says, hoarsely, and takes the wrapped ice pack Sophie offers him, pressing it against the gnawing ache in his cheek.

Hardison sets a bottle of lemon-lime gatorade down next to him. It's not his favourite, exactly, but it's the flavour he finds the least objectionable and that bit of thoughtfulness makes his chest ache for a whole new reason.

Parker is pawing through his duffle for the pouch of meds he keeps in there, stocked with painkillers, anti sickness drugs, and the allergy pills he uses to help him sleep on the really bad days. He fishes through his options, weighing up, because he knows a couple of the options will knock him out and he's hurting enough for that to sound appealing.

He settles for a well used combination of muscle relaxant and painkiller, swallowing the pills with a gulp of yellow flavoured gatorade. Lemon-lime, my ass, he thinks, because it's easier than looking up and facing his team. He shifts, biting the inside of his lip, holding his breath until the flare of pain passes.

"Do you want the bath?" Hardison asks.

Eliot knows the hot water will help, but the thought of moving makes his stomach roll. He's not exactly comfortable as he is, but everything has faded to a background ache and he knows that'll change as soon as he stands. He's itchy, through, sweat and blood dried in his skin in an irritating film. "Yeah," he says and eases his feet down, breath hissing in between his teeth.

Fuck, he thinks as he stands, joints popping as he gets upright. It's ten steps to the bathroom and every one of them jars him.

The tub is full and steaming softly, scenting the air with the herbal Epsom salts mix he uses. Three faces stare at him from the doorway, and while he’s never been shy, the thought of stripping down to his birthday suit in front of them isn’t exactly appealing.

“I don’t need an audience,” he rasps, trying for his usual gruffness, but he knows he’s not quite getting there. Not with the touch memory of them taking care of him still lingering on his skin.

They glance at each other. Sophie breaks first, wagging a finger at him. “Fine,” she says, and turns, towing Parker with her. “But I’m sending Hardison in to check on you in half an hour.”

She closes the door softly behind her, leaving him alone in the steam filled room. The bath is big and deep, the water steaming gently, and he suddenly can’t wait to sink into it. There’s a big mirror on the wall above the sink, and he rests his aching hands on the cold porcelain as he leans close, taking a look at the damage.

One eye is already starting to swell closed, bruising spreading from his cheekbone right up to his hairline. He presses his fingers to his cheek, a vague memory of a heel contacting with his face rising up. The inside of his cheek is raw and bloody, bitten even with the mouthguard. He grabs one of the paper cups and fills it, sloshing cold water around his mouth with a wince. It’s pink when he spits it back into the sink.

Let’s see the rest of the damage, he thinks, and unzips the hoodie, sliding his good arm out first before working it down his left. He’s sweating, breath straining through his teeth by the time it’s off, and he leans against the cool tiles, letting his pounding heart settle. The drops to the floor and he glances down, thinks about picking it up, but the long muscles down his spine are already starting to stiffen and he’s not sure he can bend that much.

He lifts the hem of the t-shirt and stops as the motion pulls on every abused bit of his torso. Thinks about the small silver nail scissors Sophie keeps in her washbag, but he’s pretty sure it’s in the other bathroom. Any of them would be glad to help - except maybe Nate, who tends to leave the Eliot wrangling to the others- but the idea of asking and letting them undress him like a toddler… I’d rather gnaw my way out of the fucking thing, he thinks and sits down on the closed toilet seat. By the time he has the t-shirt off, he’s sweating bullets. Black spots swarm the edge of his sight, and he bends carefully, leaning his forehead on the cool edge of the sink until they stop.

Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea, he thinks, and closes his eyes, just breathing until everything feels a little less awful. The soft joggers come off easy and he stands, glancing down at his body in appraisal. He’s had worse, he’s sure, but that doesn’t make the blooming bruises any less ugly. Or painful, he thinks, pressing the flat of his hand to a livid purple welt across his ribs.

Despite the steam, he’s chilly, goosebumps rising on his bare skin until he sits on the side of the bath to carefully lower himself in. The hot water envelops him in a soothing cocoon, and he sighs in relief, tipping his head back and letting his eyes close.

He's not sure how long he stays like that, in a doze too light to be considered real sleep. Knows at some point that one of them has been in to top up the hot water, because when he rouses himself, the water is still warm rather than cold like he'd expected. Parker, probably, he thinks, damn women is like a cat. It should unnerve him that she came and went without disturbing him, but it doesn't, and he's too tired and sick and sore to figure out why.

There's a neat stack of fluffy blue towels and his softest joggers in the vanity, a small, thoughtful touch that makes something dangerously fond bloom in his chest. Getting attached is asking for trouble in their line of work. Too late for that, he thinks, because he might lie to other people, but he never does to himself.

Standing hurts enough that he almost gives in. Not the first time I've slept in the tub, he thinks, and probably not the last. He's hungry, in a vaguely sick sort of way, so he keeps going until he's up, clinging white-knuckled to the handy grab rail until he's sure his knees aren't going to give out on him.

The water is vaguely pink around his feet, darker drops hitting the surface. He lifts a shaky hand, feeling the cut through his eyebrow. Needs a stitch, he thinks, and sighs, because being poked and prodded is the last thing he wants.

"Eliot?" Sophie calls through the door, and he startles hard enough to make his breath catch.

"Yeah?" he croaks, then swallows hard and tries again. "Yeah?"

"We're ordering food - do you want anything?" There's a thread of concern in her voice and it makes him feel warm and trapped at the same time.

"Baked potato?" he asks, because the thought of chewing anything isn't appealing.

"Got it," she says, and he can practically feel her worry through the door.

"I'll be out in a minute," he says, trying for gruff, and failing, because he just doesn't have the energy. Instead, his voice comes out flat and a little hoarse, a clear sign of exactly how exhausted he is.

He holds his breath until she moves away from the door, setting the shower running before he lets out the heartfelt groan. Hair clings to his face and he tips his head back, carefully, letting the warm water sluice over him. It feels damn good, soothing out of all proportion, and he’d stay under it longer if his legs weren’t already shaking with the strain. Even with the painkillers, he aches, ribs and face and knees and wrists all throbbing like a bad tooth.

If this wash wasn’t as symbolic as it was practical, he’d step out of the shower, come back later, when everything didn’t feel so raw, so terrible, but there’s a need in him, deep inside, to wash off this latest bit of violence and so he clings stubbornly to the grab rail. He’s not naive or stupid enough to think washing away the physical signs can remove the cost of what he’s done, knows there’s not enough soap and water in the world to do that, but just like the hair braids, somewhere along the line bathing became just another way to lock away the bad shit in the vault in his head, separate himself as a man from the acts he commits. Somehow, somewhere, it became a ritual, and it’s one he can’t think about too hard or the whole thing will unravel.

There's shampoo in easy reach, and he picks it up, fumbling one handed, because his left shoulder doesn't want to bend. He lifts it, gets his elbow to shoulder height and stops with a pained hiss, closing his eyes until the streaks of red fade from his sight. Fuck, he thinks, and blinks, trying to remember if he packed a sling for this little jaunt. Rubs the faint scar that runs from his collarbone to his armpit, breathing through the rush of phantom pain until the clock in his head nags him into moving. Because if they come in here and see you like this, the little cautious voice in his head thinks, and he lets his hand drop, grabbing the shampoo and getting to work.

It stings in a dozen little scrapes and cuts he didn’t know he had until they start screaming at him, and he grits his teeth, doing the best he can one-handed. Any of them - minus Nate, because he tends to dodge anything too personal - would have helped him, but the thought of asking - no. It skates too close to too many things he can't let himself think about.

He rinses, giving himself thirty seconds to just stand under the hot spray, letting it soothe what it can, before he shuts the water off and steps carefully out of the tub, grabbing a towel because the steam-filled bathroom is chilly after the hot water. The clothes- soft as they are- feel like armour as he slips them on, draping a towel around his neck to catch the water running from his hair. The braids are still there, and he touches one, grounding himself before he swings the door open and shuffles out into the hotel room, shoulders a little hunched, like he’s expecting an ambush.

It doesn’t come- Parker, Hardison and Nate are all missing, leaving Sophie alone, in the same spot as earlier, the same book in her hands. If he had a gun to his head, he’d say she hasn’t read a single page.

“Where’s-” he starts, limping over to the recliner and easing down. Sitting feels good, takes some of the strain off his bruised and battered legs.

“Small town.” Sophie shrugs, keeping her voice carefully bland. “Only one delivery driver, and he’s off sick, so they’ve gone to collect.”

It’s a neat bit of thoughtfulness, slickly arranged, and he can’t help but smile because of it. “Thanks, Soph,” he says, and picks up the new bottle of Gatorade sitting on the table by the recliner.

The movement pulls at everything that hurts, and he feels his face go blank as he breathes through the pain. Knows he’s not fooling Sophie, but it’s an old trick and one he can’t quite shed, back from the bad old days.

She activates an instant ice pack and wraps it in a hand towel before passing it over, picking up his med bag on the way.

“Here,” she says, and he takes the pack, blinking down at it for a long second while he tries to figure out which throbbing bit needs it the most. Settles on pressing it to his cheek, breathing out a shaky sigh as the pain radiating through his head eases.

“Eliot-” she starts, and he shifts, tipping his head back against the slowly warming leather. Taps the button to lift the foot rest, because his lower back is killing him in his current position.

“Yeah?” he rasps, because this feels like another Conversation and he’s not sure he’s up to it.

“How do you do it?” There’s genuine concern in her voice that stops his impulsive sarcastic remark in its tracks.

Do what? he almost asks instead, but he knows what she’s asking. Just doesn’t have a good answer for her. Shifts the ice pack while he thinks, breath catching when the movement jostles his ribs.

“Because it’s the right thing to do,” he says at last, biting his lip when a shiver runs through him. The hotel room is chilly and the ice pack isn’t helping. Exhaustion drags at him like a sail that wants to haul him away. He yawns, tasting blood as the cut in his lip opens again. Can’t keep his eyes open, so gives in, letting them close, letting the darkness soothe the ache in his head.

“As simple as that?” she asks, and draws the blanket over his legs.

“Has to be,” he murmurs. “I take the punishment. It’s what I do.” There’s none of his earlier bravado in his voice, none of the cocky, well earned confidence, which somehow makes his words hit her all the harder. It’s soft with exhaustion, burred with sleep.

Eyes closed, bruised and bloody, curled carefully around his broken ribs, he looks a totally different man. The duality strikes her, brings tears to her eyes for reasons she can’t quite name. He shivers again, and she takes the ice pack, carefully, setting it down on the table and pulling the blanket up over his shoulders.

“You take the punishment,” she says, softly, “and we’ll be here to pick up the pieces. Always.”

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