She didn't expect the knock on her door, this late at night. Already come back from one party, and in the process of kicking her heels, not inside for more than ten minutes, with a glass of wine in hand, cheap jewellery and a little black dress dancing around her living room for the last bit before she had to put herself to bed. Cigarette on her lips, the tacky smell of dollar store perfume that was inevitable for hanging around in women's bathrooms in cheap clubs in the east end.
But the heavy baseline of whatever it was she was listening to was broken up by the bang of a heavy fist. What the - ?
Angel jumped, scrambling on her bare feet to the door, to see who was the other side.
( She might have put so much of her Father's work behind her, but that didn't mean she was an idiot. She was a Darling, and she knew, one day, everything Jack did would catch up to her, and that would mean to her too. )
She didn't expect to see Jacob fucking Frye, leaning on her door, looking like hell had spat him back out. Shit, shit, was he bleeding? What the hell had he done? Shit, not him. God, not him. Was it Jack? She couldn't be sure. Knew, knew Jacob would have his own enemies, without piling the problems of screwing around with an American mob bosses daughter on top of it.
Angel doesn't waste any more time, yanking open the bolts ( at least two more than needed ). Pulling the door in a rush, leaning up to catch him. How similar this felt, to a childhood ago, when she'd wander out in the middle of the night, to find Jack slumped, bleeding, over the kitchen table trying to stitch himself back up. How little she understood it then, how well she does now.
Jacob never liked to answer questions about what kind of work he did.
Grabbing him with both hands, she hauls him through the door. "Jacob? Are they still out there?"
She's in. He knows she's in by the music that makes it's muffled way out from under the door, from the lights he'd seen at her window as he'd approached the dorms.
He could have gone to a hospital. He probably should have gone to Evie, but neither of those options appeals. Hospitals report this sort of shit to the police, and Evie is worse than the police. He nagging would be worse than an interrogation by bored, over-weight men in a blank room. Her anger would be much worse than any warning or caution on his already rather impressive record. He'd rather pay bail than deal with his sister.
Hell, he'd rather go to prison.
The laughter makes him hurt, makes the bruised ribs sting more than they already do. But it's hard to clutch at them when his arm feels like it does, full of pins and needles. The bullet only nicked him, he knows that, but it's still bleeding like the bloody devil and he can't do anything about it. Typically, he thinks, he's fucked up his right arm and his left side. Only an idiot manages to do that.
"Come on Angel," He hisses, as the bolts slide back and he feels himself almost collapse inwards, leaning too heavily on the door and once it's open, having to rebalance himself and focus on her question at the same time and trying to ignore the red stain on the white paint in the hallway as he steps in.
"Are who still out there?" He says, between gritted teeth, and then curses as her hand presses a little too close to his ribs. "Don't touch. Lemme... lemme just... take a minute."
Frankly, he's impressed to have got to her before collapsing or crashing. It's taken at least ten minutes to drive here, one-handed, without getting spotted by any police cars or patrols, and to get passed the security on the door downstairs. But now he's running on almost empty.
She catches him, getting an arm around his back as she hauls him the rest of the way into the room, kicking the door with her bare foot shut behind them.
"Jesus, Jacob - " it's breathed out, pulling him step by step, trying to avoid where the blood is coming from. It's running over her fingers. Staining them red on her fair skin. God - where did she put her first aid kit? Somewhere, somewhere. He looked like hell. He looked worse than that. Even when she knew he'd been up to something, the kind of things she'd made sure never to ask about.
More importantly, where did she put her gun?
" - Whoever did this, that's who. Do I need to get rid of them?"
Her goal isn't far, the kitchen table that once they reach, she shoves all her books off, to sit him on the edge.
"You don't seem pleased to see me," He teases, breathless. The very act of moving from the door to the table is enough to make his breath short and legs feel like jelly. Thankfully, he knows how to push beyond that, but once he's sat there, it takes every single last bit of strength he has to stay sitting up and not allow himself to slip backwards or slump to one side.
He takes a moment more to breathe through the fog in his mind, the cloud of pain, and shakes his head. "Happened away from here luv, no need for you to worry. No one followed me here."
What she even thinks she could do about it, he has no idea. Does she think she can call the police? Campus security? That's adorable. It makes a tired smile tug at one corner of his mouth, and then he gasps at another twinge of pain.
"I need some booze. Vodka or something like that. None of that fruity crap." Nothing with a tonne of sugar in it. He needs a drink, but more importantly, he needs to try and get that wound flushed clean. And that means trying to peel off the ruined hoodie, the t-shirt beneath. But raising his arms above his head is not going to happen. "And some scissors."
"Yeah, no figure, usually when you turn up in the middle of the night, you aren't covered in blood." She bites back, hard not to roll her eyes at him for that. Always had to be clever, even when he was trying to bleed out all over her kitchen table.
But right - he had a point. Once he's sitting there, and she's sure he's not going to fall over, she moves to under the kitchen cupboard. Smearing bloody fingerprints all over the doors as she bends over to start rifling around on her hands and knees at the back of the cupboard. Better than just vodka, that's for sure when she finally yanks out a red taped up case from behind the sink.
For maybe. Were the words written on the top of it. Dropped off by Athena and Janey when she'd first enrolled in college.
Stands up again and marches back next to him and drops it with a bang. Muttering as I go. "You are so freaking lucky I took lessons off Ned." The latch on the case is snapped open after she enters a combination.
It springs open, and it might not look exactly like a first aid kit. But that's because it's not exactly that kind of kit. If the gun and the ammunition in it is anything to go by. But the rest is there, bandages, cleaning alcohol, adhesive straps, pliers and tweezers, all the bits and pieces. She doesn't stop to explain as she takes out the big fabric scissors for just the same reason he's thinking.
"This is only a little bit of blood," He insists, the talk helps distract him, and he's not one to stay quiet in a conversation. "And most of this isn't even mine. You think this is bad? You should see the other guys."
He falls into silence then, because unfortunately, too much talking makes his ribs burn like they're on fire, and he has to focus on breathing and balance as she pokes her head into every cupboard in the kitchen. What the hell she's looking for he has no clue, because he knows where she keeps the alcohol. Normally front and centre, and he can even see some whiskey out on the side.
But then she's moving again, bringing up a box to the table and he almost tells her to get rid of that first-aid shit, full of slings and safety pins, but then it's opened.
And that, unmistakably, is a gun.
"What the hell, Angel?" He asks, reaching for it and getting in her way no doubt. Not a cheap gun either, but solidly made and with the serial numbers removed with a scouring pad, the proper way to do it. But then he's being cut free of the clothing and the extent of his injuries is revealed. Bruises already appearing on his chest, focused on his side and his ribs. The slice taken out of his shoulder by the passage of the bullet, gouging out muscle and flesh, still oozing thick red blood down his arm.
She slides the scissors through his clothes in one long slice, and when she gets far enough, with a practised hand, she rips the rest of it off. One solid pull as the clothes go to halves and she pushes them the rest of the way off his body.
It hurts, it hurts to see him look like this. This beaten up, this half to hell, her brow furrows. "Jacob, you idiot." Biting her lip, she swallows on it. Scares her half to death and maybe she might even do something about it, later. But right now - this needs to be seen too. Swallowing hard, she goes to put the scissors away.
"Darling. Angel Darling." She corrects, dropping them back into the box. The wound first, then she could ice back the rest. Fishing next for the cleaning swabs and the bottle of medicinal alcohol, all of it is the proper grade, swiped out of the back of a hospital, it looks like.
Jacob frowns at her. For a moment he just thinks, stupidly, that she just wants him to call her darling. And then he remembers through the fog that it's her surname. He's never thought much of it. So he may have teased her about it, because it's a funny surname.
But the gun... the gun makes certain connections meet in his brain. Realisation dawns, hot and burning like a sun through the mist.
"As in Jack Darling?" He splutters, and then hisses a sharp curse as she begins to clean the wound. It takes all his effort not to chew the ugh his lip and to keep the tremble out of hid lips, but it hurts almost more than the shot itself.
"Hold onto me, if you need to," she mutters to him as she pushes up on her toes to work. Cleaning first away all the excess blood so she could see what she was working with, where exactly it was worst, and what needed to be cleaned out. Hissing sympathetically as it took shape at last. He wasn't going to be using that arm for a while.
This was never pretty, smelled worse. The blood and disinfectant alcohol filling up the small apartment. But she keeps working, with tense arms and steady fingers. Once the wound is exposed, still leaking blood, she then gets the tweezers. She could see a thread from his clothes, stuck in it.
"Yeah - don't tell me you're working it now?" She holds her breath, as after cleaning the tweezers off, she lent to gently, gently, take that thread out. "I thought it was why you were sleeping with me, 'cause you knew I wouldn't ask too many dumb questions." Thought he was just being nice, when he teased about her last name, instead of the tense flicker of fear that some people immediately got on their face.
"- Got it." She breathes out, expelling the breath she'd been holding so tightly. "This is going to hurt, on my count - one, two, three." And with it, for good measure, she tipped the alcohol directly onto it, to make sure it was all washed clean, thoroughly.
He manages a thanks, but he can see how she's standing, straining, to be the right height for this. He should move, get down onto one of the chairs and at least then he could lean back into something. But he doesn't have the words for that when his teeth are gritted so tight.
His jaw is aching now from keeping all the pain behind his teeth, and it's only when she pulls away with that tiny thread held like the damn Holy Grail. He relaxes just enough to try and answer, "Never put two and two together."
What is she? Daughter, niece? He has no idea, but he doesn't know Jack Darling. He knows of him, rumour and stories, but the man operates in the States. There are men just as powerful and just as frightening over this side of the pond.
Even so-
And then the liquid fire rains down on bare damaged muscle and sinew, exposed to the air and he can't even think of curses bad enough to express the pain, simply makes a low animal noise of pain and distress before the flow stops and all he can do is blink away the salt-water from his eyes and try to relate the edge of the table from his white-knuckle grip.
"Well... he's my dad." She mutters it, a best-kept secret to a lot of people, both to her and Jack's best interest. Liked to keep it that way as much as they both can. Jack didn't need his daughter used against him by being around that much while she was over here, Angel didn't need her father breathing down her neck.
Sorry, she wants to say, as she watches, God, she's so, so sorry. It twitches like a gut instinct. Give him something nicer, something better. But... after. She could roll him back and give him a mouthful painkiller, and give him something better to hold onto than a table creaking for the grip he puts on it.
"It's almost over." She takes a slow breath out, watching him, hates to say it. Regretful for it even as she does. "But... we're going to have to close it. I can sear it or stitch it?" It was too deep to just bandage and hope for the best.
That's difficult to process, almost impossible in fact, while he hurts like this. Worse than while he was on his way here, or so it feels. Worse than anything he's ever felt before, raw and horrible, unbelievable in its intensity as every nerve up and down his arm sings out with it. Part of him wants to throw up, but that nausea is beginning to pass.
Slowly.
When she says it's almost over, he laughs. She doesn't say the worse is yet to come, which he knows to be the truth. He's had stitches before, awake and without painkillers. He's never, ever, seared a wound closed, and he has no desire to try it now.
"Needle." He manages, changing his grip on the table, because he knows it will take a minute to get what she needs. He can only be grateful she's not asked what, or how, or why. But if she's the daughter of Jack Darling, she probably doesn't need to ask. She's probably seen shit like this a thousand times.
"'m sorry." He adds, for coming to her, for making a mess of her door, for making a mess of her night. For all of it. The fact that he's going to be useless in the sack for a few days.
She pauses, hovering on the things in the box, digging through the few items to find what she needs for the next part, threading the needle for the suture. Hard as that's going to be. It's lucky, in one way. It's long as it is wide for where it was. Skimmed across the top. Wasn't going to be a clean heal, she'd need to keep applying alcohol to it for the next few days until -
His voice called her out of it, and she looks at him, lips pressing together. He's never like this, not about anything. That was how things worked between them. Her lips pressed together. "Hey, it's alright." Reaching up, gently wiping away the wetness on his cheeks. At least, from all that cleaning of the wound, her fingers were clean as well, as she does. "I'd... rather you be here than dealing with some backstreet dentist that'd charge you double for the infection he'd give you. You could lose an arm, and... I'm pretty fond of your arms."
It's a bad joke, barely funny, but she gives it the old college try as she kisses his forehead. Soft, something sweet that would make the next bit easier.
There wasn't much else she could do for him to make it any better, right then, as she gave him a bit of hardwood to bite on. "... Okay, ready?" She steps between his legs, bracing herself in front of him and, so carefully, she presses the needle into his skin. Little by little, beginning to close up the wound.
"I'm not likely to go to a dentist about this Angel." He replies. She's seen all his scars, most of them newer rather than older, and none of them were fixed up by the NHS. He's had to bite down on belts before as he patched himself up, or was patched up by a friend, or just dealt with it the best way he can.
But despite the pain, and it is a lot of pain, he's damn glad she knows what to do. Even without knowing about her father, somehow he'd known that Angel would know what to do. She was sensible, practical, smart, but she was all of that while still being fun. Something his sister had never actually managed to do.
"Don't give me that. I know what you're fond of." He adds, before her lips brush his skin and he knows she's ready. The wood goes between his teeth and he tries to focus on anything other than the sharp pinpoint pain of the needle, the tug of the thread. But it's over soon enough.
Well, not soon enough, not by half, but it becomes clear that she's done and he can only be grateful for that, pulling the wood from his mouth.
"Right, health care. I forget. That's where most of the guys I know tend to go when they need to be patched up."
The rest of the work is done in focus - and she keeps a commentary, small hushing words to give him anything other than the pain to focus on. Okay, one, I don't think it'll take more than six, so, five more to go. He's doing really good. Just a little bit more, she just needs him to hold still, that's all, it's going to okay -
The stitches are neat. She'd had a lot of practise when Nisha or Wilhelm when they were slammed down on the kitchen table. Or the nearest flat surface. He's still bleeding, he would be for a while, but it was finally starting to slow as she closed the skin back together.
When it's finally over, he thankfully only has to endure one more wipe down of antiseptic, before she covers the whole thing with gauze and medical tape to cover it from further infections. But before he gets any kind of whiskey, she fishes out the antibiotics for him to take. Painkillers as well. Good stuff, the kind you have to ask a doctor pretty please for across counter.
"Two now, two tomorrow morning." She sets it down, next to him. Pacing around the room to get him what he asked for - well, she supposed some whiskey couldn't hurt him, even if she knew it wasn't a great idea, hadn't managed to kill anyone else yet. After that, she started running a bath, clean up the worst of him and soak his sore muscles.
With the whiskey set down for him and the water running, she lets him take the minute whilst she cleans up. Wiping up blood from the door, her table, from the floor. Practised to that process as she was to stitching him up. Until, despite him still sitting on her table, there was nothing left but him to prove anything had happened at all to the naked eye.
Bundling up his torn up clothes, she tosses them into the bin to burn later. Takes the minute to get out of her trappings from the night out, pulling off earrings and bracelets to dump on her vanity for the time being. Before she comes back out to him, and that glass of wine she never finished. Picking it up to take a big mouthful, touching him on the shoulder as she passes to stand in front of him again. "Hey, the bath's almost done."
There's no doubt she's good. She's got the right mix of firm with the right amount of gentle, the words reassuring despite the amount of concentration and concern on her face. It'd be easy to close his eyes to it, to focus on nothing but her voice, but he finds his gaze on her face, watching the way her lips press together or she frowns each time the needle sinks into his flesh. She's trying not to hurt him, he knows. It's the sweetest thing, the fact she's murmured apologies throughout all of this, that somehow she needs to apologise for helping him, for patching him up. If anything, he owes her for bleeding all over her place.
"I've ruined your night, haven't I?" He asks, not sure if she's back from a party, or ready to go out. The truth is though he's bled on her, he's probably forced her to sober up far more than any pretty girl should have to on a Friday night.
He'll have to make it up to her, although how is what he'll have to think about. It won't be for a little while, of that he's certain as he eases himself off the table, trying to be useful, trying not to be more of a hindrance. She knows him well enough to know he can't sit still, not for very long, not even when he's literally just been sown up. His arm hurts, but the whisky burns a little hotter as he knocks it back, and he lets himself slowly come down from the pain and adrenaline that he's run on for the last hour.
"I'm more of a shower guy," He adds, as she mentions the bath, but he knows it's meant for him, and he's grateful. He just also knows that getting his arm wet is not on the cards, so he can't sink right under the water and let the muck of the evening wash off him. But he heads towards her bathroom, shedding the jeans and boxers, tugging them off with his one good hand. She's seen it all before, he's not shy, and he's certain she'll come with him, if only because she still seems to be in nurse mode.
He won't look better for a while yet, at least not until he's cleaned up, had a rest. Had some times to get his feet back underneath him. So she can save... worrying so much, she's sure, watching his face attentively, until at least the morning. Just make sure he gets those things before then.
It lets her sigh out a bit of laughter. "It's fair for all the good nights you give me." Being light with it, tossing the concern away like that. She finishes off her wine, in a deep mouthful, setting it down empty when he steps away, shrugging a little bit, "wasn't really anything going on tonight anyway."
He... still looks like hell, when her eyes follow him away. Getting undressed as he goes. But he's still handsome, still the only guy she could bother to look at when he walked into the room. The way she wanted to scratch her nails into his back when she saw him with anyone else even when - she didn't have a right to, really.
And - she'd always enjoy watching him, in some little way. Comfortable walking half undressed in her room.
( There was probably something to be said, something Evie or Maya would give her a look about, over the table if she said it out loud, if she asked what that means. Wanting someone the same way, over and over again. But she wasn't going to ask what it meant - and neither was Jacob, and that was just fine with her. )
Wait, did he say something? Eyes up, Angel. "Sorry, you are so not getting that wet right now. I put way too much work into that shoulder." She teases instead back.
Not so much later, just as he thought, she's there in the bathroom with him. She's nowhere near his state. But after all that, there is blood all over her hands, up her arms and smudged on her clothes where she'd been holding him. So that as he undresses so does she a few minutes later, pulling the little black bit of nothing over her head and dropping it onto the floor. Sweeping all their clothes away into a pile at the side of the room with her foot as he steps away.
A few moments later, she's close to him again. Not to follow him in the water, he needed space to stretch out in there, and she didn't trust him not to get ideas if he thought he could get away with it.
Rather, once he's settled, she sits on the edge of the bath, comfortable next to him in just her underwear and stockings. Waiting until he's settled into the steaming water before she leans across him, to turn off the taps.
The water will do him good. He can already feel it doing everything he needs it too- washing the grime from his skin, making tension uncurl, and gives him time to think. Something about steam and tipping his head back against cold tiles aways helps him think. He does feel better, even if being in the tub makes him feel a little vulnerable. That's okay. She's here. He assumes he knows what to do with the gun left in the medical kit, considering who her dad is. He knows he could probably still do some damage even in this state, but he also knows he won't need to. This place is safe. He wasn't followed.
His eyes have closed, just for a moment, while all of that go through his head, and they open again once she seems to have make herself comfortable. Still half dressed, which probably means she isn't going to slip into the water with him, even if he asks nicely. He won't push it. He'd like to pride himself on always giving her a good time, and he already feels like that winning streak is over. Best not add insult to injury.
She's beautiful though, even perched on the edge of the bath in her underwear. Enough to make him grin at her and she turns the taps. He doesn't have to say anything in that moment, he can just enjoy the view, the perfect skin, the curves hidden but only just, the elegant limbs and gentle fingers. Fingers that have many more talents than he'd previously given her credit for.
He'd tried not to ever let her find out about what he did at the office as Evie had put it. He'd always wanted to keep their relationship simple. Sex and fun, dinner or drinks out, or both, without any strings. No one needed to unpack their baggage, no one needed to know too much.
Now in pretty much the most dramatic way he could imagine, all the cards are out on the table. And yet... this isn't bad. She didn't slam the door on his face. She'd helped him, more than he'd expected. He'd thought he'd have to sew himself up while she hovered and fretted. The fact she hasn't... well. He'd incredibly impressed by how calmly she managed all of that.
Once the water is off, she turns back to him - and only catches him look, at least a little. Her smile a little shy, in return. Never knew what to make of it when he was looking at her like that. Sure it was one thing when she was in the middle of undressing and their hands were all over each other. But sometimes...
... Well she guessed, it was nice, either way. As he stretches out in the water, and she tilts her head, dropping her eyes a little to bit her lip. Didn't have to work it out, right now. Save it for another day.
What mattered right now was that he was looking a little better already. She shifts closer when it's all turned off, reaching over to find the liquid soap that was the other side of him. Maybe because then she doesn't have to look at him when he asks that particular question.
"Yeah. My dad." She doesn't really know where to start or end that part of herself, her life, a childhood spent learning things the hard way. "He didn't always run the Hyperion Corporation. Had to get there the hard way. Meant I got used to patching up his guys, in the middle of the night a lot."
He doesn't even know he's looking at her in a particular way, if truth be told. She looks lovely, despite how tired she must be, how much energy looking after someone must be. He can't help but feel a little in awe of her at that moment. But that doesn't stop him shifting slightly in the water and picking up his drink, just so he can finish off the dregs.
"You're very good at it." He says, aware that without her he'd have done it himself, and make a complete mess of it. But they both know that and so there's no need to say it. And there's no need really to dwell on the news of who her father is, although he feels like he wants to ask her really?. That's like saying Al Capone was your grandfather.
Or something.
It's quite clear that she doesn't want to talk too much about it, and he understands that much at least. He doesn't talk about his family, and she knows Evie. But as Angel has never once mentioned her dad before now, then he'll let it rest. They're all too tired, and he knows he is barely thinking straight.
"You sure you want me around for a few days? I don't want to get underfoot."
She takes her time, as she leans into him, the soap between her fingers, and gently she sets her hands on him. They'd had more than one shower together. But usually, the touching was way more involved in this. Not this careful, meticulous, as she begins to clean the blood off his skin. Sliding suds over his shoulders, his chest. Stop him having to reach up and hurt himself more. This way she could make sure he didn't strain or tear anything. Give his muscles a break, free from having to move. Her fingers are so light, so careful, making sure not to hurt him even a little.
"Well, been doing it since I was ten. Took some courses from this Doctor that had his license suspended that Jack had on his pay. Guess it paid off." She laughs as she brushes against his neck, splaying her fingers wide.
Alright, maybe she just didn't mind touching him, no matter what the reason was. "And I don't know... " she tilted her head, teasing, giving him something other than pain to think about. "... Think I can find enough reasons to make you stay in bed, getting rest?"
She has a magic touch. Normally it sends fire though him, heats him all the way to the core and pools low in his belly. Now? It sends gentle warmth, just like the bath, easing tension in his muscles, letting them ease. He doesn't relax as a rule. Theres some nonchalance in him, cockiness, but it's not the same as being relaxed.
For the most part it's to put other people off. This is wonderful.
It's like looking for a gold nugget under the dirt, or his smile, out from under all that blood. Happy to get her fingers dirty, just to find something that brilliant and shining. Smoothing away all the chips and flecks, just to find him.
She didn't know when she started thinking of him like that, but she wasn't going to question it right now. It was all she needed as she works her fingers against his upper arm on his uninjured side.
"You're not tearing those stitches." She scrapes her teeth on the side of her lower lip, looking over him. "... So you're going to have to take it slow. Doctor's orders."
He's not gold. Iron pyrite, perhaps, in a good light. She thinks too much of him, when she's smart and beautiful and funny. She always has been, been a bright light in the murky darkness of his life. He hasn't ever voiced that, he doesn't quite know how he should, or even if doing so would spoil everything forever.
But he's certain on one thing: his life is so much better with her as an integral part of it. He doesn't deserve her, but he'll hold onto her with both hands if he can.
"Is that the doctor that lost his licence to practise medicine or your orders?"
"Mine." She leans over, hanging above him teasingly. Or what she must be at least a little bit teasing, despite the exhaustion he must be feeling - her in nothing but underwear and stockings and big gaudy earrings. That little bit of wine still on her lips. "My orders are way more rewarding, I think you'll find."
Slowly, she cups water in her right hand and lifts it, to splash it languidly over his chest, to begin to wash away the soap bubbles. Reveal him clean below it that she runs her fingers over with no pretext of just enjoying touching him before she reaches the water, and once more cups the water to drip it over him in another section.
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there is a look in your eyes, i know just what it means - ;
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He could have gone to a hospital. He probably should have gone to Evie, but neither of those options appeals. Hospitals report this sort of shit to the police, and Evie is worse than the police. He nagging would be worse than an interrogation by bored, over-weight men in a blank room. Her anger would be much worse than any warning or caution on his already rather impressive record. He'd rather pay bail than deal with his sister.
Hell, he'd rather go to prison.
The laughter makes him hurt, makes the bruised ribs sting more than they already do. But it's hard to clutch at them when his arm feels like it does, full of pins and needles. The bullet only nicked him, he knows that, but it's still bleeding like the bloody devil and he can't do anything about it. Typically, he thinks, he's fucked up his right arm and his left side. Only an idiot manages to do that.
"Come on Angel," He hisses, as the bolts slide back and he feels himself almost collapse inwards, leaning too heavily on the door and once it's open, having to rebalance himself and focus on her question at the same time and trying to ignore the red stain on the white paint in the hallway as he steps in.
"Are who still out there?" He says, between gritted teeth, and then curses as her hand presses a little too close to his ribs. "Don't touch. Lemme... lemme just... take a minute."
Frankly, he's impressed to have got to her before collapsing or crashing. It's taken at least ten minutes to drive here, one-handed, without getting spotted by any police cars or patrols, and to get passed the security on the door downstairs. But now he's running on almost empty.
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"Jesus, Jacob - " it's breathed out, pulling him step by step, trying to avoid where the blood is coming from. It's running over her fingers. Staining them red on her fair skin. God - where did she put her first aid kit? Somewhere, somewhere. He looked like hell. He looked worse than that. Even when she knew he'd been up to something, the kind of things she'd made sure never to ask about.
More importantly, where did she put her gun?
" - Whoever did this, that's who. Do I need to get rid of them?"
Her goal isn't far, the kitchen table that once they reach, she shoves all her books off, to sit him on the edge.
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He takes a moment more to breathe through the fog in his mind, the cloud of pain, and shakes his head. "Happened away from here luv, no need for you to worry. No one followed me here."
What she even thinks she could do about it, he has no idea. Does she think she can call the police? Campus security? That's adorable. It makes a tired smile tug at one corner of his mouth, and then he gasps at another twinge of pain.
"I need some booze. Vodka or something like that. None of that fruity crap." Nothing with a tonne of sugar in it. He needs a drink, but more importantly, he needs to try and get that wound flushed clean. And that means trying to peel off the ruined hoodie, the t-shirt beneath. But raising his arms above his head is not going to happen. "And some scissors."
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But right - he had a point. Once he's sitting there, and she's sure he's not going to fall over, she moves to under the kitchen cupboard. Smearing bloody fingerprints all over the doors as she bends over to start rifling around on her hands and knees at the back of the cupboard. Better than just vodka, that's for sure when she finally yanks out a red taped up case from behind the sink.
For maybe. Were the words written on the top of it. Dropped off by Athena and Janey when she'd first enrolled in college.
Stands up again and marches back next to him and drops it with a bang. Muttering as I go. "You are so freaking lucky I took lessons off Ned." The latch on the case is snapped open after she enters a combination.
It springs open, and it might not look exactly like a first aid kit. But that's because it's not exactly that kind of kit. If the gun and the ammunition in it is anything to go by. But the rest is there, bandages, cleaning alcohol, adhesive straps, pliers and tweezers, all the bits and pieces. She doesn't stop to explain as she takes out the big fabric scissors for just the same reason he's thinking.
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He falls into silence then, because unfortunately, too much talking makes his ribs burn like they're on fire, and he has to focus on breathing and balance as she pokes her head into every cupboard in the kitchen. What the hell she's looking for he has no clue, because he knows where she keeps the alcohol. Normally front and centre, and he can even see some whiskey out on the side.
But then she's moving again, bringing up a box to the table and he almost tells her to get rid of that first-aid shit, full of slings and safety pins, but then it's opened.
And that, unmistakably, is a gun.
"What the hell, Angel?" He asks, reaching for it and getting in her way no doubt. Not a cheap gun either, but solidly made and with the serial numbers removed with a scouring pad, the proper way to do it. But then he's being cut free of the clothing and the extent of his injuries is revealed. Bruises already appearing on his chest, focused on his side and his ribs. The slice taken out of his shoulder by the passage of the bullet, gouging out muscle and flesh, still oozing thick red blood down his arm.
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It hurts, it hurts to see him look like this. This beaten up, this half to hell, her brow furrows. "Jacob, you idiot." Biting her lip, she swallows on it. Scares her half to death and maybe she might even do something about it, later. But right now - this needs to be seen too. Swallowing hard, she goes to put the scissors away.
"Darling. Angel Darling." She corrects, dropping them back into the box. The wound first, then she could ice back the rest. Fishing next for the cleaning swabs and the bottle of medicinal alcohol, all of it is the proper grade, swiped out of the back of a hospital, it looks like.
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But the gun... the gun makes certain connections meet in his brain. Realisation dawns, hot and burning like a sun through the mist.
"As in Jack Darling?" He splutters, and then hisses a sharp curse as she begins to clean the wound. It takes all his effort not to chew the ugh his lip and to keep the tremble out of hid lips, but it hurts almost more than the shot itself.
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This was never pretty, smelled worse. The blood and disinfectant alcohol filling up the small apartment. But she keeps working, with tense arms and steady fingers. Once the wound is exposed, still leaking blood, she then gets the tweezers. She could see a thread from his clothes, stuck in it.
"Yeah - don't tell me you're working it now?" She holds her breath, as after cleaning the tweezers off, she lent to gently, gently, take that thread out. "I thought it was why you were sleeping with me, 'cause you knew I wouldn't ask too many dumb questions." Thought he was just being nice, when he teased about her last name, instead of the tense flicker of fear that some people immediately got on their face.
"- Got it." She breathes out, expelling the breath she'd been holding so tightly. "This is going to hurt, on my count - one, two, three." And with it, for good measure, she tipped the alcohol directly onto it, to make sure it was all washed clean, thoroughly.
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His jaw is aching now from keeping all the pain behind his teeth, and it's only when she pulls away with that tiny thread held like the damn Holy Grail. He relaxes just enough to try and answer, "Never put two and two together."
What is she? Daughter, niece? He has no idea, but he doesn't know Jack Darling. He knows of him, rumour and stories, but the man operates in the States. There are men just as powerful and just as frightening over this side of the pond.
Even so-
And then the liquid fire rains down on bare damaged muscle and sinew, exposed to the air and he can't even think of curses bad enough to express the pain, simply makes a low animal noise of pain and distress before the flow stops and all he can do is blink away the salt-water from his eyes and try to relate the edge of the table from his white-knuckle grip.
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Sorry, she wants to say, as she watches, God, she's so, so sorry. It twitches like a gut instinct. Give him something nicer, something better. But... after. She could roll him back and give him a mouthful painkiller, and give him something better to hold onto than a table creaking for the grip he puts on it.
"It's almost over." She takes a slow breath out, watching him, hates to say it. Regretful for it even as she does. "But... we're going to have to close it. I can sear it or stitch it?" It was too deep to just bandage and hope for the best.
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Slowly.
When she says it's almost over, he laughs. She doesn't say the worse is yet to come, which he knows to be the truth. He's had stitches before, awake and without painkillers. He's never, ever, seared a wound closed, and he has no desire to try it now.
"Needle." He manages, changing his grip on the table, because he knows it will take a minute to get what she needs. He can only be grateful she's not asked what, or how, or why. But if she's the daughter of Jack Darling, she probably doesn't need to ask. She's probably seen shit like this a thousand times.
"'m sorry." He adds, for coming to her, for making a mess of her door, for making a mess of her night. For all of it. The fact that he's going to be useless in the sack for a few days.
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His voice called her out of it, and she looks at him, lips pressing together. He's never like this, not about anything. That was how things worked between them. Her lips pressed together. "Hey, it's alright." Reaching up, gently wiping away the wetness on his cheeks. At least, from all that cleaning of the wound, her fingers were clean as well, as she does. "I'd... rather you be here than dealing with some backstreet dentist that'd charge you double for the infection he'd give you. You could lose an arm, and... I'm pretty fond of your arms."
It's a bad joke, barely funny, but she gives it the old college try as she kisses his forehead. Soft, something sweet that would make the next bit easier.
There wasn't much else she could do for him to make it any better, right then, as she gave him a bit of hardwood to bite on. "... Okay, ready?" She steps between his legs, bracing herself in front of him and, so carefully, she presses the needle into his skin. Little by little, beginning to close up the wound.
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But despite the pain, and it is a lot of pain, he's damn glad she knows what to do. Even without knowing about her father, somehow he'd known that Angel would know what to do. She was sensible, practical, smart, but she was all of that while still being fun. Something his sister had never actually managed to do.
"Don't give me that. I know what you're fond of." He adds, before her lips brush his skin and he knows she's ready. The wood goes between his teeth and he tries to focus on anything other than the sharp pinpoint pain of the needle, the tug of the thread. But it's over soon enough.
Well, not soon enough, not by half, but it becomes clear that she's done and he can only be grateful for that, pulling the wood from his mouth.
"Can I have a whisky now? Please?"
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The rest of the work is done in focus - and she keeps a commentary, small hushing words to give him anything other than the pain to focus on. Okay, one, I don't think it'll take more than six, so, five more to go. He's doing really good. Just a little bit more, she just needs him to hold still, that's all, it's going to okay -
The stitches are neat. She'd had a lot of practise when Nisha or Wilhelm when they were slammed down on the kitchen table. Or the nearest flat surface. He's still bleeding, he would be for a while, but it was finally starting to slow as she closed the skin back together.
When it's finally over, he thankfully only has to endure one more wipe down of antiseptic, before she covers the whole thing with gauze and medical tape to cover it from further infections. But before he gets any kind of whiskey, she fishes out the antibiotics for him to take. Painkillers as well. Good stuff, the kind you have to ask a doctor pretty please for across counter.
"Two now, two tomorrow morning." She sets it down, next to him. Pacing around the room to get him what he asked for - well, she supposed some whiskey couldn't hurt him, even if she knew it wasn't a great idea, hadn't managed to kill anyone else yet. After that, she started running a bath, clean up the worst of him and soak his sore muscles.
With the whiskey set down for him and the water running, she lets him take the minute whilst she cleans up. Wiping up blood from the door, her table, from the floor. Practised to that process as she was to stitching him up. Until, despite him still sitting on her table, there was nothing left but him to prove anything had happened at all to the naked eye.
Bundling up his torn up clothes, she tosses them into the bin to burn later. Takes the minute to get out of her trappings from the night out, pulling off earrings and bracelets to dump on her vanity for the time being. Before she comes back out to him, and that glass of wine she never finished. Picking it up to take a big mouthful, touching him on the shoulder as she passes to stand in front of him again. "Hey, the bath's almost done."
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"I've ruined your night, haven't I?" He asks, not sure if she's back from a party, or ready to go out. The truth is though he's bled on her, he's probably forced her to sober up far more than any pretty girl should have to on a Friday night.
He'll have to make it up to her, although how is what he'll have to think about. It won't be for a little while, of that he's certain as he eases himself off the table, trying to be useful, trying not to be more of a hindrance. She knows him well enough to know he can't sit still, not for very long, not even when he's literally just been sown up. His arm hurts, but the whisky burns a little hotter as he knocks it back, and he lets himself slowly come down from the pain and adrenaline that he's run on for the last hour.
"I'm more of a shower guy," He adds, as she mentions the bath, but he knows it's meant for him, and he's grateful. He just also knows that getting his arm wet is not on the cards, so he can't sink right under the water and let the muck of the evening wash off him. But he heads towards her bathroom, shedding the jeans and boxers, tugging them off with his one good hand. She's seen it all before, he's not shy, and he's certain she'll come with him, if only because she still seems to be in nurse mode.
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It lets her sigh out a bit of laughter. "It's fair for all the good nights you give me." Being light with it, tossing the concern away like that. She finishes off her wine, in a deep mouthful, setting it down empty when he steps away, shrugging a little bit, "wasn't really anything going on tonight anyway."
He... still looks like hell, when her eyes follow him away. Getting undressed as he goes. But he's still handsome, still the only guy she could bother to look at when he walked into the room. The way she wanted to scratch her nails into his back when she saw him with anyone else even when - she didn't have a right to, really.
And - she'd always enjoy watching him, in some little way. Comfortable walking half undressed in her room.
( There was probably something to be said, something Evie or Maya would give her a look about, over the table if she said it out loud, if she asked what that means. Wanting someone the same way, over and over again. But she wasn't going to ask what it meant - and neither was Jacob, and that was just fine with her. )
Wait, did he say something? Eyes up, Angel. "Sorry, you are so not getting that wet right now. I put way too much work into that shoulder." She teases instead back.
Not so much later, just as he thought, she's there in the bathroom with him. She's nowhere near his state. But after all that, there is blood all over her hands, up her arms and smudged on her clothes where she'd been holding him. So that as he undresses so does she a few minutes later, pulling the little black bit of nothing over her head and dropping it onto the floor. Sweeping all their clothes away into a pile at the side of the room with her foot as he steps away.
A few moments later, she's close to him again. Not to follow him in the water, he needed space to stretch out in there, and she didn't trust him not to get ideas if he thought he could get away with it.
Rather, once he's settled, she sits on the edge of the bath, comfortable next to him in just her underwear and stockings. Waiting until he's settled into the steaming water before she leans across him, to turn off the taps.
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His eyes have closed, just for a moment, while all of that go through his head, and they open again once she seems to have make herself comfortable. Still half dressed, which probably means she isn't going to slip into the water with him, even if he asks nicely. He won't push it. He'd like to pride himself on always giving her a good time, and he already feels like that winning streak is over. Best not add insult to injury.
She's beautiful though, even perched on the edge of the bath in her underwear. Enough to make him grin at her and she turns the taps. He doesn't have to say anything in that moment, he can just enjoy the view, the perfect skin, the curves hidden but only just, the elegant limbs and gentle fingers. Fingers that have many more talents than he'd previously given her credit for.
He'd tried not to ever let her find out about what he did at the office as Evie had put it. He'd always wanted to keep their relationship simple. Sex and fun, dinner or drinks out, or both, without any strings. No one needed to unpack their baggage, no one needed to know too much.
Now in pretty much the most dramatic way he could imagine, all the cards are out on the table. And yet... this isn't bad. She didn't slam the door on his face. She'd helped him, more than he'd expected. He'd thought he'd have to sew himself up while she hovered and fretted. The fact she hasn't... well. He'd incredibly impressed by how calmly she managed all of that.
Like it was routine.
"So, Jack Darling huh?"
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... Well she guessed, it was nice, either way. As he stretches out in the water, and she tilts her head, dropping her eyes a little to bit her lip. Didn't have to work it out, right now. Save it for another day.
What mattered right now was that he was looking a little better already. She shifts closer when it's all turned off, reaching over to find the liquid soap that was the other side of him. Maybe because then she doesn't have to look at him when he asks that particular question.
"Yeah. My dad." She doesn't really know where to start or end that part of herself, her life, a childhood spent learning things the hard way. "He didn't always run the Hyperion Corporation. Had to get there the hard way. Meant I got used to patching up his guys, in the middle of the night a lot."
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"You're very good at it." He says, aware that without her he'd have done it himself, and make a complete mess of it. But they both know that and so there's no need to say it. And there's no need really to dwell on the news of who her father is, although he feels like he wants to ask her really?. That's like saying Al Capone was your grandfather.
Or something.
It's quite clear that she doesn't want to talk too much about it, and he understands that much at least. He doesn't talk about his family, and she knows Evie. But as Angel has never once mentioned her dad before now, then he'll let it rest. They're all too tired, and he knows he is barely thinking straight.
"You sure you want me around for a few days? I don't want to get underfoot."
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"Well, been doing it since I was ten. Took some courses from this Doctor that had his license suspended that Jack had on his pay. Guess it paid off." She laughs as she brushes against his neck, splaying her fingers wide.
Alright, maybe she just didn't mind touching him, no matter what the reason was. "And I don't know... " she tilted her head, teasing, giving him something other than pain to think about. "... Think I can find enough reasons to make you stay in bed, getting rest?"
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For the most part it's to put other people off. This is wonderful.
"If I'm in bed with you, I won't be resting."
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She didn't know when she started thinking of him like that, but she wasn't going to question it right now. It was all she needed as she works her fingers against his upper arm on his uninjured side.
"You're not tearing those stitches." She scrapes her teeth on the side of her lower lip, looking over him. "... So you're going to have to take it slow. Doctor's orders."
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But he's certain on one thing: his life is so much better with her as an integral part of it. He doesn't deserve her, but he'll hold onto her with both hands if he can.
"Is that the doctor that lost his licence to practise medicine or your orders?"
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Slowly, she cups water in her right hand and lifts it, to splash it languidly over his chest, to begin to wash away the soap bubbles. Reveal him clean below it that she runs her fingers over with no pretext of just enjoying touching him before she reaches the water, and once more cups the water to drip it over him in another section.
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