amongthewreck | (no subject)

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riftverse

(no subject)

Chicago is a city very keen on keeping its reputation as a shithole firmly intact.

Fletcher, stumbling along and supporting himself against the walls of nearby buildings as he goes, realizes this.

He turns his head to spit out what he thinks is probably a bit of tooth and a lot of blood. He has no idea what the fuck just attacked him—he figures it must've been a Behemoth, if his vicious counter attack is any indication—but there's one thing he's sure of: it was after him. It caught his scent and it followed him. Out of all the people he was near fifteen minutes ago, this thing chose him.

It either chose him or sought him out. Fletcher can't be sure what's what anymore.

After what feels like an hour but is really only ten minutes, he reaches the block of his apartment building. He has no idea how he's going to explain his state to Richard, or if he even wants to, but he knows he has to get inside. He's a limping target out here and if he doesn't move soon—

Mid-step, he freezes. Turns. Meets the gaze of someone a few feet away.

As soon as he sees metal glimmering under the streetlight, he dives toward the alley, but whoever has their finger on the trigger is too quick for Fletch. White-hot pain rips through his left side, spreads out in every direction and shoots up to blur his vision. He hits the ground with a dull thud and a pained groan and that's when he realizes there's a very good chance that he's about to die. If whoever has that gun decides to come closer and fire again, it's over.

There are thoughts he's sure he should be having right now, but his mind is blank. He can't think through the pain. He isn't even sure where the bullet hit him because he hurts all over. Attacked and shot. He's never had two people after him in one night. That'll look pretty badass in his obituary back home.

He has no idea how much time has passed between the shooting and now, but whoever did this clearly isn't coming back for anything. He'd be dead by now, if that was the case.

Fletcher wonders if he's been left here to bleed out.

Except the wound isn't that bad. It takes him a while to realize that the bullet did more damage to his jacket than it did to him; it hurts like hell when he sits up and he has to bite back some swearing, but he's able to work past that just long enough to glance at his side. The bullet only grazed him, thank God.

Some time around midnight, he finally makes it up to his apartment. If Richard isn't sleeping, he's about to see a beaten, bleeding and bled on, exhausted, dirty, thoroughly injured roommate.

Richard is also about to see said roommate collapse in the doorway, if he's anywhere nearby.

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"Well, no."

Fletch tries to sit up, fails, and lets his head go thunk against the floor. He sighs.

At least he can breathe. That's... something.

"Did y'not hear the gunshot outside? I thought it was pretty loud."

“I did. Didn't see anything.” Without waiting for Fletch's approval, Richard places his hands on his shoulders, trying to push him back up. “Are you sure you're all right?”

While Fletch appreciates Richard's help, moving hurts. Fletch tries to hide it, but he's sure the faces he's making are giving him away.

"I'll have y'know it wasn't just the shooting that put me in such a state. That didn't do nearly as much damage as the thing that attacked me earlier did. But that thing is dead. Whoever shot me isn't."

And he is not happy about that at all.

"I'm okay. I can't exactly say I've ever been worse, but I'm not dead. Can y'get me an ice pack or somethin'? Some water?"

“Yeah,” he says, rising to his feet. A moment later he's back with a ziplock bag full of ice and a glass of water.

...oh and some towels, too.

“Where did the thing attack you?” he asks, staring at the various splotches of blood on Fletch's clothes.

"I dunno," Fletch mutters, grabbing the bag of ice and dropping it on his face. "Near the park. I'm pretty sure it was a demon but I didn't really have a chance to look."

After a few seconds of face-freezing, he removes the bag and takes a sip of water. "Someone in this city is after me. Whatever happened tonight wasn't random. The only reason I'm here is because I think the demon responsible for my parents' murder is hidin' out somewhere in this city, and... I think tonight confirms that. Or else someone just decided they really don't like me."

If only.

"We might have to move," he continues, wincing as he sits up a little straighter so he can press a towel to his side. "Or you might have to, rather. I don't wanna drag you into this. But I might be jumpin' to conclusions... I dunno. Do we have aspirin?"

“We do.” He stands up once more, making a brief trip to the bathroom to take out the bottle of aspirin.

When he returns: “These demons...can only archangels kill them?”

"Anything can kill them, aye." He takes a few pills, then settles back against the wall. "But it'd be... unwise for anyone else to try. To say the least."

A quick mental inventory reveals the following: Fletch has a chipped molar, some skin missing on the left side of his abdomen from that bullet, scratches along his arms and one on the back of his neck, leading into his hair, and bruises... possibly all over. His hands are still shaking.

Nothing feels broken, though. Or punctured, aside from the fabric of his suit.

"Why?"

“I don't handle being helpless very well,” he responds, eyes falling on the spot where the bullet grazed. He grabs one of the towels, pressing it against Fletch's stomach.

"I don't know what you're suggestin', but it has a slight air of crazy to it."

He stares at Richard for a second, then shakes his head.

"Look, if you're worried for your safety, I can set you up with someone to look out for you."

Not that he knows anyone in the city who could actually help. Cuevas might know someone, and since Fletch will have to contact him eventually, it'll all work out.

“I don't need to be looked after, Fletcher.”

No, he's not an archangel. He's never dealt with demons before. But he's been living, fighting, killing for over one hundred years. He knows how to take care of himself. He knows how to handle the unexpected.

...for the most part.

Fletcher shuts his eyes. Richard clearly has some delusions going on and they are not things Fletcher can deal with right now. He doesn't have the energy.

"I don't want anything to happen to you because of me. Whoever's on my trail didn't think it was too out of line to kill my parents, so if they catch whiff of anyone I'm keepin' company with here..."

He sighs again, then opens his eyes. "I'm not tryin' to scare you. I just think you deserve to know what's goin' on so you have a choice."

“Thank you,” he says. If Fletch listens closely, he might hear an unspoken quip at the end of Richard's words, certain old resentments that drape his comment in sarcasm. “I didn't know you cared.”

Congratulations, Richard! You are getting a Look.

It's only a halfhearted Look, though. There is only a slight narrowing of the eyes, this time.

"You better not be givin' me shit while I'm in this state, mister. Y'could at least hold off on the sarcasm until I'm not bleedin' all over."

The responding Look Richard gives Fletch is rather cavalier. “Or I could be sarcastic to you now, knowing you can't do a thing about it.”

Is that a smirk? Yes, it's a smirk.

“Think you can stand up now?”

And in response to Richard's Look, Fletcher just stares.

He'd normally have a zippy comeback, but since he just nearly died and the nausea has decided to come back with a vengeance, Richard is going to get staring. And some slight nodding.

"I'm gonna go get cleaned up," he says, using Richard for leverage as he stands. "You can go back to bed."

“I wasn't sleeping,” he replies, wincing slightly from Fletcher's temporary weight. He doesn't offer his help at first, but--

He did say he doesn't handle being helpless well.

"Well, then, go do whatever. I won't be long."

Unless he passes out in the shower.

This, he thinks, is not likely. (He hopes.)

"Maybe put the kettle on?" he suggests from halfway down the hall, shedding clothes (upper body clothes, thank you—and shoes) as he limps along.

He nods, watching Fletch down the hall--

--looking away, heading towards the kitchen where he--

--distracted by the notion of turning on the stove with his powers.

Decides against it. Fletch just got attacked twice. The last thing he needs is his kitchen in flames. He turns the stove on the normal way, setting the kettle atop the flames, distracting himself by wondering (pointlessly) what kind of tea Fletcher'd like to drink.

It takes a while before Fletch emerges from the bathroom, all bandaged up and freshly clothed and trying not to collapse on the couch and fall into a dead sleep.

For now, he's shirtless. His wings need a good stretch and he doesn't sure his arms want to move the way sleeves would require him to move, and with the amount of gauze he has wrapped around himself he doesn't really need a shirt anyway. He's sure Richard will understand.

As soon as he enters the kitchen, he flops into the nearest chair and sets his head down on the table. "Sorry. For freakin' you out and potentially puttin' you in danger and... gettin' blood on the carpet."

Thanks to Kerry and Sam, Fletch has learned the fine art of excessive apology.

“I'm not the one paying for the apartment,” he says, setting the cup of tea in front of Fletcher. He takes the seat directly across from him on the table. He hasn't made a cup for himself.

As for the rest of Fletcher's apologies—he's been through much, much worse.

Fletch tilts his head just enough to look over at Richard without lifting his head from the table. He looks very, very tired.

"Did y'really hafta go and remind me of that?"

Again, it's halfhearted.

"Anyway, thanks."

"You're welcome. If you need help getting back to the bedroom, well--" He grins again, with self-depreciating humor. "I suppose I make a good crutch."

"You do. But I think I'm gonna stay here for a while."

Until his vision clears, anyway.

Or until his hands stop shaking.

He nods.

The implication being that Richard will also be staying here for a while.

He's noticed the shaking hands, the grogginess. Everything tells Richard he shouldn't leave this man alone. So he won't.

Except Fletch didn't mean to imply that at all, so when he realizes Richard is still sitting there, he blinks.

"What?"

He doesn't even know why he's asking because he already knows what Richard's doing. It's the same thing his family did and the same thing Kerry did and the same thing Sam does and the same thing Dunn and Maddock do.

And he still doesn't like it.