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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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.

Richard gives Fletch a Look that asks 'What do you think?' It's one of those sardonic, possibly condescending but knowing looks that can only be pulled off by people who are very old and knowing.

Fletcher sits up and sighs.

He does not look impressed, Richard.

"I'm alright. Go to bed."

"I'm not tired."

Richard does not look phased by your lack of impression, Fletcher.

"Then go watch TV. You really don't need to keep an eye on me. I'm not gonna drop dead."

Fletcher doesn't care how you don't look, Richard!

"And contrary to popular belief, I am not 'indulging in self-destructive behavior.'" He has no idea if Richard heard Fletcher's slightly heated discussion with Hannah a few nights ago, but that's what she told him. And he thinks she is crazy.

"I never said that you were. But the thing you must understand, Fletcher, is that when you make friends, sometimes they get concerned for your well-being. And this concern might be triggered when you walk through the door scratched up and bleeding. And they still might be concerned when they see you shaking like your hands are now.

"I understand this is difficult to comprehend, but if you've made a connection with someone they might not be inclined to leave you alone if you're hurt, and pushing them away...doesn't always work. Like right now, it isn't going to work, so just stop while you're ahead."

...

Well, damn.

Richard has just been added to the very small, exclusive list of people who are capable of shutting Fletcher up.

Defeated, Fletch turns his attention to the now-lukewarm tea.

Richard allows himself a very small, victorious grin. He doesn't like that Fletch is hurt and he doesn't like that Fletch feels he must push others away to prove a point. But dammit, he likes acknowledging when he's right. And he likes when others acknowledge he's right. Heaven knows he's advised enough leaders who're too stubborn to listen to him. It's nice having a victory for a change.

Richard is lucky Fletch is too busy staring at his tea to notice that grin.

"So," he says, examining his slightly-bruised eye in the reflection of the tea, "Are we just gonna sit here, then?"

Yes, even when injured, Fletcher is capable of experiencing boredom.

It is a thing.

(Really, he hates the awkwardness that happens with silence. Even if there's no awkwardness, he still feels awkward.)

"We can turn on the television if you'd like."

He doubts anything of interest would be on so late, but it's worth a shot.

"Nah. I don't feel like watching any of that late night crap."

Ba-dum-chh~

Fletch shifts in his seat and finally starts to drink his tea, then shrugs. "I dunnooooooooo," he sighs.

"Maybe read me a bedtime story?"

:D?

Richard--

Richard laughs.

You know.

...

"That was adorable. Is that how you always laugh?"