amongthewreck | (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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If not for the pain Fletch is still feeling, he'd totally reach across the table and pinch Richard's cheek.

For now, though, an amused smile will have to do.

"Anyway, I wasn't kidding. I'll go to sleep if y'read me a bedtime story."

"Like what?"

Richard's not sure if this is a complement or an insult concerning his voice.

Well, it's certainly a compliment concerning his company.

"I dunno. You don't know any?"

"I oversaw teenagers, Fletcher. They were a little beyond bedtime stories."

POUT.

"Make one up?"

"I'm not much of a storyteller."

He has a feeling and stories he improvised would be on the horrific side, anyway.

"I thought the old and wise were supposed to be good storytellers," Fletch points out, smirking. "With all the life experience you have..."

Tell him about the time you got punted across the jungle by a ball of smoke, Richard!

Alas, that is a story the Rift made sure Richard could never tell.

"Would you like to hear about the time I had to search for a little girl's doll in the jungle?"

"I would."

But a bedtime story requires a bed.

The couch will do.

"C'mon," Fletch says, grabbing Richard's arm and tugging him toward the living room, then falling face-first onto the couch.

Richard attempts to keep up with Fletcher, seating himself calmly on a nearby seat as he watches his roommate flop onto the couch.

“It's not that exciting a story,” he begins. “We were just walking from one location to the next. She had dropped her doll along the way.”

This is where Fletch is going to feign some snoring, just to be obnoxious.

Good story, Richard. Really.

“Then I've done my work. Good night, Fletcher.”

Sometimes when Richard makes that smirk don't you want to like punch him in the face for being such an ass?

If Fletcher didn't already smirk like that at everyone else, yes.

Alas, he is immune. Mostly.

There's no annoyance in his voice when he says, "No, really. Please?"

(But there is a faint trace of exhaustion.)