Pete Wisdom is saving the world...from itself. (mister_wisdom) wrote in valarlogs, @ 2012-06-24 16:21:00 |
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Entry tags: | !complete, neena thurman (domino), pete wisdom |
"Where's Wilson? Was he killed?"
Who: Domino, Dr. Wisdom
What: Stitches, snark, bum pinchies, makeshift alarm systems.
When: Recently, following Domino's cover up and burny-ness.
Where: Secret safe-housey location
Rating: PG13, language, people sewing.
Status: Complete!
Pete had quite literally drove like a bat out of hell, except he wasn't a bat, really, and the only thing Batman-esque about him, were the adhesive bandages with Batman symbols. They were still caked with old dried blood, on his elbow. He'd forgotten to tend to them after the window diving accident. Likewise with the gauze hand, but he didn't care at the moment. He had gathered from a combination of Fat Bastard (general area proximity), his sister (address via demonic possession), and mention of demon beds (Ikeapocalypse was nearby), where Domino was hiding out. So it was only a matter of time before he knocked on the right door. And knock he did, with the sort of loud, rapping knuckles that meant business.
"C'mon, c'mon...." he impatiently was saying while knocking with one hand, and lighting his forty-second cigarette of the day, with the other. If there was no answer, he'd shoot the locks and kick the door in.
It was like some kind of Satanic Triangulation System.
Shooting the locks and kicking the door in wouldn't really be that conducive to keeping the safehouse SAFE, and Domino knew well of Pete's impatience. It took her a bit to drag herself to the door, but he was soon rewarded with the sounds of a doorknob turning. The door creaked open slightly, and a gun barrel poked out of it.
"You better not be avon calling," Came Dom's voice, followed by the distinctive click that was the safety being turned off, "Because I don't think makeup is covering this up."
"I've got the lipstick samples right here, on me left arse cheek. Several shades and tons t'choose from," was the sarcastically droll response, so she knew it was him. He was smoking with the barrel of the gun pointed right at his nose, and he had a very humdrum expression on his face. It was useful for covering up that thing known as worry. Which is what friends do when their friends end up with bullets in them.
"Back up," Pete was saying, all business as he put one hand to the door, "or move aside. I'm coming in. You'd better not be dying, or I swear that I'll fucking kill you myself. Then I’ll have me sis raise you from the dead and kill you again."
"Not dying today, especially not if I have to kiss your ass to get the lipstick samples." Did that even make sense? She wasn't sure it did, to be honest, and she wasn't sure she cared. She was having a hard time seeing straight as it was.
She backed away from the door, slowly, and clicked the safety back on her gun. She didn't bother to open the door further, pretty certain he could get that thing himself. He was probably about to barrel through the thing anyway, so he could just do that.
Things began to swim in a southerly direction, and she closed her eyes a moment to get them to stop spinning. Leaning against the wall felt pretty practical at that point, so she went ahead and did that.
He did swing the door open pretty quickly, and he was inwardly relieved when it didn't run into anything, like her in particular. Because he would've said something like 'bugger, why didn't you move further?' like the total complete jackass that Pete Wisdom sometimes can be, when he hits people with doors.
That didn't happen, and instead he found himself staring at her, eyebrows knit together with worry and his eyes narrowed like he was taking a few cursory seconds to check her over. That done, he turned abruptly and closed the door as best he could without slamming it, outright, and began turning locks.
"You look like hell. Tell me wot happened an' how you were compromised," he was saying, before he was by her side, putting one of her arms around his shoulders so he could help her limp into the bathroom. "Where's Wilson? Was he killed? Did you kill him? If so, I just might kiss you for the first time, ever."
If he hadn't spent a good two days in an attempt to drink himself into an alcoholic coma (after reporting the shooting to the proper channels, of course), he might've been able to pick her up. But lack of taking the rest of his (now burned up) meds and one helluva hangover had left him looking like he'd been ran over by a an army of tanks, had fifteen whales dropped on him, and like he had been hit by a meteorite or comet, the likes of which smashed everything in the Tunguska Event in Siberia, back in 1908.
"You look like hell, yourself, you know... where the hell have you even been?" Because it was easier to point the questions back at him than it was to answer the ones he'd put to her. Anyway, she wasn't sure she even KNEW how she'd been compromised. She should have taken more time to question the man instead of trusting Wade. Trusting Wade was beyond stupid.
She shuffled along with him to the bathroom, leaning on him whenever things started swimming again, and tried to piece together what she had, "It might have been Wade. He's been by my apartment a few times. I don't know. He said there was a hobo tailing me who'd recently set up shop. I don't even remember a hobo. He's alive. He strung the guy up for me and disappeared."
"Remind me t'buy Wilson a lager and then shoot him, repeatedly," Pete said, ignoring the questions directed at him, for the time being. First priority was her, and he needed to get a good idea of what they were dealing with, before making any decisions on how to proceed. "It's clean through isn't it? Looks like a gusher and not a spurter, so that's good. It'd be preferable if you weren't bleeding at all, but I'll take it out on someone, eventually. That's not you. Of course."
He kicked the lid of the toilet down and helped her sit down on it, saying in his best teasing tone of voice to lighten the mood, "Show doctor Wisdom where it hurts. I'll kiss it all better, and read you a gun manual."
He reached into a coat pocket and handed her a flask, filled to the brim with whiskey. It was his back up, back up, back up, back up back up flask. For when the bottles and other flasks in various pockets were empty.
"Oh lovely, I think I have some of those stored around here somewhere," Dom added, in one of her lighter cheeky tones. The tone was usually reserved for moments when she really didn't want to focus on how bad things could possibly be, because she already knew they weren't good.
The flask was taken with the kind of reverent caress one might use on a rosary or other religious item, and she unscrewed it quickly to take a swig before proceeding to answer any more questions. The burn felt good and made her feel more awake, though the opposite was probably likely.
"Straight through. Aimed it myself... was going to get the other guy to do it, and then leave the pistol with his prints behind, but... changed the idea at the last minute," she explained, with that same light tone.
"Tried not to nick an artery... Well I can't have, I'd be dead by now. So there's a comfort."
"That's not much comfort, luv. I fucking can't sew t'save me soul. But I know at a time like this, you don't want t'call in outside help. So needs must, and we'll make do. Hand me o'er your kit," he was saying, poking around her leg already. Hopefully she wasn't going commando that day, but really...at this point, he wouldn't have cared anyway. All he wanted, even if he had to rip her bloody trousers off (literally and figuratively) was that she'd stop bleeding sooner rather than later.
Otherwise, she might need a transfusion and he was pretty sure their blood type didn't match. She might be normal and he might be ethanol. That simply wouldn't do.
He shrugged off his coat onto the floor, as well as his suit jacket, kicked them aside and started rolling up his sleeves. In fact, he was wearing the same thing he last had on too, right down to the gauze he was now pulling off his hand. So it was a foregone conclusion that - sweat or no sweat (he seemed to be holding his heat in well) - he was still getting to be a little on the uncaringly ripe side of the spectrum.
"I'd better...uhh...wash me hands off, squirt some sanitizer on that, an' watch you scream."
"No hospitals. Not unless I'm really dying. And I'm not. I'm not really dying," She shook her head at him like that was the end of that and there wasn't any more to say about it, then handed him the kit on the floor. It wasn't your average kit, and contained most of the supplies that a do it yourself surgeon might need in these sorts of situations.
The clothing wasn't clean, either, but they didn't really have time to worry about sterile working environments. Even someone as nitpicky as her knew when to just bite the bullet and deal with it.
Bite the bullet. Hah. "You're going to have to get me out of these pants. I've been dying for you to get me out of them, but it's always the wrong pants or the wrong circumstances," she mumbled.
She sounded like she was drunk, but it was probably drunk on the pain instead of the whiskey. And it was only going to get worse. She looked around for something to bite down onto.
"The big moment has arrived, Dommy. I hope you forgot your knickers," he quipped, giving her a brusque kiss on the forehead and putting her arms around his shoulders so she could cling on, he could lift her up a smidge, and they could get her trousers off and out from under her butt. That was always the hardest part. "We'll get you something to gnaw on that isn't me, and this will get sussed out in no time. It's not going to look pretty, though. Then I'll kiss it and make it better."
Off went those pants, in the sort of move that made it known someone's pretty much done this multiple times, before. And he's probably not only been the person taking them off, but also the person having them taken off, as well. As liquored as he got, sometimes, that probably wasn't a big surprise.
That done and those tossed aside, including taking her shoes off and pinching her toes for a moment, Pete looked around for a chew toy for Domino. Well, failing that, he simply took the cards and identification out of his wallet, and shoved it into her mouth with a shrug. It's like he's also done that before. It's probably better not to know.
While cleaning his hands, sanitizing things, and stringing needles, Pete was utterly conversational sounding, "So, I'd like you t'think of...kittens and rainbows and kittens puking rainbows...and just about everything that's good and still somehow untainted in the world...so that you're not thinking about me being a utter brute of a bastard, and patching you back t'gether like a butcher...trying t'sew two steaks back t'gether."
Probably not helping matters. Nope.
When this was all over and she was in the clear, she was going to brush her teeth for three entire hours, nonstop, just to get the crud and germs and whatever the hell was on those cards, out of her mouth. Thinking about all of that was actually a great motivator. It was certainly better than thinking about what he was about to do, or how much this was all about to really, really, fucking suck.
It wasn't the first time that she'd done this, either. She actually recalled a time, in her pain-drunk haze, when Wade had stitched her up. Gods, he hadn't shut up the entire time. She'd almost wished that the bullet had just killed her.
Around the cards, she tried to mention, "Stitch one side, leave the other open. Gauze. Lots of gauze."
He'd probably done this before anyway, but she felt the need to mention that. If he could even understand her. She wasn't sure that he could. Kittens and rainbows and kittens puking rainbows. She gave him a thumbs up signal with her hand, then looked down at her leg. It was a mess, and the patch job would be messy, but watching it would actually distract her.
It was really just the wallet germs. He had taken the cards out because no way did he want her snapping those in two. It was probably, he thought, a really bad time to tell her he'd only watched other people do this, and that he hadn't ever done it himself. Good thing was that he wasn't the sort to get queasy about this stuff too much, anymore. Bad thing was he couldn't sew and he knew it was going to be slapdash and messy and probably pretty ploddingly painful. Fine, that was more than one bad thing, but it was all left unsaid...because no one needed that sort of list before being sewed up.
Pete wagged his eyebrows at her, set his mouth into a thin line, and went to work. Lots of gauze, only one side, and he was trying to tell himself it was just working with a very bleedy...and very hard to puncture because of the twitching and seizing up...piece of cloth.
Once the first two or three strokes of the needle through, it was like he found his own rhythm to it, paused to light a cigarette with one hand, and went right back to work with the cigarette clamped between his lips. Pete was totally focused on what he was doing, because if you had a friend in need who shot themselves in the leg? Hell, this is what you did for them.
It was a favor that she would gladly return, at any point in their continued friendship. Patching up a buddy in need was all par for the course in her previous line of work. Far out into the field without too many trained medics or hospitals? You stole or bought the medical supplies black market and taught yourself. Hospitals were always a last resort. For her, they were a no-resort-unless-unconscious. Or coaxed with apple juice, apparently.
She grunted and bit down on the wallet to keep from screaming, so hard that the leather probably threatened to rip on her, and her mouth bloodied up. For the first stitch or two, it was the same reaction, though by the fourth she'd pretty much settled into a daze of watching him work and smoke. Maybe she was thinking of kittens puking rainbows, after all, or maybe it looked like she was. Instead, she was counting the stitches, counting the time between each one, calculating where he'd put the next one. It was like her leg was a torn piece of cloth instead of an object that belonged to her. It was better that way.
Another few stitches in, and she really started to regret the fried chicken she'd eaten, earlier. Thankfully for herself - Pete probably would have made a joke about it and kept right on - she controlled her urge to puke all over him. There was a wallet in her mouth anyway, that would have been difficult.
Well, that took care of side A, but there was still side B. Pete peeked up at her, flicked the remains of that cigarette into the sink and gave her a pat on the hip with one hand.
"You want to sprawl out on the floor for the backside or wot? Already bloodied the floor up. I'll throw a towel down." He reached up, yanked a towel off the rack, tossed it down and moved out of the way. "Flop o'er, face first. We'll get this sorted and then I'll get you good and wankered."
He stood, waiting, and made sure he had enough to work with, sewing the exit wound partially closed, and using enough gauze to compensate for any continued seepage.
That mess was just not getting mopped up, if it was left to Pete.
She'd take care of it later, probably the very next day, while she was weak as a kitten and shouldn't be walking around. Pete would probably yell at her or something, and then let her do it anyway. Because he hated cleaning up, and because neither of them could really make the other do much of anything. They both knew it.
After he got the towel down on the floor, she nodded her head, and took the wallet out of her mouth. She tossed that into the sink, "Nice job ... so far. Not perfect, but ... hey. Nice job. Don't know if you want to get me good and ... thing. Wankered? Technical term? You're so funny."
This was all mumbled in his direction, while getting herself down on the floor. And that was just it, she decided, as she sprawled herself out enough for him to get in there and get to work. She was never letting anyone come back to her place again. This is what happened. You ended up having to set a perfectly good coffee maker on fire and shoot yourself in the leg.
She just hoped it bought her at least a day or two. This whole thing was a mess, that had been knotted up into an even bigger mess, that had been knotted up with two other big messes.
"Wankered. Drunk. Out of your fecking mind," he abruptly agreed, with a huge grin at her, his face sporting one hell of a five o’clock shadow and he looked as though he'd been clocked upside the head with a sledgehammer a few times. He might even be be arsed enough to mop. But that was going to be after he yelled at her to leave it be for about a good five to ten minutes, then got off his own butt and did it himself so that she could rest.
As for going over to her place, it's not like it was going to stop him, his sister, or Wade. At some point, one (or all of the above), would show up. Someone would get shot again. Something would get set on fire. And the whole process would probably repeat all over again. Not that he minded. He'd do this again for her, or anyone else on his list of people he'd help out, in an instant. Without question, but with a side of snark and some grumbling while chainsmoking.
Which was precisely what he was doing, puffing away while he started in on the back of her leg, trying not to make that big mess into a huge catastrophic mess. He was already thinking she was doing to have some killer scars to show off, afterward. He was simply hoping things didn't get infected, or they'd really have to go get third party assistance. But he trusted Domino enough to be clean about the whole affair, tell him what to do, and not let it fester.
Naturally, while he was sewing and smoking, what he was grumbling about had to do with how this happened.
"...you know...ouch, ya flinched...careful, almost lost the needle right in you...you know, Dommy, if you were tailed, you might have some mole or summat in the CIA. Or maybe someone sold you out t'the person you were supposed t'be following...which is shite, but this'll continue happening. Ooops, gusher...'old on....'oooooold on...newp, there ya are, luv. Wot was I saying? Oh, right. It's shite, but maybe nexttime when this 'appens, we got us a codeword t'use. So we know wot's going on and I can 'elp you, no questions asked."
It probably would happen again, especially with people in town that knew her. This whole thing was going to be a shitstorm, and she was already trying to decide if she needed to send in the emergency code to her handler and let them send in someone else. Then there was the other job, and the lies she'd told about her own job, and the lies she was still going to have to tell. It was almost enough to put a girl in tears. If she did cry, she could probably blame the pain. Still, she decided not to. She was a soldier, damn it. In the Red Suns, at least, they all were. Soldiers didn't cry to their mommies until after the wounds were patched up.
The scar might match some of the other bullet wounds, scratches, puncture scars, and etc. She had a pretty impressive collection at this point in her life, and was proud of most of them. This one, especially with his stitches, was going to be all kinds of puckered and nasty. She decided it needed a name.
"Not a bad idea," She grunted out. Her face was pressed against the towel on the floor. There was a water leak, a tiny one, dribbling down the sink piping, and she traced it with her eyes,
"It's a mole... more than one mole, I think ... I think ... Wade blackmailed a guy to get my position ... can't be alone. The whole place has gone shady ... you know? Not...not as secure as it should be. It's owned. We're owned. Sometimes the missions don't ... like they don't even make sense. Like we're working for someone else."
She had no proof for it, not knowing that what she was saying was actually true. It was just something in her gut. You learned to know when things didn't smell right.
"...looks like you need your out or exit plan," he was saying in a low mumble around his cigarette, finishing the last stitches as he actually got it down and looking much better than the front side did. Pity he couldn't have a do over, but he wasn't about to put her through that, and Pete was pretty sure she'd smack him with what was left of her strength if he so much as suggested it.
He sat back, beholding his handiwork, then gave her a buttpat...followed by a bum squeeze with one hand...just to get her blood boiling and her mind off the ouch, for a moment. By pissing her off.
"If it's owned, though," he was saying with the sort of aloof tone of voice that made him sound like his hand was nowhere near her ass (it still was), "you're going to 'ave a hard go of it, backing out, without knowing who's on your side. Especially if there's leaks. I'm not going t'ask for details, but if you need to talk about it, e'er? I promise...not even if someone chopped me prick clean off, would I tell another soul wot you tell me. Otherwise, keep yer secrets. But the offer's there for the taking."
And that said, he goosed her with pinchy warm fingers right on her birthmark, because he can and because he's a fucking bastard asshat.
The application of hand to her ass was probably supposed to piss her off greatly, but at that point in the day, the most she could do was reach a hand, weak kitten hand that it was, and flailing whack it against him ... somewhere. Wherever it landed, because god she was not doing it again, and she couldn't even see to pick a trajectory. So wherever her hand landed, she was pretty sure it was skin, is where she lightly thwapped at him.
Before he started messing with her birthmark, anyway. It made her bite back a very loud moan. Pleasure like that was certainly a great way to beat back the pain. She wasn't thinking naughty thoughts though. Not with Pete making swears on the grave of his clean-cut-off-prick.
"Gauze," was what she ended up mumbling when she was done trying to thwack-flail at him again, "Pack it, both sides... needs to drain. And it's ... fuck, Pete. It's so past exit plan. I can't, I can't tell you. I want to. But I can't."
She tried to get herself off the floor at that point, because it'd be easier to pack her leg with gauze if she was sitting. She grabbed another towel and tossed it on the toilet, then sat half of her ass down on it, "But ... you know. Thanks. Trust you to sew me up whenever I feel a crazy need to blow my own leg open... and you're certainly great for when you need a guy to pat your ass reassuringly."
She squinted up at him, "You've got your own mess. This one is going to blow in my face. Sure you want that emergency word?"
She had smacked Pete on the arm, but her smack was met with his hand thwapping her very lightly back in response. He already had hold of the gauze with his bloody fingertips. He swiftly lit a cigarette and placed it between her lips so she could puff on that while he started packing the wounds. He didn't seem too bothered, not by what she was saying or the moan or any of it, really. He was too hungover and possibly even still somewhat vaguely drunk from the binger he'd been on, to be phased too much on a day like today.
After all, he hadn't even cared if he flirted up one side of Kitty Pryde and down the other side of her, right there on the internet. Caution was pretty much thrown to the wind there. He’s honeybadger.
"I want the emergency word, and if I can bloody well make it to you, then I'll help you. Then I'll pat you on the arse and pinch you on that spot again, because I like listening to you moan. This in too tight or wot?" He was still packing it in but careful not to pull the stitches. "Friend's mess is my mess. That's the way that works, isn't it? After all, it's your bloody fault you made me jinx things by using the F word around you. That being friend. I can deal with me own messes, pretty fucking well. As you can tell, by looking at me right now."
He peeked up at her and gave her a split second wink, before he was done on that side with the gauze. If she said the word, he was ready to pull some out if it was too much. It might even be too loose. It's not like he knew. His idea of 'stop the bleeding' was 'hey, how about we burn it shut?'
Burning it shut might have been an awesome idea on other wounds, actually. In this case all the damage the bullet had done on its way through her leg would just fester in there, which is all anyone needs to know about that. Because ew.
She inspected the gauze over and slightly nodded her head, like that was a fine enough job for now. The cigarette was a welcome stimulant, and she puffed on it gratefully. His comments weren't as welcome, because she didn't need to know how much he loved hearing her moan, for one thing.
"... You know your messes are my messes, too, Pete. You ... you know that. It's not just you running to save me. Fuck. I could have handled this." Somehow. She wasn't sure. It probably would have involved calling Moira or kidnapping a doctor or something. Stitching herself up would have taken too much time.
"And you didn't jinx anything, damn... damn it... the room's going sideways. Oh, there it goes, back upright again. Heey, I love it when it does that. But listen, we're still friends. Even though you pinch ... things... and make life complicated. We should make..." she trailed off, and reached a hand over to the sink to grab onto it, "Demon bed. Demon bed sounds... you know, appropriate. You always said Ikea was evil."
"Ikea is going to 'ave everyone living in small compartmentalized boxes. It’s instrumented by the Swiss who are a bunch of backwards bastards, money grubbing Swedes, and the New World Order, who’s funded by the Illuminati," Pete dutifully told her, making as quick a work as he could of packing the other side of her leg while she was grabbing hold of the sink. It did make things easier, if she was leaning while he did that.
"...right, friends," he murmured, taking the cigarette out of her mouth to take a puff off it, and then holding it to her lips again. "Do I really make your life that complicated? I'm still fuzzy around the edges. I could make you moan more, complicate things for you like a real bastard, then we won't be able t'look eachother in the eye e'er again. Might be worth it though. Free itch scratching."
He stood up, kicking his coat and jacket entirely out of the bathroom, not caring one bit if they had blood on them. They were black. It would never show. At this juncture, he didn’t want to trip over them, while carrying here. Truth be told, Pete wasn't even sure he could pick her up and carry her to bed, but he was going to make a good go of it. He hooked one arm under her knees - careful to avoid the wounds - and grumbled for her to hold on around his neck, as he put his other arm behind her lower back and started to lift.
And started to lift some more. And...lift.
"Feck this,” he finally said, “I'll drag you."
"Ikeapocalypse... you keep saying that... and yes. Yes, you do, you really, really do. And I don't even know ... fuck. I don't know anymore. You make ME fuzzy around the edges."
She shook her head as she clamped her lips back down around the cigarette, "Not sure it's worth that, no. Not sure if that's how it'd go. ... pretty sure though, now is a bad time to talk about it."
She was, after all, high as a fucking kite on adrenaline or some shit. When he made to grab her, she shook her head and pulled herself up, "I can walk. I got this. Find the bedroom, would you? I forget the layout. Knowing the exits would ... kind of be good, too."
The room was swimming around her, and she felt like she was standing on quicksand, but she was a stubborn woman, and she was going to make it there if she had to crawl.
With one leg. Dragging the other behind her. Like some kind of injured badass. It would probably be hysterical to watch.
"Okay, I don't care. I'm not going t'watch you dragging a bad limb like that old movie where the dog contracted rabies an' needed t'be put down, or wotever rubbish that was about. Come 'ere."
He slipped one arm around her waist and let her lean against him, so it was easier to hop along. In fact, he might make amputee jokes tomorrow, then tell her to 'hop to' or call her 'hop-a-long' or ask her if she need to 'get hopping, limpy' or 'jump to' something, because that's the way Pete rolls. Wickedly, like he's a pure bastard. If he knew that applied to someone else, he would've gleefully just dove right in there, too. Ha ha ha!
He made a note of where the escape routes were and the fastest way to get to the door, as well as the best places to get a good shot off around a doorway if it came to that. He knew she was as careful as he was. She would've had to have been tailed by multiple people, at the same time, in order to be followed here, at this point. So he was going to be aware, but not let it eat at him, just yet. Priority one? Bed. Then he could go right back to sarcastically fucking with her, so she didn't go into shock or pass out.
"There we are, you stubborn, bloody woman," Pete was saying, helping her onto the bed, taking the cigarette out of her mouth and putting it out wherever was conveniently handy. Bedside table? Brilliant. Stubbed it out on that. He won't be cleaning it up, later. "Tell me wot you want me t'bring you, so you're not moving about more than you need to be. You want some more whiskey an' a pot t'piss in?"
He's so eloquent.
That bed could have been glowing with holy radiance by the time they got to it, that's how sacred and wonderful it was for her to see the thing. She flopped into it while telling herself that tomorrow was probably going to be horrible, for several reasons - not the least of which was that Pete would probably get his fill of jokes at her expense. Until she passed out, she was going to stop dwelling on that.
Or the fact that she'd been tailed, or the fact that she'd just painted that place before it went up in smoke, or the fact that everything was going to hell, or... well... all the facts, she was going to stop thinking about.
She curled up to try and get into a more comfortable position, and closed her eyes for a bit. They were probably going to need more gauze, rubbing alcohol, that kind of thing. They were really going to need coffee. This place probably wasn't stocked with anything at all, except that medkit, "I don't know... don't know what we have stocked here. Might starve tomorrow. Not sure if there's coffee. ... you should check ... fuck, where is it. There's a safe. Creaky board. Ammo in there, check the ammo level. Whiskey. Yeah. Where is that?"
Maybe she'd kiss him if his lips got close enough. He'd never forgive her if she did, though. Maybe. At times like this she wasn't sure. It was probably the adrenaline talking, anyway.
"Gauze, rubbing alcohol, more gauze... rolled bandages, more of those... you don't have to stay here, you know."
He was kind of giving her a funny staring at, hovering by the bedside, like maybe he looked unsure if she was going to make it or not. What if she lost too much blood already? Of course, whiskey fixed everything. So did coffee. And bullets, but only if they're in other people and not in people like her...because this is exactly the sort of thing he didn't want to see happening to her.
"I'm staying. If anyone comes through the bloody door, they're going t'have bullets rattling about in their skulls like...those mexican shaky things...rattles. You know wot I'm on about and I can't think clearly, cos I'm out of me feckin' mind right now," he finally said, knowing that he was probably worn thin enough too, that even he was prattling on. "I'll take stock, check the ammo, an' go out once to the nearest corner shop. Then it's back in and I'll push things in front of the door. After that, though? No leaving, no in or out. Don't answer your phone. Got it?"
He even handed her one of his guns and leaned in close, putting it in her hand and then resting his hand on her forehead. It looked like he was going to do or say something really sweet, but all hopes of that were shattered the moment Pete opened his big mouth.
"So you stay put in bed, Gimpy, and I'll fetch some things so you don't have to hop out t'get them. Where's the keys t'the door, eh?"
The nearest corner store was about to be raided for supplies. Truth.
"You're so sweet, Wisdom. It's a wonder why I don't... call upon you more often in my time of need." She managed half a smirk that she lobbed in his direction, by way of moving her face a bit so that she could better see his.
Funny stares like that were things you absolutely didn't talk about. Those were the looks between comrades who had been there before, and were saying things better left unsaid. She stared back in a way that implied she wasn't sure, herself, though mostly she was just dizzy and really, really tired. It wasn't like she was seeing the light yet, at least.
"Keys ... uhm." They were right by the door, where she'd dropped them as she'd staggered in the first time. That was probably the last place they needed to be. Her brain was really smooth if she was forgetting things like that. She darted her eyes to the side, "By the door, I think. I don't really remember. Are you going to ... gimpy? The whole time?"
She snerked and closed her eyes again and waved a limp hand in the direction of the door. It was more like waving some fingers, "Of course you are. ... go on, then. It's not like I'M going anywhere."
"You're really not going anywhere, Gimpy." Because yes, that's for the whole time. He bent down and moved his hand so he could kiss her on the forehead. That was while he made sure the safety was off on the gun in her hand, because if anyone came busting in, he wanted to make sure she had a fair chance at getting a shot in before they got any in on her. "I'm out. I'll come in, whistling, so you know it's me...and my fucking awesome sweetness that you can't live without."
Just to make sure she was good and frazzled, he reached under her bum and gave it another pinch, and then tried to run like hell for his cards and his wallet, coat, keys...okay, his version of running was basically a staggering shuffle, but it got the job done of him moving from point A to point B.
Once he'd gathered up everything he waved a hand in through the bedroom doorway.
"Don't worry, I found some glass thing in the loo, Thurman. I'll boobytrap the floor so you can hear any footsteps." He did so by throwing the glass thing as hard as he could against the hallway wall. It shattered into tiny bits, thus making insta-alarm system. Crunchy footsteps! "You can thank me later. Oh, right, don't walk in the hallway. I'll be back shortly. Ta!"
And toward the door he went.
She was really just glad that he warned her not to walk in the hallway. Because knowing her, she'd probably have tried to get up and walk around, despite the bad leg and everything else, barefoot, and then have glass in her feet on top of the rest of her woes.
Cursing Pete out would inevitably have followed afterwards.
Domino desperately wanted to pass out at that juncture, but the years of experience doing this told her she wasn't remotely safe enough yet. So instead she hugged her pistol and lightly closed her eyes, resting, but in high alarm mode.
If even the slightest sound of crunching glass or creaking board happened, which was not immediately accompanied by whistling? She was going to shoot. So woe betide Pete if he forgot to whistle on his way in.
Oh, he'd whistle. He wasn't that far gone yet, that he'd forget. And he'd probably bring her apple juice, too. Since that was apparently her magic fix it drink.