[Incomplete/Closed]

[whiskeykillshot]

[ WHO ] : Rubi Malone (whiskeykillshot) and Reno (untucking)
[ WHERE ]: Third floor and Apartment 302.
[ WHEN ]: After waking up in her own room with only one revolver and no booze, Rubi goes scavenging for her remaining belongings as well as hopefully some alcohol. Lulz insues.
[ RATING ]: PG-13
[ WARNINGS ]: Potential violence and Rubi/Reno's badmouthing.
[ NOTES ]: Let the

Comments

[untucking]

"The fuck did you shoot me for?" He grumbled, sweeping the back of his hand over his bloody mouth before wiping it onto the floor. Fuck carpets. Reno gingerly eased out of his bloodied jacket and tossed it to the side for a moment, before rolling to the sleeve of his crumpled white button-down. As suspected, the left sleeve had bloody tear just above the elbow and sticky red had been flourishing quite nicely across the starched white cotton, and upon closer inspection he could see that the bullet had left quite a gash in his white skin.

"Damnit ..." It needed dressing, and possibly a couple of stitches, too. Where was he going to get gauze, bandages, and a sterile needle and thread? Was there a first-aid he could raid for supplies?

Yeah. Too many questions.

He bent a knee up and draped his good arm over the top of it as he reclined against the wood; his nose wasn't bleeding anymore, but the sweet tang of bloody copper was all that he could taste and smell. It wasn't all that pleasant, truth be told, so when Rubi called over to him with a bottle in hand he perked up visibly. Whiskey! Hell, maybe this chick wasn't so bad after all. Reno lifted and eyebrow and tossed her a catty little smile, fingers flexing and stretching as he lifted a hand in an all-too welcoming gesture.

"Give it here, yo, I guess we could both use a stiff one. And the name's Reno, just incase you get bored of 'Red', toots," he added, gaze wandering back to beneath the bed even as he spoke. Damn. Whatever it was he'd seen was definitely not normal ... maybe he'd been concussed before waking up there? Something in the air? Or, and this was the most likely explanation, maybe he was simply running low on sleep. Tseng seemed to take some kind of serious pleasure in working him to the bone of late, which meant early starts, late finishes and more paperwork than a twenty-four hour day had room for.

And who said being a Turk wasn't fun.

"Hey ... this might sound crazy, but. Does this place seem a little fuckin' ... weird to you?" He cocked his head a fraction, messy red bangs slipping into his face. "I was kinda on edge when you busted your way on in here, thought I was seein' some freaky shit." If he wasn't in it alone, then maybe he wouldn't have to feel so ... in the dark about the whole thing. He didn't want to be the only one not in on the cosmic joke.