[oom] Room Number 4
The house in the Bahamas is still lacking in a few things, so she'd come back to make a pick up. She's ticking off a list in her head when she sees him in the hallway, wandering like he's looking for something. His knuckles are bloody, his eye half swollen shut, and he has one hand curled around his mid section, holding broken ribs no doubt. He'
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Oh. Her again.
'What do you want?'
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"You look like you had fun."
She closes the distance between them, hips swaying, walking right up into his personal space. She hisses in sympathy, one hand touching his cheek as she peers at the ugly wound.
"Jealous husband finally catch up with you, hmm?"
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'I'm a fighter. It's not a sport for the weak.'
She might be able to see the impact point under his eye that's making it swell; if she knows about such things, she might surmise that he got smacked with a knuckleduster. It would also explain the ribs.
Yeah, he lost this one good.
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She'll keep speaking Spanish around him. It feels right.
"You need a stitch in that. And tape for those ribs. Come on. I'll fix you up."
She turns and walks back towards her room.
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On the other hand, she's taking him to her room. That means sex. To him, anyway.
So he follows, drinking from his bottle and trying to stay as upright as he can.
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She does wait for him at the outer door, before the short bridge that leads to her room.
"Watch your step," she says, looking him over again. Jesusmaryjoseph, it really is him.
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He looks at the bridge and considers how she gets a place like this. Since refusing to set foot back in room 19, Bar has given him something like a box with a bed in and not much else. Definitely not the impression of his wealth he wants to convey to any visitors he has.
'Bribe the bar, did you?'
He'll try that.
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She drifts off to the wardrobe, opening it up and fishing out her suture kit. She drops it on the bed and heads for the kitchen.
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He sits down, still holding his bottle, and gives the place a perfunctory once over. His eyes fall on a man's shirt and jeans, draped over the back of a chair.
'They mine?'
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She also sets a couple of fat white tablets next to him with a look. "Those are for the pain. I know. You don't need it, but those ribs make it hard to breathe. And they'll heal faster if you're not wincing every time they complain."
She wrings out the cloth, and gestures for him to sit forward so she can clean the wound on his brow.
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The painkillers are ignored, as is her tone because he feels too beat to tell her to stop fussing but he's not going to admit that either.
'Did you tell him I thought he was a fat bastard?'
He'd quite like to know what his older self's reaction was, if she did.
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"What do you think?"
She dabs at the wound, swiping away the crusted blood, her touch not especially gentle. It takes her a few moments but she gets it cleaned up enough and she leans in to look at it. (She knows this wound. The tiny pale silver mark hidden in his dark brow. She's kissed this scar.)
She hums under her breath as she works, her touch professional and her movements economical. She's done this a few times.
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OK, that sounded weird.
'Him.'
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"You think I'm afraid of pissing you off? You think he'd do anything but laugh?"
She scoffs under her breath, still holding his chin as she reaches for the suture kit.
"Hold still. I don't want to mess your pretty face up any more than it already is." She opens the pack with her teeth and fiddles with it, pulling out a tiny curved needle already threaded with plain white silk.
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And if she's not the type to want to keep him sweet, he's not sure what he'd be doing with her in the first place. He holds still though, not showing the least bit sign of trepidation at the thought of a stitch without anesthetic.
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"I... Respect him. I don't need to 'keep him sweet'. He's just fine the way he is. There."
She cuts the silks close to the skin, and touches it up with a bit of antibiotic cream.
"Can you lift your arms?"
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