RISK & REWARD ✔️

10 | 𝘬𝘯𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘴

I almost unceremoniously drop Slade against the counter as I whirl around and lock the door. I only really realize I've just dropped the girl with messed-up-ribs against a countertop when she gasps, and I hear the sound of nails on granite.

"Sorry, sorry," and I rush back, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and practically dragging her to the door to head behind the counter, "sorry, gotta get you away from the windows — we're okay, we're okay, we made it."

Weakly, I let Slade down onto the floor. Her head lolls back; both eyes are squeezed shut in pain, and behind the mouth-guard of her helmet (or whatever you'd call that) I can hear her breath hissing through grit teeth.

"Let me get this off — is there a latch anywhere, or something? I don't know how motorcycle helmets work, I'm so sorry — do I just pull? I just pull?"

I give it a sharp tug and Slade groans. Shakily, both hands rise, half-covering mine; she holds her breath as she adjusts it, tilting it so it can slide back over her mouth and off her head.

Now free, a short series of gasps make it out of her throat. The back of her head hits the wall; she looks a mess, eyes squeezed shut, nostrils flaring with every breath, jaw squeezed shut. There's a thin bleeding line scrawled across her brow; hair, damp with sweat and snow and who knows what else, curls nearly into it and she hisses when I push it away.

"Hold on, hold on. I'm gonna help you, okay? You're gonna be okay. Sorry, sorry, I — okay, fuck, this is a lot. Um." My adrenaline is still pumping but the initial high is wearing off and I'm starting to realize that the maybe-criminal vigilante I've been talking about is now crumpled up in the corner of the Doghouse kitchen practically bleeding and I have no idea how to take care of her.

"Okay. Um. Okay. Your ribs. Did you get shot? Do I pull the bullet out? This might really hurt, I've never —"

"No." Slade's voice is gasping and strained. "Pulled it — out. Need — t' clean it."

"Clean it. Clean it! I can do that. Hold on, hold on. Don't move."

Slade's got an agonized, frustrated look on her face as she glances up at me. The look in her eyes is pure disbelief.

"Right. Right. Sorry. You can't really move. I'll — get the towel, hold on." I back up three long steps before I turn and run, practically flying into the back of the kitchen and fumbling for the storage closet door. I haven't gone back here in awhile; the room is cramped and it smells like mildew and old wet rags and come on, I need a towel, just a towel.

I grab the first one I see, yanking it out from the bottom shelf, and I spin around to take off and for the second time tonight I smack headfirst into a warm, slightly-softer body.

Slade growls this time, but she keeps pushing forward, pushing my back against the shelves before she wraps a hand around the door and slams it shut.

What the hell are you doing? is sitting on the tip of my tongue for a moment before leather claps over my mouth and forces my head back and then oh, fuck, I can hear muffled voices, three of them, shouting from outside.

"You don't even know if you saw shit come off her!"

"I did! Saw it in tha' headlights! Swear!"

"You wanna fucking bet, Hawk? Go find it right now. Go. You better bring it to me or I swear to everything you consider holy, Hawk, I will shoot your head clean off your neck and feed it to your fucking dog."

Pierce. My heart drops into my stomach; as my eyes adjust to the dark, I can see Slade's outline. She's got her shoulders boxed, body tall and cramped in the little storage closet. Sorry, I want to squeak. Guy who owns the place is five foot six and it's all him-sized.