Commissioned [completed]

Chapter 28 - what's in a name?

"What did you learn from Copia?" you asked. You sat on his bath ledge again. Finding Terzo on his knees around you was becoming increasingly likely—he was attending to the bullet graze on your calf. It was a shallow; with the speed of impact, there was more of a burn than anything.

"It uh.." He dabbed at it with antiseptic, and you hissed. "It doesn't look fucking good, _____," he rolled at the hem of your pants again.

"The leg or the situation?"

"Bit of fucking both," he grimaced. "Your leg's gonna need stitches, I'm sorry, Pittore."

"Can't we just.. Run it through with the Enochian blade? Usually heals over...." you pulled it out, and he gave it a wary look.

"If uh, that's what you want to do..." he was not at ease with the idea.

"Maybe I should do it?"

He did not like any second of you waving that thing around.

"You could look away?" You guessed.

He shook his head.

You gripped the knife and looked at the wound in your leg. The last time you had done this, there had been an urgency. Like a 'cut yourself or let Terzo die' moment; currently, it was... still, silent, and the blade was pretty scary.

He saw you hesitate, "You want me to...?"

"You don't have to...."

"I didn't have to bandage you either, Pittore; I want to."

You grimaced, feeling like a coward, "Should you touch it? Last time.."

"I mean, I could touch it, just not, kekk," he motioned stabbing himself in the hand.

You looked over at him; when had you decided you trusted this odd man with a knife around you? With him literally cutting you open with it? You finally offered the handle.

He took it and looked it over. "Maybe focus on something else, huh?" he placed a hand on your knee, massaging it lightly, then brought your bare foot to rest on his thigh. "Shouldn't have to be deep." He touched the cold of the blade to the side of the wound.

"Do it quick," you ran a hand through your hair.

He gently scraped against you.

You hissed slightly, "Doesn't actually hurt that bad," you said with gritted teeth.

He watched as gold ran over his fingers. "You really are something, Pittore."

"I wish I was more nothing. So far, that blood has come with no superpowers and only a target. Like, what kind of bullshit is that?"

"Who said there were no fucking superpowers, huh?" He covered the new wound in gauze though it was already beginning to close up.

"You mean I get superpowers?"

"Eh..." he shrugged, "Makes your soul tastier and more abundant for demons and angels if you want yourself a ghoul or protector?"

"Anything else?" you grimaced. Something about sharing your soul with a complete stranger felt so odd.

"Like Sodo said, some rituals can only be done with nephilim blood," he eased.

"Rituals like....?"

"Hmm, your blood is like, uh, flour... spaghetti, ravioli, bread, calzone...."

"So, how long's a piece of string?"

"Exactly," he tied off the bandage, his fingers brushing your skin. Knuckles skimmed you soft and warm. Your mind went blank. Certainly weren't registering pain anymore, only heat. "Let's see those arms then," he came to perch beside you to look at the nicks in your right arm.