Double Agent

○ sixteen ○

Ezra drops his suitcoat on the couch, unbuttoning his dress shirt and throwing it to the floor. I follow after him, sliding in front of him to check the wound. It's a pretty nasty cut, spanning 6 inches, from the middle of his chest down to the left side.

He looks at me, sighing, "Get out of my way."

"Look, I'm sorry if the mission wasn't a success cause we had to kill him but I genuinely didn't know about the Grigoriy part. You can be mad at me later. Right now, I just wanna make sure we deal with this cut."

He walks forward and I stumble backwards.

"We got what we needed," he uncovers a vial of vodka, pouring it over the wound.

"Fuck," he hisses, doubling over for a while.

"You're not supposed to do that, it could damage new tissue."

He gives me a deadpan look.

"I learnt a lot from the medics in the Cosa Nostra. From what it looks like, you may need stitches. Can we please go to the doctor?"

He ignores me, trying to slide away.

I put my hand on his chest, looking up into his guarded eyes, and push him backwards.

He sighs and I tug his hand back to the couch, pushing him lightly so he falls over it, legs spread open. He leans his head against the backrest as I go in search of the first aid kit.

I dump the contents on the sofa, putting my knee in between his legs and leaning over so I can observe the cut. I look for any early signs of infection, and after finding none and determining the cut was superficial enough for me to stitch it, I get to work.

"Put your arm over the couch."

He does exactly that, and as I disinfect the surrounding area, my peripheral catches his eyes on my face. My breath quickens from the attention he's giving me, the way he's observing me with such intensity.

I brace my hand on his other hip to keep him still, and ready the needle at the start of the wound.

"This is gonna hurt. Relax and try not to move."

His eyes close heavily and his breath slows.

The needle sinks into his skin fluently, appearing out the other side.

He lets out a pained laugh, his hand coming up to grip the thigh closest to him.

"Fuck," he squeezes tightly, the rings digging into my skin, the tendons spreading beyond his knuckles and up his forearm. His chest heaves slowly, but his eyes are closed.

He continues to use my thigh as a stress ball, his hand moving to the upper, inner, fleshier parts of my thigh. He draws patterns, applies pressure in different ways, squeezes it to hell.

I force myself to focus on the very important task of stitching this man up, and not the warmth of his skin on mine, his breath on my neck. The sea of muscles running down his torso.

To distract myself, and him, I ask, "Why so grumpy?"

"No reason,"

"Liar."

"Bite me."

"I would, but I'm stitching you up. Five minutes."

"I should have tortured and killed you when I had the chance."

"Enough about me. What's your issue?"

"I'm not used to saving damsels in distress during fights."

"I am not a damsel in distress, I needed one more minute and I would've been fine. But this whole thing comes with the job, doesn't it? You have to be prepared for anything."