Atop a hill on the edge of a small town there sits a lonely house with a sour aura. There you will find a man with stitches running around his neck, a chip on his shoulder, and a gun at his hip. If you have dallied in the dark, played with demons, o...
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Ichabod walked into the bathroom and had to lean against the sink as fatigue threatened to cause his legs to give out. He stayed like that as much to catch his breath as simply being caught off guard by his blackened and burnt hands, his left was particularly damaged, cracked open and burbling out little gouts of blood. From there he looked into the mirror and saw that the flames had also done a number on the back of his head, scorching him nearly bald while melting both his left ear and cheek into a gory crater. Oddly enough, his coat, though it had certainly seen better days, seemed to have shielded most of his body from the fire, however, the sheer heat had cooked the plates in his vest and left several burn marks on his back.
Stripping it all away, he dealt with the injuries as best he could, with bandages, ointment, and a fistful of painkillers. The hands were the hardest to wrap, and he wound up, practically, making a pair of gloves for himself, while he ran out of absorbing pads near the end, with a shrug, he substituted wadded up paper towels to finish wrapping his head. The torso presented its own problems, but, soaking the bandages through with antiseptic before pulling them tight around his body seemed to solve the problem, at least for now, and 'now' was all he seemed to have. There was no more by the time he was done, no bandages, no anti-bacterial ointment, nothing.
Even with his senses dulled he could still feel it, a persistent aching agony begging to rip him apart, and the heat, the unbearable heat just below his skin. Briefly, he considered taking an ice bath, but, not wanting to unravel his bandages, he placed his brow against the mirror, hoping that the cool surface would alleviate some of his pain. Between the audible whistling in his ears and the throbbing in his brain, he almost didn't hear the door open, but he could smell her perfume.
"Taking a break?" he mumbled as Della looked in from the doorway.
"I heard the ruckus," she shrugged, examining his injuries, "Figured I should check in, love that haircut by the way."
"Are you enjoying this?" he wondered, finally pulling himself around to face her, "Seeing how badly I got my ass kicked."
"Oh please, I've kicked your ass worse than this," she scoffed, "Remember Antigone? You were hobbled for six weeks."
"Wait, how the hell..."
"I take pride in my work," Della waved the question away before it had even fully formed, "But this? A couple cracked ribs and some burns? It wouldn't even slow you down if you weren't already on a fade."
"On a what?"
"Ichabod..." she chewed her bottom lip and spoke as calmly and beseechingly as she was able, "Please, lie down and take a nap."
"So..." he simply closed his eyes and shook his head, "Did you actually want something?"
