errantechoes | (no subject)

Sometimes, bar fights went really bad really fast. It happened when Tim had just a little too much and underestimated who he was picking fights with and when some people weren't aware of the unwritten 'no knives, no guns' rule. Thankfully, about the time he got knifed in the side was also about the time the asshole caught sight of the badge on his belt and panicked, taking off in the worst drunken stumble Tim had ever witnessed.

He'd considered going home, but Billy was in town, and the hotel was closer, and that was where Tim was supposed to be ending up for the night anyway. It also seemed like a better idea than trying to stitch himself up while intoxicated. The stab wound was about the only blow the other guy had managed to get in (plus an unfortunate punch to Tim's cheek, which was beginning to bruise), so it was easy enough to press an arm to his side and get past the front desk without bleeding everywhere or looking too suspicious. He used his key to get into Billy's room, keeping his arm clamped to his side. It was becoming a little more difficult to stay steady on his feet.

Billy looked up from where he'd been at his desk with his laptop. Just because he was away from the office didn't mean there wasn't still work to be done. So much of his job was just digging through information, when there wasn't any punching, shooting or international travel to be done. But the moment he heard the door open, he closed the laptop looking not unlike a teenage boy caught looking at X-rated material. Top secret documents and all that.

"I wasn't expectin' you for another--" He was on his feet before his words cut off, rushing to Tim's side. He hit the switch for the overhead light and all of the color drained from his face. "What the bloody hell happened to you?" He demanded as he swallowed his discomfort. Staying on the side opposite the source of the blood, he quickly escorted Tim to the nearest of the two beds.

Edited 2015-02-21 10:59 (UTC)

Tim went from looking completely blanked face to looking seriously unhappy in about two seconds. He realized he had a headache, and Billy was yelling. Well, not yelling, but talking hastily, and with all that post-fight adrenaline starting to wear off, he was starting to actually feel his injuries. Really, a stab wound and a bruised cheek weren't anything compared to some shit he's been through before. Bar fights weren't anything in comparison to war. But they definitely still hurt like a bitch.

"Got really drunk," he said as an explanation. His jaw clenched when his side started to burn, but he allowed himself to be escorted to the bed. He was vaguely aware that the blood had soaked through his shirt a long time ago, and it smeared across his arm and his hands. Nothing vital had been hit, he knew, but wow, it was more blood than he'd originally thought.

"I'm pretty sure that havin' a few drinks isn't gonna make a bloke spontaneous start bleedin'. What else happened?" Drunk. That meant alcohol had thinned his blood, slowed the clotting, right? It was just a scratch that bled a lot. Superficial and just needed a bit of a bandage. If it was deep enough to need stitches, he didn't know if he could keep his dinner down. Carefully, urged Tim to move his arm, so he could lift up the shirt and see just how bad it really was.

"S'more than a few," Tim grumbled, looking more and more unhappy by the second. It was like he didn't like being taken care of or something. Oh, wait, that was exactly what it was. It didn't help that he was mad at himself for getting stabbed in the first place. He was a god damn Ranger. Even drunk, he should've been able to fend off a little pocket knife. "Picked a fight with a guy who didn't seem to be aware of the no weapons rule. Got the jump on me, I guess."

He huffed, finally moving his arm out of the way so Billy could get a better look at it. It was more than a scratch, but still only a flesh wound. He'd seen worse and had worse, that much was certain.

"What a surprise when not everyone's a...gentleman...in a street fight." Some of that discomfort found its way into his voice, seeing the extent of the wound. It was better than he'd feared, but more than his stomach could handle easily. This is why Casey was their medic, not him.

"I don't think you're gonna need stitches, but we gotta get you bandaged up." Without asking, he started properly peeling Tim out of his clothes from the waist up.

Edited 2015-02-22 23:57 (UTC)

"Yeah, thanks for the lecture. I'll think about it next time I'm lookin' for a fight." He realized he was sounding ungrateful, and he should probably be thanking Billy for patching him up here in lieu of going to the hospital instead of sarcastically thanking him for being right.

He'd do it later. When he was less bitter and less combative.

He clenched his jaw to keep from outright grimacing, hard enough that he could feel his teeth aching. He let Billy start undressing him, helping out the best he could with his stiff movements. "This is not how I imagined you gettin' me naked tonight, for the record."

"You can make it up to me another time." Surprisingly, his tone was rather serious, almost distracted, like he was trying to reassure Tim but wasn't really focused on that right now. Because he was rather intent on balling up those bloodied clothes and trying to get a better look at the wound.

Changing his mind about wadding it all up, he carefully folded the teeshirt, trying so hard to not touch the blood. He pressed the layers of cloth to the wound, guiding Tim's hand to help keep it in place. "Hold that there, and let's move into the bathroom to get that cleaned up." He moved his hands to Tim's shoulders, trying to help him up.

"I plan to." And he did, once he wasn't bleeding and aching and drunk on way too much Tequila. He really needed to quit drinking Tequila. It just led him to punching things and bad decisions. And getting stabbed, apparently.

Tim put his hand where Billy guided it, pressing it to the wound. He made the smallest of noises in the back of his throat, eyes closing briefly. He could've done this himself. He could've gone home and dumped alcohol on it and bandaged it up. He was capable of that. But it felt nice to let himself be taken care of, and since he could manage it under the guise of being too drunk or too inexperienced, he was okay with it. He got to his feet, drawing in a slow breath, and wound up leaning partially against Billy. It was easier than standing upright.

Billy gladly supported Tim's weight as they moved into the bathroom and sat him down on the closed toilet gingerly. Only once he was sure Tim wasn't going to fall over did Billy move to pull out his med kit. It wasn't any sort of standard first aid kit that the usual traveler might have. It was a simplified version of what he'd have on a mission, all tucked into a bag along side his shave kit. He pulled out a small bottle of rubbing alcohol, and then snatched up one of the wash cloths from the stack of towels. The cloth he wet under the faucet. "Here, give me that," he said softly, starting to gently peel the shirt away.

He let himself be guided to the bathroom, focusing solely on keeping his feet underneath him and not stumbling. He succeeded, by some ridiculous miracle, or maybe by some extensive practice. There wasn't really a risk of him falling over, but he ended up leaning back a bit, incapable of actually sitting up properly. He did glance down when Billy spoke, moving his hand away so he could get to the wound. He swallowed, his gaze trained solely on the slice in his side and the blood and Billy's hands. "'M sorry," he murmured after a moment.

It wasn't any better on a second viewing, and Billy's jaw flexed visibly as he bit back a reflexive urge to gag at the sight of the wound. He tossed the shirt aside and started cleaning some of the blood away with the cloth. "What I'm about to do's gonna make up for whatever it is that you're apologizing for." Looking away, he focused intently on uncapping the bottle of alcohol. "Brace yourself."

Tim pulled his gaze up to Billy's face, noting the clenched jaw and the way he focused solely on the bottle of alcohol. He'd had worse injuries, felt more pain than what was involved with disinfecting a wound. Didn't mean it wasn't gonna hurt like a bitch. He took a deep breath and curled his fingers into the fabric of his jeans, preparing himself.

The words had been as much for himself as they were for Tim. Taking a deep breath, Billy held the cloth just under the wound, pouring out as fine a drizzle as his hands could manage. It wasn't the best method, but he didn't have enough gauze to make it properly sterile.

Tim's entire body tensed immediately, eyes squeezing shut, jaw clenching, knuckles turning white, and it took a lot of effort to keep himself from trying to move back or double over. He managed, at least, not to make a lot of noise about it, keeping it to low, pained grunts in his throat. It was maybe worse than the actual process of getting stabbed, but he'd been running on adrenaline at the time, so he hadn't actually felt much of the initial stabbing.

Some of the alcohol got on the floor, tinged with blood, thanks to Billy's hands being less than steady. Once he was done, he quickly looked away, pulling the washcloth away. He spent a little more time than was needed gathering up the next supplies. Gauze, tape, antibiotic ointment. Once his stomach was settled a bit, he returned to the task at hand. Jaw clenched, he used one bit of gauze to clean up any remaining mess. And then he set to properly bandaging it, only seeming to relax a bit once he had the wound covered.

Tim's breathing had gotten shallower from coping with the pain, but the ridiculous stinging was starting to let up some. He swallowed hard, opening his eyes again to watch what Billy was doing. It looked a lot less awful once it was cleaned up some, less of an actual stab wound and more of a short slice, just barely shallow enough for stitches to not be a necessity. The hand that wasn't spotted and smeared with blood came up to rest on Billy's shoulder, fingers curling slightly into the fabric, but he didn't look up or say anything. His gaze stayed trained on Billy's hands.

Billy finally smoothed the tape down and in doing so, he seemed to calm down. It was a fast process, a combination of well honed skills soothing his nerves as quickly as possible. So when he looked up at Tim, most of the color had returned to his face. "We should get you out of those pants so you don't get any more blood on the bed."

Tim pulled his gaze up to Billy's face when he spoke. Billy seemed more relaxed, and it made Tim feel more relaxed in response. He started to push himself up, not bothering to not try and use Billy as support. "Don't reckon there's another reason we could be gettin' me outta my pants," he said, and even managed to pull off a slight grin.

Whether Tim wanted that support or not, he had it. Billy slipped his arm around him to make sure he didn't stumble. "Only if you can find a way to replenish the blood you've lost." He managed a small smile. "Can't have you passing out just for getting it up."

Tim made a dismissive noise, pulling a face to match. He let Billy support some of his weight, but it wasn't impossible for him to stand on his own. It just hurt like a bitch. "That'd be a great way to pass out, though," he said. "'Sides, I've lost more blood than this before."

"For you, maybe," Billy joked. But he'd rather make sure Tim stayed awake to make sure he'd be alright. As they reached the bed, he just reached over with his free hand to start unfastening Tim's belt.

Trying to keep Tim awake was going to be a chore, because now that he was all patched up, all he wanted to do was sleep it off. He stilled at the bed, dropping a hand down to help Billy get his belt undone, attempting to toe off his boots without having to sit down.

"Stop," Billy warned, waving the meddling hand away. "You're injured, this is my job." Before Tim could get anywhere with the boot, he tugged the jeans down around his thighs and nudged him back on the bed.

Tim was too tired to argue, and besides, he didn't think the argument of 'I can take care of myself' was going to work after everything that had happened. So he dropped his hand, making a vaguely grumpy but not disagreeing sound, and let Billy take care of it. He eased himself back on the bed, moving slow in an attempt to not jar his side too much.

Billy knelt down and worked off Tim's boots. His hands were firm, calm and gentle. With those out of the way, he went back to tugging those jeans off. "New rule," he said as he folded the jeans in half. "No getting stabbed before meeting me." He moved to lay them across a chair in the corner.

Something inside Tim twisted uncomfortably at the words, and he realized after a moment that it was guilt. This wasn't how they worked; they got drinks and fucked on the occasional weekend neither of them were busy. A long-distance booty call. This — Tim coming to him broken and bloody after a bout of tequila-fueled violence — was not part of the deal. "Sorry," he said again, like he had earlier, not sounding the least bit indifferent or off-handed like it might have otherwise. After just another second, he added, "Thank you."

For Billy, it was never as casual as it had been for Tim. But nothing ever was. He'd fallen into the pattern that was comfortable for Tim, giving him what he needed. He wasn't entirely sure when it shifted from fling to actually caring, but it hadn't been a recent development. One that he never shared with Tim for obvious reasons. But now, hiding it wasn't really an option. He made his way back over to the marshal, and took his head between his hands. A soft smile settled on his lips as he looked down at the man, something showing through that in now way belonged in anything that could be called a booty-call. "It's alright," he said at last. "Think you can eat?"

Billy's touch was nice, and Tim closed his eyes against it briefly. He was too tired and too sore and too drunk to bothering trying to keep this arms-length. He was past that point by now. Maybe he'd care more in the morning. Maybe he wouldn't. He opened his eyes again, peering up at Billy skeptically. "Depends on what you're tryin' to feed me." He knew he oughtta eat, but nothing in particular really sounded good, and it was possible that he was too exhausted to eat anyway.

Billy arched an eyebrow at the question. He could have let it go, but even he couldn't stay serious now that it was obvious Tim would be okay. "No form of sausage, if that's what you're thinking," he said with a smirk. "Whatever light fare room service can dredge up. What d'you say?"

Tim managed the energy to roll his eyes, just so Billy knew how ridiculous Tim thought he was. But at the same time, his lips were curling up in a faint smile. "Well in that case, I'll suppose I'll pass on food." He lifted a hand, curling his fingers around Billy's wrist lightly. "Just lay down with me. I'm tired."

Billy started to protest. Between the booze and the blood loss, Tim was going to need energy to make up for it all. But those fingers on his wrist softened his resolve and he let go of the argument. His other hand reached up to brush his thumb across Tim's cheek. "Alright," he said softly, before setting to ridding of his vest. Tossing it aside, he climbed into bed beside Tim, his movements smooth and gentle as if worried he might disturb the wounded man beside him.

Tim was a little tense up until Billy agreed. He had expected some sort of resistance, an argument stemming from Billy's usual concern. So when he agreed, Tim relaxed some. He wouldn't have been able to win an argument right now anyway. He waited for Billy to climb into bed with him before shifting, carefully, to be closer to him, feeling for once like he wanted the comfort of cuddling. He clenched his jaw to keep from grimacing as the movements sent an aching pain through his body.

That cringe tension in Tim's jaw did not go unnoticed by the spy. Billy was incredibly glad he'd insisted on no strenuous activity, if a simple shift had Tim reacting like that. Billy settled next to the deputy, arms wrapping around him, far easier and welcoming than one should see from someone who'd barely qualified as more than a booty call before tonight.

He'd feel better in the morning. Minus the hangover he was bound to have, but nothing a little coffee wouldn't cure. Something had shifted here, a line had been blurred or crossed, but Tim couldn't pinpoint it, couldn't even figure out who crossed it first. Maybe he'd figure that out in the morning, too. Or maybe he'd just ignore it. He settled into Billy's side, feeling warm and comforted with his arms wrapped around him. He was exhausted. It wouldn't take him long at all to fall asleep.

Billy knew all too well that he'd been the first to cross it. He wouldn't be able to say exactly when, but it was certainly long before the deputy had walked through the door with a stab wound. Billy frequently said he kept his heart in a box. Unfortunately, that box wasn't exactly well hidden, or at all secure. So, even though he couldn't say when he'd stepped over that line, he eventually realized he was on the wrong side of it. And he'd stayed there, quietly and patiently waiting for Tim to join him or walk away.

Billy eventually fell asleep, sometime after Tim, and woke before him. It hadn't been a very restful night for the spy. But that was okay. It gave him a chance to quietly order room service for breakfast. Tim may have passed it up the night before, but he wasn't letting the wounded man go without a proper breakfast.

This was not cool. The kind of Not Cool that goes with the PDC usual--which Kutter finds mildly annoying but blows it up to Not Cool level--no, this was Not Cool twice. NOT COOL, instead of Not Cool.

The point is Kutter's in them middle of booking Cheshire again, the freaky twitching girl laughing maniacally, and he looks up and sees NOT COOL in all capital letters.

"Hey--" He snaps his fingers in front of Eva, who looks up with a glare on her face. "Can someone explain what the fuck the FBI is talking to Cross right now?"

"Can someone explain to me why you're not watching your perp?" Eva echoes right back, and Kutter shoots her a Look (not to be confused with a normal, plain 'look,') and looks back at the group talking to Cross. The only explanation was either that or mafia, and Powers division didn't do anything with the mafia unless it was Bug's old shit. There's no way the guys are anything other than--

"I heard CIA," Deena chimes, and Kutter is glad she's gossiping instead of insulting his facial hair. Kutter groans, and Zabrinski laughs at him in the corner

Cheshire manages to break free of her cuffs, of course--fucking bitch manages to scratch him in the face, too, and Kutter forgets the entirety of what's going on while he, Zabrinski, and a few other guys jump on the petite girl to restrain her. The commotion causes Cross to look up and even through the scuffle he can just feel his eyes on him.

Well, fuck him, because Kutter's bleeding, Cheshire's finally being tased, and Kutter already wants his shift to end so he can grab a goddamn drink because the FBI--CIA, he corrects--is getting ready to bulldoze their way in here. Perfect.

It had been quite some time since Billy had seen LA. For as much he liked the sun and the warmth southern California offered, LA was not the sort he wanted. Too many people, too much smog. Too much random property damage from airborne fights. But his particular touch was needed this time around. Usually his team, a highly specialized foursome, was reserved for foreign affairs. He'd just come off of a mission involving a drug lord in Germany. Nasty business. But the CIA had solid intel that there was something incredibly dangerous lurking in the city, and they needed to take care of it. Quietly.

His attention was drawn from his quiet conversation by the commotion with the man losing control of his collar. He watched with growing concern. He recognized Kutter from his briefing. Someone he needed to talk to. He excused himself from Cross's company, making his way over to Kutter. As the spy approached, Kutter would feel subtly calmer. Like the edge of his irritation had been dulled. Because that's what Billy did. He manipulated emotions. And he had such a subtle touch with it that he often used it on the director without notice. That was what made him and his team so specialized--they all had powers. All subtle, even Casey. No one ever expected the second smallest member to be able to throw them through a wall.

"You must be Kutter," Billy said, offering his hand to the man. He spoke with a Scottish accent, sounding like they were already old friends. "Billy Collins."

He feels strange, and he can't exactly pinpoint why--maybe the sting of rubbing alcohol on his face as he presses an alcohol swab on his cheek as he looks over at the feds--CIA, he corrects himself--looks onward. He squints.

Is that a Scottish accent? Did they seriously give Kutter the hot foreigner to fuck with him? God, he can feel Eva's laughter from behind him.

"Collins." He takes the hand, wincing, and then glances back. "You saw that whole mess, huh? Cheshire likes to fuck me over, always has, but a few days in the Shaft'll straighten her out. What are you doing here, though?"

Wow, way to sound rude.

"Shouldn't you be investigating better stuff then the PDP?"

...Yup. Still rude.

If Billy though the questions were rude, he didn't show it. He just smiled, a warm, charming sort of smile, and gave a small shrug. "We get our hands dirty the same as you lot," he offered.

He reaches to help with tending the wound on the man's cheek, as if that were expected of him. At the same time he gives another, tiny nudge to the man's emotions, the smallest stroke of gratitude. "So she's a regular, is she?" he sounded genuinely interested.

(no subject)

minor (or major) injury things, i'm just makin' shit up

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I'm just winging shit

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