"Fuck." Chloe breathes, neck craned about to stare off behind them and make sure they're not being tailed. It hasn't been the best deal they've had, but if she's entirely honest, it's nowhere near the worst. No collapsing ruins, no lava or plane crashes or unliving...things. So when Charlie's taken the 7th frighteningly unsteady turn and there's no flash of headlights that she can make out, Chloe sinks back down into the battered passenger seat and lets relief override the tingling rush of adrenaline coursing through her veins.
Charlie breathes out - shit, that stings doesn't it - and lets his foot ease off the gas. It's an oddly jerky motion from the adrenaline, the sedan lagging in fits and starts. "What that? No, surely not." He laughs a little, but quickly sobers because his side aches and because the blokes they'd been working with hadn't been a bad sort, had they?
Just to be safe he steers the car around a few more turns before pulling it over, banging unceremoniously up onto the curb with a grumbled little string of swears. The street is empty, dark save a lone light at the far corner. Charlie peels his fingers from the wheel and, after a bit of fumbling where he can't get his fingers into quite the right shape, pops open the driver's side door . "Alright love, your turn. I can't drive for shit."
"You mean compared to any other night?" Chloe asks as she shifts around enough to pop open her door, displacing glass shards and dirt and all the usual shrapnel that comes from the front lines of a solid skirmish. The car's a mess. Her clothes aren't much better off. Looks like it'll be a two shower sort of night.
And, all right, it's probably not the best time to go telling jokes, but if she's not laughing she'll have little left to do aside from mull over just how much shit they're currently in. Hardly an appealing option for either of them.
"Oi, Webber, any idea where we can lay low for tonight? Unless we'd like them to finish the job, heading back to the hotel isn't exactly an option."
"Ha fucking ha," he grumbles as she clambers out of the car and makes her way around. "Let me think. I know someone." Right? There's someone in Tel Aviv, he's pretty sure. He just has to go through a mental rolodex of names and numbers and it's the adrenaline or something, but he's finding it hard to do that right this second.
--He shifts slightly, realizing abruptly she's waiting for him to get out of the bloody car. Charlie catches the frame of the car and starts to hoist himself up to his feet and then sags slightly. Scrabbles to reaffirm his grip as his head spins. "Fuck," because his shirt pulls against his side and that stings. Once his center of gravity settles, he finds himself still sitting in the front seat, feet in the street. "Sorry, m'head's swimming."
She's got a solid grip on the top of the car's frame just over his door; it means stooping down over his stretched-out, scuffed-up heels isn't intrusive or forced, though the look on her face is blatant, unmasked concern. There's blood on him, but then there's always blood. Could be someone else's as easily as his own.
She tries not to dwell on it.
"Seriously not the best time to go have a lie-down."
"Yeah, no worries. I'm alright." Because she's right - this really isn't the best time. They may have lost their tail but sitting out here just a few blocks away isn't going to be safe for long. So he steadies his grip on the frame of the car and hauls himself to his feet, teeth grinding. "I know a guy," he says as the name's come swimming up suddenly. "Not sure if he's got the same number, but I'll give it a go while you drive in that direction."
He feels slow on his feet but thinks he's probably not. Charlie gives Chloe a pat on the bum as he shoulders past her, rounding the dented fender of the car. Where he slows slightly, pressing one hand to his side and steadying himself off the hood of the sedan with the other. When he pulls his hand back, his palm's all dark in the light of the head lamps. He stops, frowns. "Hospital first maybe." But then he sits slowly on the hood of the car instead of moving to the passenger side.
It's dim out there on the edge of the road. Fluorescent street lamps don't offer much in the way of visibility on clear nights, and with an overcast sky, they're lucky to be seeing anything more than a few feet off. But that deep, ruddy stain where paler skin ought to be is unmistakable. Has her stomach sinking down to the point of near nausea. He's sitting on the hood like it's nothing, and that? That's the farthest bloody thing from it.
"C'mon, darling," Charlie outweighs her by leaps, and her easing in to sling his arm round her shoulder is so useless it borders on comical. Doesn't matter. It's a few feet, not a marathon, and he's-- shit, that's a lot of blood.
Charlie tucks his arm round her shoulders automatically because at the root of things, he's a biddable sort of man. He jams the heel of his other hand against the hood (because there's no way she's getting him very far) and rocks back up to his feet. "I don't think it's that bad."
Feeling his way around the fender and open passenger door - there's a lot of weight there in how his steps sway, the line of his shoulders. He steadies himself against the door, wavering. "Yeah see, not so terrible."
Though he's pretty damn ginger about folding himself into the passenger seat. It isn't until Chloe's heading back to the driver's side that he picks at his shirt: peeling it away from his belly and-- alright yeah that's a bit of blood.
"Can't take you anywhere these days." Chloe mutters offhandedly while switching off between the clutch and gas; left foot minding the clutch pedal , right jamming down across the gas and brake to steer them through sharper turns. Hospital's a thirty five minute drive, Chloe's certain she can make it in half if what's left of their bullet-riddled rental doesn't give out on her.
Heel and toe footwork saves her the trouble of having to downshift-- "Pressure, Charlie."
"Yes dear," he croaks, sawing out a laugh. But he puts pressure on it anyway, sagging into the passenger seat. His shirt's going to be ruined, he thinks, blinking back from the glare as the car peels out into a lit street, lights flashing across the windshield. "This shirt's ruined," is what he says out loud. His fingers are all tacky against the fabric and the breeze whistles through the holes punched through the body of the car.
He's quiet for a long time. Then: "Put the radio on, would you?"
"Never liked it anyway. Can't believe you let yourself get talked into paying for it in the first place."
They're making good time. She's not sure how much, or how long they've been at it-- in fact she doesn't know if they're making decent time at all, but it's what she thinks every time the squeal of burning rubber registers in her ears, or when increasingly busy intersections are somewhat recklessly cut through.
She barely hears him ask for her to switch on a little music. "Yeah, no problem," and it's nothing good, just a local jazz station of all things. He'll have to make do; her hands are a little too preoccupied to go shuffling through whatever else there is.
He makes a low scoffing noise, the heel of his hand pressing in against the wet heat of his side. The jazz station must be inoffensive enough because he doesn't complain or make a move to go trawling through the stations. Instead he lets himself settle: head on the rest and eyes set to some point ahead of them--
And then he coughs sharply, fingers spasming at his side as blood comes up with his spit. Stains his teeth and tastes like shit. "Aw, fuck," he slurs, wiping his chin with the back of his hand. "'Gonna be sick - slow down." The road's all blurring together. He feels light headed, fingers numb and hot all at once.
"Look, just-- I can't, we're nearly there, yeah?" There are signs for it dotting the road now, even pressing the speedometer she can see them plain as anything; brighter than the usual dull green set. Chloe hears him cough, doesn't notice anything more than that as she motions towards the city skyline. "Bloody car's shot anyway, might as well be sick in it."
"No, slow down." He's pretty sure he's muttering it, but it might be louder than that. He finds his fingers catching up against the door - his other hand shifting away from his side to scuff his knuckles against her arm. He does it: harder than he means. "Just ease off the fucking gas would you?" He says, coughing again and then he can't stop coughing. He tries to cover his mouth and the blood comes through under his hand, smearing over his chin.
And this time she does. Eases up enough to pull over on a side street not three blocks away from where the hospital sits, off-white lights in plain view over the flat tops of surrounding businesses. Tearing her focus from it long enough to glance over is a goddamn trial, and one she regrets immediately: he's soaked through with his own spit and blood and his fit doesn't look like it's planning on easing up any time soon.
"--oh Jesus." The flat of her palm is stuck in just over his side. The stain's too large by this point to piece together exactly where his wound is, but she's going with memory and praying she's not wrong. "Come on, keep it together. You've had worse than this before."
Fucking jazz music on the bloody radio and he can barely hear it because the sound of his own lungs trying to crawl up his throat is too loud-- Charlie scrabbles at her wrist. His fingers are all slippery and his tongue feels thick even after the cut of his coughing starts to subside and then it's just blood in his mouth and under his tongue and on the inside of his lip. He digs his fingernails into her skin. It's soft, he thinks.
Christ, his side's warm.
"Think that shrapnel perforated something," he breathes out through the hand still mostly covering his mouth. The words are all garbled. Flexes and tightens his fingers against her arm. And then: "I can't stand this music." And then he's quiet, head pressing back against the seat and fingers going vice like as he locks up.
Blood's seeping through the cracks of her fingers, running over her knuckles and the stickiness of it doesn't dissipate, doesn't fucking dry.
"Should've told me sooner," Her breath's all hitched up in her throat; it's hard to remember to breathe, hunched over him across the hard plastic of the e-brake-- the seatbelts and day old soda cans-- in a shot-up car parked on the curb of a busy storefront. People are staring. The flicker of lights bounces off a barely functioning rear view mirror.
"Can't change the damn thing when I'm keeping you alive, can I."
Charlie laughs all low and barking and crystal clear despite the blood and the sharp line as the muscle in his cheek jumps. And then it loops low, goes soft along with his fingers across the back of her hand. He knows someone in Tel Aviv who can find them a place to hole up for a few days and it's important to tell her that. He jerks a few times where he's sitting and then he stops.
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"Well that could've gone a bit better."
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Just to be safe he steers the car around a few more turns before pulling it over, banging unceremoniously up onto the curb with a grumbled little string of swears. The street is empty, dark save a lone light at the far corner. Charlie peels his fingers from the wheel and, after a bit of fumbling where he can't get his fingers into quite the right shape, pops open the driver's side door . "Alright love, your turn. I can't drive for shit."
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And, all right, it's probably not the best time to go telling jokes, but if she's not laughing she'll have little left to do aside from mull over just how much shit they're currently in. Hardly an appealing option for either of them.
"Oi, Webber, any idea where we can lay low for tonight? Unless we'd like them to finish the job, heading back to the hotel isn't exactly an option."
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--He shifts slightly, realizing abruptly she's waiting for him to get out of the bloody car. Charlie catches the frame of the car and starts to hoist himself up to his feet and then sags slightly. Scrabbles to reaffirm his grip as his head spins. "Fuck," because his shirt pulls against his side and that stings. Once his center of gravity settles, he finds himself still sitting in the front seat, feet in the street. "Sorry, m'head's swimming."
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She's got a solid grip on the top of the car's frame just over his door; it means stooping down over his stretched-out, scuffed-up heels isn't intrusive or forced, though the look on her face is blatant, unmasked concern. There's blood on him, but then there's always blood. Could be someone else's as easily as his own.
She tries not to dwell on it.
"Seriously not the best time to go have a lie-down."
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He feels slow on his feet but thinks he's probably not. Charlie gives Chloe a pat on the bum as he shoulders past her, rounding the dented fender of the car. Where he slows slightly, pressing one hand to his side and steadying himself off the hood of the sedan with the other. When he pulls his hand back, his palm's all dark in the light of the head lamps. He stops, frowns. "Hospital first maybe." But then he sits slowly on the hood of the car instead of moving to the passenger side.
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"C'mon, darling," Charlie outweighs her by leaps, and her easing in to sling his arm round her shoulder is so useless it borders on comical. Doesn't matter. It's a few feet, not a marathon, and he's-- shit, that's a lot of blood.
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Heel and toe footwork saves her the trouble of having to downshift-- "Pressure, Charlie."
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He's quiet for a long time. Then: "Put the radio on, would you?"
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They're making good time. She's not sure how much, or how long they've been at it-- in fact she doesn't know if they're making decent time at all, but it's what she thinks every time the squeal of burning rubber registers in her ears, or when increasingly busy intersections are somewhat recklessly cut through.
She barely hears him ask for her to switch on a little music. "Yeah, no problem," and it's nothing good, just a local jazz station of all things. He'll have to make do; her hands are a little too preoccupied to go shuffling through whatever else there is.
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And then he coughs sharply, fingers spasming at his side as blood comes up with his spit. Stains his teeth and tastes like shit. "Aw, fuck," he slurs, wiping his chin with the back of his hand. "'Gonna be sick - slow down." The road's all blurring together. He feels light headed, fingers numb and hot all at once.
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"--oh Jesus." The flat of her palm is stuck in just over his side. The stain's too large by this point to piece together exactly where his wound is, but she's going with memory and praying she's not wrong. "Come on, keep it together. You've had worse than this before."
He'll even out. It's just three blocks off.
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Christ, his side's warm.
"Think that shrapnel perforated something," he breathes out through the hand still mostly covering his mouth. The words are all garbled. Flexes and tightens his fingers against her arm. And then: "I can't stand this music." And then he's quiet, head pressing back against the seat and fingers going vice like as he locks up.
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"Should've told me sooner," Her breath's all hitched up in her throat; it's hard to remember to breathe, hunched over him across the hard plastic of the e-brake-- the seatbelts and day old soda cans-- in a shot-up car parked on the curb of a busy storefront. People are staring. The flicker of lights bounces off a barely functioning rear view mirror.
"Can't change the damn thing when I'm keeping you alive, can I."
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