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.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
no subject
"--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.
no subject
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.
no subject
"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."
no subject