"Stop being a little bitch," Jiyong teased, rubbing soothing circles over Zitao's thigh before turning his fingers up to take the younger man's hand into his own. "For all our fighting, it's good to know we still make a good team when it comes down to the wire."
Jiyong continued reassuring Zitao with words and the brush of his thumb over the back of the other's hand, one hand steering the wheel with a white-knuckled grip. He'd never been shot himself, but he'd seen and learned enough from his gang members to know that Zitao would be okay. It struck him there in the car, how ironic and silly that it always seemed to end up this way: Zitao - who had always inherently been good and only ever fought because he had to - still was always the one who ended up with the kicks to his stomach, bruised ribs and bleeding wounds while Jiyong went unscathed. If it were Jiyong, he would have split long ago.
Twenty minutes later, they were ambling into a ramshackle of a motel, Jiyong carrying a duffel bag of toiletries and clothes he'd had in the car, as well as a paper bag from the pharmacy. "We better do this in the bathroom," he said, glancing at the white bed sheets and (somewhat clean) carpet on the floor. He dropped the duffel bag onto the only bed in the room and took the paper bag with him into the bathroom, flipping on the light and ordering Zitao to sit on the edge of the tub. He dumped the items from the bag onto the sink counter, gauze and tape, as well as a couple syringes and a bottle of pills he’d climbed over the counter and stolen after setting a distraction in aisle 3 (he hoped they’d put the fire out by now... who knew a pack of instant ramen could light up that fast?)
After setting the supplies in order, he moved to Zitao, gently taking hold of the bloodied shirt still held against his shoulder. “Here, let me see.” He slowly removed the soiled cloth, throwing it into the tub and thankful to see that any major bleeding had stopped. Getting Zitao’s shirt off was the next challenge, and this was done gingerly, with a few winces — at least on Jiyong’s side — as he tugged away the material stuck to the wound.
“You know,” Jiyong said with focused eyes, one of the syringes now in his hand as he used it to wash out Zitao’s wound, a fairly small gash for all that blood. “This makes you a real badass now. This ain’t nothing like the little scrapes I used to patch up for you. This bullet's in you for life.”
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2015-04-30 03:16 am (UTC)Jiyong continued reassuring Zitao with words and the brush of his thumb over the back of the other's hand, one hand steering the wheel with a white-knuckled grip. He'd never been shot himself, but he'd seen and learned enough from his gang members to know that Zitao would be okay. It struck him there in the car, how ironic and silly that it always seemed to end up this way: Zitao - who had always inherently been good and only ever fought because he had to - still was always the one who ended up with the kicks to his stomach, bruised ribs and bleeding wounds while Jiyong went unscathed. If it were Jiyong, he would have split long ago.
Twenty minutes later, they were ambling into a ramshackle of a motel, Jiyong carrying a duffel bag of toiletries and clothes he'd had in the car, as well as a paper bag from the pharmacy. "We better do this in the bathroom," he said, glancing at the white bed sheets and (somewhat clean) carpet on the floor. He dropped the duffel bag onto the only bed in the room and took the paper bag with him into the bathroom, flipping on the light and ordering Zitao to sit on the edge of the tub. He dumped the items from the bag onto the sink counter, gauze and tape, as well as a couple syringes and a bottle of pills he’d climbed over the counter and stolen after setting a distraction in aisle 3 (he hoped they’d put the fire out by now... who knew a pack of instant ramen could light up that fast?)
After setting the supplies in order, he moved to Zitao, gently taking hold of the bloodied shirt still held against his shoulder. “Here, let me see.” He slowly removed the soiled cloth, throwing it into the tub and thankful to see that any major bleeding had stopped. Getting Zitao’s shirt off was the next challenge, and this was done gingerly, with a few winces — at least on Jiyong’s side — as he tugged away the material stuck to the wound.
“You know,” Jiyong said with focused eyes, one of the syringes now in his hand as he used it to wash out Zitao’s wound, a fairly small gash for all that blood. “This makes you a real badass now. This ain’t nothing like the little scrapes I used to patch up for you. This bullet's in you for life.”