Blood on the Inn Floor | Emi & Kiigan

“Merda,” he cursed under his breath, eyes closed and brows furrowed deeply, as the fur-lined coat slumped onto the wooden floor in a damp, bloodied heap. The inn room the group found themselves in sported nothing but a bed, side table, and some dingy chair off to a corner. Not the best room, really, with a few cobwebs here and there and the odd creaky floorboard. Another door that lead to the bathroom was slightly off its hinges, and he had prayed to God that it had a functioning shower that wasn’t too nasty. The trio could’ve afforded something nicer, but far be it from this Savaglio to leave a bloody trail in some fancy shmancy inn. He knew better than that. He also knew visiting a doctor would be the better option as well, but old habits were hard to scrap. So shady old inn it was!

Wes sat on the edge of the bed, black long sleeve shirt sticking to his wounded skin as he slouched. It had been torn at the back, revealing a gash about the length of an axe head that bled and seeped into the surrounding material. He gave no real inclination towards the pain this time, figuring no one needed to know that both his back and leg burned like all hell. He was tough like that.

“So, how’s everyone farin’? Peachy keen, I’m assuming?” he joked, looking from Emi to Kiigan. Though he had the spirit it didn’t quite reach his face. The redhead looked about as done with life as ever. Not because of the uncomfortable sensations, but because next time he’d be sure to bring the whole goddamn organization if he had to. Who the hell thought that many guys would show up just for some stupid logs? Religion be damned. Some people needed to get themselves a life. It also didn’t help that there was the disheartening fact that his hat had sustained damage: a bullet hole perfectly aimed at its center. He shuddered, eyeing the fedora at his lap with a small frown. Another kick to the head and who knows in what other godforsaken world he’d end up in… or he could just stay dead.

That was a possibility, too.

His face shot up at the mention of wine with a soft “huh…!?” and momentarily looked at the thief like she had just unearthed the key to all his problems. However, his expression softened as she continued to pull item upon item from her pockets, faint images of old cartoons making their way across his mind. A bout of lightheadedness washed over him then. He could never stay awake during those, though at the moment it was probably the blood loss rearing its head.

Right. The blood.

He slouched deeper into the cheap mattress and winced, giving her covered wound a once-over. A light frown tugged at his lips before his attention shifted to the other person in the room. That didn’t help. Kiigan’s shirt might as well had changed colour from the wound he’d sustained. “I’ll take the wine,” he said a little too quickly, leg crying as he impulsed himself off the bed and headed towards the drawer. At least Emi came prepared which was, well, good. More than the redhead would’ve expected out of the woman he’d come to partner with in Engloria. He’d figured she’d be dead by now given everything. But to have seen her man the cannon and those weirdly deep pockets of hers while still being all smiles —his interest was a little more than piqued.

Wes wanted to see what else she could do. So despite every muscle in his body screaming at him to move and be rid of the red stuff, he held back, tightly gripping the bottle in his hand to keep himself occupied. “Well, you heard the lady. C’mon,” he urged the angel to do as told after the humorous impersonation of a carnie, some measure of concern sewn into the crease and lowering of his brow. He never particularly enjoyed being first when others were hurt, much less those that worked for him. Thus he stuck to the drawer with that same uncharacteristic slouch that made his back hurt a little less, not wanting to impose.

Emi’s remark got his attention once more. His eyes widened at the pads, gaze immediately darting over to Kiigan and then back to her, mouth opening as if he couldn’t find the words. He was actually a little taken aback by the boldness. That kind of thing wasn’t something that would be mentioned or joked about in his time. Even when the women of Porto d’Oro brought it up amongst themselves, he’d kinda just… look the other way. And he did, in that moment. “You should take care of yourself first,” he started after awkwardly clearing his throat. “We can wait.”

His nose wrinkled in confusion at the dry-humored comment, eyes studying the air as he pondered over it briefly. Try as he might, though, only one answer seemed to make any logical sense in those few seconds: “He’s trippin’ out,” stated Wes, real insightful, offering Emi a ‘hell if I know’ shrug in response. “It’s probably the blood loss.” He shook in his head in pity. Just how much blood had Kiigan lost? Poor guy was starting to make things up.

Any other thoughts on that were halted when the conversation returned to the pads. “There’s different ones…?” spoken softly, he was a little baffled by this realization; a little embarrassed, too. Growing up how he did no one had ever taught him about these products, so he didn’t quite get what they meant by wings. Didn’t these things usually have a belt? Was Emi gonna whip out an elastic belt next? Something between a scowl and a pout formed at how easily they could talk about this stuff and because for a split second he’d stupidly imagined birds.

“Really,” the scowl-pout deepened when offered up to go next for treatment, shooting Kiigan a look. “You should go first, not me.” He stayed oddly quiet afterwards, perhaps too lightheaded and uncomfortable to want to muster up any more opposition, and opted to watch Emi instead. “Kinda makin’ me wish it’d been a lance.” Unamused didn’t begin to cover his tone at her joke. At least she’d been doing a much better job at patching herself up than making him laugh. She knew what she was she was doing, he could give her that. Now if only he could read into her weirdly teasing behavior.

“Don’t be what?” he said, head tilting with a vaguely curious look when she stopped talking midsentence. So he followed her line of sight straight over to…

…Oh.

Wes felt a tug at the corner of his mouth. He’d seen him like this before, at that alley, but back then something else had caught his undivided attention. Now, though? His eyes flicked—down, then up—as Kiigan finished undressing. Why did he have to look so… so… Fuck. Prying his gaze away momentarily, he covered the growing smirk with a fist. It grew weak, however, as the bluette approached. Kiigan was still a wounded mess, and if he was anything like himself Wes knew that he’d have to be in pain despite hiding it. Even so, he’d still taken the time to offer him a cigarette. The redhead really appreciated that, and returned the worried look with a light bow of his head and a whisper, “Grazie.” It was a small thing, but no one ever did small things for him unless asked.

The slight sparkle in the blood hadn’t been missed either. He briefly wondered if all angel blood shimmered the way his did. It looked pretty, but that didn’t take away that it was blood and blood had to be wiped away ASAP. At least the compulsion to do so could be more or less kept in check through smoking, aside from keeping busy. The bottle worked for that, too, but not for long. His hands would start missing the grip they had around it when the thief stole him from his spot at the dresser. He followed along like a limping dog on a leash only to be disappointed when his treat was taken away. “So you bribe a man to bed and just leave him hanging? Is that how you normally operate?” A chuckle. “Tease.”

“Honestly,” fingers reached for the hem of his shirt, lifting it over his head carefully. His body tensed when it dragged against the wound, a pained, shaky breath escaping him before the longsleeve hit the floor. His wavy red hair had come out lightly tousled, the cigarette hanging loosely off his lips. He looked at the pair next to him momentarily, eyebrow raising questioningly at Emi’s continuous teasing. “I dunno what you’re playing at but can ya move it along?” he continued, nodding over to Kiigan. “He’s lookin’ real pale.” Not that Wes was any better off, but he was glad he wasn’t gonna go first after all. The pants had been a pain to get off as they’d stuck to his calf. “Ah, cazzo di merda, avrei dovuto semplicemente farli a pezzi…” he rambled on more to himself than anyone in the room, stepping out of the last remaining bit of clothes and into his grey boxers with a hiss and a tremble.

Once done he set the towels on the bed as to not let it stain. The skin at his back had been split near the tangled mess that was his tattoo, dark tendrils and red liquid mixing together to form a relatively ugly image. His calf felt hot, the bullet graze having blown open the skin as well. He sat, swinging the leg over the mattress and onto the towel.

“There. Happy now?”

“Yeah yeah, I know…” That shit-eating grin he wore when he knew he was being annoying slowly died, his eyes closing as Emi went off about him not having been in bed sooner. He didn’t sound dismissive, just kinda tired by the way his voice trailed off quietly. Doing so felt a little bit relieving. He was kinda tuckered out, but even that didn’t stop his fingers from anxiously tapping against his bare thigh.

Kiigan choked, and he was startled to attention.

“What’s all what?” spoken quietly, the choking noises practically drowned him out. Were the wounds really that bad it’d earn him a reaction like that? He hadn’t checked them yet. Well, it wasn’t like he could really look at the one on his back, but he did peek at his own leg out of curiosity. But Kiigan continued and, for a second, he seemed visibly confused. From being questioned to his language, to being assumed a witch, he was left with his mouth hanging slightly open as though he was trying to decipher something. It wasn’t until Emi chimed in that he mentally slapped himself.

Otherworlder. Right. Somehow he figured the angel would’ve realized by now. It’s not like Wes tried too hard to conceal it. Really, he’d stopped trying long ago. Maybe Kiigan was too busy to pay attention again? Like with the poker?

“I am,” he nodded, speaking with the confidence of someone who took pride in the title. “Never been anything else.” A lazy smile finally graced his features at how perceptive the cabbage head was. He liked that, he had to admit. Hopefully it would also provide somewhat of answer to Kiigan. “…Is that a problem?” The question was just a little bit curious as he looked between the two for a reaction. Emi didn’t seem all too bothered by the fact to begin with which, in a sense, was a relief. But considering the witch comment and how betrayed the bluette looked he wasn’t too sure what would go on in that big blueberry brain of his. Racist or endearingly naïve? Could be both?

Regardless, some people just didn’t’ like Otherworlders plain and simple. He’d been at the end of that stick one too many times to count. Now, though, things aren’t as violent or depressing as they used to be

He watched as Emi came close, the cigarette its way out of his lips as she spoke and he narrowed his gaze in amusement, completely aware of her mocking thoughtfulness. He blew smoke… only to choke on it a second later. “Hey…! HEY!” Something between a pained hiss and a cough left him, then some more coughing, when he was dragged across the bed like a cat being pulled out of a hiding place. A few tears welled up as the smoke really burned his lungs, and he wasn’t sure whether to reach for his leg or reach for his back. Instead, he just opted to limply sit there, cigarette between his fingers. “You’re… You’re gonna have to remind me,” he said, blinking away the tears and a strained voice.

From then on he remained smoking, every so often a muted grunt or pained breath leaving him while remaining invested in the minty thief’s handiwork. Sure getting stitches hurt like a bitch and having wounds being fumbled with doubly so, but he wasn’t about to show much it really bothered him. Call it his ego or whatever. Either way, Emi knew what she was doing. Even with a lack of proper materials she’d managed to make do and patch the two up. In his eyes it added stock to his impression of her, one that he was particularly enjoying.

His silent musings only doubled when that shaky laugh reached his ear. It was odd, how she stuck around despite everything; not to say she wouldn’t have been scared then and possibly even now. Emi had every right to doubt them and leave. Yet she was grateful and even helped them. There was more to their characters than any of them lead on, of course, and for the mentioning all the facts would possibly make him come off much worse, if not a little hypocritical. But there was interest, and interest at times made his huge mouth a little more tolerable. “No… you didn’t have to do any of this… honestly,” he said with a light shrug, throwing back that same gratefulness with some amount of awkward sincerity.

He stood just as awkwardly, the pain and loss of blood causing his vision to blur a little more and his eyes to go wide in response, before patting Emi’s shoulder in thanks and somewhat limping a few steps behind the sitting giant. Wes eyed the wine, but considering what would be coming next, he figured Kiigan would still need it. “Let’s get this sucker out I guess. The doctor’s been a real heaven-sent but… Can she manage this, too?” He smirked—a compliment, coupled along with a playful tease at her ability. Really, he had the knowledge to do it himself but in light of his blurry vision he’d much rather it be done safely than not.

Clasping Kiigan’s shoulder, he extended a hand besides his head. “Need something to bite down on or would just a hand would do?” he offered in case the pain was too much. While he wasn’t sure if he could feasibly hold down the larger male considering how weak he was feeling, he would at least try in any case. Worse than taking out a bullet would be the job getting botched due to an uncontrolled jerk or movement, especially considering how deep it’d lodged itself.

He’d been straining himself just ambling around wounded. Now that he could finally relax or, at least, relax as much as he could when he had her on his list of priorities. It made for deeper pains and more discomfort, more so when the curse continued to itch and burn and he wanted rip off his skin. Certainly, it wasn’t the first time he’d taken care of something in less than appropriate circumstances, as semi-humorous as the present predicament was.

Perhaps that’s why, when that sensuality he’d gotten acquainted himself with returned to the scene, his sight only flicked between the touch and her, following her actions with calm collection. However, his seemingly unbothered expression fell a little flat when his cigarette was swiped away, his mouth twisting in mild annoyance. Sexy— annoyingly so. He hadn’t pegged her as the smoking type, either. Surprise surprise.

Still, Emi was complacent enough at the moment. And he’d barely opened his mouth before she’d started with the questions. “Fair enough,” he muttered, his face unchanging if not for the fleeing annoyance. Questions were expected and he figured the initiative added to her sense of self-preservation. Emi wasn’t stupid, that much was clear despite her deplorable escape plan… not that much was holding her back; the consequences had been laid from the start.

“Things a little more different than today—” he said, gently pushing the offer to return the cigarette away with his knuckles even if addiction prodded him to take it. “Keep it.” He could play nice regardless of his own needs. From the look she gave him, and everything she’d been forcibly placed under, he could logically conjure up her sentiment even when bits of a distinct lack of sympathy started rearing its ugly head.

She was nothing of his… yet. So he felt very little, and what little he did feel came when he looked into her emerald hues and caught a familiar image that made his head ache; though he largely contributed it to keeping himself attentive when his body pleaded for rest. The frown wasn’t leaving any time soon, apparently.

“For starters, most of the things you’ll be doin’ are gonna be assigned by me. They’ll vary, of course; you’re not gonna be stuck with the same job over and over. However…” All the while Wes spoke, he leaned and placed his elbow on his thigh, propping his head on his hand and eyed her in thought. Of course, the slight explanation came somewhat vague as was usual with him. Maybe she’d ask, maybe she wouldn’t. By now it was obvious he wasn’t exactly in the most morally correct side of things anyways.

“For you— you’d make a good runner,” he stated plainly. “That magic of yours, or whatever it is that you’re doing, looks to me you can carry a hefty amount without being noticed. Makes for a unique thief, doesn’t it? Can carry things under radar easily, you can even defend yourself in a pinch if need be.” Not to mention however it was that she managed to break into the bakery without jimmying any locks. How she managed to worm her way in there was beyond him, and that also poked at him quite a bit. Well, a lot less now that before. “Imagine if we actually set you up— gave you the right tools to carry.” Wes stopped for a moment, gauging her reactions with sharp eyes and a tired posture.

“Essentially, you’d be indispensable,” he admitted, and continued speaking frankly. “So much so that I’m more surprised that someone with your skills hasn’t been snatched up yet. It doesn’t call for petty thievery…” He could be wrong, but it didn’t seem like she was doing all too good out there considering her clothes, makeshift arsenal, and the need to steal food.

He sunk at little more into his palm at the quip, his cheek squishing up somewhat and eyes blinking slowly. There was something about defiance that was contradictory in his system. It bothered him, stood in his way of getting what he wanted most times. But it was also something he could appreciate in others (although begrudgingly at times). So, now, while he slumped into his hand unamused, Wes wasn’t frowning as deeply. “You never know— hearts can change at a drop of a hat…” he mused.

She mentioned accomplishments, wanting to achieve something. Don’t we all, he thought to himself, biting back the thought from manifesting audibly or visibly on his face. Yet the mention did spark a small flame of curiosity in him. “It’s passive, in a sense. You don’t really need to be around unless you’re called for. Whatever we need,” —whatever he needed, really— “goes and you’ll get paid per job. Not much different than your average merc, you could say. Though a little more exclusive; a little more…” he brought the tips of his fingers together, pinching and pulling at invisible string as though to convey a fine line, “personally tailored.”

“As to how long you work for me,” a light grin formed, “depends on you.” Codeword for indefinite. Normally he wasn’t one for dispatching members off on merit, not that many of them hadn’t shown to be reliable. He just wasn’t about letting people go that easy and he wasn’t above holding things over someone’s head for his own benefit, either. “You’re ambitious, aren’t you? You got your own shit you want. So, like all things, you gotta work for ‘em. And no doubt you’ve managed well enough on your own. Well… this whole mess aside,” he nodded over to Kiigan’s general direction, though he meant to imply the stolen drugs and the whole situation at Mackemm, before straightening himself out with a short-lived sigh and crossing his arms over his chest; tilted his head down at her with expectation on his brow before finishing— “Isn’t that right?”

You’d have to be blind not to infer how she might be living, but she seemed healthy enough; had even managed enough so far to not look like she was another starving nobody. Wes might’ve been trying to tap into—possibly a shot in the dark, really—what could be some pride at her own experiences. It’s not like he hadn’t been there himself.

And he kept going, bringing forth his own curiosity at her statement: “…Though I gotta question: what do you want, ladra? What’s what you want to accomplish?”

Satisfaction curled at the end at the end of his lips, the grin drawing a little broader than before. Yet it didn’t twist as it would. Instead, at her agreement, his expectant expression softened into something a bit more benevolent, lending itself to an understanding nod. His shot in the dark had hit its mark or, at least, close enough to it that it’d resonated with Emi on some level… or so he thought. Wes was perceptive, sure, a bit manipulative at the moment, too; but that didn’t mean everything was as it appeared, did it? There was always room for error.

Still, she seemed surprised. And from that surprise came a certain honesty about her goals. He pitched a soft whistle as though saying— well, would ya look at that. “A whole business, huh?” The smile he’d been holding back drew itself naturally as he cast his eyes to the ratty ceiling with a reminiscent look. A contemplative “hmph” following soon after. Yeah. He’d been there, alright. Landing in Vyl had left him with zip to work with—hard times for anyone. And although he could laugh about it now, back then… well… “A business’s a business no matter what your doin’,” he stated without much thought, having missed the eyeroll entirely, while a certain fondness tinged his voice. Did she already own one? One she considered fake, at that?

His musings on the greenette were cut short, and his attention redirected to her shortly after. A soft, but sharp, “what…?” being exhaled in disbelief. She had conditions now?

He hadn’t expected this.

She listed them off with a kinda annoying smirk plastered on her face, every single one drawing his brows higher on his forehead to the point where he looked both incredibly questioning and incredibly amused. By the time she’d finished though, he threw his head back with a laugh. “Ha!” The audacity of this woman, to ask things of him even after being placed under a death threat. He was practically giving her an out on her little robbery. “Kinda sounds like ya might run me outta my own business,” he joked, looking all the more entertained at her proposal and leaned towards her with narrowed eyes. A charming smirk formed as he stared into her pretty greens, while his voice lowered into an interested whisper. “You always like this?”

In that instance, despite the considerably flirtatious tone, Wes actually was thinking it over. He was a selfish one when it came to his own devices, preferring to mostly to keep to himself and not let anyone in. There’d only been one other person he’d ever taught, but she was easy to control and had delegated her to somewhere other than Vyldermire. Emi, on the other hand… Well—

It begged to question just how serious about it she was. A good carrot and stick.

“Gotta say…” he continued, smirk widening all the more… and the plucked the cigarette from her grasp. Wes leaned back again, body throbbing painfully from all the movement but trying his best to ignore it. “You got the right attitude, alright. Though you gotta watch that language of yours.” Not that he actually minded it, much less cared. “It’s a deal, Miss Kazama. You’ll get your fuckin’ business card.” It wasn’t really a promise, but as long as she could hold out long enough then maybe she’d get there; see how much that zeal could last.

Placing the smoke on his mouth, he shook her hand with a satisfied nod and a smile as sharp as a knife.

He then snapped his fingers before her, and in a trail of dark smoke a card blinked into existence. He turned it, held it out for her to see; though he doubted she would take it without question. “Your contract.”

Depicted on the card was an otherworldy deity bearing two faces—one Wes could recognize slightly, causing a visibly curious stir in him—sitting comfortably on a wooden stool while contemplating a golden key in his right hand. At his feet, an intricately designed banner with the title Janus named him.

“Didn’t think it was all a handshake and done?” he quipped, smoke billowing from the corner of his lip. “All you have to do is take it— and it's official.”