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Hurt/Comfort [for ammapreaker]
Oct. 12th, 2016 10:02 pmWell, that was not the best day I've ever had, Deckard Shaw thought as he half-stumbled through the door of his London apartment-- at least, the one he was renting for the time being.
Fucking Hobbs and his team had nearly got him four hours ago. He'd led the man and his team on the usual merry chase through the city, and had nearly gotten away without a scratch until Hobbs had rammed his car into a goddamn wall. They'd traded punches for a while until a lucky break in the shape of his gas tank exploding gave him a chance to get away and find one of the under-the-table doctors he knew of to patch him up.
Deckard winced as he slowly shrugged his way out of his leather jacket, his body screaming in protest at the movement. With the garment off, it was much easier to see the way his shirt had been cut away in order to bandage some kind of wound on his upper right arm. The rest of the shirt was dirty and streaked with sweat and blood, some of it his. Even his face was smudged, and he smelled faintly of smoke and gasoline. Gingerly, he pushed off his boots, and slowly made his way toward the couch.
"Amma? Sweetheart?" he called out into the apartment, trying to keep his voice from betraying the pain he was feeling, but it was a pretty stupid move, since the girl would see what kind of shape he was in once she came out of her room.
Fucking Hobbs and his team had nearly got him four hours ago. He'd led the man and his team on the usual merry chase through the city, and had nearly gotten away without a scratch until Hobbs had rammed his car into a goddamn wall. They'd traded punches for a while until a lucky break in the shape of his gas tank exploding gave him a chance to get away and find one of the under-the-table doctors he knew of to patch him up.
Deckard winced as he slowly shrugged his way out of his leather jacket, his body screaming in protest at the movement. With the garment off, it was much easier to see the way his shirt had been cut away in order to bandage some kind of wound on his upper right arm. The rest of the shirt was dirty and streaked with sweat and blood, some of it his. Even his face was smudged, and he smelled faintly of smoke and gasoline. Gingerly, he pushed off his boots, and slowly made his way toward the couch.
"Amma? Sweetheart?" he called out into the apartment, trying to keep his voice from betraying the pain he was feeling, but it was a pretty stupid move, since the girl would see what kind of shape he was in once she came out of her room.
