Hurt/Comfort [for ammapreaker]

[about2knowme]

Well, 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.

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[ammapreaker]

Amma had been in the bedroom playing on her phone when he finally showed up. "You were supposed to be home like three hours ago!" She had been waiting for quite some time for his arrival. While they had rented this place she had stayed home to do "home schooling" which was more like home shopping when no one was around to monitor her. She wasn't supposed to leave the flat on her own, strictly for safety purposes, but she still often did. However, even with a credit card to use and all the time in the world to explore the city, she didn't really like doing it alone. Let alone without him. "We totally missed the 5 o'clock movie-" she began to whine when she saw him only from behind.

Getting the full view of him in his state stopped her and she stared at him. "What happened?" She sounded concerned, but more confused than anything. He had come home with torn clothes, scrapes, bruises, but never anything that had required medical attention and showed blood. Not while she had been around. Suddenly the image of Deckard being a perfect invincible hitman was altered.

Sitting on the couch with him, she didn't touch him, but she sat close enough to get a whiff of all the scents attached to him. He'd definitely need a shower or a bath. Her face was blank but more from the lack of anger and happiness than the presence of concern; her empathetic feelings not always easy for her to express despite their presence. She'd ask who did it, but it didn't matter. He wouldn't tell her and she couldn't do a damn thing about it. She also didn't ask if he needed a doctor- it was evident that he'd gotten some sort of attention. So she asked what mattered the most to her, "Did you kill them?"