"Will you stop being a baby and hold still?!"
He hadn't uttered a word when they headed to the tavern in Zozo, nor had he thrown a fit over his losing hand in a high-stakes game of poker. Hell, Darill sat back and watched Setzer fend for himself when the argument broke out over the rulings, spiraled out of control, and then involved more fists than charisma—more of her kind of argument, really. As for Setzer, he was quicker to bet on said fight than participate, but he could hold his own ground in a pinch.
And still, not a word. Not once.
Though when Darill straddled his lap with a thread and needle hovering over his cheek to patch the knife wound some idiot brought to a fist fight, Setzer winced and sucked in air.
She had abandoned both her perch by the bar and prized whiskey the moment she spied upon the unsheathed blade. Setzer amassed a collection of scars, but it didn't dull the pain to witness each one he earned. Darill still had her wits about her—enough to clock his assailant in the face—though not enough to prevent the long gash along his cheek.
Another mark on his pretty face. Perhaps if it had been her doing—and she could count on one hand of the ones that were—the rage would subside within.
She had tended to his wounds before, more out of necessity than out of compassion. His privileged time in Jidoor might have taught him of etiquette, high fashion, and political intrigue cloaked as gossip, but it didn't teach him the basics to survive outside of that pristine bubble. As for Darill, she ripped dresses designed for more conventional women by the seams and re-purposed them into her personal wardrobe. Even attire aimed for men fell victim to her thread and needle as she tailored them to fit her body. Short skirts paired with thigh-high boots, stockings, and a fitted suit jacket and waistcoat were not in high demand.
All of it was thanks to a daft hand clutching a tiny needle. Just another ace up her sleeve, as Setzer would have said.
When she had hauled him back to the Falcon, she dropped him on the couch before fetching vodka and her sewing kit. Darill popped the bottle open with her teeth and spat out the cap. Setzer had done well to remove his favorite coat, though his dress shirt was beyond salvageable; blood soaked into the white fabric while continuing to gush from the wound. She threw a towel at him to clean up before taking a gulp of alcohol. Gods knew she was going to need it. Then she splashed it onto his face. Setzer reeled back and hissed, only to have the bottle thrust into his hands.
"Drink," she had told him, busying herself with finding a proper needle, then a match.
It was once she heated the tip and threaded the eye that he squirmed in place. True, all the other wounds she tended to were on his torso, but this shouldn't have been any different. Was he afraid her hand would slip and thus stab him in the eye? Darill groaned at the idea. Thankfully, the alcohol warmed her body and quieted the anxious thoughts and memories.
She tried pulling up a chair to confront him, then standing. Growling, Darill slipped into his lap in hopes to both distract and pin him in place.
"I'm not being a baby," he eventually whined back, his voice anchoring her back in the moment.
Darill whacked him upside the head. "Then let me poke you already and get this shit over with."
He rubbed where she struck him. "Gods, when you say it like that—"
"Just hold still, okay?"
Again she eased in. Again she brought the tip of the needle to the edge of the wound. Again he flinched away.
"Gods damn it, Setzer!"
"I'm sorry!"
Leaning back, Darill lolled her head about and released her stress in the form of an aggravated groan. "I am only trying to help! Do you want a disgusting scar or not?!"
When she returned her head to center and raised her eyebrow at him, she found his violet eyes focused elsewhere. Utmost shame riddled his features. Her heart plummeted to her stomach.
The alarming rate at which Setzer acquired his scars would have warranted questions in regards to his lifestyle, but Setzer laughed each one off. Before public eyes, they were badges of honor. Each one held a unique story he was beyond pleased to indulge others in. Some were over-exaggerated, others were outright made-up. Only Darill knew the difference.
It was when he was alone and gazed upon himself in the mirror that he crumbled. There had been a time when not a flaw marred his clear skin. He was a handsome man back then—still was—though his penchant for sin and risks paired with his inability to fend for himself resulted in a few bumps along the way. Those he could cover were never a problem. Once his enemies aimed for his pretty face, Setzer choked on his pride, though swallowed it down before anyone else could notice.
And Darill made certain to sneak up from behind and pounce him when he got into one of his moods. She nuzzled and purred into his neck before kissing at every scar she could get her lips on without stripping him nude. With each one, she whispered to him of her own set of memories of how he obtained them, recounting them like legendary myths spoken to children to inspire them before bedtime.
In those times, he smiled. In those times, he was comfortable with himself again.
But not now.
Darill lowered the needle, returned it to her sewing kit, and cupped his face in her palms. She drew his eyes onto hers and rested her forehead on his.
"Setzer," she purred, just like she always did.
"It's okay," he replied, his tone as defeated as the rest of his being. "Just another mark against me." He sighed. "Another thing I fucked up over—"
"Don't say that."
Darill eased her arms around his body to squeeze him tight. She repositioned her face to nuzzle into his silvery hair, lips finding a home along his ear.
"You're not a fuck up. I love how you have the balls to stand up to others, even when you have not a damn clue when it comes to fighting. It doesn't matter. You don't run away from any opportunity. The world could be ending and people might hide, but I know you'd face it head on, just to say you were there when it all happened." She smiled when he chuckled into her. "I want the man who gets his kicks from the dangerous, sinful side of life. I don't want safe or calm." Darill pulled back, one palm falling right over his heart. "I want this. I want you, Setzer. Scars and all. I look at you and see what you're comprised of..." She smiled softly. "And it just reminds me of why I fell in love with you to begin with."
He mirrored her gaze and tilted his head. "Still doesn't excuse me for not knowing how to dodge a knife."
"And I can't help but feel at fault for sitting there and letting it happen."
"You won't always be around every time to save me."
"No, but I'll fucking try."
At least he chuckled over that.
"The very least I can do," Darill continued, "is patch you up. I know it's a bitch—" She reached back for the needle and match. "—but I know you're going to complain about it come morning if I don't do anything about it now."
With a heavy sigh, Setzer sunk back into the couch. "Fine. Have it your way."
She smirked while rolling the needle over the flame again. "Love you, too."
When the sharp tip pressed into his skin, Setzer closed his eyes and held his breath. He didn't protest while Darill worked the needle and thread over the wound. She did well to be swift, yet efficient, giving an extra tug with every pass.
Tying off the end and cutting the last bit of thread with a knife, Darill discarded the items to their kit with a clatter. "There. Should be better in a week or so. I'll help you with—"
A hand settled onto the small of her back and urged her to come closer. Darill let out a tiny yelp as she braced herself along Setzer's shoulders. Pushing blonde hair out of her face, she peered down at him, not expecting to find a content smile sweeping over him.
"Thank you," he said.
Darill chuckled. "You don't need to thank me."
"Still, I appreciate knowing you won't hesitate to tend to me."
Sinking into his lap and looping her arms loose around his neck, she drew herself into his face. "Well, I like to think that if anything ever happened to me—" She kissed several times around his scar, gentle as ever. "—then you'd return the favor."
Feather light fingers skimmed along her jaw before cupping her chin. He turned her face parallel to his, their noses bumping. "I will," he whispered, then opened his mouth to hers.