dark horse (n)
1. a competitor in a race or contest about whom little is known; an unknown
2. a person who reveals little about himself or his activities, esp one who has unexpected talents or abilities
He stood in the corner of the room, his posture military-straight and his hands in his uniform pockets. She sat on the rusty metal bench against the wall, her legs crossed neatly and her hands folded in her lap.
Sometimes it was easy to forget that they were criminals.
Well, perhaps not him; he wore his stern Delphi uniform with pride, looking down his nose at her for her reluctance to do the same. His pale eyes showed nothing, as cold and merciless as the most hardened of killers', and his handsome face was set in a perpetual scowl. He spoke casually of his exploits in the lab and in the field, modifying viruses and wielding guns with equal skill. Given how tight-lipped he was about his personal life, even keeping his name a carefully-guarded secret, he fit all too easily into the role of an enigmatic lawbreaker.
For her, though, it was a fact that she would rather forget. Naomi cared nothing for Delphi's ideals, but seeing as her life hinged on the organization, she could overcome her discomfort. After all, they allowed her to operate (albeit illegally), and that would have to be enough. Never mind that their efforts directly conflicted with every belief she held dear, including the Hippocratic Oath she had so proudly sworn four years prior.
Naomi looked over at him, those nagging thoughts snapping at her heels. The sight of those icy eyes, already fixed intently on her, was enough to make her start. He looked away nonchalantly, but she wasn't fooled. Her temper flared. It wasn't the first time she'd caught him staring and it likely wouldn't be the last.
"See something you like?" she coolly asked.
A hint of red touched his cheeks, but he was quick on the ball, countering, "Why? Are you interested?"
A flicker of disgust crossed Naomi's face, and she haughtily turned away from him. She didn't dare mouth off too much for fear of losing her position, but she was sorely tempted regardless. Her sharp tongue was well known in Delphi's ranks, and few men deserved it as much as the smug blonde standing right there. Naomi placated herself with the knowledge that his superiors wouldn't be too happy if they knew he was making passes at her.
She opened her mouth to remind him of that, but was suddenly cut off.
"We'll need your skills again shortly," he began.
The woman frowned; things must not have been going well if they needed her again. But his comment provided her with a ready-made excuse to tear into him, and she wouldn't let him have the last laugh.
"From your current treatment of me, I'm presuming you mean skill in the bedroom. If you're talking about operating, I would advise you to look me in the eye and ask again."
His cheeks burned, and from the dangerous look in his eyes Naomi thought she'd gone too far. Jaw set angrily and arms crossed viciously across his chest, he gritted out:
"We'll need your skills as a doctor again shortly."
She knew in that instant that she would pay for that rebuff someday. He wouldn't quite throw her to the wolves over it—although she knew better than to think that he didn't have the capability to—but he could very easily make things difficult for her. It was worth it; she would do the same to him in an instant. It was a wary trust the two held, their jobs dependent on one another, two equal forces held in tentative balance. Her comment had temporarily tipped that balance in her favor, but his savage pride would not tolerate it staying that way.
"You used to call on me less than once a month. Two operations in as many weeks is cutting it a bit close."
He scoffed, not bothering to hide the look of derision on his face.
"You do more than that by far at Old St. Brooks," he pointed out. "Or have you forgotten who lets you work there?"
Naomi rolled her eyes. "Of course not. Don't be stupid. The difference is that you need me for my Healing Touch. You cannot imagine how exhausting it is to use."
The man shrugged, conceding the point.
"You'll still be prepared, though?"
"For fifteen grand? It won't be a problem," Naomi agreed, although she was already trying to guess what her next job would be.
He never briefed her on those operations until scant minutes beforehand, a measure that he claimed was necessary for security reasons. Naomi privately thought that he just liked to remind her that she was nothing more than a wild wolf collared by her own decisions and lashed to their sled, tamely following orders. He hammered the point in with his lofty references to Delphi developments of which she knew nothing. Given how readily he jumped to do Professor Blackwell's bidding, though, she found his arrogance amusing.
"Now look who's staring," he remarked, quick to attack her. From his still-red cheeks, the blow to his dignity was not liable to heal anytime soon.
"I was just thinking about my next job," she replied, unperturbed. "I'm interested to see this GUILT virus of yours."
He barked out a short, dry laugh.
"If a man catches GUILT, he's as good as dead. It would break your terms of agreement if we assigned you such an operation," he replied with a cocky smirk.
"I've heard that Caduceus can successfully cure it. I wouldn't say it's untreatable."
His lips twisted in a mocking sneer.
"You'll get paid either way. I don't see how it matters."
"…Fair enough," Naomi agreed, burying her curiosity for the time being. "As long as the money comes through."
"I'll wire it into your account as always. We've been reliable thus far. There's no need to worry."
He was right, and as such she kept her mouth shut. Seemingly satisfied with her silence, he stretched and started towards her.
"We're leaving now," he flatly stated. Naomi scowled. She hated that he made split-second decisions to remind her that he was in charge. She rose to her feet, peevishly casting him an angry look.
His foot caught on the corner of the bench and he hit the ground hard. A belligerent curse hung in the still air, bringing a smile to her lips. That smile vanished abruptly as he spat out a dozen more in quick succession, the words dripping with pain that was entirely too exaggerated for a simple fall.
A splotch of red blossomed on the dark fabric of his blazer, seeping between the crevices of his splayed fingers as he pressed his hand to his side.
Naomi was at his side before she had time to think, her medical instincts taking over. She pried his fingers away from the bloodstain, grimacing when both of their hands came away gummed with gore. Pushing aside his shock, he helped her undo the buttons on both jacket and undershirt, shrugging them over his shoulders. Naomi's scowl softened at the way he winced as he peeled the fabric off of his skin.
An ugly laceration marred his skin. The ends were poorly held together with coarse, sloppy sutures—the middle stitches had been completely torn out by his fall, ripping the gash open again.
"Lie down and hold still," Naomi commanded. His indignation forgotten, he obeyed her and settled onto the concrete floor.
Naomi quickly washed her hands, pulled her hair back, and fetched her black medical bag. He squirmed, eyes fixed warily on her as she snapped on a pair of latex gloves and hooked a disposable mask over her ears, methodically disinfecting her equipment. A closer look revealed that there was little that she could do for him. There was no hope of stitching the wound back up, not with the holes from his prior sutures still perforating his skin in two neat rows, like the pips of a domino. More of them had been pulled out than not. Still, although it would certainly hurt him, it wasn't going to leave any permanent harm.
No, she was more concerned about the sickly yellow fluid oozing from the edges. She wished she could get her hands on the so-called doctor who had treated him and cram a medical textbook so far down his throat that he'd be coughing up blood for days.
The force of her anger shocked her. Why did she care at all? The man lying on the floor may have been a patient, but he was still the same hardhearted, sarcastic terrorist that she despised. He hadn't asked for her help or her concern.
She dismissed those thoughts, tearing off a few squares of gauze.
"This is going to hurt," she warned, dabbing at the cut a moment later. He hissed a low curse, stiffening, but he stayed put while she cleaned the rest of the wound. As she carefully cut out the useless stitches, she softly asked, "What happened?"
"Someone knifed me," he muttered, shutting his eyes. Naomi couldn't tell if he was overcome by pain or merely hiding from her gaze. She would guess the latter, given the way he turned away from her.
"Was it a Delphi mission?"
He said nothing more, however, so she continued the procedure without further questioning. In short order, she had applied antibiotic gel to the laceration and secured the whole mess with a butterfly bandage. He would wear that ugly scar for the rest of his life. Still, there was no sense in letting it worsen; that infection would need to be treated.
"Change the bandage every twelve hours," Naomi instructed. "We'll have to put you on antibiotics for a few days, as well."
She looked back at him to see if he understood, frowning at the sight that greeted her. He was ghostly, taking deep, shuddering breaths and shivering in the cool air. The scowl had slipped from his too-young face, replaced with a sharp fear in his eyes. He looked hurt and alone and just as confused as she was.
In that instant, she realized that she didn't hate him…but at the same time, she hated that she didn't. It moved her to speak:
"How did you end up here?" she asked. "Most people don't go to college to become terrorists."
He was silent for a moment, surprise flashing across his face.
"It doesn't matter," he said. For another instant, he maintained eye contact, intriguing her with a tantalizing look at the frightened boy behind those frigid eyes. He broke away. For the first time that she'd seen, he put on the angular sunglasses that usually hung from his breast pocket. He dressed in silence, hiding behind the mirrored black lenses, unwilling to reveal anything else.
"I would beg to differ," Naomi replied, suddenly overwhelmed by strange memories and stranger realizations. No Delphi official had ordered him to go back and let her operate on the reporter who had chased her mere weeks ago. Delphi hadn't ordered their man to assist her in that procedure, and she knew in her heart that her arguments would not have been enough to sway any high-ranking member. It had just been him, acting…For what? For her?
Given the way he muttered, "In that case? It's none of your business", she didn't think it was likely that he'd spare even a passing thought for her sake. But the alternative—for himself—made even less sense. Hadn't he ordered her to let the reporter die? She sighed, filed the mystery away, and grudgingly moved on. She could puzzle over it later and perhaps find some measure of closure.
"We should go," she said.
He nodded curtly, but Naomi would not forget the look he had given her. It was impossible to with that splash of red still dyeing the fabric of his shirt and his movements tender, mindful of his wound.
"Do you want me to drive?"
She half-expected a sneer and a crack at the supposed driving skills of Asian women. Naomi had a vicious barb prepared for just such a joke; it was the sort that he'd used before with a smug little smile on his thin lips, eyes glinting with sardonic amusement.
"I'm fine," he responded roughly. In a soft, hesitant voice, he added, "…but thanks."