WARNING: Not a happy section.

Day 4: June 3rd, 1819

In which the hero assimilates the villain.

He sits on his bed because she tells him to, says nothing as she moves around his quarters (so familiarly, stabs at his heart like butterfly wings) and pulls his bandaging supplies out of the wreck of his things. "What hurts more, your head or your thigh?"

Good question. He pokes at the blossoming blood stain on his pants, winces. He pokes at the trail of blood from his temple and winces. "Dunno."

She purses her lips and nods. "Head first, then." She puts a towel into his right hand. "Hold that against the puncture, hard."

He doesn't nod, just does it, clenching both hands around his right thigh and feeling the blood seep into the thin towel. "Won't last long."

"Won't need to. You're going to the doctor."

The rage starts to bubble up; he grunts, pushes it down with both hands and all the force in his body. "No need."

"Marcus—"

"Plenty of other people he's got to tend to. Can't even be sure he's functional himself. I'm fine."

She's grabbed him by the chin and wrenched his gaze up before he fully knows what she's doing. "You have blood pouring out of you from two separate places and bruises all over. You are not fine."

"Then shut up and patch me up!"

That flash in her eyes—and how did it take him so many months to recognize it?—and she closes her mouth. It's silent and awkward for a few minutes, but she tries again like he knew she would. "That was very brave, what you did."

"Didn't do shit."

"Ibrahim would disagree."

"Just gave him a push out the door."

"You saved his life."

"Didn't do shit."

She's wiping the blood from his face tenderly, lovingly. "It was heroic."

The rage comes up again, higher, stinging in his throat. He grimace-grins, tamps it down. "You know what I think of heroes." It almost comes out: you know what I think of you. He tamps it down.

"Stupid fools who just manage to get a whole bunch of other people killed," she repeats, almost smiling. Her towel moves across his mouth. "Nosebleed," she whispers. "Marcus, you really do need to see the doctor—"

It's up and out. He shoves her aside—too hard, into the wall—and vomits twice in quick succession at his bedside. It's draining and rejuvenating; all that rage is in his veins now, pumping and chanting and pulling and pushing. He takes the towel from his thigh, wipes his mouth with it, tastes alkaline with his acid and loves it.

She comes forward, touches his shoulder, and he shoves her back again, harder, angrier. "Marcus, what the—"

"Don't you fucking touch me."

He snarls. He's pulled upright by this new strength in his blood. He takes a belt and ties it tight around his upper thigh, tight 'til it hurts, 'til it feels good. When he turns around she's standing in shock by his desk; such a good little warrior. On the desk there are makeshift weapons—letter opener, penknife, ink. Behind her are racks and racks of unloaded but solid stocked rifles. He can see why she always wins.

"Marcus, please just sit down, you're too injured to be like this." She's speaking very slowly, very steadily. Her eyes are wide and her lips stay apart when she's not speaking, making sure she gets enough air. He likes this; this type of power is new. "Please, querido, just sit down and I'll get the doctor—"

"And he will come running for you, won't he?" he hisses, stepping forwards through the mess, rolling up his bloodied sleeves. There are small cuts all over his forearms; she winces when she sees them but doesn't step forward, doesn't leave the safety of the weapons. "Even if it's me he has to treat, you just ask him and he'll come running."

She closes her eyes; she thinks she knows what this is about. "Marcus. I thought—no, we are. We've been over this. There is nothing between Dr. Helm and me—"

He rushes her, slams her against the wall and loves the cry of pain from between those parted lips. He holds her there, bloody right thumb stroking her neck, bloody left hand pinning her right above her head. "You lying whore."

There, that flash in her eyes again, the anger. How was he so blind? "You bastard, get off of me."

He presses at the base of her neck with his fingers, tilts her chin up with his thumb. "There's nothing between Helm and Tessa Alvarado, I'll give you that." He speaks softly, right into her ear, her mouth, her skin, feels her pulse beating hard hard hard into his fingers. "But you're asking me to believe that he and the Queen of Swords are just friends. That you go running to him every night you're out because you're just a friend!"

Her eyes—a new flash, this time, darker and softer. "You're out of your mind," she whispers. Whispers because it's hard for her to lie when the other person knows.

He just smiles, glances up to her right hand which is clutching the penknife. "You gonna use that on me, sweetheart? Finally get me out of the way?"

She searches his eyes, his face, but even he doesn't know what the hell to make of this rage which is both berserk and calm, switching moment to moment. Her grip loosens; the knife handle hits his wrist and deflects to the floor. "No," she whispers. Whispers because she's crying.

The rage won't let him feel for the tears. "I wouldn't care, you know. If you'd told me, trusted me like that. Or maybe if it'd happened like this, with me just figuring it out. I think I'd be okay." Tears rolling down her cheeks now, but he doesn't feel that tug, that ache under his ribs. "But you—and him—"

She shakes her head. "There's nothing—"

"Don't keep lying. Don't."

She keeps shaking her head, keeps whispering, "Nothing."

The rage flips upside down. "I saw you, you fucking whore!"

Her left comes up and cracks him right on the cut to his temple. Her right follows up as soon as it's free, a flat-palmed strike to the front of his shoulder that sends him crashing on his back. "Don't you ever—"

"Whore!" he screams out, and kicks her legs out from under her. "I saw it! I saw him touch you, saw him kiss you, you fucking slut!"

She backhands him when he tries to stay above her. Her left is as good as her right—he should know that by now—and it stings, everywhere she's hit him and everywhere he's landed. "Don't call me that," she spits at him, moves to get up but he tackles her down.

The move doesn't work; she ends up on top. "Slut," he hisses. "Whore."

She's all-out bawling, backhands him halfheartedly. "He kissed me. I didn't want him to. I left. That was it."

"Liar."

She slaps him again, chokes on sobs. "I wanted to tell you. For so long."

"Shut up."

"I didn't want you to know like this. I didn't want this to happen."

He throws her off of him, rolls onto his stomach and vomits again. She curls up against the side of his desk, watches him for a long time. He pillows his head on his forearms, breathes from under his bicep, ignores the black circles flashing in and out of every image. "Trust in you. You told me to trust in you."

She sobs again. The black circles come faster.