He waited about ten seconds, then knocked again. "Harrison?" Still nothing. "Respond, or I'm going to assume something's wrong," he said, just a hint of tension entering his voice. He counted to ten, muttered "fuck it," and stepped back, driving the heel of his boot into the door just below the handle. It flew open with a loud crack, and he stepped inside to assess the situation.
"Fuck."
He moved forward quickly, the control left at the door as he hauled her out of the tub and laid her out gently on the floor, heart pounding as he checked her pulse. She was burning up under his fingers, but alive, and he cursed himself for letting her out of his sight.
Her cheeks were a bright shade of pink, and there was a slight sheen of sweat on her brow that had no place being there, not dressed like she was. There was also the strong scent of alcohol in the air, and it would be difficult to judge how much of the vodka she'd actually swallowed. All in all, it wasn't a situation that looked encouraging.
He tried to think. They couldn't bring her to a hospital. That left it up to him. He needed to get the fever down. He turned the water on in the tub, as cold as it would go, and turned her head to the side in case she vomited. Then he started stripping her clothes off, trying to assess the damage. She was filthy, that was for sure, and the wound on her leg was dangerously inflamed, oozing milky fluid and smelling rotten. He looked over at the remainder of the vodka, and then poured it into the tub in the hopes that it would kill anything in the water. Then he turned the water off and lifted her in, ignoring how the cold water made his arms ache.
She woke up with a slurred swear, going tense in the cold, painful water, hands gripping the edges. "Wh- What the FUCK, Moran!"
He held her down as she thrashed, swearing under his breath. "Hold still, dammit! You were fucking unconscious and you have a fever! I need to get it down!"
She made herself relax, sinking into the water with chattering teeth, looking resentful and very miserable. "J-just get me an advil or something, for god's sake. Fuck, this is cold."
"You can't mix that with alcohol," he said, "And you smell strongly of it. I didn't know how much you had. I did the best I could, dammit, so stop complaining and work with me!"
"I stopped the struggling, what more do you want from me?" she muttered acidly, squeezing the edge of the tub to keep herself from reaching for her leg, which felt a spasm away from falling off entirely. "I think I've earned a little verbal saltiness, okay? Christ."
He didn't have a retort, so he sat back, one hand still on her arm, keeping tabs of her temperature, his face a touch pale as he took a slow breath.
She fell into a sullen silence, refusing to look at him. At least now he seemed a little more human. She glanced towards the door. The door was kicked in. He'd been in too much of a hurry to go find a key, then.
A few minutes of horrid silence later, he felt her fever drop, and sighed, reaching out to pull the tub stopper. "Just be glad I didn't use ice," he muttered with a sigh. They weren't out of the woods yet, and he knew it, but it was a start. "Come on. Let's get you out of here and I'll look at your leg."
She gave nothing but a grim nod and stood, silent except for a sharper breath as her leg thought about giving out. She'd survived worse this past week. And hell if she was going to show even the slightest bit of weakness in front of him.
He took careful note of her reactions, downplayed as they were, and reached out to steady her without comment, letting her step out of the water on her own, as much as he wanted to just carry her stubborn arse.
She grabbed a towel and wrapped herself in it without bothering to dry off her hair, and then looked at him dryly. "Where do you want me, doctor?" she asked, with liberal use of sarcasm.
He took another slow breath, though he wanted to snap back. "The bed will do fine," he muttered, pointing to the bedroom as he stooped down to haul out the large medical bag.
She nodded and managed to walk out of the bathroom without limping, making it over to the bed and simply letting herself collapse on it. Wow. She'd forgotten how great these things were.
He walked in a moment later, setting the pack down, still mentally ripping himself apart. Why hadn't he noticed last night how underweight she was? What if he'd just let her be? He could have woken up to find her dead, not unconscious.
The what-if game never helped anyone.
Neither does drinking. You planning on canning that one, too?
He shook off the mental battle and turned his attention to pulling out what he needed to clean the wound.
She stared up at the ceiling, deciding that it was better not to see what was coming. There was nothing that was going to make it hurt any less. But tensing up would certainly make it hurt more. Either way, it was a good distraction to thinking about him. That was bound to hurt just as much. She'd put that one off as long as possible.
He didn't give her any warning, knew better than that, and just set about starting to clean out the infected area to try and get a better look at what he was dealing with. He sighed. "You're gonna need more vodka," he decided, standing.
"I'm inclined to agree with you," she replied in a strained tone, hands fisted in the sheets, knuckles bone white. Then she jerked a little. "Not for the leg, right? Right?"
He sighed, and considered her for a moment. "Never mind. I'm giving you morphine," he muttered, turning to the bag and pulling out a small bottle and a glass syringe. "I'm going to have to cut away the dead tissue."
Lorna grimaced. Opiates, just what she needed at a time like this. But he was right. There was no way she was going to get through him taking a knife to her without seriously fucking it up if she wasn't drugged to hell. "Fine," she sighed, holding out her arm for him.
He took a breath as he prepped the syringe, glancing at her. "I'm sorry about this," he muttered, before pressing it into her arm and depressing the plunger, sitting back to let it work.
It took maybe 20 seconds for it to take full effect, and then she was feeling considerably less angry and a lot more... floppy. "I think it's... I think I'm good now," she mumbled, waving her fingers vaguely in the direction of her leg.
He nodded a little, giving her another ten seconds or so for the drugs to fully reach her extremities before he picked up a scalpel and got to work as efficiently as he could.
She could feel, numbly, something happening to her leg, but for the first time in almost two months she was in no pain. That was blissful. "So I guess... you were'na the one killin' my tails? Mm. Wonder whooo..." she sighed, starting to shift a little and then remembering she had to stay still.
"No, it wasn't me," he said distractedly, though he filed that information away for later. "What happened to you?"
"Armetti... Saw some of his people. They saw me, too. Tried grabbing me. Had t'run. Couldn't lead 'em here, either," she shook her head, trying her best not to slur her words and partially succeeding. "Tails started t'disappear. Started finding some dead. Rest dispersed. Think they were afraid. Dunno what they told Armetti. Dunno if they told him anything. He's volatile. More-so than Boss. Crazy, right? And crazy, I guess."
"Sounds like a mess," he muttered, finally setting the scalpel aside and pressing a compress hard against the wound to stem the bleeding.
She laughed. "Yeah, I know. I know. Missed you. Feel kinda stupid 'bout that now. Super rude last night. Y'raised in a barn?"
"You caught me off guard," he muttered, starting to pull out suturing equipment with his free hand. "I thought you were dead."
"I think the acceptable response was probably 'I'm glad you're not dead'," she snorted, rolling her eyes. "Even 'have a drink', or, 'nice to see you.'"
"Just shut up, okay?" he said a bit harshly, tossing the compress aside and threading the needle.
She fell silent with a quiet sigh, struggling to get back into the murky pleasantness the morphine offered. It was surprisingly difficult. Again, she wondered why she'd come back, willingly entered this madness again.
He started to stitch up the wound, feeling awful, his hands shaking slightly. He needed another drink. He'd thought for a moment he was going to lose her again. He was still worried. "Just don't fucking die on me again, okay?" he muttered, barely audible, as he worked.
"Alright," she murmured, sitting up when she felt his wrist brush her skin one too many times and gently prying the needle from his hands, taking over. "I'm a former drug addict. My hands are steadiest when I'm high. In case you wanted t'protest."
"Fine," he muttered, sitting back and watching her carefully. He was itching to go hunt, to get away from this, to think, but he didn't dare leave her like this.
"For what's it's worth, I'd be super pissed if I'd gotten back and you were dead. Probably would dig you up from whatever hole Jim buried you in t'give you a stern talkin' to," she mumbled distractedly, squinting down at her work as she finished stitching herself up and held out a hand towards him for scissors. "Also, this is gonna be ugly. Ugh. Why do bad things happen to pretty people."
He watched her work, then took the needle when she was done, and started dressing the wound. "We'll get it cleaned up once we're back in London. Get rid of most of the scar," he said quietly. He started wrapping her leg. "I got fucked up, Harrison. I pulled out of it, but I'm not going back to how we were. That isn't an option."
She bit her lip, hard, but the morphine took away the pain and it ended up being useless. "Yeah, I kinda figured," was all she said, waiting until he was finished wrapping her up to slide towards the edge of the bed. "Just lemme grab my shit, and I'll pass out on the couch."
He reached out to shove her backwards gently but firmly. "You're sick and injured. I have the couch." He stood, grabbed a bag and started packing his stuff into it.
She remained silent, figuring that explaining to him why she didn't want to be in a bed alone wasn't worth it. God, why did she come back.
He headed outside, and sat on the couch, pulling out a gun and starting to clean it, check it. He would go out tonight.
Lorna kept it together. Maybe not too surprising, considering she'd spent so much of the recent past locking everything down, keeping herself from falling apart. But god did it still hurt.
Jim waited until he heard the expected sounds of Sebastian leaving for the night before he put his plan into action. He left his room and walked over to Moran's quarters where Lorna was laid out on the bed, waiting around patiently for her to wake up.
She woke up quickly, too used to caution, too used to waking up to defend herself. Her eyes found Jim, and she tensed a little, then winced. "Ow. Have you come to give me my last rights?"
"Just here to assess your condition," he said, giving her a toothy grin. "I'm glad you're back. Not for me, really, but Moran has been a wreck. Really quite annoying."
She was silent for a moment, then remembered to keep up the 'I'm fine' act. "Mm. Really? Well, he pretty much dumped me, so I'm kinda regretting not taking my free out while I still had the chance."
"Well, you didn't know, did you? And I'm not surprised. It's hard to juggle fucking and serial murder." He shrugged.
She sighed, giving a mild shrug back. "Guess so. I wouldn't know. Not my business anymore, apparently."
"Apparently," he said, taking a seat, making it clear he had no intention of leaving anytime soon. "It really was fun watching him spiral. It tore him apart in some phenomenal ways, your 'death.'" He laughed.
"Thanks for that," she said dryly. "Now I have to get all my shit out of his flat again. And won't have a personal furnace during the winter. You've really inconvenienced me."
"And you've destroyed my right-hand man. I'd say we're even. Though I should thank you, I suppose. If I overlook the alcoholism and new tendency to kill people a few times a week, he's never been a better employee."
She shook her head a little, just looking at him tiredly. "What are you telling all this to me for, boss? Just to rub it in my face? What do you want from me?" she asked, nothing but exhaustion in her voice.
"Partly to rub it in your face, I suppose, yes," he said, smirking. Then, suddenly, the smirk dropped. "It seems to me that you've become necessary for his... functionality. Irksome as that is. Fix it. I don't care how. Clean up your mess. I want him back on track, whether he's dependent on you or not."
She couldn't speak for a moment, having trouble absorbing that. How? She couldn't force him into it - she couldn't force Moran into anything - and she felt sick at even the thought of trying to turn him into a mark, to manipulate him back onto the straight and narrow. "I'll..." she started uncertainly, after a long pause. "I'll do my best, sir. But Moran isn't exactly... flexible, once he's made up his mind about something."
"Do you know why I chose dear Sebby?" Jim asked, raising an eyebrow. "I had dozens of candidates. Men and women with years of experience. And yet I chose a boy who had just gotten kicked out of the military, barely a few years on this side of the operation. Why did I do that, do you think?"
"No idea, sir," she shook her head a little. If she had to guess she'd go with Sebastian's stone-cold killer instinct, but somehow she didn't think that that would be taken seriously, and, therefore, not well.
"I had created a test," he said, leaning back against the bedpost. "For a lot of things. Loyalty, ability to work with my unique leadership style..." He chuckled. "As my bodyguard, it would be their primary goal- above anything else- to protect me. From anything, including from myself. Each candidate was walked into a room, one at a time. I stood a hundred feet from them, holding a gun to my head, and they had thirty seconds before I would pull the trigger. The gun was not loaded, but they were told it was. If they got too close, I warned them I would shoot anyway. Most tried to talk me out of it. A few threatened me, bribed me, a few left. All failed. That was their job, to fail. I didn't expect them to win, I wanted to see how they acted."
"And what did Moran do?" she raised an eyebrow, now genuinely interested. "He come at you?"
"He couldn't," he said, shaking his head. "Not too close, remember?" He smirked. "He took in the situation for about three seconds, pulled out his gun, and shot me in the gun arm." He rolled his sleeve up, showing her a round, pale scar in his forearm, and a slightly larger one on the other side, where the bullet had left. "Then, once I dropped the gun and started swearing at him, he calmly walked forward, tore his shirt up, and started field dressing it."
"Pragmatic. Sounds like him," she snorted. Then shrugged a little. "I'm not sure I see your point, though. Are you suggesting I, what... shoot him in the arm? Rip off the bandaid?"
"Neither," he said, leaning back. "I'm saying that that's the new-in-box condition that my tiger was in until you came along, and that's the condition I want him in again."
"Boss, I can't..." she let out a huff, unsure how to word it appropriately. "I can't change people. I change myself in reaction to people, make myself what that person will respond to. I can't... unwind him. Believe me, I kinda wish I could."
"I don't care if you can or can't, you will. You aren't the only one who's going to receive this speech. He'll get an ultimatum as well. He straightens out, or I'll put him down myself. I don't have time to coddle."
"So I guess that euthanasia includes me too, huh?" she sighed, though it didn't look as though the prospect particularly troubled her. "You know, boss, and this is probably the morphine talkin', you're probably my favorite employer, living or dead. You say right out what you want. I appreciate that, I do," she murmured, reached out to pat his knee, and thought better of it, tucking her hand back by her side. "But look, this has been great and all, but I'm feeling just a little delirious and I'm not sure how much more you're gonna get out of me that makes sense before I start thinking you're someone else."
He raised an eyebrow at her speech, but nodded, standing. "I want this resolved, Harrison."
"You got it, boss," she mumbled, rolling over and burying her face in the pillows, trying to get the room to stop spinning.
Sebastian came in in the early hours of the morning, setting his gun aside to clean in the morning and heading for his room, before remembering that Harrison was there now and heading for the couch instead.
Jim was waiting, sitting in an armchair to the side. "We need to chat, Moran. I've already had it with Harrison. Hopefully she'll remember it tomorrow, she's got quite the fever. Radiating heat like a fireplace."
He glanced at the door, but sat. The boss came first. He could get meds in her once they were done here. "What about?"
"You." Jim had a mild smirk on his face, mostly because the sniper was already itching to go to the woman's aid. "Your quality of work has been fine. Excellent, even. But since her 'death,' you've been different. A different I don't like. Your job is not to be the perfect run-of-the-mill employee. You're my bodyguard. I'm sure you don't need to be reminded." He paused, running his thumb across a rip on the arm of his chair, a thoughtful look on his face. "You think that what you did was facing the hard truth, but it wasn't. You coped with it by distraction. But I need you to face the hard truths, Moran. If you can't, I'll have to find someone else to do it."
He felt something cold drop in his stomach. "I did face the truth, sir," he said evenly. "Not everyone recovers nearly so immediately as I do. If I recall correctly, I didn't even take a night off, just kept working. I'm not sure how else you expect me to handle this."
Jim snorted. "You didn't recover. You developed alcoholic tendencies, and the crime rate in the city has gone up 2% in the time that we've been here. You coped, maybe, but you didn't face the hard truth of it. One of you was always going to die first. Someone important to you was always going to die first." He sighed, shaking his head slightly, gaze drifting to the door to Moran's room. "I say important, and not someone you care about, and that's a distinction I made on purpose. You're going to die before me, Sebastian, if you do your job right. And you're important to me. You've kept me alive through the thickest of it. When you die, if I have to kill you, it will be something I'll have to deal with. I can function without you, but it's more... inconvenient for me to do so."
He looked back at the sniper, his face serious. Solemn, even. This was, after all, the only person in the world who he entrusted his well-being to. But then again, things with Moriarty were never as soft as 'solemn.'
"I don't care what you have to do to get yourself away from being the perfect soldier and back to being my bodyguard and chief of staff. But find a way to function properly. Not eke by. Function. Kill her if you have to, get the closure you need, I don't care. But I hate the smell of festering wounds."
"Fine," he says quietly. "Though to be fair, you never cared about my extracurriculars before. Nothing I've done can be traced to us." He took a breath. "Permission to speak freely?"
He shrugged a little. "Granted. I've certainly spoken a lot."
"If you don't want my head fucked up, don't fuck with my head," he said, bite to his tone. "You had no proof she was dead. I trusted you, far more than I should have, I know, but it was a convenient short-term solution and you took it without considering the consequences. Not only that, but you exhibited a complete mistrust in my abilities to perform my duties, as I'm almost positive the problem you were going to solve was my looking for her at the cost of our operation with Mallory. If you want to play rough with your toys, fine, your business. I know my place. But don't be surprised when they get broken."
He smirked, leaning back in the armchair. "I wouldn't say I'm surprised. But, I'll concede that it may have been poor judgment on my part. You know how I like my fun. Oh, fair warning, she knows all about your newest coping mechanisms. I would try to extricate yourself - if you're really going to - while she's ill. I would guess she'll put up less of a fight."
His nostrils flared slightly, but he held back any other reaction. "Define 'knows about,'" he said, voice unaffected.
"I told her how much of a wreck you became," he replied coolly, a cold grin on his face.
His expression did tense then. "Of course you did," he said, voice tight. "You know, for someone who wants this to resolve, you're doing a hell of a job unraveling it."
"I may want it over, but I my enjoyment of sadism tends to override that want," he drawled, unfazed. "Either way, it hardly matters if she dies. She won't argue then."
He took a slow breath. "You know, sir, if we're speaking freely, you're damn lucky I put up with your shite."
"You would be bored if we had it any other way, Moran," he said simply, folding his hands together in his lap. "And I'd be bored if you took too much of it lying down. Now, if you don't have anything else you need to get off your chest, I believe your damsel is in distress."
He leveled a long glare, but then stood, and headed quickly for the kitchen to grab motrin, a cloth, and a bowl of cool water. A few minutes later he entered his room, ignoring Jim's smirk boring into his skull, and walked over to where Lorna lay, eyes closed, face flushed and sweaty.
She shifted restlessly, eyelids cracking open as sound registered in her ears. "'M cold," she mumbled, managing to make his face clear for a moment before she gave up and shut her eyes again, deciding that the room moving around her wasn't worth it.
He walked forward quickly, setting the bowl aside and moving to the linen closet, pulling out some extra blankets, walking back over to tuck her in. "I know. Here... take some motrin, okay?"
She leaned up just enough to get down the pills before curling up on her good side and pulling the covers up to her cheek. She was miserable. There was no getting around it. She hated herself for wanting to ask that he stay.
He dipped the cloth in water and reached out to put it in her forehead. She looked miserable. He was torn for a few seconds, but hell, Jim wanted this resolved, right? He reached out to pull the blankets back and climbed in next to her. "C'mere. Get warm."
She burrowed into him immediately, her shivering becoming more evident. She didn't know if she'd ever been so sick before in her life. Christ, if she died from infection, she was going to be pissed. She curled her fingers into his shirt, suddenly fighting the inexplicable urge to cry. "I-... Nev'mind."
He wrapped his arms around her, tucking her close on the excuse of keeping her warm, his throat aching. Fucking Christ, he'd missed her. "I'm going to talk to Jim about getting a doctor in... you're bad..."
"I've felt better," she mumbled in agreement, breathing him in again, thankful that at least she could still smell his telltale tang of gunpowder. The fact that he was calling this off hurt almost as much as her leg.
"For right now let's just try to break this fever," he said quietly, rubbing her arms a little.
She shifted closer to him, if that were even possible. "M' sorry," she whispered suddenly, voice wavering. "I wanted t'call, but I was just... so worried I'd give you up, somehow. M' so sorry."
"Stop," he muttered, shaking his head. "Especially if you're working off of whatever Jim told you... he's just fucking with you. You did what you needed to. Just focus on getting better." He didn't say he was fine, because he wasn't and there was really no lying around that, but it wasn't her problem.
She fell into a miserable silence, wishing this had another outcome, that there was something, anything she could do to change his mind. But she'd been right from the beginning, hadn't she? This was never supposed to go well for her. She wasn't that lucky.
He couldn't kill her. That had never been an option and he knew it. So did Jim. That left two options: asking her to leave (as good as killing her in Jim's business, so also no) or fixing things between them. Fixing things also had two options: fixing things as a business relationship, or as an involved one. And the former hadn't worked in the past.
He was stuck and he knew it, and that was disturbing. He rebelled from being stuck. Freedom was his life force.
But now she was, too, damned as it made him.
He closed his eyes, holding her close and praying to those damned norse gods that the fever would break soon.
She faded in and out of consciousness for the rest of the night, mumbling under her breath and fidgeting during her less coherent stretches and shifting closer in her more coherent ones. In the early morning her fever finally broke. The room stopped tilting when she opened her eyes, but she still felt weak and drained, and her chest ached. Not from the fever.
He didn't sleep at all that night, and he only breathed easy once he felt her skin cool. He tucked her in a bit more carefully, trying not to scratch her with his 5 o'clock shadow as he shifted her under his chin. Fuck he had missed her.
She let out a long breath into his shoulder, letting down her weak guard for a moment to just be happy he was close again. You masochist.
"I feel a little better," she murmured, swallowing the dryness in her throat. "Not so... lurchy."
"Your fever's down," he agreed, tucking the blankets a little tighter. "Remember what I said about not dying again? You're still under orders."
"Wasn't really plannin' on it, but I'll take it under advisement," she sighed, pressing in a little more. Don't leave me. Please.
He sighed, felt her press closer, and debated. But he knew already what his course of action needed to be, if he was going to satisfy Jim's request.
"I need to go ask Jim about a doctor. I'll be right back, okay?" he said softly. He sat up but not before pressing a short kiss on her forehead. Decision made.
"Alright," she whispered, curling up tighter under the covers, trying desperately to keep herself from hoping, from feeling the rush of relief that flushed through her chest.
He climbed out of bed, and tucked her back in before heading for the bathroom and to shower and shave quickly. Then he headed out into the apartment. Jim was in the kitchen.
"I need to bring a doctor in, sir," he said calmly. "She has a bad infection and I don't know enough to deal with it."
"So you're keeping her, then," Jim replied mildly, in the middle of making himself tea. He sighed. "If you find one that passes the screening process, you have my permission. You're fortunate she's more valuable than she used to be."
"If I don't, then I'll take care of them afterwards. I just need them to consult," he said, straightening and heading to grab his laptop.
Jim just snorted and stayed where he was, taking a sip of tea. He'd never predicted how deep Moran would get into that little arrangement they had going. But it rarely inconvenienced him, and it was a benefit to have his best spy so loyal to his sniper, and, by degree, him, so he let it continue. And it was fun watching the two of them struggle.
He headed back into his bedroom and walked over to the bed, shifting in next to Harrison again, sitting up this time, leaning back against the head of the bed as he opened his laptop and started booting it up.
"I miss HQ," she sighed, her eyes closed. "Having an infirmary is just... so much easier, y'know?"
"I'm getting a doctor in here as we speak," he says, starting to look through their database for one based in New York.
"Mm. I know. Guess I mostly miss them being a few floors beneath us," she muttered, shifting over to rest her head on his leg, looking blearily at the list before losing interest and shutting her eyes again. "Sorry about my sauna-like conditions. Know you like the cold."
He shrugged. "I couldn't care less at the moment," he muttered, sighing. "Closest person we have is in Delaware," he muttered. "When the network regroups, the first thing we are doing is increasing our presence in the U.S. This is ridiculous."
"That'll be quite the expansion," she murmured. "Have to get a bunch of American employees. I don't think we have the numbers to stretch across this place as it is. Plus, my American accent is terrible."
"Then that's what we'll do," he muttered. "Alright... I'm going to just find someone who makes house calls. I'll deal with them afterwards."
She made a quiet noise of agreement in reply, drifting off a little. Infections didn't give a shit about worries and concerns. Infections wanted you to go the fuck to sleep.
It was two hours before he found someone inconspicuous enough that if he had to take them off the map, no one would look too hard. It was another three before he was letting the woman into the foyer at street level, and nodding for the elevator. "This way."
Melinda Carter didn't like to think of herself as a criminal. She did help people. Saved lives. But on the rare occasions she was contacted by various organizations - organizations that never gave her a name - she wondered about that fine line. Given the amount of money she was paid for her help and her silence, it seemed unlikely that whatever these people were doing was legal. So, she decided, as she stepped into the foyer and followed the shockingly intimidating Irishman down the hall, she would rationalize it. Focus on the one life she was in charge of. Keep the big picture out of it. "You said my patient has a severe infection. What have you done for them so far?" she asked sternly, in full professional mode. It took a little work not to stare at the scars on his face and wonder where he got them.
"She was on the streets for a while, and the infection developed then," he said as he hit the button for the appropriate floor. "When she came to us, I cleaned it out completely, cut away any dead tissue, and stitched it up. I've been giving her motrin for the fever, and it broke last night."
He reached out to hit the stop button, and the elevator ground to a halt mid-floor. "I'll need to search you and your equipment."
"I- Well, alright," she said hesitantly, offering her bag towards him. Really, what else could this organization be, if not crime? No political family member or something along those lines would have one (admittedly, very scary) security guard with no obvious signs of an earpiece. "Does she have any medical conditions, allergies, etc.?"
He started going through the bag carefully. "Opiates are to be used only as an absolute last resort," he said as he searched. Finally he nodded, setting her bag aside. "Arms out to the side," he said as he reached out to pat her down.
She did as asked, a little uncomfortably, calling forward the mental image of the paycheck she was going to be receiving as an incentive to keep going. "Noted. I rarely prescribe them to begin with. Too many issues down the line. Abusers, you know."
"Yes," he said expressionlessly. Satisfied that she was unarmed except for some scalpels, he handed her equipment and started the elevator again. "When you are in the apartment, I will accompany you at all times. There is no need for privacy of any kind. Understood?"
Melinda thought about arguing for patient-doctor confidentiality, took another look at him, and then decided against it. She nodded. Whatever was happening in this building, she wanted no part of it. Just do your job and go home.
He led her out onto their floor, and, shielding her from view with his body, lifted the doorbell to scan his thumb. The light turned green, he replaced the doorbell, and keyed into the apartment. "Come on."
She entered, the only sign of her anxiety the whiteness of her knuckles where she gripped her bag, and followed him to the first door in the hall. She was trying not to notice too many details, but it was hard.
He pushed in, letting the woman enter before walking over to Lorna. "Hey," he said, shaking her gently, careful not to use her name. "There's a doctor here. Wake up, okay?"
She made an unhappy noise, but her eyes opening, sliding over to the strange woman standing in the doorway. "Alright, let's get this over with," she grumbled, kicking tiredly at the covers until the gauze over her leg was accessible. "Did y'tell her I'll bite if she pokes too much?"
"I told her I would." He nodded the woman forward, reaching out to put a precautionary restraining hand on Harrison's shoulder as the woman started working the bandage free, just in case.
She hissed as the bloodied gauze was peeled away from her skin, revealing the angry inflammation underneath. The doctor made a mild noise of something like interest. "Definitely infected. How old is this wound? I can see where you cut away the necrotic tissue, but the rest... a couple months old, I'm guessing. Why did it go untreated for so long?"
Moran raised an eyebrow. "Yes. A few months. There were difficult circumstances surrounding the injury. High-stress, low hygiene. Information beyond that doesn't seem pertinent."
"Mm. Right," the doctor muttered distractedly, carefully stripping off the bandage the rest of the way and leaning down to rummage around in her bag, coming up with a bottle and a syringe. "Starting you off with a penicillin injection, so you don't lose the leg, then I'll leave you with some oral antibiotics," she hummed, very carefully leaning on the woman's side to keep her from jerking up as she used the needle. "He did a good job cleaning that wound, though."
Lorna was silent, because otherwise she would have been shouting expletives at the woman for sending a stab of pain through her leg. Fucking needles.
"As for painkillers, the best thing I can recommend is to continue giving her Motrin. More than the dosage on the bottle. You'd have to swallow the whole container at once to OD on that stuff. Take food with it, though."
He nodded, carefully listening to what the woman said, his grip on Lorna's shoulder becoming a little heavier as he felt her tense. "Alright. And that should keep the fever down?"
"If not down, to within acceptable parameters," she nodded, beginning to redress the wound, trying not to look too hard at it. Whatever this wound had been, it had been traumatized after the fact. You don't want to know what they're doing, remember? Come on, just finish up. "No unnecessary walking. Back and forth to the restroom only. Sit down in the shower. Etc."
"Okay," he said, nodding. "How often should the bandages be changed?" In the back of his mind, he considered the pros and cons of letting the woman live.
"Once a day should be fine, as long as the dressings aren't damp from drainage, blood, that sort of thing. If that happens, start changing them as often as you need to. And wash your hands. Very important, that," she nodded to herself, bending to pull a bottle of antibiotics out of her bag, handing them to him. "Give her those once every 12 hours. That should whack the bacteria back."
He nodded, tucking the pills into his pocket and letting up his grip on Harrison's shoulder. "Thank you." The words tasted rusty on his tongue, but they were deserved. "We'll contact you if there are any complications. I trust I don't need to spell out the reasons you should keep this whole interaction to yourself?
Melinda cleared her throat, looking uncomfortable, and shook her head. "No. Rather not know the details, if you don't mind."
"Wise choice," he said, giving her a cold smile, tombstone teeth flashing white. "Let's go, shall we? A deposit will be made by tonight to your account."
She nodded again and practically skittered away to the door, feeling a bit like a ghost was breathing down her neck. She was absolutely positive she never wanted to meet this man in a dark alley. Hell, she wouldn't want to meet him on a well-lit main street.
He followed her at an unhurried pace, long strides easily making up for her slightly panicked frenzy. That was the trick with these people. You just needed to make sure they were positive they never wanted to cross you, and then pay them well. Fear and loyalty blended well into silence.
Melissa suffered through the elevator ride, constantly adjusting her grip on her bag so she could wipe her sweaty palms off on her shirt. Almost gone, almost gone.
When the doors opened, she gave an audibly relieved sound. "Call me if you have any complications. Now I, uh, have a thing, so, I'm going to dash..."
"Ta," he said, still smiling. "It was a pleasure working with you, doctor. I do hope that you stay safe out there." He made no attempt to hide the threat.
She swallowed, and turned to almost flee out of the door, her heart pumping a little faster than it should have for a woman her age.
He watched her go, and the smile dropped. He pressed the button on the elevator, and watched her leaving until the door slid shut. He'd review his security feeds later to see where she'd gone. For now, he headed back to the apartment, and to his room, walking over to where Lorna lay and pulling the pill bottle out of his pocket, looking it over and examining the contents before tipping one into his hand and picking up the glass of water. "Here. Take this."
Lorna took it without complaint, then curled back up into a ball under the covers. Her fever had dropped, but she was still a little underweight from her month and a half of living on the street, and she carried little weight to begin with. "Thought she was gonna piss her pants, she was so scared of you. Y'still got it."
"It's one of my few marketable skills. I'd better still have it," he muttered, climbing in next to her and shifting her carefully against his chest. "How are you feeling?"
"Crummy," she sighed, struggling not to feel too comforted just by the fact he was close. If he followed through on what he'd said the day before (it was the day before, wasn't it? She had no idea how much time she'd lost in unconsciousness) it was only going to bite her in the ass later. There was just no predicting him, after all. "But better. Room's not spinning. That's nice."
"Okay," he said, nodding a little. "Well, it seems like you're gonna make it, at least mostly intact, so we'll call it a good day."
"We need to work on your bedside manner," she mumbled sarcastically, though without any bite to it.
"Admittedly not one of my strong suits," he chuckled, sighing.
"At least I'm not dying. I'd hate to see you not try to sugarcoat that one at all," she smirked, stretching out a little with a mild huff. "Ouch. Fuckin' bacteria."
He smirked a little. "You were high. It's allowed." He closed his eyes. "I settled things with Jim. He was just screwing with you, you can ignore what he said."
She didn't say anything. Just shifted to reach under and behind his pillow, retrieved the flask there, and set it down on his chest. "I don't know about the killing people, but that kinda sounds like you, too."
He felt the weight on his chest and didn't need to open his eyes to know what it was. It had moved in next to his knife a month ago. "That's medicinal," he muttered sarcastically.
"I used to be - still kinda am - an alcoholic. I know what that means," she snorted, though there wasn't a trace of anger in her voice, despite the fact he'd lied to her. She was too tired to be angry. She sighed. "We both knew this was going to be hard sometimes, right? I mean, when we first started to fuck and I got angry at you because I felt you put my life in danger for some sass to the boss, you told me that I had to accept the consequences. One of us is going to die first. Who knows which one of us it will be." She was silent for a moment, just looking down at the flask from where she was resting her cheek on his shoulder. "I don't know about you, but I don't want to give this up because later on down the line it might hurt."
He didn't react for a long time, and wasn't sure that he even would until he did. "If I don't change something, boss is going to put me down. That's the hard line. I don't have a choice anymore."
She let out a long breath, trying to get around the sinking feeling in her stomach. "Okay," she whispered, squeezing her eyes shut. "You know where I'll be if you think of a way to make it work. I don't want to have a hand in your death."
"Don't jump the gun," he muttered. "The best way I can think of to fix this is to try and go back to how things have been in the past. As long as I can put on a show for Jim I don't think he'll care what I do with my free time. I can balance."
"Christ, maybe lead with that next time, huh?" she huffed, trying not to sound overly relieved. "Jesus. You trying to kill me after all? There are nicer ways to do it."
He shrugged a little, eyes still closed. "You're an extreme weakness on my part, and I hate that. But it is what it is. I can't fix it. I just need to accept it and move on." That was going to take a long time. He'd turned the barrel of his gun on himself for the first time in his life that first week, and seeing that side of yourself wasn't something you just walked away from.
"Easier said than done, I know," she sighed. "I'm not required to be nearly as strong as you and I still beat the shit out of myself for letting myself care."
He smirked just slightly at that. "On a lighter note, apparently the crime rate's gone up two percent since we've gotten here. I feel proud."
She chuckled. "Really? Fuck, I'm proud of you. Maybe you did pick off some of my tails, just on accident. God knows they started dropping like flies. Seems unlikely you would have gotten all of them, though. Wonder who else is out there."
He nodded a little. "So do I. I'm going to start looking into it. That's a bit suspect."
"I would try to contact some people I knew back when I was part of that network, but as far as I know, they're all dead. People who work there don't have a long shelf life," she muttered, picking a piece of lint idly off his shirt. She snorted. "You know, I wouldn't be surprised if it's Armetti himself killing his own people off. Sick bastard. Wish I'd never met him."
"You say that about many of your former employers, I've noted," he said softly, sighing. He sat up. "Get some rest. I've got some things to do for Jim."
"I say that about the two sick bastards I worked for in the past. The rest were just dumb," she muttered, rolling over and curling up under the blankets again, despite the fact she was now on her bad side.
He rolled his eyes but didn't respond, heading out into the hall.
Jim sat in his office, tapping the edge of his laptop as he considered the screen. He'd written up the report, the so-called 'anonymous tip'. As much as he wanted to send it now, the timing wasn't right. He was going to need Harrison in order to get to the right people, just like he had in the past, and she was out of commission for at least the next week, if not two. Sebastian would get a small vacation, then, it seemed. He saved the report, and shut his laptop.
Where there is desire
There is gonna be a flame
Where there is a flame
Someone's bound to get burned
But just because it burns
Doesn't mean you're gonna die
You've gotta get up and try, and try, and try
- P!nk - Try -