[ No point in replying through text when he's already pulled out the kit (which is actually a big ol' toolbox worth of stuff because his partner often makes questionable life choices) to check that they'd restocked on sutures, and is ready to go. He'll be downstairs before he could finish an actual response.
Door's open means he just lets himself in when he hits South's floor, and there she is on the couch looking like she went twelve rounds with somebody. He doesn't see anything bleeding profusely like a gunshot or stab wound, though. Which means... ]
Well, I can already tell it wasn't Felix. That's something.
[ Besides that comment he doesn't prompt her to start talking, though. The kit gets set on South's coffee table as he claims the spot next to her, flipping the lid open and looking her over more closely to see what he needs to get out. ]
Jesus fuck, no, it wasn't fucking Felix. I'm not— actually, no, I can't fuckin' finish that sentence, 'cause I am a fucking idiot.
[ Her face is already starting to bruise up something fierce, under the bag of peas she is holding to her face like she said she was. Her bottom lip is split in a way that it's hard to tell it's from a punch, or from someone using their teeth. There's bruising blooming down her back and in several other places, too, all typical of a fight, including the knuckles of one hand—a hand she's broken before, not that Drake knows that.
Beyond the bruises, there's still fresh scratches, the kind you're only going to get from someone deliberately raking nails over skin. It's not the worst South's ever been beat up, but it's the worst she's had since she got here where the only fights she's had have been spars and the sex that led to bruises was still less intense than— all this. ]
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[ No point in replying through text when he's already pulled out the kit (which is actually a big ol' toolbox worth of stuff because his partner often makes questionable life choices) to check that they'd restocked on sutures, and is ready to go. He'll be downstairs before he could finish an actual response.
Door's open means he just lets himself in when he hits South's floor, and there she is on the couch looking like she went twelve rounds with somebody. He doesn't see anything bleeding profusely like a gunshot or stab wound, though. Which means... ]
Well, I can already tell it wasn't Felix. That's something.
[ Besides that comment he doesn't prompt her to start talking, though. The kit gets set on South's coffee table as he claims the spot next to her, flipping the lid open and looking her over more closely to see what he needs to get out. ]
no subject
Jesus fuck, no, it wasn't fucking Felix. I'm not— actually, no, I can't fuckin' finish that sentence, 'cause I am a fucking idiot.
[ Her face is already starting to bruise up something fierce, under the bag of peas she is holding to her face like she said she was. Her bottom lip is split in a way that it's hard to tell it's from a punch, or from someone using their teeth. There's bruising blooming down her back and in several other places, too, all typical of a fight, including the knuckles of one hand—a hand she's broken before, not that Drake knows that.
Beyond the bruises, there's still fresh scratches, the kind you're only going to get from someone deliberately raking nails over skin. It's not the worst South's ever been beat up, but it's the worst she's had since she got here where the only fights she's had have been spars and the sex that led to bruises was still less intense than— all this. ]