"I mean, you really messed up, didnāt you? Big time."
If he didnāt have quite so many prideful bones in his body, he might have admitted that his current predicament was of his own device. The hookārusty and jagged and familiar, and the basementādim and red and cold.
The stairs give a low groan, and it draws his attention to the familiar figure, carefully stepping around a few unfriendly beartraps on the floor. Ace Visconti, fortunately-unfortunately. Two eyebrows quirk up at Jake, arms fold as he takes a long look at the other.
āDonāt say anything-ā Jake grits out, teeth pressed behind a frown.Ā
āGreat moves back there, running your mouth āfront of Macmillan like that.ā āĀ And then catching yourself in a trap as soon as you vaulted a window. The frustration reads clear in the pinch between Jake's eyebrows. As always, thereās humour on Aceās crooked grin as he carefully angles to get a hold on him. A mutteredĀ āReady?ā and heās lifted down from the hook, biting into a gloved hand to stifle as much of the scream that tears from between his teeth as possible. They both stumbleāJake tries to catch himself anywhere but against Ace.Ā
āIām fine,ā he huffs. With one hand over the open wound, and the other against the wall, he forces the whimper in his throat to stay there, eyebrows furrowed down in the utmost concentration. His fingers tremble where they clutch at the bloodied fabric.
Ace offers an arm to support him, gestures vaguely at the minefield by the stairs. āThink we can avoid these ones, sly?āĀ
The look Jake directs back is somewhere between deadened and a scowl, and the gambler raises his hands in a slight surrendering motion;Ā Iām sorry, you make it so easy. Heās teasing, as per his nature, but Jakeās pride is already injured enough to render his patience paper-thin.
Begrudgingly, he takes the support of Aceās shoulder.