#meurtriier

          “that’s a rather nasty wound. yes. i noticed. did you notice you’ve trailed blood into the tube?” he speaks lowly as the subway slows to a halt and the doors slide open. people rush out, stepping around them, disappearing from view, clearing the way aboard. 

          “you could use a doctor,” he says softly, not looking directly at the other man, his lips barely move with his words, meant to be unseen. he knew the looks of a man who didn’t want to go to the hospital, and generally, that meant that said person was not so differently aligned than himself. 

          still. hackles raised easily, paranoia made men do stupid things. even when injured in public. best not to press to hard, or else he’d end up with more blood on his hands than intended.

          he isn’t exactly PLEASED with the current predicament, as evidenced by the tight-lipped frown he wears as he looks sidelong over his shoulder at the other man.  he doesn’t like feeling trapped  --  especially in the literal sense  --  though even as his mind flies through the details of his training to attempt to find a solution to their problem, he still has time to feel ANNOYED.

          ❛   is YOUR fault.   ❜   he hisses through closed teeth.   ❛   if I had been alone for this mission  --   ❜

          “woah woah-- c’mon dude, you really don’t have to do this. just... just take a deep breath, okay?”

It takes more effort than Cal’s put into damn near anything to put on the persona of Gordon Flynn, Templar, enemy of the Assassins, vicious in a cold way that contradicts his usual fiery anger. The whole thing is made harder still because, whether he knows it or not, Mats reacts to him differently. Works for the ruse, of course, but he can’t wait for the blonde to grow out, for his cheekbones to not look quite so gaunt. His reflection is a stranger that he can’t wait to be rid of. He hates the uneasiness that follows in the wake of Gordon, especially from Mats.

Later, though. They have a lot to get done here, and Gordon Flynn won’t sleep until it’s finished.

Cold blue gaze peers down at Mats through the glass; a practiced look, because it’s difficult not to look fondly at him, even at their worst. Even when they fight. But he’s got it down now, and Gordon’s lips barely twitch into a smile as he lets out a laugh - almost polite, mostly pandering. He chooses to ignore the question asked of him. “Corbeau Matthias Thierry,” he says, letting slip the Irish accent his father had that Cal never really picked up on but can emulate at the drop of a hat.

    ———  it is.  it  definitely  is.  beau isn’t enough of a  remorseful  sort to actually feel bad about it  ;;  he’d figured mats for  unconscious  &&  to the awake went the spoils.  not that he’s not willing to  share.  he even goes so far as to lower the remaining pizza slice to  EYE LEVEL  for the assassin lounging in his lap.

    “ want some  ? ? ” 

“good morning, mathias.” a small smile is offered in his direction, a cup of coffee placed delicately before him. she’s CERTAIN her presence is at best, an annoyance at and worst, outright INFURIATING, but sophia has long ago learned to stop evaluating success by whether or not she is LIKED. 

it would be a welcome ADDITION, perhaps, but in no way does she expect it.

Even if Cal hadn’t been tipped off, he feels like he would’ve figured it out anyway. Mats is talking too much, even for him, and it’s almost too easy to know that there’s more wrong here than he’s letting on. Sometimes he finds it strange, the things they do tell each other, and the things they choose to hide, and how they find it all out in the end anyway, so why bother? But they still bother, still hide things, still try to act casual even when it’s borderline too cheerful, too normal, too off-putting.

“Already talked to Moussa,” he says, his voice hard, no softness to round out the edges. “And Lin. And now I’m talking to you.” He knows there’s more here than what Mats is letting on, and he’s trying not to be upset over it, but for this to be something Mats doesn’t tell him about? Of all things? It makes Cal’s skin burn and his heart pound, and he has to cross his arms to keep his hands from visibly shaking in anger. 

He knows everything is different when he gets inside. It feels wrong, like a sort of solemnity has fallen over the place, and if he hadn’t been panicking before, he is now. No one looks at him as he moves through the halls, eyes averted, no one wanting to tell him what the fuck is going on, and it makes him almost as angry as he is nervous. Answers, he just wants answers, and no one will even look at him to give him any idea at all, and it’s infuriating and makes him panic and-

He gets at least one answer when he bursts into the set of rooms used as a makeshift doctor’s office. Stevie lies on one of the beds, an IV in her hand, breathing mask covering her nose and mouth, bandages wrapped around her and it takes no expert to know she’s bruised and battered, and the cast around her arm means at least one broken bone. She’s on a machine to assist with breathing, and even the rise and fall of her bandaged chest seems staggered. She’s hurt. She’s unconscious and barely breathing and broken and hurt and Cal can’t decide if he wants to break down and cry, or if he wants to kill everyone who did this to her.

Both seems like a good middle ground.