#no mint

A breath was the process by which air is transferred in and out of the lungs, with the purpose of the dissemination of oxygen to the pulmonary glands and bloodstream, as well as the discharge of carbon monoxide. In technical terms, it was an egressive pulmonic aistream mechanism. Well, it would depend on the direction of the airflow. Egressive meant inward. Ingressive meant outward. Both, at present, burned like seven hells. 

Bigby’d learned that once in a mundy bar downtown, where some half blotto chrome dome professor from the university by the park had decided to celebrate hump day and subsequently chew the wolf’s ear off.  It sprung to mind only because the silver knife buried to the hilt between his ribs was currently making the very act he was cogitating upon difficult indeed, and the ridiculous rumination made for a decent distraction from the fact that every breath felt like a thousand tiny blades piercing his sides from within. 

It hurt to breathe. So he didn’t. 

The cab ride up from the Meatpacking District took thrice the length of time, had he not hailed it in the middle of rush hour, but what could he do? Bleed out on the subway? It was New York, after all, though. One of those unique places where a man with a knife protruding from his back just might not be the weirdest thing on that particular subway car. But still, Bigby liked to spend his impairment in as much privacy as the backseat of a taxi might afford.

The cabby was of the predictably shitty sort: one clipped address through gritted teeth (’corner of Broadway and 79th, please’), and a wad of cash tossed into the front seat, he’d hardly even bothered to look back at Bigby grimacing in his backseat, contorting his face into a gallery of caricatures that might have been comical, had they not been indicative of the monumental pain he was in. 

Nearly two hours later and Bigby had still not taken a breath, finally staggering out of the taxi and dragging himself into the marble-inlaid lobby of Zevran’s apartment building. The crow was in town. He’d just checked in with him a week ago, to debrief him of his latest mission to the Rus, and it was unlikely he would have taken off without checking in with him first, so Bigby knew he had to be in Manhattan still. Whether he was home, was another story. 

“Zevran, open up,” he called hoarsely, pounding on the door with his meaty fist, ignoring the sidelong looks of the nosy neighbors tho peeked their heads out to see what the commotion was. Breathing hurt. Speaking hurt more. “Zevran, it’s me. It’s Bigby.” Nothing.

By that time, the hallway had cleared, enough that Bigby could lift the four corners of Zevran’s welcome mat with the toe of his boots to see if he’d left a spare key. Of course he wouldn’t have. But there was a spare lock pick hidden away in the door jamb, under the camouflage of tape painted to match it.