Did Jacket break into Sokol's apartment and pass out on his couch somewhat bloody? Yes, yes he did.
White leather. Of course it had to be the white couch.
Houseproud bastard that he is, Sokol should throw the chicken man out onto the street. Let the dogs pick him clean.
But like a falcon drawn to the twitch of wounded prey, Sokol has always been like this. Can’t leave blood alone, can’t leave a broken thing be. Instead, his feet carry him forward, slow, deliberate, until he’s close enough to see the crimson blooming across the cushion like an oil spill.
It shouldn’t be anything to worry about. Jacket always finished what he started. If he dragged himself back here, it meant he won. Still, this was a first. Bypassing the safehouse, breaking into his bachelor’s pad. Maybe the altercation happened nearby.
“Chicken,” he mutters, the word scraping low against his throat. “You vanish. Then crawl back here to bleed?”
The box of medical supplies come out, and Sokol dresses the wound with methodical ease. By the time he pats down the last stitch, morning is already bleeding into the sky.
Jacket doesn’t stir. Doesn’t even twitch when Sokol presses hard into the wound, knuckling against bruised ribs. He should care more. He should care less. But as long as that chest rises and falls, he tells himself it’s fine. No dying now. Not yet.
