A labored breath escaped him, along with another rivulet seeping through his shirt. His free hand itched for the cell phone lying beside him on the cement. Backup was on the way, taking a bit long though.

Time was always the question and the challenge. The decisions in between were what he was usually good at, even in moments like these.

He picked up the phone. He ignored the shake in his hand as his thumb pressed a series of digits he’d long ago memorized, just in case he ever had to call you from a phone that wasn’t his, on a line that couldn’t be traced. This was one of those times.

The line rang so long, he was losing hope that you’d answer.

Until your voice finally greeted him, with a raspy clearing of your throat and sleep-laden confusion.

“Hello?”

His lips raised toward a smile. “Hey, sweetheart. Sorry I woke you.”

“Russ? Hey…what’s this number you’re calling me from? You okay?” you asked. He heard the shifting of fabric.

He could imagine you sitting up in bed, leaning on your elbow as the sheets slid down your body a little. He closed his eyes. He could pretend he was there with you, sliding in from behind and burying his face in the familiar hollow of your neck and shoulder. Your hair would tickle his forehead, but he’d get the flowery mix of your soap and body lotion stuck in his nose, rather than the copper tang of blood.

“Yeah, everything’s cool,” Russell said. He bit the inside of his lip as the gray ceiling momentarily turned charcoal in his vision. There was numbness in his fingertips. “Just had a minute, wanted to check up on you.”

“I’m good,” you said. “Miss you though.”

He was trying to keep his breathing shallow, but he needed a deeper one then.

“Miss you too, baby.”

“When will you be home?”

“Soon as I can,” he said, stifling another pained grunt as he shifted against the wall. “Keep the lights on for me.”

“Yeah? Last time you said that, you were held up for three weeks," you said wryly. "Think I need to collab with Dory and invent a virtual lie detector."

“You know what, maybe you should just tell me what you’re wearing. Give me some ideas on how to make it up to you when I get home,” he teased, though it ended on a shallow cough.

His gaze wandered the warehouse. It looked like it hadn’t been in use for a while, but he could smell the remnants of sawdust and mildew in the air. The only light came from the slivers filtering in through the closed exit doors, and a small window for ventilation near the ceiling.

He didn’t think he’d go out in a fucking backwoods middle of nowhere place like this, but it was as decent as any he could expect in this line of work. Good enough, if he got to talk to you first.

But you didn’t laugh like he expected.

“Baby,” you said. Concern crept back in. “For real, are you okay? You don’t sound right.”

“Yeah,” he said, clearing his throat. “Just a little tired. Waiting on someone to get here, so we can get this show on the damn road.”

Just then, he heard the sound of wide tires pulling to a stop outside the warehouse. Russell didn’t relax just yet. That could've either been his backup, or his target's delayed reinforcements. He tucked the phone between his ear and shoulder on his right side, wincing at the pain the movement caused as he reached for his gun.

“Actually, they just got here. Gotta let you go,” he said.

“Russ, wait.”

“I love the sound of your voice, you know that?” he said, flickering at a smile. “And I love you.”

“…I love you too,” you said, on a slightly unsteady breath.

He knew he hadn’t convinced you that everything was fine. You were too smart, knew him too well by now.

Regardless, he had to hang up. Then he raised his gun at an angle that still kept his elbow steady, resting against his side.

The door scraped against the ground as it opened. The man’s tall gait came in swiftly, then picked up speed. Russell’s vision might've been blurring on the edges, but he recognized that blonde head. He was able to relax, lowering his gun.

“Russ,” Colter said, grabbing his brother’s shoulder that didn’t have a hole shot through it, just inches below. “Hey, you with me?”

“Mhmm,” Russell said, as his eyes closed on him for a second. He forced himself to stay awake through sheer willpower. “Not goin’ anywhere, little brother.”

“That’s right,” Colter said more firmly. The worry was clear in his brown eyes, but he smiled anyway, digging into the small duffel he brought with him. He went for the antiseptic and the bandages first, then the pliers. “You’re lucky I wasn’t too far.”

He moved back Russell’s jacket, then tore at the collar of his grimy, blood-stained shirt.

“Who me? I’m fine,” Russell said. “I’ve had way worse than this.”

“You don’t look fine,” Colter said, trying to gently pry Russell’s hand away from the wound. “Here, let me see.”

“I’m good.”

“No, you’re not. Move your hand so I can see?”

Russell smirked. “So bossy.”

Despite himself, Colter shook his head in amusement.

“What happened?” he asked.

“Nothing I couldn’t handle. You should see the other guy.”

“Right. That’s why you called me, because you have this all handled.”

Russell’s body seized up with a flinch at Colter’s pliers seeking the fat piece of bullet still lodged inside his chest.

“Hey, have a heart, huh?" Russell complained. "Some anesthetic, please.”

It was another 18 hours before Russell’s Chevelle Malibu crossed the threshold of Wyoming’s state line, and another two before he stopped in the driveway outside the modest house he now called home.

He was slow moving as he hefted his duffel bag. Every step was a calculated trudge up the wide, white stones of the pathway. The neighborhood was quiet after dark, but the porch light was on. It was his target, and his beacon.

He unlocked the front door with his keys and found mostly darkness, except for the warm glow of the hallway light. He didn’t have time to make it there though—not when you were already hurrying out from the master bedroom to meet him.

He smiled at the sight of you in a tank-top and your most well-worn sweatpants, but you looked more relieved than happy. The kind of relief that wasn’t calm, even when your hands were on him, gripping his leather jacket like you were making sure he was actually there. He let his duffel fall those few inches to the hardwood floor.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said, though he stiffened and grunted in pain when your hands landed on his shoulders. Specifically, his left.

You pulled back on reflex, gasping softly. You stared up at him in worry. He looked so pale...

“It’s okay,” he said, holding you by your waist. “It’s just—”

You didn’t wait for his inevitable lie. You were verging on angry as you carefully pulled down the zipper of his jacket.

“Uh, wait a minute,” Russell said, but you couldn’t be placated. You wouldn’t let him stop you from finding whatever he didn’t want you to see.

Soon, you almost wish you had.

“Oh my God,” you breathed, though it was choked by tears as you took in the blood covering the entire left side of his gray plaid.

He had a red-tinged bandage covering the area just above his heart. It was held in place by medical tape and stretchy gauze that wrapped around his shoulder and under his arm. His chest and stomach were stained with crimson blotches leading from the wound. He smelled like rust and antiseptic, grime and sweat.

He watched every shade of your reaction, from shock to dismay. In hindsight, he should've at least tossed the shirt.

“Russell, what the fuck?” you said shakily.

His hand raised to cradle your cheek, earning your attention back up to his face rather than his body. His thumb caressed your skin, brushed away some tears.

“It looks worse than it is,” he said.

You shook your head. “You need to go to a hospital."

“I already got patched up. It’s okay, just need to sleep it off,” he replied. Colter had stabilized him enough to take him to the closest ER for the stitches. Colt even stuck with him until the doctor was done, probably to make sure Russell actually sat through the whole process.

“It’s not okay,” you snapped. “It’s not fucking okay.”

You stepped away from him and retreated back into the bedroom, holding a trembling hand to your mouth as you went.

He didn’t exactly know if he was welcome, but he really needed a shower and a solid night’s sleep, and he never slept better than when he was beside you.

But you avoided looking at him as you got ready for bed, haphazardly ripping off throw pillows and pulling back the comforter. Russell noticed your laptop on the nightstand, no less than three half-drunk mugs of coffee pushed back by the lamp, as well as a small hoard of candy wrappers and a bowl of popcorn on the floor. It was near four in the morning, and you hadn’t even tried to go to sleep. Or more likely, you couldn’t.

Russell carried the weight of that guilt into the adjoining bathroom, where he started by slowly trying to take off his jacket. He got halfway through peeling the sleeve off his left shoulder before the sharp pull of his wound forced a hiss from between his teeth.

“Fuck,” he said under his breath. There were more grunts and struggles, though he tried to keep it quiet. Once the jacket was a useless pile on the floor, he got a better look at his tattered shirt and released a steadying breath, almost shrugging at himself. All right, here goes.

He pulled back the collar of his shirt, but dried blood had adhered the fabric to the sensitive skin around his wound.

“Goddamn it,” he said lowly.

The bathroom door slid open. You paused in the entryway and crossed your arms, taking in every ridiculous part of this.

For once, Russell didn’t know what to say. He didn’t want to upset you (anymore), and he had a feeling you’d appreciate a you should see the other guy joke even less than Colter had.

“Sit,” you said, pointing at the closed toilet lid.

“I got this,” Russell said. But you pinned him with a sharp look.

“Russell, sit down.”

He quirked his head. “Okay. Yes, ma’am.”

Your lips almost curved upward, but you remained firm. Your hands were gentle though; they grasped his arm and helped him sit. You started with the easiest part, kneeling down on the tile floor to unlace his boots.

Russell wanted to tell you that you didn’t have to do it, but he also didn’t want to rile you up again. Instead, he steadied himself by grabbing the edge of the counter. Guilt twinged more heavily in his heart as he watched you slide off his left boot. He tried to help you with the right one, hooking his foot behind the heel, but you laid a hand on his knee.

“I’ll do it,” you said, your gaze flicking up to his. “Just stay still.”

Russell paused, but he conceded. Soon you’d worked off his boots and socks, then slowly, his shirt. He held you to him afterward, by your hips. You saw that even his hands were stained pink. Either he’d scrubbed them raw or hadn’t scrubbed them hard enough.

“What happened?” you asked.

“Just…you know, got clipped,” he said. “It’s no big deal. As you can see, I’m fine.”

You shot him a flat look. “How did it happen?”

He sighed. “You know I can’t tell you that.”

That you did, but you hated it anyway. Your gaze once again drew to the web of bandages wrapped around his right shoulder. Your fingertips landed just beside the thickest padding above his heart. Russell’s hand covered yours.

“Thank you...and I’m sorry,” he said at last. “Didn’t mean to worry you.”

Your lips pursed. You took his face in your hands, a touch softer as you stroked his bearded cheeks. He was still too pale, but nonetheless, unfairly handsome.

“Please don’t do this to yourself anymore,” you said. “Don’t do this to me. You promised you’d be done with Horizon by now.”

Russell nodded. “I know.”

“You know?” Your brows rose. “Do you know what the past 24 hours were like for me since you called me in the middle of the night like that? I could hear it in your voice. You weren’t sure you were going to make it home.”

Your voice wavered as tears welled up in your eyes again, despite your attempts to blink them away with a sniff.

Russell didn’t have a clever retort this time. No way to downplay or tease. He had come back with a few scrapes and sprains before, but this was different. That look on your face when you opened his jacket, saw the blood and bandages, probably picturing a horror show underneath...

He wasn't ever going to forget that look. And it was better he didn't. He had to remind himself that you were a civilian. You weren't used to all this shit, the hazards of the job.

“You’re right. It’s not fair to you,” he said. “Just uh…give me a month or so to wrap things up. I already signed on for a couple more contracts.”

“You better mean it, Russ,” you said. You tilted his face upward, making sure he met your eyes. “You gave me your word.”

“I know, and I’m gonna keep it,” he said, squeezing your hips. He smiled. “To prove it, how about we reseal the deal, huh?”

You stared down at him, heaving a more exasperated sigh.

“Come on,” he said, biting his lip on a smirk. “We both know you wanna kiss the hell out of me.”

You wanted to slap him, more like.

You shook your head and pressed his face between your hands, grunting in sheer annoyance. But you still bowed your head and kissed him.

He smiled against your lips. His arms slid around your waist and trapped you against his body. He hummed at the feeling of you, of every soft curve that fit just right against him.

Your fingers slipped through his hair, gently at first. But you reminded him of your resolve with a tighter grip.

“I'm serious,” you warned, between kisses. Each one meant something different—relief, fear, yearning, passion, love, and long-suffering all at once.

He nodded, though he groaned, palming your ass as your tongue slipped against his.

“I got it, sweetheart,” he said. "Not happening again."

His hands then wandered down your back, dipping under the waistband of your sweatpants. He found you bare underneath, no panties. He was pleased at the thought as he pressed a line of open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, down your neck, earning your soft moan. His fingers trailed under your tank top next, pushing the fabric up higher and raising goosebumps in his wake.

“Take a shower with me?” he asked, with lips pressed to your skin.

“Hmph. You definitely need a shower,” you said through slightly panting breaths. You helped him stand so you both could work on getting off his jeans.

He grinned. “So that’s a yes?”

Your lips threatened a smile in return.

“That’s a, get your ass in there,” you said, but you grabbed his elbows to steady him when his broad frame teetered on his feet. “Be careful.”

His hand fell to your shoulder gratefully.

“Yes, ma’am.”

AN: lol what are we gonna do with him? 😅 I think this helps make even more sense why reader's so mad at him in Part 1 of Breaking Point.

And I seriously hope Russell comes back more regularly for season 4. That twist at the end of 3x22 is more interesting than any other episode/arc in S3 imo. Until then, hope you enjoy some angsty hurt/comfort!

Let me know what you think in the reblogs/comments! 💙🩵💛

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