Chapter Text
If he happened to be the sort of man who smoked it would be about now that he would take out a cigar. Or maybe a pipe. He would look very distinguished with a pipe. And then he could give it up. A man ought to have at least one vice because giving it up showed strength of character. Drinking doesn’t count of course – that’s practically a requirement for a gentleman these days.
But he has no vice – light fingers also don’t count - so instead he just eyes up the shots that are streaking towards his friend’s back. Six bullets, a whole revolvers worth. All aluminium by the look of them so worth a small fortune. Wayne stands directly in front of them to get a better sight on their path. Yep. All heading straight for Wax: they'd all hit too. Wax is beginning to turn – slowly - and was probably going to fire at the source of the gunshots but it would be too late. He won’t be able to Push on the inert metal and he won’t move out the way.
Wayne considers his options: a luxury he has courtesy of a carefully placed speed bubble.
His first thought, the one he goes with often, is just to get close enough to Wax to throw up a bubble while they catch their breath, plan and then step around the incoming projectiles with apparent ease. That’s not going to work. Wax is too far and the bullets will reach him before Wayne, even with him running and burning metal as fast as he can.
Wayne could leave this speed bubble up: jumping down from where he had been dealing with some miscreants above had landed him directly between Wax and the shooter. The bullets will deflect as they pass in and out of the area and miss Wax. Probably. Mostly. He might get a bit shot, but that was generally considered to be better than a lot shot, right? Right.
Except for the other complication. Wax is currently striking a heroic pose, mistcloak flapping, pushing upwards on falling debris to protect the dozen or so construction workers huddling close, waiting for their opportunity to run to safety. Wax has been on the tail of the saboteurs interfering with construction work of the city’s newest tallest building for several weeks, but neither of them had expected an incident in daylight, with workers still on site.
If Wayne deflects the bullets with the speed bubble they might all miss Wax, but they would hit someone. How many innocent people would Wayne kill? It isn't fair that a man can shoot someone when he isn't even holding the gun. One man dead is better than possibly six, it was simple mathmatics, the only sort of mathmatics Wayne is really comfortable with. Wax will probably understand once he explains it, will probably even agree with him though they might fight about it for a bit first.
Wayne needlessly checks of his metal-minds – bracers firmly against his upper arms and brimming full of health, more than he’s ever had before- he hadn't even had a scratch in months! Just as well really.
He studies the bullets again – a nice close grouping so that’s.... good? He supposes? As a matter of principal Wayne knows as little as possible about guns and bullets, but if they’re closer together there’s less chance of one hitting an innocent bystander. He choses his spot carefully, lining himself up and fervently wishing for a vice he drops the speed bubble, bracing himself. A wave of returning sound hits, as do the six bullets into Wayne and Wayne into the dirt.
Damn getting shot hurt! He thinks, feeling the pieces of metal wedged in his body. It would have been better if they were through and through: more messy but easier to heal. As it is he’d have to push the malformed pieces of metal out and that's gonna hurt. He thinks he hears shouting but it’s far away, drowned out by the blood pounding in his ears. He taps his metal-mind to start healing, feeling the bullets shift through his torn flesh as it starts to knit together again. The grouping wasn't quite as good as he first thought: two in the right shoulder, two in the gut and two in one of his lungs. He got all six though and hadn't been shot in the heart or head so today is a good day.
Lotsa damage though. Gut wounds are messy. His lungs are torn up and breathing difficult. His shoulder's bleeding heavily – must have nicked something important there. This will take a lot of health so Wayne’s forced to go slower than he likes, even with what he has stored. He moves his hand to press against his shoulder to stem the bleeding a little: the less he losses the less he has to replace. There’s already a hand there, not his, pressing firmly on the wound. He might have felt it if he didn't already hurt so badly. He cracks an eye open just in time to catch Wax saying “You rusting fool.”
Wayne tries to reply but his lungs are filling up– have to do something about that or he'd drown. He drains he metal-mind a bit faster. The sensation of bullets being pushed about his body is unpleasant at best and horrific at worst – he hates this part, when the things feel alive and squirming. They always seem to go for the path of least resistance though and usually come out exactly the way they came in: no extra bullet holes in his stomach at least.
He's unlucky this time with the two in his lungs: instead of out the two bullets are pushed in, sealed inside as the wounds heal behind them. He's not going to drown in his own blood at least. Today. Look on the bright side. He ease off the pace of his healing, concerned at how quickly his stored health had dropped in a few short seconds. His other wounds are healed as well of course, now only three quarters as deep as they were.
The two bullets resting in his lungs are quite uncomfortable, (understatement of the year, pieces of fire burning his insides ) so Wayne tries to consider it lucky when he starts to cough. Oh Harmony that hurt. Feeling metal rattling round inside him is the worst part, feeling the spasms as his muscles try to expel the invading items. The rest of his body pulses in sympathy, especially pulling against his shoulder and stomach.
Wayne feel himself being moved, tipped onto his side and his head held out of the dirt. Wax is lambasting him again even as he holds him steady. Wayne thinks he worried too much: they both knew how this goes. And if it didn't go well? Well then, he's had a good run. Been given a second chance and done his best with it.
Wayne coughs and coughs some more, retching as he brings up both bullets and a lung full of blood. He spits them out and turns his head away, not ready to look at the metal pieces settling into a pool of blood. Wayne thinks he’s probably done some damage to his throat as well so that’s another thing to heal, and everything aches, head to toe.
“I'm.... not....” he gasps “the fool who...... turned his......back on...... a gun.....full of.....alumin.....ium.”
Wax's expression instantly adds guilt to the concern but Wayne closes his eyes on that, concentrating on healing. He’s bleeding too much still to go slow, but doesn’t have enough health left to go fast. Six bullets was a lot, and even half healed as they were there was still a lot of damage. Heal fast and stop bleeding but have internal injuries or save the organs but pass out from blood loss and die anyway? His choices are bad and the window to successfully do both tiny.
Healing’s a funny skill: it largely does it's own thing, flows it's own way though you can control how fast it goes. Wayne hate filling his metal-minds: the feeling of being weak, being exposed, at risk. He tends to do it in large chunks to take as little time as possible, with the curtains closed and the door locked.
Wayne doesn’t like walking around without a large amount of health in case of situations just like this. Well, maybe there aren’t many situations just the same as this, but there’s always someone trying to shoot him. And he doesn’t even always deserve it, either.
He doesn’t like to think in too much detail about what his body is doing: sometimes the thought of organs rearranging or bones rekniting give him the wibbles. And regrowing fingers is just plain weird when the bones go stretchy. So instead he just lays there waiting to not be hurt any more.
It’s nice to have a little cushion against life's unexpected bumps and bruises but it does lead Bloodmakers to taking more risks with themselves: Wayne’s lost count of the number of times he’s jumped off a roof without checking what was below him. He might have to stop doing that. Not only does that use a lot of stored health but he’s ruined a lot of clothes too. The blood doesn’t always come out and there’s an awful lot of holes. Take this shirt for instance: no goodwife in the Roughs would let him set at her table wearing it now, even patched. And the gentry here in the city …. well they probably would. It would be impolite to turn him away, but they sure would talk about him behind his back afterwards.
Despite going as slowly as possible Wayne’s right, he didn't have enough health stored to heal six serious bullet wounds. Drawing his attention back to his body, feeling it in the strange way only a Bloodmaker can, Wayne discovers six holes that might be better called grazes. He gives them a pat, just to check. They’re deep grazes, stinging, maybe half an inch deep still and weeping slowly. All internal organs are present and accounted for though, if a little bruised.
"Think I'm gonna need you to stich me up mate." Wayne tells Wax who had been wiping his own hands while Wayne probed the bullet holes. With a hacking cough Wayne spit out more blood - hopefully the last of it.
"You out of health?" Wax askes with a frown as Wayne pushes himself slowly to sitting.
"Yep." He lets Wax pull him to his feet but almost finds the ground again when dizzyness made the world spin. Ah yeah. Blood loss. Balance gone completely Wayne’s knees give out and he slumps into Wax’s shoulder. “Were you able to replace any blood? You lost... quite a bit.”
Looking down – not that he has any choice, his head being too heavy for his neck – to see a rather large pool of dark red sticky liquid soaking into the dirt. Wayne knows from bitter experience that a little liquid – a pint of beer for example - could look like a lot when it was spread out across the floor – his favourite gunsmiths workshop for example. And that doesn't include any soaked into his shirt and coat: rapidly cooling and heavy on his body. How much blood is one person meant to have in 'im anyway? More than this? Surely not. He doesn’t often had to think about it.
“Fine thing for a blood maker eh?” he mutters “Can’t even make a drop of blood.”
“Easy, easy then. Do you have a headache? Nauseas?” Strong hands grip him and that’s the only thing Wayne could feel. The rest of his body had gone thankfully numb: the sting of his wounds and the ache of bruising just a memory.
“Yes and yes.” he manages.
He must loose a bit of time then, as next he’s sitting on hard ground, propped up against something. A hand is once again pressed to his shoulder, this time with a cloth in it. Wayne hoped that he isn’t ruining one of Wax's fancy handkerchiefs – his friend pays way too much for them. He tries not to imagine how pathetic he looked but fails with a shiver.
“I need to get you home and stitched up.” Wax's voice is far away. “Do you remember the last time I got shot you gave me that ghastly concoction?” Wayne does. He had hoped Wax had forgotten “Good for anything, you said.” He had said that, hadn't he. Damn. “I think I remember the ingredients." Double Damn.
Wayne remembers. It was full of goodness to be fair – something for pain, something for exhaustion, plenty of vitamins and minerals. Something to put hair on your chest and strength in your bones. Maybe Wayne had added something to give it a pungent odour and strong taste, but he had been annoyed at Wax at the time. He couldn't remember why right now but it would have been a very good reason. Wax could be very annoying when he wanted to be.
“Awww Wax" he complains through blurry vision and against a thick tongue "No need t' use a man's own medicine 'gainst him. Not when he's just saved y'r life a'd all."
He feels more than saw Wax sit down beside him, the press of shoulders touching and a warmth like sitting by a fire.
"Thanks for that by the way. I didn't even know he was there." That’s all that’s needed between the two of them. Effusive thanks and debts of gratitude were for those who didn't save each others necks twice a week in a slow month. And they both know that Wayne always owes Wax one extra anyway.
"Did everyone get out ok? And did you get the bastard who shot me?"
"Yes and yes. They might have to start building again though, it's quite messy in there."
"Good. That's good." Wayne shivers again, cold despite the cool night air feeling good against his clammy skin. He’s feeling much better sitting than he did standing but he doesn't exactly feel good.
Now the adrenaline of the chase and the fight is running out, replaced with weariness. He counts himself fortunate that though he’s been shot a lot, stabbed a lot, hit, broken bones, lost fingers, burnt, squashed and trampled good he’s never spent much time actually injured, so this floaty feeling was a rare experience. Is this what Wax feels like when he was filling his metalmind? Prob'ly. Shu'd ask ‘im s'metime.
"Hey, don't fall asleep here. I will carry you home if I have to but you are too heavy a lump for me to do so willingly."
Wayne wakes up with a jolt as Wax thumps his shoulder, shaking his head to try and free it of encroaching darkness. Everything is so much effort though, and the reasons why are slipping away. He must be hurt. He should try ta heal..... oh. Tha' right. He can’t.
"You won't carry me 'cross one.... tiny ci'y when I.... carried you, fif'y miles through wilderness.... that time?" Wayne moans, trying to hide his disorientation and speak clearly despite the fact his head is filled with mist. Wayne’s with it enough to notice Wax's sideyed glance: he may not be a tin-eye but damn did that man notice stuff.
"It was five miles. And I made sure I barely weighed anything."
The reality was it had been closer to fifteen and they both knew it. But this is part of the game they play: when they each pretended not to be counting the close calls and the near misses, getting the numbers confused and getting one up on the other. It still kept them both awake some nights though.
"But I think we have a better alternative." Wax raises his voice "Maybe one of these nice people would go find us a carriage instead." Wax addresses the small crowd that’s gathered: workers from nearby buildings, passers-by and the small group who Wax had recently saved from being crushed to death. People are always keen to get a look at the renowned Dawnshot, particularly when there is no active shooting. Just a shame for them they have to look at his sorry form at the same time. There are some hushed conversation in the group before a couple people ran off into the surrounding streets.
Wax nods in satisfaction. He always gets what he wants: he has some sort of natural charm that made his life easier the bastard. Wayne has to pretend to be other people to be liked. Not that he blame them, not really, he could be difficult to like.
Now is not the time for this sort of self pity however. Now is the time for another type of self pity entirely, one in which he’s still bleeding, his thoughts slow and heavy as his heart and he with a deep longing to sleep. Wax will no doubt poke him more full of holes later and call it 'stitching' being much better at inflicting bullet wounds than repairing them. Maybe Wax will even let him drink while he gets sown up. Steris doesn’t usually approve but maybe just this once, being as he had saved Wax's life an all.
"Do ya think I sh'd get a pipe?" Wayne asks his partner as a carriage came into view, making it's way through the gathered throng. At last.
"What are you talking about now? Did you get hit on the head as well?" Wax gestures to the carriage driver, who pulls to a stop in front of them.
"No, I just …... think it might look..... distinguished.”
Wax stands, brushing the dust from his jacket briskly then reaching his hands down to Wayne. He’s eased to his feet, slower this time and Wax keeps a firm grip on his shoulders. Wayne’s grateful for that, his head at the movement. This 'being injured' thing was getting old fast: how long would this dizzyness last? How long until he would be able to start to store health? Too long, that's how long.
Wayne saw the driver give him a dubious look as he allowed himself to be helped in – no doubt wondering how much damage a bleeding lawman could do to his upholstery. A lot. The answer was a lot, and he has Wayne's sympathy for the clean up. Wax can afford the surcharge though.
Sitting down heavily Wayne feels in some sort of trance as Wax joins him, pulling the door closed: lightheaded, woozy and slow of thought. Wax looks at him with concern where he’s slumped back against the seat.
"Do you want me to take you to a hospital instead?"
Wayne doesn’t shake his head, knowing how much of a mistake that would be in his current state so just says "Nah..... just … s'me sleep. I think. These're not too bad." Six grazes where there had been six deep holes in his chest? Most people would feel lucky. He will feel lucky later but he just hurts right now and is in no mood to be poked and prodded by curious doctors who want to see a Bloodmaker laid low and can’t actually help.
"Fine. For now." Wax gives him a stern look. "Stiches, something to help you heal and some sleep are the order of the day."
Wayne can already feel his eyes slipping closed, the heavy weight of fatigue draping over him like an unwelcome blanket. At this rate...... Wax will..... have to.... carry him.
The last thing Wayne hears before he drifts off against the rocking motion of the carriage is the calm voice of his longtime friend confirming, that yes, he would look very dashing with a pipe.