Chapter Text
Bandit hates the cold.
He's in Russia running a raid on a terrorist cell, following four days of investigation to make sure the police reports matched up to Six’s intel and that the occupants of the industrial complex they're currently attacking aren’t innocents. Glaz had been quite happy lying in the back of a truck a mile out for two of said days, watching the comings and goings and confirming that yes, those are definitely White Masks and yes, they definitely need to be dealt with.
(Any last-minute concerns from Doc that the inhabitants weren’t all terrorists were quickly dispelled by the gunfire that had started the second the team had set foot in the complex. Glaz had rolled his eyes from his perch and continued sniping without a word when Doc had given the all clear to use lethal force.)
Bandit has been sat in the uppermost floor in a nest of barbed wire, watching the courtyard below and the back of the buildings. He’s seen first-hand what damage an unnoticed repelling enemy can do (Ash still bears the scar from the bullet that had clipped her in the ass), and he’d rather not go through that again, thank you very much.
So he's sat next to the windowsill, batteries carefully deployed on the stairs and various corners in case anyone tries to flank (it has worked as well as always – he’d taken out three idiots tangled in his shock wire and had heard various crackles of electricity and cries of pain from the floor below before Twitch had silenced them with a neat shot from her F2), and he’s bored. He likes action, likes the blood rushing in his ears and the adrenaline coursing through his veins, but Blitz had pouted when he’d asked Bandit to sit still and watch the windows and Bandit is weak when it comes to Blitz.
The action seems to have finally died down, he notices. His comm is set to silent, inactive unless someone specifically calls him – they can’t have the others getting distracted by the action (or lack thereof) at his end or vice versa, so he has no idea what’s really going on below. The silence has gone on for a few minutes, though, and he’s been sat in place for almost two hours – they should be finished soon, and he can get the hell out of here and back to base to do something a bit more interesting.
He flinches as his comm crackles to life and Blitz’s voice comes through.
“We’re clear at this end, Bandit - you can head to us when you’re ready,” he says, and Bandit sighs in relief.
“Copy that. I’ll collect my devices and meet you outside,” he replies, picking himself up from his nest of barbed wire and stretching. His legs are numb from where he's been sat, and the open window is sending a chill breeze flooding into his hidey-hole.
He pads silently down the hall, deactivating then picking up the pair of batteries left at the top of the stair well, stepping over a slightly scorched body on his way. He gave Blitz another two batteries to be left on the floor below, in the bedroom and the end stair well – he’ll stop to gather those next before hopping through the hatch from the bedroom down to the garage to escape.
He clips the batteries together and tosses them over his shoulder before heading down the end staircase, SMG raised and ready, because it never hurts to be careful - some of the terrorists aren’t completely stupid, and know to play dead until given a chance to get the jump on them. He doubts it’s likely to happen; Twitch has proven to be very thorough with her droning on every mission so far, and he trusts that Blitz at the very least would confirm all their kills with a neat bullet to the forehead.
The halls are dark and damp, smelling faintly of piss and alcohol and blood. Bandit has never been a fan of Russia, especially in the winter – it’s too cold a country for him, and that coupled with the grime covering every surface of the building means he can’t wait to be finished, so they can return to the local police station they are using as HQ for a shower or 3 to get rid of the gritty feeling that has settled across his skin.
He gathers up his third battery and moves to the central stair well. There’s a body slumped up against the wall, legs snared in the barbed wire covering the top stair and corridor, and Bandit is preparing to leap over it when a door slams somewhere behind him.
He dives for the wall on instinct, gun raised and ready to return any incoming fire, but there’s nothing there. The hairs at the back of his neck prickle uncomfortably, as though he’s being watched. The wind whistles through the gaps in the boarded-up windows, but not strongly enough to cause a door to make that much noise.
Two of his batteries have fallen down the stairs and they can stay there for now, because something is wrong.
Bandit narrows his eyes and turns his attention to the stairwell at the end of the hall. It’s empty, and the only fresh footprints on it are his own.
He turns back to look in the direction he came, planning on getting the hell out, and immediately regrets it.
Rapid footfall sounds behind him and he’s tackled to the ground before he can react, landing heavily on his side and smacking his head into the wall with a dull thud. Arms latch around his neck and squeeze, a heavy weight settling across his back and there’s breathing in his ear and shit he’s an idiot, he’s going to die -
“Bandit, what’s going on?” Blitz calls down the comm and Bandit gasps for air as the grip tightens, bringing a hand up to try and pry the arms loose. His assailant is smart enough to not be using his fingers to choke him out – Bandit could easily break them to get them off, but there’s little he can do when it’s the crook of an elbow wrapped tightly around his throat.
Adrenaline finally kicks in as the shock of the fall wears off; he swears angrily and brings his free elbow round to slam into the terrorist’s side - elbows are sharp and pointy and he knows that the cells never bother wearing proper armour. A well-placed elbow to the chest can knock someone out, but he’s at the wrong angle and he hasn’t got room to swing, so the hit is softer than he’d have liked. It does its job well enough, though, and the grip loosens momentarily. Bandit drags in a lungful of air before the panting in his ear turns ragged and the grip tightens again.
He spots something metallic coming toward him and fuck, okay, that’s a knife - he jerks his head back sharply and feels it slam into the terrorist’s face with a loud crack. The knife nicks his shoulder, but better that than his throat, and he smashes his head back again.
The grip slackens enough for him to grab his assailant’s arms and pull them loose. He gasps for breath, his pulse thundering in his ears. He’d wanted action but he hadn’t wanted this.
He grabs the blade of the knife, ever thankful for his thick gloves, ripping it out of his assailant’s hand before launching it down the hall. He has more freedom to move now, without the risk of being sliced open, and he takes advantage of it, writhing madly, elbows flying and making solid contact with the body above his until he manages to get the leverage to flip them over. He takes a blow to the ribs that’s mostly absorbed by his armour for his effort, but he has the advantage, now, even though he's still sprawled on his back. He’s lost his SMG but he can feel the weight of his pistol still sat in his thigh holster. He just needs the body below him to stop fighting-
He slams his head back into the terrorist’s face once again and the struggling beneath him stops. Bandit has the advantage of a helmet; the terrorist does not, and the blow must have knocked him out. A shame - Bandit would like to have watched the man squirm before putting a bullet between his eyes.
He pulls slack arms from his neck and shoulders and rolls off the still body. He reaches for his pistol and neatly shoots the terrorist twice in the face, one above each eyehole. There’s a neat line down the centre of the mask from the headbutts, bloodied where the nose beneath it must have broken. He stomps on it for good measure, and there’s a satisfying crack as the mask shatters to reveal a slither of pale skin.
Bandit collapses back against the wall, panting for breath and bringing a hand up to his shoulder. It’s bleeding - bastard managed to get him right where the armour plating finishes - but it could be worse. He can’t see his gun anywhere, which is more concerning, and as he looks down the hall to try and spot it, he notices that the stretch of wall next to the stairwell has a door in it, and he’s certain there wasn’t one there before.
Fuck.
He clicks his comm on with one shaky hand and raises his pistol with the other.
“This is Bandit,” he starts, voice calm despite his heart still pounding in his chest. Blitz immediately answers.
“We’re all outside, what’s holding you up?” he replies. He sounds worried.
“I got jumped., Bandits says, pulling himself to his feet and leaning against the wall. His head spins as he regains his balance. “There’s a hidden room up here that he must've come out of. I’ve lost my primary so need back up to check it out. Might be more hostiles.”
“Fuck, Glaz said he thought there should be a few more - we're on our way, get yourself somewhere safe,” Blitz says, then switches to English to relay the message to the others.
Bandit is just about to click his comm off when he hears heavy footsteps coming from the new doorway. A light reflects off the wall opposite, and he hears the tell-tale hiss of a bomber the second before it steps out.
“Oh fuck,” Bandit hisses, backing away from the door, head still spinning. His foot brushes a battery and he picks it up, launching it towards the bomber. It crashes into his leg and the bomber staggers, and Bandit takes that as his cue to flee.
“Bandit, what-?”
A plan begins to form in Bandit’s still fuzzy mind. He needs to get to the bedroom, to his exit. The battery he hasn’t picked up yet should still be live in there.
“Bomber, second floor!” he barks into the comm, ignoring Blitz’s cry of shit, get out! “I’m going to the bedroom; the shock wire should break his suit and I will be able to take him down!”
“Be careful, we’re on our way!” Blitz replies as Bandit throws himself into the bedroom, hurdling over the still-live shock wire in the doorway and dropping behind the deployable shield in front of the open hatch. He can't go down it for the risk of the bomber following, or catching the others off guard. He wouldn't be able to live with himself if they got injured because of him.
The wire arcs a comforting blue against the grey of the floor - it should short circuit the wiring in the suit and make it useless, Bandit knows, and then it will be a simple gunfight. His pistol is still clutched in his hand, and he hastily reloads it. The footsteps in the hallway get closer.
The light appears in the doorway and the sound of heavy breathing fills the room. Bandit peeks around the shield just as the bomber steps into the first coil of wire.
He fires a couple of bullets in the direction of the bombers head, ducking back behind the shield as the bomber returns fire. The suit is still beeping, but he’s not quite in the live wire yet -
Bandit is about to peek again and resume firing when he hears the familiar crackle of electricity. The beeping stops.
There's a moment of relief before the bomber cries out and explodes.
The force of it slams the shield back into Bandits face, knocking him backwards with a startled gasp. There’s nothing but air beneath him and for a second he’s falling, falling-
He manages to turn onto his side, curling up as tightly as he can before he slams into the ground and the world turns black.
-
Bandit wakes with a frantic gasp. He feels like he's been hit by a bus, lungs desperately trying to pull air into his body, pulse thudding in his head like a drum. He forces himself to stop trying to breath, to let his muscles remember how to work and stop spasming. Something near him clatters. He opens his eyes.
He's in the garage, dust still settling around him. His vision dances as he tries to focus and his ears are ringing, but he can wiggle his fingers and his toes so there’s probably nothing majorly wrong with him. The clatter turns out to be a piece of what looks like the deployable shield, still rocking from its fall from the hatch above.
Black dots dance in front of his eyes and he groans as the shock wears off and the pain kicks in, shooting through his skull like fire. His shoulder burns and he forces himself to look at it. Blood is steadily oozing from the wound beneath the tear in his jacket. He reaches up to clamp a trembling hand across it.
He tries to move, but his muscles scream in protest and pain shoots through his skull again, threatening to make him black out and scream and puke all at once. He drops back against the floor and focuses on keeping his breathing steady and bringing his heart rate back down to normal.
The ringing in his ears slowly quietens and he becomes aware of voices coming from his comm. The sounds make his head hurt further, and he groans.
“Bandit, respond!” he hears Blitz cry out, the worry in his tone almost tangible even through the crackling comm. “This is Blitz – we heard an explosion, I need a sit-rep, now!”
“Kitchen is clear!” calls another voice – he thinks it was Fuze, but his brain is too muddled to tell. He tries and fails to clear his throat.
“Bandit, respond!” Blitz shouts again. He sounds scared, Bandit realises.
“Garage,” he manages to say. His voice is hoarse, and it doesn’t sound like it should belong to him. “Bleeding. Could use a medic.”
“Shit, I’m on my way, hang on! Team, keep searching the building then set up a perimeter around the garage!” Blitz barks out. There’s the call of affirmative from the other lines, and Bandit winces. “Stay on the line, Ban, I’m coming!”
Bandit hums in response and reaches to the walkie talkie strapped to his chest to silence the other lines, leaving only Blitz’s open – their shouts of locations and statuses are making his headache worse, and Blitz is the only one he needs to talk to anyway. He drops his hand back down to his side, closes his eyes and numbly listens to Blitz call for Doc and the emergency team, explaining the situation. The world goes fuzzy around him and his pulse thumps in his ears, then Blitz is calling his name again.
“Still here,” he murmurs, and forces his eyes open. Footsteps sound in the stairwell Bandit knows is at the back of the garage, and Blitz’s shout of ‘friendly operator, don’t shoot,’ comes from both Bandits’ comm and in an echo down the stairs.
“Unarmed,” Bandit rasps. There’s the sound of fast footfall then Blitz appears at his side, shield clattering as he drops it haphazardly.
“Looks like you’ve sprung a leak,” he says, the cheerfulness in his voice not doing anything to disguise the panic in his eyes. “Are you okay?”
Bandit doesn’t try to move – his head throbs with the mere thought of it.
“You took your time,” he says weakly. Blitz frowns.
“It has been hardly a minute since we heard the explosion,” he says. Bandit blinks in surprise; it had felt like much longer than that to him.
Blitz gently runs a hand across Bandit’s helmet and lifts his head slightly. Bandit winces at the motion, and Blitz curses as he reaches around the back of Bandit’s head.
“You’ve cracked your helmet - that must’ve been one hell of an impact - I am so glad we have to wear these things, you’d be smashed to smithereens without it,” he says quietly, more to himself than Bandit, then kneels closer and reaches forward to undo the chin strap. Bandit thinks that might be an understatement – his brain feels like pulp as it is, it would probably be little more than a smear on the floor if he were Twitch or Glaz.
“I’m going to take this off, okay? Take a deep breath, it will probably hurt.”
Bandit does as he's told and sucks in a breath as Blitz carefully pulls his helmet off, putting it somewhere off to the side. The pressure inside Bandit’s head eases when it’s gone, and hands come back to gently probe the back of his skull. The touch makes him feel sick, and Blitz murmurs out an apology, eyebrows knitted together as he peers into Bandit’s eyes. An ungloved hand reaches up to pull at his lower eye lid. The fingers are warm on Bandit’s cheek, and he finds himself missing the contact when it leaves. He's pathetic.
“You’re not focusing properly, are you?” he asks. Bandit groans in response. “Your pupils are way bigger than they should be. You’re definitely concussed, but I don’t know about anything else.” He chews on his lip as he looks down at Bandit. “Can I take your balaclava off? I need to check your head properly, and I don’t want to just pull it down in case it restricts your breathing.”
Bandit hums – he trusts Blitz to do it but it’s going to hurt like a bitch.
“Please?” Blitz says, and Bandit is weak and he can’t refuse him.
“Be careful,” he says hoarsely, and Blitz nods.
“Of course. Deep breath,” he says, and Bandit closes his eyes as a hand comes to cup his head, the other finding the edge of the balaclava and slowly pulling it up. The pressure makes Bandit shudder, eyes snapping open on instinct, and Blitz hushes him gently as he swaps hands. There’s a quick tug then the pressure is blissfully gone and Bandit gasps with relief.
Blitz cups his head and gently probes with his fingers, face tight with concentration. He's leaning close enough that Bandit could count his eyelashes, if he could remember how to count.
“Okay?” Blitz asks, moving back and lowering Bandit’s head down to the floor. It’s cushioned by something, possibly Blitz’s gloves, and Bandit is dully surprised that Blitz is being so careful with him. He doesn’t know why – Blitz has more compassion than anyone he’s ever met. It’s both his greatest strength and biggest flaw, and Bandit doesn’t know whether to kiss him or punch him for it.
(He definitely knows which he’d prefer, though.)
“There’s no blood and I can’t feel anything obvious,” Blitz says before pulling his own balaclava down to reveal his mouth and smiling softly at Bandit. “Lots of bruising, I imagine, but not much worse, or you wouldn’t be conscious. How do you feel?”
“Shit,” Bandit huffs out, making Blitz chuckle.
“I know, I’m not surprised. Can you move all your limbs?”
Bandit knows he can, but does it again anyway for good measure. He hums in confirmation, and Blitz smiles again.
“That’s good. You’ll be okay, unless there’s something else going on.” Bandit rolls his eyes, ignoring the spike of pain it sends shooting through his head. “I won’t be able to give you any painkillers; Doc wants to check you over first. He’s on his way now; he won’t be too long.”
“Good,” Bandit hears himself say. The pulsing in his head has decreased, but now he can feel the gash in his shoulder throbbing like it’s been branded, and it occurs to him that maybe he should have mentioned that first.
“At least you’re talking to me,” Blitz says mildly, shuffling so that he's sat down by Bandit’s side. “I take it he blew you down the hatch, yes?”
Bandit hums. “Yeah. Shock wire didn’t stop the suit,”
Blitz winces. “That’s unfortunate. At least you weren’t any closer to him, the room up there’s a mess.”
Bandit can imagine. He's seen explosions before, knows how they can tear a body apart even at long range. The bomber must look like he's been put in a blender. No less than he deserves, but an unpleasant thought all the same.
“Can I look at your shoulder?” Blitz suddenly asks, leaning forwards and peering at Bandit’s hand covering the gash. “I can see blood; did you get shot?”
Bandit tries and fails to shake his head as Blitz gently tugs his hand away. “Knife,” he says, in lieu of a proper explanation.
Blitz hisses in sympathy as he gently reaches up to pull the fabric around the cut loose. “That’s not fun,” he says. “I’m going to cut your armour off, okay? It’s shattered, which probably isn’t helping your breathing, but at least it broke your fall a bit. Thank god we were wearing them, eh? Would’ve been your ribs otherwise, all smashed to bits,” he breaks off with a shake of his head. “I thought I was going to be too late to help you,” he swats lightly at Bandit’s good shoulder before pulling out his utility knife. “You scared me when you didn’t reply, you know.”
He says it calmly, jokingly, but Bandit can see the worry in his eyes and realises how genuine the comment is. Something in his chest flutters. He doesn’t have the energy to berate himself for it.
“Sorry,” he croaks out, and Blitz scoffs as he starts to cut away at the straps holding Bandit's police vest on, making short work of pulling it off before moving to the armour.
“It’s hardly your fault, don’t be silly,” he says, lifting the next panel away and dropping it aside with a clutter. Bandit finds that he can breathe more easily, but the fogginess in his head doesn’t decrease any – if anything, it gets worse. He's aware of the aching in his ribs now, but like Blitz had said, at least the armour had absorbed most of the impact. Broken ribs are a pain in the ass – no running, no exercise, no dramatic sighing. They're near the top of the list of Bandit’s least favourite injuries, next to head wounds and leg wounds.
“Better?” Blitz asks. Bandit nods minutely, feeling a bit faint, but he can hold on. He’s been hurt worse before. “Good. I’m going to have to cut at your gear a bit, make sure there’s no fibres in the wound, okay?”
That sucks because he likes this jacket, Bandit thinks, and he must have said it aloud because Blitz snorts.
“I’ll patch it up for you later if you let me have a look, okay?”
“Deal,” Bandit replies weakly, letting his eyes fall closed. A finger gently pokes him in the cheek, and he forces them back open to glare half-heartedly at Blitz.
“Keep them open, I don’t want you passing out again with this concussion. Doc would be furious with me, you know what he’s like,” he says apologetically. Bandit groans in response but does as he's told, watching as Blitz carefully slices a cross first into his jacket, then his thermals. The air is refreshingly cool on his skin – he hadn’t realised how hot he had gotten.
Black dots dance across his vision as he looks back up at Blitz. He's still wearing his helmet.
“You’re still wearing your helmet,” he says.
Blitz stops what he's doing for a moment and gives Bandit a puzzled look. “Yes, I am. It is cold, I don’t want to lose any heat in case we’re here for a while.”
“Not cold,” Bandit says. The words sound wrong in his ears, as though he's not the one saying them. He hopes the evac arrives soon. The frown on Blitz’s face deepens and he drops the knife to bring a hand up to rest on Bandit’s forehead.
“You’ve got a fever, you idiot - let me get this on your shoulder then I’ll find you a cloth or something.” He pulls a gauze pad out from seemingly nowhere, and a tiny bottle of antiseptic spray. Bandit frowns.
“I’ve found it never hurts to be prepared,” Blitz says in explanation - it’s not exactly standard procedure for them to carry anything more than a bandage, and Bandit doesn’t even carry that. "I’ve had wounds get infected from not being cleaned quickly enough, and trust me, it’s not pleasant.”
He gently sprays the cut and Bandit hisses slightly at the sting. Blitz gently probes it with his fingers before nodding, pleased. “It’s not bleeding too much and it’s not too deep, so that’s good. It’ll hurt when I put the gauze on though, so be prepared for that,” he says apologetically.
Bandit wrinkles his nose but doesn’t complain until Blitz pushes down on the gash, the pressure making him feel faint. He hears himself whimper.
“It’s okay, just breathe,” he thinks he hears Blitz say, but he's not sure because his head is spinning and his ears are ringing and the world is fading to black once more.
-
Bandit wakes up again and this time he feels as though he’s underwater.
Everything still hurts, but now it’s a distant pain, as though his body isn’t really his own. His pulse is still uncomfortably loud in his ears. He swallows dryly, then opens his eyes to see Blitz’s blurry face hovering over his.
“Oh, thank god,” Blitz breathes out, and moves back. There’s a hand on Bandit’s forehead, and his head is more pillowed than before – probably with Blitz’s balaclava. The other man has taken off his head gear and Bandit can see his messy hair, the way his mouth is pinched thin with worry.
“Evac will be here in 5 minutes,” Blitz says. “You weren’t out for long, not quite a minute. I’ve got the gauze taped on fine. How do you feel?”
“Weird,” Bandit croaks out. “Like ‘m on drugs.”
Blitz smiles slightly. It’s a nice smile, and it makes Bandit’s heart flip-flop in his chest. He's pathetic. “You’re not on drugs, don’t worry.”
Bandit sighs with relief – he has no good memories of drugs. He has very few memories of drugs, in fact, all of them washed away by the copious amounts of alcohol he'd drunk after coming down from the high. He'd hated it, and hated what he’d been forced to become, but it had kept him alive and unsuspected and that’s all that had mattered.
Blitz is talking again, and Bandit finds himself watching the way his lips form the words. It’s almost hypnotising. Blitz has a very nice mouth. “I was wondering if you’d wake up before we got back to base - Doc will be pleased to see that you have. And it means I’m not sat waiting on my own, too,”
Bandit raises an unsteady hand and pats the one on his forehead. It’s wet and it feels like a cloth.
“That’s because it is a cloth. You still have a temperature,” Blitz says mildly. Oh. Bandit reaches back and pats what is probably Blitz’s arm.
“I’m awake,” he hears himself say, and Blitz chuckles.
“You are. But not lucid, huh?” he says, and they fall into silence as Bandit tries and fails to gather his thoughts. They dance through his grasp like smoke – he hates head wounds and how dull they make him feel. Like he’s not in control, like he's a passenger in his own mind. Like drugs, his brain helpfully supplies again.
“Are the others okay?” Bandit eventually asks, because he’d been so lost in his own pool of misery and suffering that he’d completely forgotten about the firefight the other four had been in not quite ten minutes ago.
“They’re all good. Rook caught a bullet in his vest but it was low-calibre so he's completely fine. Pleased, in fact; he says it proves the armour is doing its job.”
“Good,” Bandit murmurs. His head throbs and he blinks away the black dots slowly gathering in the corners of his vision. He can’t hold on much longer, he thinks, but at least Blitz is here. Blitz will watch over him.
“I thought you wouldn’t want everyone hovering over you, so I’ve set Rook to watch the stairs and Fuze to watch the hatches, even though we’re certain we got everyone. Twitch is going through that room to see if she can dig up any more intel, she’s furious at herself for not noticing it was there,” Blitz continues, tilting his head to the side. “Glaz is still covering the front of the building, Doc is on his way with the medics, and I am here with you.”
“I’m glad,” Bandit hears himself say. Blitz looks confused.
“Sorry?”
“I’m glad you’re here,” Bandit clarifies, voice slurring. He’s not quite sure what language he’s speaking, but he only knows two and Blitz speaks both of them, so it doesn’t really matter. “Wouldn’t want anyone else,”
“You softy,” Blitz huffs quietly. Bandit numbly pats him on the probably-an-arm again, and a hand takes his to guide it back down to rest on his chest. He sighs. The pounding in his head continues. He’d kill to be able to go to sleep for maybe a week or so, but Blitz has told him not to, so he won’t.
“They won’t be long now. Only a few minutes. Can I check your temperature?” Blitz asks gently.
“Sure.”
The cool, damp cloth is removed from his head and replaced by a broad, warm hand. Blitz has very nice hands.
“Thank you,” Blitz says. Bandit winces – he must’ve spoken aloud again. “Yeah, you did. It’s fine, don’t worry. And you’re still the same temperature, so that’s good. Doc said to only worry if you suddenly get hotter.”
Bandit closes his eyes briefly. “I’m always hot. Fuck you,” he hears himself say and instantly regrets it, because what the fuck. He hates head wounds.
Blitz snorts softly. “Yeah, I know. Didn’t mean to insult you.”
The hand finally pulls back from Bandit’s head, which is a shame. He was enjoying the warmth.
It moves back.
Bandit really, really hates head wounds.
“It’s fine, don’t worry. You’re okay,” Blitz says gently. Bandit doesn’t quite know what to make of the soft look on his face, but his heart is flip-flopping again and he still doesn’t have the energy to stop it.
“Thanks,” he manages to say, because if it were anyone but Blitz, they’d be gathering blackmail material or running for the hills. Blitz wouldn’t do either of those. Blitz is his favourite.
Blitz hushes him. “How are you feeling?”
Bandits head throbs as though confirming that yes, it’s still there making his life a misery. His vision swims with pain once more, and he dully prays to any god that will listen to not let him faint again. “Like crap. Head hurts.”
“I know. It won’t be long, I promise. You’ll be okay.”
“Yeah. Glad you’re here,” Bandit says weakly. Blitz huffs, and the thumb on Bandits’ forehead gently strokes across his skin. It’s nice. Reassuring.
“Yeah?” Blitz asks quietly. Bandit thinks he's still wearing the same odd expression, but he can’t quite see clearly enough to know for sure.
“Yeah. You’re the best.” It’s becoming a struggle to keep his eyes open – he focuses on the warm hand on his head and the soothing presence besides him and hopes that Doc will arrive soon. He wants to sleep.
The stroking stops momentarily.
“And here I thought you didn’t like me,” Blitz murmurs. Bandit can’t tell if it’s supposed to be a joke or not, but if it is, it’s a really shit one, because of course he likes Blitz. Blitz is the nicest, kindest, friendliest person he’s ever met. Blitz is the best and Bandit really wants to kiss him.
“Thanks,” Blitz says softly. “I really like you too, you know,”
Something warm flourishes in Bandit’s chest as he registers Blitz’s words. “Good,” he thinks he whispers, cut off by a wince as the pounding in his head returns at full force.
Blitz hushes him gently, thumb still stroking soothingly. “It’s okay, they’re coming. I can hear them now. Just hold on a bit longer.”
His other hand comes up to hold the one on Bandit’s chest, giving it a reassuring squeeze. Bandit tries and fails to squeeze back. His eyes slip close of their own accord, and he forces them open when Blitz calls his name. He looks worried again.
Shadows appear in the garage doorway, and Bandit finally hears the approaching footsteps.
“Stay with me?” he slurs out, the words heavy on his tongue. He's going to faint.
“Of course. Just stay awake, Doc’s here now,” comes the quiet reply, then Doc’s calm face appears over Bandit’s own. His mouth is moving faster than Bandit can keep up with, and he can’t quite hear what the Frenchman is saying, but it doesn’t matter. Blitz will tell Doc what happened. He trusts Blitz.
He distantly feels himself being lifted onto a stretcher, hand still held in Blitz’s and cool air replacing the warmth on his head. He feels Doc pull at his eyelids and poke and prod at him until he's apparently satisfied, then there’s the sharp pinch of a needle in his neck and the world is falling blissfully quiet.
He manages to smile weakly at Blitz, who’s still faithfully by his side, before his vision fades to black.