Chapter Text
A loud crash followed by a yelp causes everyone to look up.
“Nice going, Dee,” Mac remarks, observing broken glass on the floor.
“With hands like that, how do you drop anything?” Dennis joins in. Mac laughs and they go back to their asinine conversation. When she doesn’t fight back, Charlie grows concerned, dropping whatever he’s tinkering with onto the counter and approaching her.
“Oh, shit,” he breathes. Dee’s staring at her hand, as the pool of blood forming in her palm spreads, and begins running down her arm. She looks up at him, wide-eyed and unsure how to react. “I need a towel,” she says, unmoving. Charlie looks around, and grabs one laying on the shelf beneath the bar.
“No, gross,” Dee tells him. “That’s just gonna get it infected.”
“You just said-,” Charlie argues back. He looks around again, settling on a handful of napkins. “Happy?” He asks, pressing them to the wound, causing her to flinch. It only takes seconds before the white napkins turn red.
“Shit, I think I need to go to the hospital.”
“Quit being so dramatic, Deandra,” Frank says over his newspaper, “When I was in ‘Nam, men lost a lot more blood than that and they didn’t bitch. Whole hands chopped clean off. Acted like nothin’ even happened.”
“You mean at your sweatshop?” Dee barks back, but Frank doesn’t seem to notice her implication that it’s his fault. Or maybe he doesn’t care.
“C’mon, we gotta have something in the back,” Charlie instructs, grabbing a bottle of vodka. Dee follows and they enter the back office. Charlie starts digging around, prompting Dee to instruct him to hurry. He pulls out a white metal box from under a large stack of papers and notebooks, causing them to fall all over the floor. He blows the dust off. He’s not sure what it says, but the red + sign probably means it’s medical. He opens it to discover a half roll of gauze, a pair of scissors and part of a candy bar. Bingo!
Charlie approaches where Dee is sitting on the desk. She knows she looks as nervous as she feels, causing a sense of weakness and embarrassment to add to it. It’s not safe to show vulnerability around the gang. Though with Charlie, it can be okay. She pulls the napkins away and he whistles, sounding impressed. She uses the last of the clean napkins to wipe away as much blood as possible, wincing at the pressure. Charlie squints and leans in closer. “You got some glass in here.”
“Great,” Dee mutters. This whole situation keeps getting worse.
Charlie grips her forearm, holding it in place. “I’m sorry, Dee, but this is gonna suck.” He opens the bottle and slowly pours some liquid onto the wound.
“Fuck, ” she hisses. He gives her this look of what could almost be considered empathy, and it feels so kind and tender that she has to look away.
“I’m gonna get this glass out now, okay?” He speaks carefully and precisely, and while she would usually find it patronizing, it’s actually keeping her calm. Holding her arm in place with one hand, he brings his free hand to her palm, pinching at a piece of glass. Dee looks away, nearly gagging at the sight. He drops the fairly large piece on the desk, and leans in for another close look. “I think that’s it,” he finally determines. He pulls the bottle out again, pouring the vodka one more time, as they watch the red and clear liquids run together.
Dee watches as he begins wrapping the wound. She looks up, “Thanks, Charlie.”
He shrugs, “Eh, I guess I kinda owe you anyway. Y’know, for when the McPoyles stabbed me.” She remembers the chaos of it, the sound of pulling the fork out. Trying not to gag as she helped Charlie slip his jacket off, then applying pressure and taping gauze over the wound. What’s probably from the same roll he’s using on her.
Dee smirks, “Or when Terrell’s sister punched you for being an asshole.”
“That was just ice, Dee,” he reminds her. He sits back a moment later. Done.
Dee inspects his work. It’s not great, but seems to be working. She doesn’t see any blood leaking through and the stinging stopped. He sits next to her on the desk. Dee takes a deep drink from the bottle, the burning in her throat practically nothing compared to the stinging in her hand. Though a lot of that comes years of experience. Dee passes the vodka to Charlie, who takes a long drink.
“I guess we kind of look out for each other.”
“Yeah. I guess we do.”