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"Hold still."
It was easier said than done, what with Lalo's fingers buried knuckle-deep in the meat of his shoulder.
The bullets had come flying out of nowhere, tearing through the windows of the Javelin, burying themselves in the doors and in the seats and in Nacho's shoulder. Somehow, in the hail of bullets, only one of them had caught him. Lalo, naturally, was completely unscathed.
He had insisted on switching sides and driving them away from the scene, pulling into the nearest gas station and dragging Nacho into the bathroom. He'd locked the door behind them, saying, "Take off your shirt."
Though he'd hesitated and struggled to do it, Nacho had done as he was told.
That had been ten minutes ago.
Ten minutes of digging.
This particular bathroom wasn't as dirty as some of the gas station bathrooms Nacho had seen, but the mirror was grimy and the air reeked of urine and stale cigarette smoke. The fact that there was no air conditioning made it even worse. He'd need to shower when he got home, injured or not.
The smell was the least of Nacho's concerns. Through gritted teeth, he said, "They probably have a first aid kit. At least get some tweezers or something."
"I almost got it," Lalo said, and Nacho wasn't sure if he was speaking to him or himself.
Nacho's arm was rapidly going numb, and he wasn't sure if that was better or worse than the shooting, pulsing ache that he had felt before Lalo sunk his fingers into him. There was blood dripping down his arms, and sweat dripping down the back of his neck. Everything felt sticky. He could feel the heat down in his lungs, and the warmth of where Lalo was pressed up against his back, one arm around Nacho's shoulders to hold him still and close, wasn't helping.
The arm that wasn't numb was braced on the lip of the dingy sink, knuckles white and fingers trembling.
Lalo was silent for once, his dark eyes downcast, his brow furrowed as he worked. He was sweating, too, and it sent the smell of his cologne out into the air. It made Nacho's head spin. Or maybe that was just the blood loss. There was a soft, wet sound, then Lalo finally slid the bullet free. The little chunk of metal was held between his fingernails, and he tossed it into the sink, saying, "Done."
Nacho loosed a sigh of relief, but it caught in his throat when Lalo leaned in to press a kiss to the curve of his shoulder, a few inches above the wound. It hurt, but there was a strange comfort in it, something gentle and familiar. Nacho looked away.
Lalo caught his eyes in the mirror. With a wink, he said, "Gotta kiss it to make it hurt less." There was blood on his lips.