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It's a typical day—that means that the two of you are out, guns blazing, in something that qualifies as a shit-heap bounty hunter scum-sucking search day. That means that the two of you are back-to-back, the only thing that keeps either of you going the heat that radiates through your frames—his, of course, dwarves you by a country mile, but it's the thought that counts.
The other thing that keeps the two of you rooted in the moment is the steady rhythm of gunfire that ricochets and recoils through the firearms you dual-wield. There's a steady warcry wailing out of you as you take aim at the sonsabitches that had the audacity to not kneel downto the ground and beg for mercy.
Yeah, it's a typical day—and the two of you are ready to go.
"Light me," He orders, and you can see in your peripheral—a hand that looms palm-up for the grenade that you easily slap into it.
There's a casual flick of a wrist, a distant click, and then an earsplitting boom that reverberates through the general area—you hear the cries of the dumbfucks that're too dumb to quit. You two nonwithstanding, of course—but you keep going anyways.
"They're persistent," You shout back, because you're the one with the vocab—and the eye candy, not that he'll admit it. On any good day he says that he's the brawn and the trophy boyfriend, which to you is basically one-in-the-same. But you let it slide.
"Yeah, and they'll be dead soon." He grouses back through the din of hailfire—you keep shooting, and then launch another grenade of your own. You see them scatter like rats running from the proverbial leaking ship, though it does little to keep them out of the blast radius.
"You're runnin' low," He shouts back through instinct, because he's good with guns and you sound a little light as you rattle the gun—damn him for being good at his job.
"I don't mind," You call back easily, "Less to carry when we get the mark."
"Watcher self," He grunts as he champs around the cigar that he's already got clenched between his teeth, lit in pre-celebration, "Don't want to have to carry two people back when I cash in."
"When we cash in," you warn him with a jaunty grin as you take aim at a goon too foolish to know when to duck, "Right?"
"Course," He sneers back, "60-40, like always, babe."
"That's what you think," Is what you mean to say, and keep up that typical back-and-forth that the two of you are so used to engaging in when you fight a bunch of tactless, idiotic hoodlums. But the truth of the matter is, you're not a tactless, idiotic hoodlum.
That's why you catch the way that in the far distance, someone levies an object in your direction with a Hail Mary throw. And since you passed grade school, you can tell that the arc of the trajectory will take deadly purchase on Lobo.
So, like any good partner, what you actually screech is "Look out!" And shove with all of your might into him, so that the rather wicked-looking knife can impale itself into your abdomen with a rather satisfying thunk. You'd give that mook a grade A for aim, if it didn't make everything around the edges of your vision blur so damn funny.
If, when you look up at Lobo, and you see the way that the smirk on his face falls momentarily slack—or maybe that's just your axis of personal gravity, considering that you're tilting backwards—you'd laugh.
But that means that you didn't feel the familiar dribble of blood that you feel you're liable to cough up any second now. But you're a little too busy hitting the pavement with an air of finality that has him hurling an expletive and explosive charge over his sholuder without looking, before he turns back to you.
It's funny—you're used to cocky, you don't exactly know what you'd call this type of cant to his face. If you weren't so familiar with him—and if everything weren't going dark—you'd almost swore that he looked scared.
But who knows—you can't really see, or feel much of anything at all, anymore.
You're being lurched around, you think. You don't really have presence of mind to really wonder what direction you're being held—you assume from how you loll around limply, you're being carried in the cradle of someone's large arms. Someone is yelling, but everything is swimmingly dark and echoing.
"—Keep talkin' to me, babe—"—You hear the voice say, and you're jostled as you turn a corner. It makes something painfully twinge within you, but you get the feeling that something hurt a lot worse earlier.
"That's real hard, Lobo, I dunno—"—You hear someone say—it seems familiar but you're not entirely certain.
"—Fuck kinda answer is that—"—That voice is angrier now, aggressive, but it seems to be borne of a worry that you can't understand. Everything is so light, so distant—what does it all matter?
"—Whatever you want it to be, honey—"—Is the response that comes back, prompts a snarl in reply.
"—Think I won't get pissed if you die on me?"
"—Think it'd be really funny if I did—"—You're of the assumption that the voice might belong to you, but everything's getting hazy again.
"—Hey, I said keep your fuckin' eyes open—"—You catch an auditory glimpse, but that's all you get. Everything goes dark and silent once more.
You're vaguely cognizant of more shouting, of vicious cursing, of threats to fix it up or so help me—you've heard similar things before, but usually encouraged with expectation of coin. You're not used to hearing it with your named tossed in, and the words "Heal" and "Now" put in the mix. There are other voices, other things being poked into you—you get the sensation of being tugged at, sewn up, mended as best as you can.
Things are shaken, things are torn—someone is yelling, someone is groaning in pain. You think one of those people is you, and the other is Lobo. But again, you can never be too sure. You might just be dreaming, for all that you know.
And then everything is still. You're no longer buoyant—you feel painfully, horrendously aware of everything, and how much healing that you've got to do, how far you just have to go. You know that once you open your eyes, you're going to see just how bad. But you think that wherever you're laying, in this spot that finally has given you a safe spot in harbor, that you might like it.
Except for the fact that you can hear the ragged, labored breathing of someone in repose besides you—the intake of someone that you're used to hearing lying beside you in bed. Except you've got the strongest inkling that you're all alone in this bed.
You finally crack open your eyes with a bleary blink, and look to see your surroundings. To your mild surprise, you're in a rather state-of-the-art hospital room, with a colorful assortment of IVs that tether you to your spot.
There's a rather harmonious chorus of beeps and whistles of machines that are working to keep you alive—everything in your midriff feels rather numb and pleasant, so you assume that that's the nucleus of where the pain is.
And to your side—you turn your head, the only thing that really seems to have mobile autonomy, to the lumbering giant that glowers and seems to have eyes only for you.
"How long I been here?" You hoarsely croak out, and his eyes narrow as he looks at you, takes you in. It seems that even the sight of you returning to consciousness does little to assuage him. You think you know the reason why.
"How bad's the hospital bill?" You ask with a weary smile, though it does little to return any semblance of humor to his face. Matter of fact, he doesn't say much of anything at all. You think this rather stolid anger on his face—you've seen it before, but you don't know when you've seen it directed at you.
"You been out for a week," He returns coarsely, "'N don't worry 'bout no fuckin' hospital bill. Doc's here are nice enough to put you up free a'charge."
Must be his charming way with words, you suppose—or the gun that hangs rather ominously from his hip even as he sits. But that doesn't explain the anger.
"We get the money?" You ask. "You can take my half."
"Money's nice," He answers back, "So long as you got someone to split it with."
"That's a first," You say, and try to move—he doesn't. He just continues to look your direction, something in the depths of his scarlet eyes as he watches you. "Sure you didn't hit your head?"
"Maybe I did," He retorts, "Gettin' soft for someone who don't have the good sense ta duck."
"Thought you wouldn't look good with a knife stickin' outta your hide." You grin.
"Yeah, but I heal better'n you do." He shoots back, and he reaches out a massive arm, to crook a finger under your chin. It's hot—burning to the touch. "Maybe I wantcha stickin' around."
"That your way of saying you fond of me?" You ask with a smile. He's silent—then his own smile breaks the monotony of his face.
"Maybe," He shoots back. "Must be gettin' loopy without a smoke in this fuckin' hospital."
You chuckle, even if it hurts, and makes your monitors beep in hazy discordant chimes. "Wait 'til I'm up and at it again. I'll make sure to pay you back."
"Best way you can pay me back," He shoots back, "Is gettin' healed up so we can get the fuck outta here."
He cracks a glimpse of teeth at you. "Then I can see just how much you're in prime physical condition."
"Glad you got my best interests at heart." You relax back into the pillow. He's still got his hand under you, as though he's confirming that you're still here, still alive, still with him. You think that might be exactly what he's doing. But you don't want to put him on the spot.
"Go back to sleep," He hitches his seat forward so he can keep a better grip on you. You get the feeling you're never gonna be let out of his sight now, but you feel like you don't mind that. "The sooner we get outta here, the better."
"Sure thing, main man," You reassure him. You feel like you can, knowing that he's got an eye on you now.