Work Text:
He needed to get out of LA.
He left the body and the bag of money in the middle of the parking lot and drove off without a backwards glance. He’d known what was coming as soon as he stepped into that restaurant. That didn’t mean he enjoyed doing it.
Irene and Benicio were now alone in their apartment, and they’d be left alone. Neither he nor Standard were coming back now, but at least he ensured no one else would bother them.
He needed to get out of LA.
He couldn’t think about them. Couldn’t think about the body he’d left in the parking lot, who it used to be, the other bodies it created.
The man he knew before was gone, along with that firm handshake and the offer of a new life. A life where he could drive without the intent to crash.
He couldn’t have that anymore.
He needed to get out of LA.
Although given the warm, wet weight in the front of his shirt, he had to make a stop first, or he’d become just another body to add to the mess.
He pulled up to a convenience store. He had no hope of hiding the blood staining his front, so he didn’t try. He kept one hand pressed to his gut as he wandered the aisles, grabbed a few bottles of water, disinfectant, gauze, bandages. It didn’t matter what others thought of him. The slow pulse of blood between his fingers was the only indication he was still alive.
He focused on the warmth under his hand as he laid the items on the check-out counter alongside a handful of bills, bloody fingerprints smeared over them all.
“Hey man, are you okay?” The cashier asked, staring at him. He stared back.
The cashier bit his lip and put the change on the counter, the items stored in a plastic bag. He dutifully dropped the loose coins into the tip jar, stuffed the extra bills into his pocket—not that there were many—then took the bag and exited. He got into his car and drove off.
There were a hundred thousand streets in LA, and he knew them all. He didn’t need a route this time, just needed somewhere he could be overlooked for a couple hours.
He parked in a strip mall parking lot, tucked away in the corner where no one would think twice of his car. He turned his police scanner on, then finally took a look at himself.
The front of his jacket was soaked with blood, completely ruined. A shame—he liked this jacket. He pulled it off carefully, followed by his shirt, used to maneuvering himself in the small space of a car, though his limbs were always longer than he expected.
The wound didn’t look too bad. A slice in his gut maybe an inch wide, located just above his stomach. He had to assume he could fix it himself, since there was no other option. If it had hit something vital he would’ve bled out by now.
He grabbed a bottle of water, but had trouble cracking the lid since his hands were slick with blood. He got it eventually, steadfastly ignoring the way his hands shook as he poured it over his stomach, water running down his sides and soaking into his jeans, the seat. He’d deal with that later. He took the gauze and disinfectant out, wet the gauze with disinfectant, and pressed it to the wound.
Pain lit him up from the inside, sharp and blinding. His hand jerked in response, involuntarily pressing harder against the wound, making everything hurt even worse. He sucked in a shaky breath but didn’t make a noise, riding out the pain with his eyes squeezed shut.
He got used to it after a moment, let the discomfort fade to background static that he could ignore. Had to ignore. He didn’t have the money to waste on painkillers.
He swiped the disinfectant over the wound several more times but blood kept bubbling out of it. He bit his lip hard enough to taste iron as he debated what to do next. This needed more than a bandaged slapped on top. If he kept bleeding at this rate, he’d turn into a body, just like the one he’d left behind.
He laid his shirt out in his lap and reached for the bag of items again. His hands trembled even worse now, and he squeezed them into fists before continuing, trying to rid himself of the shakes.
He grit his teeth in anticipation as he pulled out another bundle of gauze. This would hurt, but it was the only thing he could do. He didn’t have the supplies for stitches.
He wrapped the gauze around his index and middle fingers, then before he could talk himself out of it, he pushed his fingers into the wound.
A groan punched out of him, the first noise he’d made since the parking lot. He felt like he was being ripped open from the inside, like he was being stabbed all over again. His insides felt warm and wet, a dull beat of his heart pumping more and more blood out of him.
He forced his lungs to expand, feeling the tug in his gut, muscles contracting around something that wasn’t supposed to be in there. As he blew out the breath he removed his fingers, leaving the gauze packed into the wound. It was already soaked with blood.
He refused to let it hurt. He took all his pain and locked it into the back of his head where he wouldn’t have to deal with it.
He grabbed another piece of gauze, folded it and pressed it in, far enough to slow the bleeding without letting it get lost inside himself. He packed a few more pieces on top, followed by a bandage, and finally collapsed back against the seat, breathing hard.
He needed to get out of LA.
His hands shook even worse now. He should’ve bought food.
He didn’t want to move. He didn’t want to leave. He wanted to see Irene one last time.
He dumped his trash out of the window, shrugged on his jacket, and pulled out of the parking lot.
He needed to get out of LA.