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The blood swells, throbs in your cheek; a hot pulsing ache that makes you suck in a hard breathe as though doing that might alleviate the pain. It doesn’t. The hard right hook took you by surprise. Foolish to take such an angry risk to close in on the ribs, but you were pissed. Still are. With one fist clenched, you exhale a shaky breath. The other holds your Eagle. You’d won, but it wasn’t clean. You can’t look at the blood splatter on the floor in front of you where the Eclipse mercenary lie.
“Are you fuckin’ mad?!,” Zaeed’s heat hits you before his voice does. You heard him coming a click away on heavy stride. With a rough jerk, he angles your swelling cheek into his view. “Got a death wish, Shepard? You were two seconds from taking a bullet to the goddamn face!”
You don’t acknowledge the question. He can tell by your dissonant expression there’s layers upon layers of anger and you’re ready to boil over. Gonna’ have to work that out eventually, you decide.
“Where the fuck is your helm?!”
“It’s busted,” you answer flatly.
He makes a strangled noise of frustration, choosing to choke back heated words for later. “It needs to be bled.”
“Do it.”
He produces a knife, the one he’s usually going on about jamming into krogan helms, and holds the edge to the growing lump of pooling blood beneath your skin. You try not to watch the tip as it catches the light, avert your gaze to his expression. The skin around his facial scars pulls as his brows furrow. One quick slice and instant relief floods the wound. Sticky warmth streams down the side of your face. The cut stings in the open air. You’re beyond caring right now.
“Need to patch you up.”
“No time.”
“I don’t give a good goddamn,” he mutters, the green of his good eye flashes and catches yours. “If you’d fucking heeded sense instead of flying off at the handle…”
“You’re mad I’m slowing us down?”
The muscles of his brows knot. The crescent scar goes pale from strain. He doesn’t catch your gaze as he applies gel and a butterfly closure, using his teeth to rip the protective plastic off the adhesive backing. You suck in a hard breath through your teeth as the gel works to clot the open vessels.
“No,” he grits his teeth, tone going low, dark, guttural. You feel your heart jump; anxiety hammers at your ribs. Despite how he looks like he might chew iron and spit ammo, he’s gentle in the application to your cheek. “Bloody fuckin’… You ever pull that shit again…”
Feeling reckless never was your style. More his thing, but with the current events unfolding as they were, you can’t help but act out. You want to be flippant but decide, based on the shifting and tension of his jaw, you’ll withhold any smart ass remarks. For now.
“Alright.”
“Alright, what?,” he snaps, and withdraws from you.
The cool air rushes in. You feel a bit empty, but words and thought evade you. You stand in silence before him, looking and feeling berated.
“Look, kid,” he exhales. “I get what you’re feeling, but at least be fuckin’ smart.”
You quirk an eyebrow at him. Before you can say anything, he snaps, “Don’t fuckin’ start! We put g’ddamn Santiago behind us already. Never bloody gonna’ let me live that down, are you?”
You sigh, tear your gaze away. The near jovial expression fades back into that unlively space you were occupying; again hiding beneath the mask that covered your anger and desperation.
“Yeah, okay. You’re right.”
“Yeah…,” he breathes. “Isn’t that what you keep me around for?”
Your eyes narrow at the comment. He knows damn well why he’s here, why he’s so close. You choose to remain silent and watch as he checks the ammo clip of his rifle.
“If you’re done sulking, Shepard, let’s get this finished.”
You fall in at his side and walk forward. Too many words choke you into indefinite silence. Constant glances and body heat are all that reassure you. It’s enough.