Chapter Text
It's a beautiful summer night, a light breeze gently stirring the warm air, keeping it from being unpleasantly hot. You could wait fifteen minutes for the next bus, but why waste the fare money when a half-hour walk feels like the perfect way to unwind?
You meander in the direction of your apartment, enjoying the relative calm of the night streets, then make a detour to stop by your favorite corner store for a snack.
"¿Qué tal, Javi?" you say with a wave to the cashier.
The only other customer is a disheveled man in a tight suit. He's armed and bloody, and Javi is staring daggers at him. If this guy gets blood on the floor, he'll be furious.
The stranger dumps his armful of bandages and painkillers onto the counter, then places a large coin next to them.
Javi sighs and shakes his head, then pushes the items aside and taps the handwritten sign taped onto the counter: NO ASSASSIN BULLSHIT.
"Real money only."
You feel kind of bad for him. Like everyone else, you'd rather not get involved in Table business, but this guy's clearly just hurt.
You place your mango juice and bag of chips next to his pile.
"I can get that for you," you offer. "I get 3% cash back here."
The man looks at you, then nods. "Thanks."
Javi gives you an exasperated look.
You roll your eyes. "If he kills me, you can say 'I told you so.'"
"I'm not going to kill you," the man says gruffly.
"See?"
You hold the door open for the man, noticing how he's wincing and holding his side.
"Don't you guys have doctors?"
He grunts. "It's not that bad."
You purse your lips. "Yeah, right."
He just grunts again, then pulls off his jacket and hands this to you. "Hold this."
You do, first because you're too surprised not to, then because the next thing he does is unbutton his shirt.
It's impolite to stare, of course, but he's right in front of you. Your eyes must be wide because he says, "C'mon, it's not that bad."
Not that bad? Right, he's talking about the wounds. He's pretty scratched up and there's harsh roadburn across his left side. He starts too peel open a gauze pad.
You wince. "Dude, no, you gotta take a shower first."
"Do you see one around here?" he asks drily, sticking the pad on and hissing at the pain.
"You could just come back to my place."
The invitation slips out of you before you can really think it through. Your brain is too busy looking at the gorgeous, roughed-up man.
He stops and stares at you. The piercing eyes are not helping you stay rational.
"Just to get cleaned up," he says after a second, with a small nod.
He follows you to your building, into the elevator, and up to your apartment.
He starts to pace around, getting an idea of the layout. You stop him. "Shoes."
He looks at you, confused.
"Take your shoes off."
He does.
"Bathroom's there, let me grab you a towel."
When you're back with the towel and a facecloth, he's fully shirtless with his back to the door, evaluating his front in the mirror. His back is covered in tattoos and scars, including what seems to be a fairly recent brand mark, as well as more of the roadburn. He's a beautiful specimen of a man.
Again, he catches you staring. He doesn't say anything, just turns and looks at you like he's waiting for you to speak.
"Left for cold, right for hot. You can use my bodywash and shampoo. Uh, have fun."
You close the door.
This was a bad idea. If you weren't buzzed and lonely after your night out, and if he wasn't so incredibly handsome, you wouldn't have invited an assassin into your home. You don't even know his name.
You hear him let out a moan. He must be in pain, but you'd love to hear him make that sound again. You realize you've been standing right outside the door, and quickly tiptoe away, positioning yourself casually on the couch.
After a few minutes your guest emerges, noticeably cleaner, with the towel wrapped around his waist.
"You wouldn't happen to have any pants, would you?"
You toss him a pair of sweatpants with your college's name in block letters down one leg, then turn around, letting him put them on in relative privacy.
"Thanks," he says, indicating that you can turn around again.
"I can help you with the bandages," you say.
He sits on the couch, the supplies in front of him on the table. You sit next to him and try to suppress a laugh.
He looks at you, questioning.
"Sorry, it's just... you're this big sexy tough guy, and you smell like mango and coconut and raspberries. It's nice."
He grunts and swallows some pills, then opens a tube of antiseptic pain-relief cream. You hold out your hand. "Can I?"
He nods and shifts so that his back is to you. You squirt some into your hand and gently start to rub the cream into his wounds. He lets out a moan, soft and short, as you start to move your hands.
"You okay?"
He nods again. "Just... stings."
"I'll try to be gentle."
You keep going, moving slowly, massaging the cream into each red spot. His muscles are firm against your hands. You move to the brand in the center and he hisses and jerks away, then moves back.
"What happened?" you ask, even though you know you shouldn't.
"I punched my ticket."
Though it's not a useful answer, you decide to leave it at that. "Okay, your back's done. Turn around and let me get the front."
He could do it himself, you both know that, but you get the impression that he doesn't often encounter this kind of gentleness. He turns.
You keep your eyes on his chest, afraid that if he sees your face you'll be blushing. There are fewer cuts and scrapes here, so you decide to start with the roadburn and get it over with. You hear him clench his teeth, but this time he doesn't pull away.
"Good," you say, moving back to his chest. There's a large bruise on his left pec, which you dab some cream onto. His nipple hardens at the touch, and you pretend not to notice. Looking down, though, you see that he's half-erect.
"Sorry," he says, gruff but embarrassed.
"It's okay."
He shifts, turning around again so his back is to you, and starts to bandage the wounds on his front. You do the same, carefully smoothing the dressings on.
As you move your hands over him you can feel him rocking his hips gently, and you can hear his breathing start to speed up. You softly trail a hand from back to front over his hips, resting it lightly on his bulge. He bucks reflexively at the touch.
"You- you don't have to," he offers.
"I want to," you say, stroking him through the fabric.
He relaxes into you, and you use your other hand to tug at the waistband of the sweatpants, allowing you to put your hand directly on his dick.
You grind your hips against him and put your other hand on his thigh, steadying yourself as you increase the tempo. He's breathing heavily now, moving his body with you.
There are footsteps in the hallway.
You don't react - why would you? It's normal background noise to you. To your guest, though, it's the sound of danger.
He's immediately standing, pulling you to standing as well. He positions himself between you and the door and puts a hand on your waist, pressing your chest closely into his back. You don't know where his handgun was but he's holding it now, impossibly still, steadily aiming at your door. His heart is pounding.
The footsteps pass, and you hear a door unlock, open, and close.
He lowers his gun and loosens his grip on you.
"Sorry."
"N-no, it's okay," you stammer, a little shaken. "Do you really think someone would follow you here?"
He shrugs. He looks exhausted.
"When was the last time you slept?"
He shrugs again.
"You should take the guest bed tonight."
He shakes his head. "I'm fine."
"Yeah, sure, you're fine. Look, if you think someone's gonna break in here and kill you, you should really rest a while first."
"That's not what I'm worried about."
You look at him, confused. "What, you don't think people are coming to kill you? Sorry, I guess I just assumed that's always happening for you guys."
"You," he says, gruffly. When you keep looking at him, not understanding his answer, he explains. "I'm not worried about
me
. I'm worried about
you
."
"Oh."
He sighs. "It was selfish of me to come here. Every second here puts you in more danger." He starts to get dressed back into his suit again.
"At least let me help you put the banages."
He stills, and drops the bundle of clothes.
"Fine."
You try to take your time smoothing the bandages over his body, but he's restless. You patch him up quickly, and then he's gone, still wearing your sweatpants.
You take a shower and go to bed, realizing that you never caught his name.