The safe house smelled like blood and burnt toast by the time Pryde and Beaver stumbled through the door.
Beaver's arm was wrapped in a hasty bandage Vera had slapped on in under ninety seconds, blood already seeping through the gauze. Pryde had a split lip and a limp he was trying to hide behind that usual cocky swagger, but it wasn't working. They looked like they'd been dragged through hell and back, which, technically, they had.
No one shouted.
No one asked for the full story yet.
Scorpion just stood in the middle of the living room, arms crossed, voice flat as concrete. "Kitchen. Now. Patch kit's on the table. Vera's already got it ready."
Pryde opened his mouth like he wanted to crack a joke, something stupid about how the Rodrigos drove like grandmas, but the look Scorpion gave him killed it dead. Beaver just nodded, eyes on the floor, and followed his boyfriend into the kitchen without another word. Guilt sat heavy on both of them. You could smell it under the blood.
