in·sin·u·ate
inˈsinyo͞oˌāt/
verb
suggest or hint (something bad or reprehensible) in an indirect and
unpleasant way.

They knew who we were.

Nobody was able to access Clandestine's files, let alone locate their website, no matter how skilled they were with any sort of technology. Animosity and Virulent had tracked us down, learned our names, and contacted authorities to frame us for the crimes they committed. Surely we had other organizations on our trail, word must've spread that we were the Mercenary Lovers. We were fucked.

"Look, I'm sure loads of people know our names," Brendon slid down further in the passenger seat, knees bumping the glove box open and shut, "or maybe it was a lucky guess."

The road was dead silent, I just hoped a cop wasn't stationed later down waiting to catch a speeding car, which would've been me. The only type of identification I had on me was my badge for Clandestine and a wallet full of faux identities and access passes, so if I was pulled over I would have to explain why the passenger had a two inch knife blade stuck in his shoulder and why I was known by twenty seven different names. "It was not a 'lucky guess'. You don't 'lucky guess' someone's whole name."

"Pft," Brendon shrugged and hissed lightly, clutching his arm tighter, "it's easy. I didn't know that lady's name, I bet I could guess it."

"Okay then, if you're so confident then tell me her name."

He thought about it for a second. The odds were stacked against him as well, the chances of guessing her first and last name was incredibly slim. It would've been like winning the lottery and then being struck by lightning immediately after.

"Her last name is Lucas," he muttered "and her first name is... Deanna. Deanna Lucas."

Brendon jerked forward when the car screeched to a halt, crying out from the movement I assumed had shot more discomfort through his shoulder.

"You knew her name beforehand, didn't you-"

"Screw you, I did not," blood had slowly begun to ooze from the wound again, soaking through his already ruined dress shirt, "just drive so I can take this out!"

"You knew her name beforehand!"

"I did not! Lucky guess, you jerk!"

My hands gripped the collar of his shirt just as tight as they did the steering wheel. Even though my palm stung and the fabric wrapped around it had new spots of blood seeping through, I didn't release my hold even when the handle to the knife bumped against the seat and twisted the gash deeper. "Don't you dare fucking lie to me, Urie."

"I'm not!" He howled and shoved me away, desperately tightening his grasp around his upper arm to stop the blood running through the material. "Just drive faster! Stop at CVS for a first aid kit!"

The signs ahead flashed for a short oasis of cheap outlet stores and a gas station that probably charged far too much per gallon.

So I pulled into the closest parking spot that wasn't handicapped, walked through the sliding doors without waiting for Brendon and waved to the only person working, a cashier with short dark hair and slight signs of acne on their cheeks. Brendon straggled in a few steps behind, waving as politely as he could with a blood soaked hand, running up ahead to search through the store with me.

"Do you think they're gonna call the cops on us?"

I glanced back to see the employee stunned into silence and immobility, running a hand over their shoulder in sympathy.

"Nah. That requires paperwork and time, and they're the only one on the job. The chances are slim, and we aren't threatening anybody. Just go get your first aid kit so we can leave." I shrugged him off and he nearly sprinted down an aisle, mumbling a quiet 'ouch' each time he took a step.

⋘⋙

We stopped at another sketchy motel for the night, which had me on edge for the hours on end I was awake listening to Brendon slowly dig the blade from his shoulder.

I almost felt bad - it sounded like he was going about the process all wrong. It's taken him almost an hour to take it out, and judging from the excessive cursing, a part of the knife had shattered and pieces were still buried in the skin.

After another hour of short spurts of yelling profanities at the top of his lungs, his torso poked out from around the bathroom corner, blood dripping down his chest and dotting his cheeks. "How skilled are you with picking out shards of a knife blade and stitching up cuts?"

I shrugged and shut my laptop, heading into the bathroom to help. Previously white stained towels lined the countertop, used tools from the first aid kit he'd bought gathered in the sink soaking in antiseptic solution. A few packages of medical stitches sat near the complimentary needles the kit had been kind enough to include.

"Stitches are for wounds bigger than three quarters of an inch-"

"I am aware," Brendon pointed to the streaming blood again, which, when cleaned and brought to my attention, was well over an inch long, "she got it in there at an angle and then your monster hands ripped it open more in the car. It's an inch and a half. I measured."

"Why don't you do this yourself?" I asked and grabbed the box of latex gloves, pulling them on while I waited for a response.

"I'm usually the one inflicting damage, not receiving. The last time I was stabbed by a pocketknife was never, and I suck at dealing with my own bullshit injuries. I got shot in the heel a couple months back and I just dug it out with the skin around it and let it scar over."

"So... you have a hole in your foot because you were too lazy to properly care for a bullet in your foot?"

He nodded, lips pursed, and say crisscross on the toilet seat. "Essentially, yes."

I added that to my lengthy list of strange things about him. It wasn't too long, but a decent length considering we'd only met a few days prior.

Brendon didn't even bat an eye at the heavy amount of the antiseptic, only sighing while I had to clean up for him. The first stitch however, did not sound good. The second didn't either, neither did the rest. The entire time he cried out and kicked at the floor, surely leaving fingerprint dents on the edge of the seat he'd gripped on to for dear life.

I tossed the used pieces from the first aid kit into the garbage beside him. "Your pain tolerance is pretty low, isn't it?"

Without any warning, the hand to his good arm grabbed my shirt collar and yanked so his face was centimeters away from mine, spots of blood still on his lips and cheek. "Listen here, pal. I sat here for well over an hour and dug shards of a broken pocketknife from my own shoulder, doused a two inch deep cut in antiseptic solution, and had it sewn up by your monster hands," he growled, actually growled, "I am out of patience tonight. Try me."

Red began to seep from the cut again from my own grip tugging on his shoulder. "In case you needed someone to remind you of what I just did, it would be smart to quit with the attitude and be thankful for the damn stitches."

Slowly, I dug my finger under the final stitch I'd made, tugging three times before letting him loose and shoving him back to the toilet seat. "We're leaving to drop by a friend tomorrow, Brendon. I highly suggest pulling your shit together and refraining from making a fool of yourself out there."

"Screw you."

"Love you too."

[hi I'm an emotional mess but this time it's a good emotional mess I'm good life is non-sarcastically fantastic]