Working a lot of odd jobs, meant working a lot of odd hours, and most of the time it didn't bother you, but today was an eighteen-hour day and you put in time in three jobs. It had been long, and both your mind and your body were effectively exhausted. Peeking at your phone as you walked, you realized it was more like a 24-hour day, since it was already past midnight.

Ugh, I've been up since 4am, today was nuts. You grumble internally.

You kept your monologue internal so you could keep your senses external. Walking home this late wasn't super safe, but you're also not exactly easy pickings, so you weren't terribly worried. A dropped guard though, is no guard, so while you might have looked distracted, you weren't.

You hear a low groan from ahead of you, and the shifting of clothes and back-alley trash. It wasn't loud, but you were on alert and there wasn't much other noise around here at this time of night. Making yourself quieter than you had been, you crept into the alley and took in the scene.

A man in a nice, if not torn and bloody suit, is propped against the wall of building, breathing ragged puffs into the cooler air. He's tall with blonde hair, sunglass – at night? What a choice. ­­– and an old flintlock gun in his hand. It's hard to see in the dark, but from his posture, he looks beat to all hell.

You slip closer, softer than the air, and put a hand over his flintlock and his mouth at the same time, staring into his eyes well as you could against the glasses. He jerks, but he doesn't make a sound, and you don't feel him struggle against you. Taking a closer look, you realize he isn't just beat all to hells, he is hurt enough to be on the edges of death.

Looking around for signs of whoever is on his tail you then lean in close and hiss in a whisper. "Fight me on trying to help you and I leave you to die." You warn. "If you lean on me, think you can stand?"

You didn't move your hand from his mouth or his firearm yet, but he nods without any real hesitation. "Your pursuers," You whisper, releasing your grip and bracing to help him to his feet, pointing with your chin as you spoke. "In the alley or main?"

He points to the alley and lets out a low grunt from behind clenched teeth as you get him on his feet. "Alright. Stuff your questions and your voice, now move."

He towers over you. You were short by normal standards, and he had to have two feet on you easy. But for all he leaned into you, you pushed back, giving as much support as you could physically muster. You would've fireman carried him, but something told you that unless he was completely unconscious there's no way he was going to suffer being hauled around like that.

You stop from time to time to listen, and then adjust your course or get off the main street entirely. You were making your way to your friend's clinic, it was closed but locks were just a suggestion, and the doc wouldn't press charges against you anyway.

"Where?" His voice was deep, but as soft and quiet as you imagined it could hope to be.

"Somewhere safe and discreet to stop the bleeding." You pause, listen, and catch the first real sounds of actual pursuit so you push him a little faster. "After that depends."

He seemed content with that answer, and you could feel him trying to push him body to move faster.

It only took a couple of minutes to reach the clinic. You prop him against the wall. "Don't fall down big guy," You whisper, pulling out your lockpicks and opening the door almost as fast as if you'd had a key. It was no surprise, you practiced on this door for years with Law's permission. He'd meant for you to be able to come in if you had an emergency for yourself, but that wasn't your problem right now.

You get the big guy in, and the door shuts quietly behind you both. Setting him on the exam table, closing interior doors and making sure there was no way for light to spill into the front of the clinic before turning on the room's light you go about gathering supplies.

"Why?" That rumble of a voice was nice. You appreciate him keeping his noise making minimal as well.

"Bored." You snort derisively. You speak quietly, barely above a whisper, the room wasn't soundproof, but it was brick with a heavy door. You don't look at him as you move around the room. With the supplies gathered, it was time to prep the station and then clean everything. "You like that suit?"

"Not sentimentally." He states flatly. His tone suggests he does like it for more practical reasons.

You bite back a laugh. "Strip what you can and lay down."

"You're a doctor?" His voice was like thunder and velvet, you would almost hate to hear it when he's at full health, you imagine it'd be easy to get swept away by that voice.

"Field medic if anything." You answer. "You're in the loving hands of someone with practical experience but no degree." You finish prepping as he lays down with a restrained groan, his suit jacket, tie, and undershirt on the floor. "We can compare scars la... ter." You turn toward him after scrubbing your hands and see the extent of the wounds.

At least three bullet holes and two gashes. Bruises and scrapes too, but those weren't your problem. With this level of hurt he's probably got a fracture or two at the minimum.

"Anything I can't see?" You ask, cleaning up the absolute mess his torso had become. "Stabbed in the back? Shot in the leg? Those pants are kind of blood-colored, I don't want to waste time hunting for holes."

"One back wound." He replies. "Left leg outer thigh."

Concise, you appreciate concise. You glance down and see the tear and the blood, pulling the tear you rip the pants a bit and clean the area up with the towel. "Lucky bastard, the shot's shallow, it'll be easy to fix. I'll get your front patched up and we'll look at that back wound. I don't wanna go flipping you over and over."

You hand him a clean towel. "You look like a tough bastard, but I don't thief the doc's meds, so if you have to, bite this and keep as quiet as fucking possible if you don't want your friends to come in uninvited."

You go to work. You'd assisted the doc before, and you'd actually patched yourself up a few times too. Not because you were full of bullets and had pissed people off, but you got into fights and accidents and hospitals weren't cheap. Plus, time around the boys meant patching Pops' crew often enough, and those cheeky bastards never wanted to admit that anything hurt.

This guy could've won their fights though, he was using the towel as a pillow, and the harsh light of the room was enough for you to see the outline of his eyes through his glasses while you work. He does grunt and twitch a time or two, but he is impressively stoic.

"You lost a lot of blood, mister." You remark. Rambling while you worked helped you keep focus. "I can't fix that either, but at least we're plugging the leaks. I bet with that suit you're wearing you can get proper care later, but I feel like your friends out there are the clingy types. And pretty well-prepared too, to do all this, you don't strike me as a guy caught off guard much."

There was a silence at first, and when you were between wounds a single word. "Traitor." There's a weight to that word that almost sinks your soul down to your feet. If that traitor survived tonight, you had a feeling he wouldn't survive many more if this man had his way.

"Explains the wound in the back then. Tough luck." You pat his chest as you finish up the last wound and raise an eyebrow. This guy is solid. Handsome bastard too, especially if he can look this good while being in this bad of shape. You swallow and refocus. "Let me deal with your leg, then you can turn over."

Moving closer to it you pull the fabric a little more to make more room. "At least I hope we can turn you over after this. I'm not exactly a power lifter, and you're a touch bigger than me."

A bemused chuckle fills the air and you smile. A sense of humor, and being able to appreciate that humor, are good signs in situations like this.

His muscles ripple as he turns over and crosses his arms in front of himself, resting his chin on them. You took a moment to appreciate what this man did to maintain his body and felt a swift pang of guilt that your stitches weren't better.

"Do you know who I am?"

"Trouble." You answer and earn another smooth rumbly chuckle. You clean the wound on his back, just barely to the side of his spine, and are getting ready to stitch it. "And Trouble, I don't want to know any other name you have, and there's no reason to give you mine."

"I'd like to properly thank you for all this."

You grunt. "This ain't over yet, and if it goes bad then you'll just have to appreciate our time in my friend's clinic."

You resist the urge to slap his ass when you finish. He's not one of the boys, and you're not looking to make friends with Trouble - so there's no need to be cheeky.

"Get dressed, I'm going to go out the front and at least pretend to be locking up so I can see if your friends are around." You pull the gloves off and toss 'em in the wrong bin specifically so Law'll know it was you. "After that we can make our way to Q's, since the cabbies hang out there, and get you a lift to wherever you want.

"Then you'll be someone else's problem, Trouble."