(no subject)
Title: Holding on for what?
Fandom: Red Prowling Devil.
Genre: Hurt/Comfort.
Rating/Warnings: Alcohol references, but no violence or swearing. Set mid vol 2.
Summary: Cyrus gets on with maintaining another piece of equipment.
Disclaimer: I'm just borrowing the characters for this little story.
Franz stepped onto the tarmac of the runway, his injured arm tucked inside his coat and the empty sleeve flapped behind him in the wind. It was good to be back on the runway of the team's base, away from the intrigue and Naomi's brother, Chilean. The reminder of his lingering humanity had been unnerving, especially the way those empty eyes that stared at him from the face of a murderer.
Cyrus trotted out to meet his old friend, frowning at the man's injury and the lines of pain around the sides of his mouth. Since his eyes were clear Cyrus guessed the proud fool had gone without the painkillers the hospital would have provided. Given that enemies lurked everywhere outside the comparative safety of the mercenaries' base it wasn't as stupid a move as it initially seemed.
'Come on Franz, you look as if you need a drink.' The diminutive Indian suggested, receiving a surprisingly wan nod in response. He led the way to the General's office and let Franz settle himself into a seat while he made them both steaming mugs of strong tea. He placed the mugs on the paper-covered desk and headed over to the filing cabinet, moving the clean shirt and smalls to one side to dig out a nearly full bottle. 'Vodka? That's a surprise.'
'Another of their little taunts, Cyrus. My personal rewards for our successes usually are.' Franz admitted, before taking a hefty swig from the offered bottle. He winced as the large gulp warmed his belly and caught in his throat, taking his breath away. He already felt tipsy, although that was more due to the blood-loss and exhaustion caused by the severe injury than the alcohol. Cyrus poured another shot of the vodka into his mug.
By the time Franz drained his mug his movements had become slower and more careful. He didn't look like a master of war or the commander of an elite group of mercenaries, but simply a tired and hurt man. Cyrus sighed internally and blanked his face of the concern he felt for the younger man. Instead he diffidently suggested that Franz sleep here in his office rather than risk being seen by the men in this state on the way to his quarters. A nod acknowledged the wisdom of his suggestion and so Cyrus shook out a scratchy woollen blanket that Franz pulled up to his chin as he collapsed onto the hard sofa he kept in the office.
Cyrus turned out the light as he left, dropping the door latch to lock the door behind him. It was all very well Franz looking after Naomi and her brother (he ignored the guilty twist in his gut as he remembered how he'd hounded Franz to do something about Chilean), his odd, occasionally expressed care in that respect warmed Cyrus, but if Franz didn't look after himself as well they would be in trouble. Franz' dedication was both admirable and concerning as Cyrus tried to keep his old friend on the straight and narrow, but also alive. Franz needed something other than his men to live for - this clearly wasn't enough any more, and the thought chilled Cyrus to the core.
Fandom: Red Prowling Devil.
Genre: Hurt/Comfort.
Rating/Warnings: Alcohol references, but no violence or swearing. Set mid vol 2.
Summary: Cyrus gets on with maintaining another piece of equipment.
Disclaimer: I'm just borrowing the characters for this little story.
Franz stepped onto the tarmac of the runway, his injured arm tucked inside his coat and the empty sleeve flapped behind him in the wind. It was good to be back on the runway of the team's base, away from the intrigue and Naomi's brother, Chilean. The reminder of his lingering humanity had been unnerving, especially the way those empty eyes that stared at him from the face of a murderer.
Cyrus trotted out to meet his old friend, frowning at the man's injury and the lines of pain around the sides of his mouth. Since his eyes were clear Cyrus guessed the proud fool had gone without the painkillers the hospital would have provided. Given that enemies lurked everywhere outside the comparative safety of the mercenaries' base it wasn't as stupid a move as it initially seemed.
'Come on Franz, you look as if you need a drink.' The diminutive Indian suggested, receiving a surprisingly wan nod in response. He led the way to the General's office and let Franz settle himself into a seat while he made them both steaming mugs of strong tea. He placed the mugs on the paper-covered desk and headed over to the filing cabinet, moving the clean shirt and smalls to one side to dig out a nearly full bottle. 'Vodka? That's a surprise.'
'Another of their little taunts, Cyrus. My personal rewards for our successes usually are.' Franz admitted, before taking a hefty swig from the offered bottle. He winced as the large gulp warmed his belly and caught in his throat, taking his breath away. He already felt tipsy, although that was more due to the blood-loss and exhaustion caused by the severe injury than the alcohol. Cyrus poured another shot of the vodka into his mug.
By the time Franz drained his mug his movements had become slower and more careful. He didn't look like a master of war or the commander of an elite group of mercenaries, but simply a tired and hurt man. Cyrus sighed internally and blanked his face of the concern he felt for the younger man. Instead he diffidently suggested that Franz sleep here in his office rather than risk being seen by the men in this state on the way to his quarters. A nod acknowledged the wisdom of his suggestion and so Cyrus shook out a scratchy woollen blanket that Franz pulled up to his chin as he collapsed onto the hard sofa he kept in the office.
Cyrus turned out the light as he left, dropping the door latch to lock the door behind him. It was all very well Franz looking after Naomi and her brother (he ignored the guilty twist in his gut as he remembered how he'd hounded Franz to do something about Chilean), his odd, occasionally expressed care in that respect warmed Cyrus, but if Franz didn't look after himself as well they would be in trouble. Franz' dedication was both admirable and concerning as Cyrus tried to keep his old friend on the straight and narrow, but also alive. Franz needed something other than his men to live for - this clearly wasn't enough any more, and the thought chilled Cyrus to the core.