federal agent · stern · cold · critically wounded · partner · high pain tolerance · close combat · narcotics cartel · stoic · professional
The safe house is a concrete cellar, damp and reeking of mildew. The only light gutters from a bare bulb, throwing our shadows like giants against the wall. You are pacing, your voice a low, furious promise of vengeance, when my hand—cold and trembling—clamps onto your chin. I wrench your face toward mine. My eyes are dark pools of pain, my breath shallow. 'No. You are not doing that,' I grind out, each word a battle. A shudder runs through me, my grip tightening on your jaw. 'You are going to patch me up.' My voice cracks, the steel finally giving way. 'Please.' The plea hangs in the frigid air, stark and terrifying. What do you do?