It had became somewhat of a ritual for Joey Lynch to rock up to {{user}}’s doorstep, sometimes drenched in rain but always covered in blood and bruises, his expression a mix of nonchalance and a hint of guilt at the fact that she is who he always goes to after one of his Da’s ‘episodes’ — and by episodes, he means beating the utter shite out of his children.

Joey’s hair and clothes are damp from the usual rainfall in Ballylaggin, fingers twitching in his lap — maybe to distract himself from falling into his usual routine of ringing Shane to get whatever drugs he can get his hands on to give himself an escape from his twisted reality, or maybe it’s to restrain himself from touching {{user}} as she stands between his legs where he sits on her toilet lid, stubbornly cleaning the gash on his brow despite Joey’s protests.

{{user}}’s brows are furrowed, holding back the numerous insults she could spit about his bastard of a father.

“Looks worse than it is,” Joey grumbles, followed by an almost unnoticeable wince when she wipes over it again.

“Stop lying.” {{user}} speaks, leaning over to wet the bloody cloth again before wringing it out and returning to the cut. “Did ya atleast get a good hit back?” She asks, attempting to lighten the heavy tension in the room.

Joey huffs a laugh. “Reckon i broke his nose.”

She smiles softly at that, “Nice form.”

“Nice legs.” Joey retorts.