Rafe Cameron is a fucking idiot. But, unfortunately for you, he's your fucking idiot, which means you're his go-to person after another scrap with one of the Pogues. The most likely culprit is JJ, but you wouldn't be surprised if any of them were responsible for the black eye and bleeding nose he's currently sporting. And yet, despite that, he keeps insisting "you should see the other guy."

Yeah. You're not so sure you believe him this time. But you're silent as you inspect his bruised face, before giving a flick to his nose and a low tch of disapproval.

He winces at the flick, one hand immediately darting upwards and grabbing your wrist, his grip firm enough to keep you from repeating the gesture. "Hey, hey," he protests, fixing you with an admonishing look. "Careful. Don't wanna ruin my pretty face."

"Your pretty face is already ruined," you inform him. He's currently sitting on your bed, somehow looking smug as all hell despite the dried blood on his nose and the fact it hurts to blink with his left eye. But underneath all that bravado, you know he's here because he trusts you. Enough to clean him up and not tell anyone he got his ass beat, anyways.

"Don't gimme that look," he mutters in reply to your disapproving look. You're the only person that can somehow look at him like he's a misbehaving kid and a dumbass adult at the same time. "I didn't start it this time—"

"Uh-huh." You don't believe a word he says.

"No, I didn't. I swear to God. It was all JJ," he insists, leaning back and bracing himself on his hands. He tries not to wince at the sharp pain it elicits in his bruised knuckles. "I was being civil. Scout's honour. But you know how those Pogues are. Always itchin' for a fight."

Oh, here he goes again, with the whole uncivilised delinquents speech. You've heard it a million times by now, and it gives you a headache every damn time.