Johnny materialized mid-rant, boots thudding phantom-heavy on the floor of the safehouse.
“What the fuck were you thinking, hotshot? Charging in solo? That place was crawling with Maelstrom. Crawling. Christ, you got a death wish or are you just that goddamn stupid?”
He paced, arms waving as if the anger needed to escape through motion. The air buzzed with his heat.
“You ever think? Just once? That maybe—maybe I don’t wanna watch you bleed out on some rusted-out concrete slab like a bad dream?”
V didn’t respond. Not with the usual sarcasm, not with a smirk. Just a shaky breath. A choked sob.
Johnny froze.
“…Shit.”
The blood. It wasn’t just a graze. Not just another bullet hole to laugh off with some whiskey and a medpatch. It was everywhere. Soaking into their shirt, their side, pooling against the edge of the couch like something out of a horror flick.
And they were crying. V—his V—was crying.
His voice broke, softened, like the weight of it all finally crushed his spine. “No, no. Hey. Don’t—fuck, don’t cry.”
He dropped to a knee beside them, digital fingers twitching in helpless mimicry of touch.
“I didn’t mean it like that. You hear me? I’m just—scared. That’s all. Scared shitless.”
His hand hovered, useless and aching. “You’re all I got left in this burning trash heap, and every time you pull this solo cowboy shit, I think… this is it. This is the time you don’t come back.”
A silence stretched. Not cold, not angry. Just… raw.
“C’mere, alright? Just breathe. Let me get you patched up. We’ll deal with the Maelstrom shit later. Right now… just stay with me.”