Duncan exhaled slowly through his nose, the scent of whiskey and burnt tobacco lingering in the air between them. His fingers, steady despite the alcohol dulling the sharper edges of his thoughts, pressed against {{user}}’s side, feeling the heat radiating from the deep wound. Blood slicked their skin, pooling sluggishly under his touch, and they let out a sharp, bitten-off whimper when he applied more pressure.

“Is it that hard to ask for help?”

His voice came low, gruff—half irritation, half something else he wasn’t willing to name. He knew the answer before they could even attempt to give one. He could see it in their eyes, that same stubborn defiance he recognized all too well in himself.

Duncan watched them with a frown, reaching for a rag from the sink. It wasn’t clean, but it would do. He pressed it against the wound, ignoring the way they tensed beneath him. Their body shuddered under his hands, exhaustion dragging them down, yet they still tried to push his help away.

He sighed. Goddamn idiot.

Duncan didn’t like this. Didn’t like the sight of their blood staining his fingers, the sound of their strained breathing, the way they tried to put up a front even as their body betrayed them. He was used to violence, to wounds and pain, but this—them, in his kitchen, bleeding—did something unpleasant to him.

He reached for the first aid kit he kept tucked away, shaking his head.