LOUIS🗡

Monday, 4:23pm

_

"YOU DAMN IDIOT," Ash scowled, "when were you going to bring this up?"

In my defense, I was too distracted by the progress we were making that I didn't realize I was still bleeding out from a gunshot wound until we were already hijacking a plane back to London. I'd been shot three times before—I got used to the numb feeling—and I had wrapped it beforehand to make sure I didn't lose all my blood.

But now I might lose my life, because Ash is probably going to kill me.

"I forgot," I said, the sound of the plane engine humming in the background, "it's not a big deal, really."

Ash smacked me in the arm. "Shut up!"

"What did I do?"

"You're being an idiot!" She spat out, "don't you dare die on me, Louis, or I will never forgive you for it."

"I'll be fine—"

Before I could finish my sentence, I felt two hands on the side of my face, yanking me forward harshly. It was cramped in the trunk of the plane, dark too, but I could see her directly in front of me. Our foreheads were nearly touching, but I was more concerned with the anger in her eyes to care. She looked like she'd either kiss me or kill me.

"For the last time, shut the hell up," she hissed under her breath, "now let me take care of your wound."

I gave her a blank stare. "Yes Ma'am."

Rolling her eyes at my sarcastic tone, she let go of my face, shuffling through the cramped space and towards the suitcases belonging to some of the passengers. I sat back and watched as she started unzipping them, searching for whatever crap she was looking for.

I was tempted to make a joke, but I didn't want to ignite her fury even more, so I decided to remain silent.

She returned a few minutes later with a needle, floss, a newly-packaged toothbrush, and a water bottle. I didn't say anything, because I knew exactly what was going on in her mind—and her ability to heal her own gunshot wound from a few weeks ago proved her credibility.

"How high's your pain tolerance?" She asked, busying herself with her stolen tools.

I cocked a brow. "Depends on the type of pain."

I didn't have a chance to laugh at my own joke before she put her fingers on my cheek, pinching my skin between her nails. I let out a loud wince. She glared at me, starting to unwrap the toothbrush with a distasteful look.

"Clearly it's low, then," she said, taking off her jacket, "take this."

I gave her an expression of disbelief. "I'm not doing that."

"Yes, you are."

"This thing has more germs on it than a toddler's dummy."

"Funny, because that's how you're going to use it," she said, "now stick the jumper in your mouth and bite down on it, because if you start yelling your head off when I clean your wound, someone in the plane will know we're here."

She had a point and I didn't like it.

Giving her a pointed glare that said 'I'm not doing this out of my own free-will', I put a few bits of the neon fabric in my mouth, clamping my teeth on it to muffle the sound of my voice.

Much to my disposition, Ash didn't provide warning, before she shuffled herself closer to me, grabbing the end of my bloodied shirt, and lifting it up to expose my bare stomach to the chilly air. It was like getting hit in the face with an icicle. I was tempted to call her out of it, but she was busy dipping the toothbrush in water to care.

"Alright, Louis," she said, looking up, "are you ready?"

I squinted my eyes. "Maybe?"

She gave me a sympathetic smile, before starting to brush out my wound in an attempt to cleanse it. Any other cleaning solution for injuries would have been a much better option, but since we were using contraband from some random civilian's luggage, water had to do the trick.

And it hurt.

Like Hell.

"Breathe, Louis," Ash whispered, glancing up to look at me, "you'll be okay."

I winced, my head hitting the plane-wall behind me. "I am breathing."

"Good," she said, "I'm right here with you."

There was something strangely intimate about our situation, that made me feel slightly unnerved that I was letting her touch me. The last time we were this close, it didn't end well. But that was also when we hated each other. It was hard to determine what we were at this current moment.

I kept these thoughts in my mind, even as she moved on from cleaning the wound, to using the tweezers to extract the bullet, and then using the floss to stitch it back up. The healing process was more painful than actually getting shot.

I turned my head, trying to hide the tears forming in my eyes. "Ash?"

She stopped. "Yes, Louis?"

"Thank you."

She paused, needle between her teeth, and her hair falling messily beside her face as she looked at me. I could tell she thought of something unusual, because her nose scrunched slightly as ideas ran through her head. But then it faded, and she turned away.

"No problem," she said, "I need you alive, anyways."

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

BEING BACK IN LONDON FELT ILLEGAL.

Our plane had landed a few hours ago, and now we were fully back in the country. This was my home, but knowing that I was a wanted criminal ruined the experience for me. I kept a paranoid outlook on every person that crossed my path, and it didn't help that I was completely on my own.

Ash had gone to find us a place to stay (not a sandy bush, thankfully), and she tasked me with the job to find food for dinner. I chuckled at the memory of her reenacting possible situations—someone bumping into me on the pavement, someone trying to rob me—to make sure my wound didn't impact my self-defense.

But as I was striding down the shops on Oxford street, I noticed a tattoo parlor tucked in between a shoe store and a grocers.

And I had a very impulsive idea.

"Interesting design," the man at the front desk said when I showed him the fading sharpie marks on my arm, "never seen it before."

I shrugged. "It matches someone I know."

"Someone you know?" He asked.

"Yeah."

"They must be special to you, hm?"

"I guess."

"Ah, no room for modesty here, Lad," he chortled, "you're about to get this inked onto your skin permanently."

He had a point, and it only reinstated the fact that I was doing something that could prove to be a grave mistake. I only had one tattoo, and that was my (ex) Agent number on the nape of my neck. We were only ever allowed one. By doing this, I was casting aside any ties I had to my previous job.

Was I really about to do this?

"Yes," I nodded, glancing off to the side, "she's special."

And I didn't even know the pure definition of what I meant by 'special', but I didn't' have time to consider it, because I was stuck in a chair for the next hour, getting black ink marked onto my wrist. But I wasn't doing this for the sake of rebellion—I was doing it, because I see the look in Ash's eyes when she sees her own tattoo, and I don't want her to hurt anymore.

It's not like I had anything to lose, anyways.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

I COULD BARELY MAKE IT THROUGH THE DOOR, when Ash immediately mobbed me with questions and attempts to see if I wasn't dying.

"Hands," I said, pushing her away, "hand off the shirt."

She glared at me. "I need to check your wound."

"No, you don't."

"You've been out unsupervised for two hours," she scolded, waving her hand, "I need to make sure you didn't rip a stitch or get it infected."

I smirked. "You don't trust me?"

She narrowed her eyes, scanning my devious expression for information. She knew I had something up my sleeve (literally), but she just didn't know what it was.

"I don't trust you to make good choices," she said instead, turning around, "but fine, I won't check it."

As she went to walk away with me, I rolled my eyes, grabbing her wrist and tugging her back in front of me. She didn't resist, instead stumbling to a stop with an annoyed glower. This was new information. [y/n] Ash had a pout when she didn't get her way.

"What?" She frowned.

I smiled. "I think I made the right choice."

"Did you now?"

Not daring to break my gaze, I rolled up the right-hand sleeve of my shirt, bringing the raw tattoo to light. It would take at least two weeks to heal properly, but the outline of the design was already imprinted onto my skin.

Ash nearly fell over.

"Shut up," she exhaled, her eyes wide like saucers, "you didn't."

I grinned. "I did."

"They match!"

"They do."

Almost as if in disbelief, the girl held up her arm, mirroring my own. Our tattoos looked like reflections riddled with differences, yet still completely the same in their muddled apperance. It reminded me of us, in some strange way.

And I felt a surge of something in my heart when she placed her palm against mine, watching with intrigue as our wrists pressed together like pieces on a puzzle. Her hand was on mine. Just placed there, fingers still and unmoving.

But an idea sparked in my brain.

I paused, staring at her with hesitation in my eyes, not sure how she'd react to it. No, I shouldn't risk it, because it's not my place to try anything. But I wanted to. Maybe she'd want it too. I had no way of knowing unless I took the risk itself, and at this point, I felt no fear around her.

So even with all these intrusive thoughts in my head, I couldn't stop myself from shifting my palm ever-so-slightly to the right, sliding my fingers in between hers and closing my hand around her own.

She didn't flinch, but her eyes widened subtly.

"You're holding my hand," she said.

I nodded. "Do you mind?"

She opened her mouth to speak, before snapping it shut and glancing back at our fingers twisted together. Our hands weren't a perfect fit, but that didn't make it any less of the strange feeling I felt touching her.

"I don't mind," she said after a while, "it's nice."

I was surprised. "You don't find it strange?"

"Holding hands?"

"Yeah."

"A little," she laughed softly, "but after all we've been through, I don't think hand-holding is the worst thing."

I suppose it felt strange, because I always considered hand-holding to be romantic. I wasn't one who experienced romance, I only read about it. The last time I came close to it was when I kissed her that day, and now I'm starting to mix all of these feelings together like a swirl of colored paint on a white canvas of feelings.

And it made me feel safe, knowing she wouldn't let go.

Not yet, at least.