26th of Vortas, 2718
ALL the way to UPTOWN | LONG AFTER HOURS
Vita tilted on its axis, the sickening feeling of vertigo he'd finally managed to get over once again overwhelming his senses, but Rhys remained standing, weak and drained. His expression faltered as the younger human Ol' Theo had indirectly confirmed as his sister snapped at Abigail, blue eyes blearily drifting in the older woman's direction, not at all offended by the offended outburst that followed. When the aged human addressed him, however, he blinked, uncomfortable with the revelation he'd given to the gun-toting spry creature, uncomfortable when the word Seventen rolled off her lips. But, she'd offered her trust and that was, strangely enough, far more than the not-galdor felt he deserved even if the stranger knowing who and what he was didn't make him feel at all safe,
"I will." The tall Sergeant offered, hoping that what he lacked in brevity of words was made up for in the weight of their meaning: he had every intention of looking after Gale and he would most certainly pursue Aggie's assistance if he felt in need of doing so. He almost—almost!—added an I'm sorry to the end of his words out of regret and exhaustion, but, remembering his place in the middle of everything, remembering his duty as well as his willingness to take his sense of duty too far as he had this evening, he refrained, "Probably sooner than you'd like to see my face again, Agatha."
Turning to Gale at their harsh dismissal of the other woman, Rhys couldn't help the flicker of a sneer that washed over his sharp, aquiline features, "No one's wiping up after you. It's called helping. Would you rather be a corpse back there right now? Would you really?" The blond Seventen was not known for possessing much of a filter, even among his own kind, even in front of superior officers. He spoke his mind, and while this meant he had a file of discipline, it was a short one. It certainly didn't include the list of offenses he'd have been probably fired for that had unfolded all in this one evening.
The younger smith was an ornery kenserface and in true exhausted immaturity, Rhys held up both his bloody, dirty palms to face her as she attempted to make her way toward the door, not at all bothering to open it for her unless she proved herself either unsteady or incapable, unwittingly falling into a perfect shadow of any respectable older brother,
"Embarrassing for who now? 'Cause I'm not the one who just bled all the way through the Soot District, carried by an officer of the law. Shut your clocking head." He smirked, turning only briefly to make sure he warned Allen one more time and instructed Odette on the paperwork that was hopefully still salvageable in the sodden package he'd so horribly fucked up delivering. He urged them to leave and promised reassignment in the same breath, desperate to protect what tenuous hold he had on a witness he was afraid wouldn't ever be allowed in court against Captain D'Arthe anyway.
Gritting his teeth and attempting to focus himself, ignoring the ache in every joint and the chill that felt like some out of control fever that raced through his veins, he staggered outside into the dark again, not even needing a moment to get his bearings. Instead, he curled grimed fingers into Gale's bloodied elbow on the smith's uninjured side and tilted his chin in the general direction of Uptown, of Kingsway Market,
"Remember where you were so innocently having some dsoh—" Rhys had no concept of embarrassment or shame in this moment, far beyond blushing over the memory of Charity mistaking his younger, prettier sister for himself while floating through her life on King's Crop. As awkward as that had all been, such strangeness had been washed away by blood and gunpowder and confessions and tears and Monite now, the tall Seventen having clearly decided to move forward into danger in pursuit of a relationship he wasn't even sure could ever be reciprocated in a way that some part of him was curious to explore.
Did the gruff, private, seemingly skittish human who may or may not have had Resistance connections, who had saved his life, even want to be his friend? Why should they? What did they at all have to offer each other but a night like this one had become, forever destined to be on opposite sides of the law? Law Rhys had trampled over by allowing his emotions get in the way of his decision-making.
His entire career was already at risk now that he knew he wasn't a galdor but this—this!—was suicide and he gladly kept walking, dizzy and unsteady, light-headed and sore,
"—my apartment is upstairs. That's why. Well. It doesn't matter now." Rhys exhaled, not taking any main thoroughfare, not keeping them in the dull glow of oil lantern light at all. He dragged them through dirty, dark alleys he knew by heart in the hours of the night he shouldn't be out in, dodging the patrol routs and keeping them from public view. No one needed to see their bloodied, strange selves. No one needed to question whether they were drunk, injured, or committing a crime. Not even sure he could walk all the way home without passing out as it was, especially with someone equally unstable in tow, he could only press on.
It was slow, uncomfortable, and unclean going, the not-galdor aware that he'd have to support the young smith even if they didn't want his help, especially as the mind-altering affects of morphine settled into their system. He wanted the stitches to hold, his own Living Conversation skills not only limited by his lack of focus in the area, but also by his heritage,
"I'm not ignoring any of this, you know, officially or unofficially. You're stuck with me on this investigation now, just like you're going to be stuck on my couch, sister." A tongue-in-cheek promise. A legally binding commitment. A groan. Rhys didn't look at the human when he said what he did, his bleary blue-eyed gaze focused on making sure they had all the right footing as the Soot District gave way to the Dives, pausing for a much-needed breather in some other unlit alley, listening to the sounds of shouting from a tavern down the street and some babe crying in a window above their heads. He had to lean against the wall, hands on his knees, vertigo wrenching his stomach and ache destroying his ability to think clearly.
He'd hardly have a chance to sleep. He'd have to get to the morgue before any other officer claimed the body of whoever was with Gale. That thought alone made him want to sit down and give up, but the tired Sergeant straightened and offered an arm or a hand to the blonde smith again in order to guide them both.
The tall Seventen would lead the sorry-ersed pair all the way to a quiet Kingsway Market, finally unable to avoid two of the wider roads in order to get them into the side street that held the little dsoh shop that was still burning oil, full of a mix of late-shift galdori and a handful of mixed races who worked abnormal hours. Eventually, he'd have to fumble for his keys somewhere in his bloodstained clothes, forced to lean against the stairs that led up behind the restaurant and to the rather humble and far from impressive flat he called home. As an officer of the law, and a Sergeant at that, he probably could have afforded to live anywhere he wanted in Uptown, and yet he'd found the apartment fresh out of Numbrey and never had a reason to leave,
"You're not my only houseguest. This should be interesting. I'm not sure which of you is in deeper shit, though."
Perhaps now he had two reasons. To reasons more than he'd ever bargained for.
And he was, in all honesty, probably the one in the most trouble after all.