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It’s bad, but it could be worse.
At least, that’s what Striker tells himself as he crumples to the cold ground of his lair, just feet away from the bed he couldn’t even make it all the way to. From somewhere nearby, Bombproof approaches, taking cautious steps toward him. Once he’s close enough, he leans down and nudges at Striker’s horns and hair with his nose, snorting quietly.
It’s all Striker can do to reach up and clumsily pat the horse’s muzzle, weakly assuring him that he’s alright.
Or… that he will be, anyway.
Right now, his body aches — a hurt so deep it throbs in his bruised bones and gets caught in his lungs. The new burns he had acquired before he fled are fresh and raw and aggravated. Though the flames had been extinguished, the wounds still feel searing hot, as though the fire had followed him all the way down to Wrath.
Another kind of pain rattles around inside his skull. Frustration beats effortlessly and tirelessly at his brain, a dizzying sensation that makes keeping his already heavy eyes open just a little bit harder. He’d like to stop thinking about it all — the way Blitzo and Fizzarolli allow themselves to be doted on and treated like spoiled pets and sexy toys — but he can’t seem to. They’re pathetic, a disgrace to their own kind, and anger runs as flush as Greed’s fire through his veins.
Bombproof snorts again as Striker’s hand falls away from his face. Though he takes a few steps away from Striker, he doesn’t wander too far.
A few long minutes pass before the quiet crackling of Bombproof’s fire is interrupted by the soft jingling of tiny spurs. The sound is enough to distract Striker from his thoughts and pain, and he groans as he does his best to turn and face the source of the noise. His lip curls into a sneer.
The four little imps that seem so intent on following him around and, quite literally, singing his praises, stop in their approach just a few feet away from him. He watches as their excitement fades, replaced instead with concern and pity, and he does nothing to stifle his responsive snarl.
“I ain’t got time for you little shits,” he says, and his voice is rough and ragged in his throat. His tail twitches on the ground where it lies, lacking its usual whip and snap. Even his rattling sounds dull and somehow wrong.
And that’s when they notice the spade of his tail is burned, and when the severity of the situation catches up to them.
They had all seen Striker come home battered and in poor condition before, but this is different. The obvious wounds aside, he looks and sounds so tired.
Tentatively, they begin to inch toward him again. When Striker makes no effort to put any kind of distance between them, one tiny imp encourages the others to follow him closer.
“We can help,” he says.
“If you’ll let us,” says another, peeking through his shaggy bangs at Striker.
Striker’s gaze darts between their four blurry and unfocused faces. His jaw clenches, and he’d like nothing more than to scream at them and scare them off, to be left alone with his thoughts, his anger, and his pain.
But he can’t find the strength to even do that.
So he rolls his eyes and looks away from the tiny mariachi band, so worried and eager to help in any way they can.
He sighs and groans as he uses what little energy he has left to sit himself up. It hurts to slough his jacket off, but it’s better than having these four climb all over him and into his clothes to get to his wounds.
“I better not hear no damn songs ‘bout this later,” he warns gruffly.
The band laughs amongst themselves, but he isn’t kidding, and he can only hope his dour expression is a sign they won’t ignore.
After the jacket comes off, so does the vest, and then his button-up. With his burns now exposed in full to the cool air of the mine, he shudders and hisses. Having the charred material of his clothing rub into the wounds hadn’t been the best sensation, but it was somehow more tolerable than this.
“Oh…” One of the tiny imps says, and Striker looks down to see one of them trying to get a better look at his forearms. The other three have disappeared behind him, accessing the damage done to his back.
He can’t help but snort. He doubts their concern is genuine; would they care this much if he hadn’t carved a reputation for himself out of the hides and bones of other demons?
“It ain’t that bad,” he mutters, pulling his tail away when he feels tiny hands wandering over it. “I’ll live.”
“What happened?” the smaller imp with the darker horns asks.
Striker shrugs, a gesture he almost immediately regrets. “Bad business.”
“Amos,” the imp with the long moustache says as he comes out from behind Striker, “you stay here with ‘im, and we’re gonna go get somethin’ to help with these burns.”
Amos nods, and the two of them watch the other three scurry off. Striker can’t be bothered to wonder just where they’re going or how long they’re going to be gone.
“Do ya wanna talk about it?” Amos asks once they’re alone, their brow furrowed as they look up at Striker’s face.
Striker rolls his eyes. “Do I look like I wanna talk about it?” he snaps. “An’ anyway, even if I did, there ain’t nothin’ to talk about.”
“Sounds like there’s somethin’ to talk about,” Amos mumbles under their breath. They stiffen up at the sound of Striker growling, clearing their throat afterward.
“I know it ain’t our business, but…” They shrug, making a vague gesture up and down the length of the bigger imp in front of them. “You’re in pretty rough shape, is all.”
“Been through worse,” Striker deflects, and it’s not entirely a lie, but it’s not entirely true, either.
Amos makes an uneasy sound at the back of their throat, but doesn’t press the matter further. Instead, they let their eyes wander over Striker’s injuries again, taking note of the bruises along with the burns. At least nothing seems to be broken, and aside from a few scrapes and some road rash, he’s not really bleeding. It’s a small relief, but a relief all the same.
They sit in silence for a few more long minutes before the other three band members come scuttling back in. The two taller ones are working together to cartoonishly carry a full sized first aid kit above their heads, while the smallest of the band perches atop it. They come to a stop a few inches away from Striker, drop the kit, and almost eagerly pop it open.
It has to be for show, Striker tells himself as he watches all four climb into the white box, gathering ointment, gauze, bandages, scissors, and tape. They have to be hoping to get something out of this.
Still, he lets them maneuver his tail as needed, and watches them get to work on it. They’re diligent and quick, but he can’t help but wonder how well they’ll handle the bigger burns on his arms and back.
He doesn’t have to wait very long to find out.
Very suddenly, it seems that there are two tiny imps at the ready by each arm. The burns on his forearms are worse than the one on his tail, but that’s to be expected. There’s more flesh there to burn. It stings as the band does their best for him, passing supplies back and forth as needed.
When it comes time to tend to the wound on his back, the band makes use of a boulder behind Striker. He doesn’t need to move all that much, but he still leans back just a little for them. Regardless of their motives to help, they are helping, and making their job just slightly easier is the least he can do. He can’t imagine it would be very easy tending to the wounds of someone ten or twenty times his size.
He grits his teeth and clenches his jaw and breathes raggedly as they work on his back. It’s by far the worst of the burns, and every touch on or near it sends shockwaves of blistering, hot pain down the length of his spine. Once they’re done and gone, he has every intention of finally dragging himself to his bed and drowning the memory of fire in the strongest alcohol he can find.
“I think that just ‘bout oughta do it,” says one of the imps, he can’t be sure which, from behind him. Small hands gently and carefully pat around the edge of the burn, where tape now meets skin. The dressing’s securely in place, and they seem proud of their work as they get down off the boulder and start putting the supplies away.
“I s’pose I owe you lil freaks some thanks,” Striker mumbles, using the boulder behind him for leverage. He stands, and his legs ache and shake, but they can bear his weight again.
“It was our pleasure to help ya out,” says the smallest of the bunch.
“Oh!” Amos gasps, catching the band’s attention as well as Striker’s. They point toward him and continue, “we missed one!”
“What’re you talkin’ about…?” Striker starts to ask, but then he sees where the little one is pointing, and now where all four are staring.
The crotch of his jeans is singed.
He should have known.
“Get the fuck outta my face,” he growls at them, using what little strength he can muster to swing his tail violently toward them, effectively causing them to scatter.