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"Lift your arms up for me, dude," Twenty-One said.
"It hurts," Monarch said with a grumble.
"It should," his henchman replied, "You've got cracked ribs. Now hold still so I can tape you up." He passed the medical tape around his boss's skinny midriff a few times, pulling it tight.
"That's too tight…. Dude, I can hardly breathe!"
"Sorry, it's got to be tight. I don't want you to get a punctured lung." The younger man fastened off the end of the tape, and then held up Monarch's bathrobe so the older man could gingerly shrug into it.
The two men were in the kitchen of the Fitzcarraldo mansion. It was the wee hours of morning; light was just starting brighten the sky. They'd been up all night, and The Monarch was pretty banged up. Between the beating he'd received from Wide Wale and the headlong crash-landing into the Rusty Venture balloon, the man was in pain from head to toe.
But his heart hurt most of all….
"I need time to think," his wife had said, as she stood beside the Guild limousine at the curb an hour or so ago. "You really let me down, Baby. I… I don't know if I can ever trust you again."
"No," Monarch had pleaded, "Honey, please. PLEASE. Don't go…." But she just stroked his battered face sadly, then leaned in to give him a brief, bland kiss on the cheek.
"I'll be in touch soon… but please, just give me some space right now." And then she disappeared into the limo (with Phantom Limb) and rode off into the night. He'd trudged wearily to the front steps, and leaned heavily on Twenty-One as they climbed up to the front door….
"Take another shot, boss," the pony-tailed bodyguard said, pulling Monarch back to the present by handing him the half-empty bottle of bourbon. "It will help the pain. All the… various kinds of… pain."
The older man took a half-hearted pull at the bottle, then set it firmly down on the tabletop with a thunk.
Gary fussed at the sink, putting together an ice pack. He wrapped it in a towel and returned to the table. Very gently, he applied the pack to Monarch's hellacious black eye, and guided the older man's hand to hold it in place.
"Keep that there for a few minutes," the younger man mumbled, "Dunno how much good it will do at this point, though."
Monarch grumbled, and shifted slightly in his chair, wincing as his ribs hurt him.
"They really did a number on you," Twenty-One said with a sympathetic click of his tongue, as he sat down and pulled out a packet of cotton balls and rubbing alcohol from the med kit. "I'm so sorry I wasn't there when you needed me."
"Not your fault," the red-haired man murmured, adjusting the ice pack. "If you'd been there, we'd have BOTH wound up captured…. I underestimated Wide Wale."
"What, YOU? Underestimate?" Twenty-One said teasingly, "NEVER." As he'd hoped, Monarch chuckled, and he smiled.
"Ohhh, don't make me laugh," the older man groaned, holding his side and setting the ice pack on the table. "But yeah… turns out, Wale had been gunning for me for ages… even before we took on the Blue Morpho gig."
The two men were silent for a few minutes, as Gary attentively cleaned the lacerations that crisscrossed his boss's face. "I'm sorry about your dad," he said, quietly.
Monarch shrugged. "That machine was hardly my dad anymore. My dad died when I was eight."
Gary nodded, and continued tending to his friend's injuries. "So… did your wife give you any idea as to when she'll be back?" he said carefully. The bruised eyes flickered to meet his own, and tears glistened there.
"No." came the nearly-inaudible reply. Monarch sniffled.
Twenty-One dabbed the cotton ball gently across the cut on his patient's gaunt cheekbone… but found that tears were now hampering his attempts at First Aid. He brushed them away and tried to continue tending to his friend's wounds, but the older man was openly weeping, now.
Tossing the cotton aside, he scooted his chair closer and gently enfolded the super-villain in his big arms. Monarch collapsed against him, slipping slender arms around his neck, burying his face on the henchman's shoulder. His slim frame shook, and he sobbed as if his heart was breaking.
"Shhhhhh," Gary breathed, sliding one hand up Monarch's back to weave softly through his hair. "Don't cry…. Shhhh, don't cry, dude… everything's gonna be OK."
"Sh-she's gone. She left me," the older man sobbed, "I'm alone."
"No, you're not," Gary murmured, "I'm here, and I'm not gonna leave you," he tightened his arms around his broken boss. "I will never leave you, buddy. Never." He turned his head to press his lips to Monarch's temple. "Shhhh… it's OK."
The bodyguard lost track of how long he held his heartbroken partner. The clock ticked along, and he mused over the events of the day. Finally, he was pulled out of his thoughts by a small snore against the crook of his neck. The bourbon and the beating had taken their toll, and Monarch was fast asleep on his shoulder.
The henchman closed his eyes and smiled fondly, angling his head to brush his cheek against Monarch's. Then, with great gentleness, he gathered the sleeping supervillain into his big arms and stood, making his way down the hall to the stairs.
Monarch snuggled sleepily against him as Gary carried him up the stairs, down the hall, and into his bedroom. The younger man eased him down on the bed, disentangled the arms from around his neck, and the red-haired supervillain curled onto his side.
Twenty-One tugged the covers up over Monarch's curled-up form, then knelt beside the bed to tenderly brush his hand over the red hair, smoothing it back from his poor, battered face.
"Everything's gonna be OK, boss," he breathed, leaning close to press his lips to the older man's slightly-receding hairline. "I promise."
And it WOULD be OK.
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