Chapter Text
You’ve walked this route home dozens of times. It isn’t your favorite. In fact, it makes you sick to your stomach to cut through poorly lit streets and tight alleys, particularly those under the control of Purple Dragons. To your right and left, the gang’s tags mark brick buildings and doorways, visible to anyone who knows what they’re looking for. At the corner, elderly folks occupy a small table in a family owned restaurant. You try to ignore the eyes that follow you as you pass the window.
The traffic light overhead blinks yellow. Caution. Instinctively, you reach for your shoulder. Even under layers of clothing - a shirt, a sweater, a winter coat - you know exactly where the blade had pierced your skin all those years ago. It stings, even now, the scar you’d acquired as a child. The pain reminds you that your father’s murderer is still out here somewhere.
You wouldn’t take this route home from the clinic unless you absolutely had to, but the next shift of nurses had gotten stuck in traffic. An hour later than you were supposed to be relieved of your post, you were finally able to make the long trek home. And with the meteorologists on the radio predicting an ice storm, you knew the commute was going to be a doozy.
By the time you made it out of the clinic, the subways had already become overcrowded and delays were piling up. Taxis were few and far between. You were pretty sure those cabs barreling up and down the avenues weren’t even taking fares anymore. Everyone was in a hurry to get themselves off the road and into shelter. And now it looks like you were one of the few still trying to find a way home.
Just a few blocks further. You’d reach the end of Purple Dragon territory and descend the steps of your basement apartment. The gang’s influence hadn’t always reached this far, but living on the edge of the action meant renting Abma’s basement was even cheaper now than it had been when you moved in three years ago. Most people were uncomfortable living without a view of the sky, but living underground never bothered you. In fact, the descent into your apartment was one of the few things that filled you with a sense of safety and calm. Plus, with the money you save on rent, you’re able to upgrade the apartment’s amenities and decor to fit your taste as you please.
You blink at your surroundings and curse yourself for getting lost in your thoughts. You aren’t home-free yet. You have to be vigilant. Continuing on, you keep your eyes sharp and your ears attuned to your surroundings.
From the alley to your right, there comes a deep grunt and a wet gasp. You freeze. You clench your teeth and your fists as your fight or flight response wars with itself in your mind. Your heart beats wildly in your chest, and you consider your options.
You know you can continue on your way. You can see home from where you’re standing. You can go, hide behind closed doors, and try to forget that you heard anything out here. But the sound comes again, the struggle of someone gasping for air through sickness or injury, and your compassion kicks into high gear. Your fear moves aside as your medical training takes the forefront of your mind.
With a deep breath and your hand on the can of pepper spray you keep in the pocket of your parka, you start down the alley. Every inch of your advance is one of mindful consideration. You’re poised to run at any evidence of danger. So far, there is none.
The wet coughs echoing off the walls are reminiscent of the final breaths of your father all those years ago, and the thought of another person lying in pain on the pavement tugs at your heart and urges you closer to investigate.
Creeping along the wall of the alley, you approach the overflowing dumpster. The tiny hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. You tighten your hold on your pepper spray and take out your phone. Your feet take another step, then another.
If it is a Dragon, you hope they are injured gravely. You think you’d gladly let them rot on the street. But if it isn’t, if it’s a victim of their cruelty and violence, then you dread what you’ll find among the towering bags of trash.
When the moans stop abruptly, you remember to pull your phone out of your pocket. You’re ready to dial for emergency assistance, but you fear the worst. Either the wounded have succumbed to their injuries or they are preparing themselves for discovery.
Another deep breath of winter air chills you from the inside out, but you widen your stance with determination. The cold, rusted edge of the dumpster digs into your fingertips as you lean around it for a peek. There’s movement behind the bags of filth that block your view. There's the tell tale scraping of metal against stone - a weapon being dragged over concrete.
The breathing has resumed. Ragged. Labored. Shallow. Distressed.
With your pepper spray raised and at the ready, you grab ahold of a trash bag standing between you and the injured person and yank it out of the way.
There’s no word of shock strong enough to describe what you feel as you take in the sight before you. But the emotion is fleeting. A wide green face turns toward you, grimacing in pain as the creature hiding in the shadows struggles to breathe.
You've heard stories of giant crocs in the sewers. But this isn't that. As you look into those large green eyes, fierce even in the face of being helpless, your heart aches. It’s a moment later that you recognize the shine of a streetlamp’s light reflected on metal. But the pronged weapon doesn’t appear to be much of a threat. The points of the sai tremble as the arm extending it in defense struggles to maintain the position.
With a fatigued grunt, the arm drops and the weapon clatters to the ground. The eyes that were once full of bravado and pride soften as a cough wracks their body. Those same eyes now plead silently for help, and you know in the core of your being that you were wrong to ever have considered them a creature at all; they are a person.
You lower your own weapon, returning your can of pepper spray (as well as your phone) to your jacket pocket. “I’m here to help,” you whisper.
With your hands up to show that you mean them no harm, you take slow steps around the piles of garbage that separate you from the one slumped against the brick building. Without touching them to feel for bone breaks or having any medical equipment on hand to give a proper exam, there’s not much you can do. You’re shivering as you take stock of their injuries as best as you can with a quick look. But you have to ignore the cold of the coming storm for at least a little while longer. You can’t leave this person. Not alone. Not out here.
“Can you walk?”
They look up at you, scowling, as if to say they’d be walking already if they could.
You glance up and down the alley to check for danger, but the only thing you notice is the wind starting to kick up, the clouds growing ever darker, and the chill cutting through your parka and settling deep in your bones. You can’t imagine how the unclothed person at your feet must be faring; not to mention that the touch of cold concrete and brick against bare skin has never been kind.
No matter your need to take them to shelter, however, you won’t be able to move them by sheer force of will alone.
“My apartment is there.” You point down the way to the corner. The two of you could make it, unseen, if you stuck to the shadows of the building. But they would have to bear some of their own weight.
You look down at them, catching their gaze and fearing for their safety more than your own. “Come with me,” you say, and now you’re the one that’s pleading. Reaching down in an offer of assistance, you add, “Please.”
I’m not gonna hurt you. You know that’s what people say to win the trust of others in situations like this. You know it’s what you’re supposed to say. But you’ve never been one to lie to your patients.
A shaking hand reaches up to you, its fingers slowly uncurling from a fist. You notice the fingers are three, but after seeing a green giant you suppose there’s not much else that can surprise you. It’s more the tremor in the hand that has your attention. You decide it’s safer to take them by the wrist for a steadier hold to prevent further injury.
You sneak a quick check of their pulse as you crouch down at their side. Their heart rate is worrisomely slow. You bite your lip and prepare both of you to stand. “This is gonna hurt,” you admit as gently as you can. Then, before either of you can back out, you sling their muscled arm over your shoulders and encourage them to their feet.
They cry out in pain as they stand. Their skin is cold as ice, but the blood streaming down their side and seeping through the pants of your scrubs is warm.
Wind whistles and the first bites of freezing rain sting against your cheeks. “Move,” you beg them. Every shuffling step is a struggle and you wonder what could be so important in their backpack that they couldn’t leave it behind for you to retrieve after they were inside.
With the extra weight, the trip down the alley feels like a mile. But finally, you reach your building where the railing of the staircase can take the brunt of your companion’s weight. Your relief is soon replaced with curiosity, however, as you follow them down to your basement apartment. Now that you have a good view of their back, your breath catches in your throat. It wasn’t as you thought. They aren’t carrying a pack at all. You blink as you take in the patterns of their shell, its scutes painted and chipped and scarred.
Your eyes narrow at the faded red kanji and relax again when your companion turns their soft gaze upon you. The characters on their shell speak of anger, but other than the weapon they'd brandished in defense, you’ve been witness to none of that. In fact, as you move around them in the small space to unlock your door, you don't think you've ever felt as safe as you do with them standing at your back.