Chapter Text
Gavriel Huffman’s consciousness drifted back in pieces, slowly. The first sensation he registered was the pain. A throbbing, burning ache in his side that shot throughout his torso with each ragged breath he took. His hand twitched reflexively, wanting to clutch at the wound, but his limbs felt heavy, sluggish.
He groaned, eyelids fluttering open before having to close them as his blurry vision was assaulted by the bright sunlight peeking through the cracks of the window blinds. Gavriel winced, turning his head slightly to escape the light. The movement sent another jolt of pain lancing through his body making him grit his teeth. The pain, though familiar, was sharper now, less numbed by adrenaline.
His instincts screamed at him to assess his surroundings, and with great effort, he forced his unsteady vision to focus. What he saw made him slightly more awake with disoriented alarm.
The room was cozy. Unbearably so. The walls had warm tones of colors that made it feel welcoming. The bed he laid on was draped in a checkered quilt with a few stitches here and there. It wasn't as feathery soft or as luxurious as the one he had back in his place, but the worn down cheap quality of it only made them feel more homely in comparison.
It was the kind of room he had only ever seen through windows in neighborhoods he didn’t belong in.
Gavriel’s brow furrowed, his jaw tightening. The dissonance between his bleak, gritty world and this gentle, almost absurd comfort was jarring.
He hadn't been thinking very clearly then, but he could vaguely recall memories of the rain and the blood soaking into his clothes and him collapsing into unconsciousness, but everything after then was a blur. How had he ended up here?
Where the hell was he? His hand felt heavy as he reached up to touch the wound in his side, and he was surprised to find it wrapped in bandages.
He pushed the blanket aside, revealing his current state. His torso was bare, the bandages wrapped tight around his injury, and he was wearing pants that definitely weren’t his. This smooth, almost cell-shaded look... Toon clothing? This worn, clean fabric was more snug than anything he’d ever put on.
He frowned at this. Gavriel didn’t trust kindness. It was a luxury reserved for people who hadn’t been forced to scrape and claw their way through life, and even then, people still deceived each other with it.
With a grunt, he forced himself upright, gritting his teeth as another wave of pain rippled throughout his body. He braced himself on the nightstand, the wooden surface creaking under his grip, and scanned the room for any signs of danger.
His eyes landed on a small framed photo on the nightstand. It showed a cheerful looking man with a wide goofy smile and a thumbs-up, standing next to… what he assumed to be family members, accompanied with a clean and comfortable-looking set of clothing sitting there waiting for him to wear alongside his glasses.
He reached out for the pair of lenses and put it on. Gavriel turned to squint at the image, something tugging in his head as he tried to place the face of that male toon. Then his mind flashed to the night before. He vaguely remembered talking to someone in the alleyway he collapsed in, but the contents of that memory didn’t come to him in detail.
Why? The idea that someone had helped him, patched up a criminal covered in blood, was almost laughable. People didn’t do that for him- for them. At least, not in the place where he belonged.
Currently though, that wasn't his main concern. His dark eyes narrowed. Where the hell was his gun?
His fingers instinctively moved to his waist, but the comfort of the cold metal wasn't there. Gavriel sighed as a familiar wave of dullness washed over him, pulling him in a state of rumination. He was hurt and vulnerable which meant he was in danger, no matter how deceptively safe this place looked. He clenched his fists, not even giving a wince at the painful ache in his body.
He felt rather numb and confused, but it didn't show on his face. His mind felt like it was wrapped in a fog, every thought coming in with a painful throb. He tried to think, to piece together why he hadn’t bled out in that alley.
He knew that his injuries had been severe enough to be fatal, the kind of wounds that left little hope for survival. A few hasty bandages and dressings wouldn’t have done much to stop the life bleeding out of him, yet here he was, hurting but alive.
He rubbed his forehead, the motion sluggish from pain as he racked his brain for an answer. It wasn’t until he sat there for a hot minute that realization struck.
Oh, right. He was in a city reigned by the Toon Genre.
It was common knowledge to all that the Toons leaned heavily on the whimsical side, or more specifically, it was the environment itself that exuded this sort of vitality. One that let its residents survive otherwise fatal mishaps with only a moment’s comedic daze and maybe a few tweeting birds circling their heads.
He couldn’t be bothered to recite the specifics of it. Something about places in the Toon genre having stronger healing properties or some nonsense like that. But now, in this moment, the absurdity wasn’t so easy to dismiss as it had been the very thing that had led to him surviving his death, a miracle in itself.
Gavriel’s hand reached up to softly graze the large scar on the side of his neck, healed yet still deep and harrowing, which told stories of a much darker time. Touching it had been a habit he'd developed a long time ago in times of stress or simply whenever he contemplated.
He had no patience for the whimsical workings of this place, no desire to analyze the wonders or whatever it was that had saved him. The only thing that mattered to him was that it had and he's alive because of it.
It didn’t change his wariness though. If anything, it only made him more resolute to understand who had brought him here and why.
Then Gavriel heard the door click open.
Jack Desmond opened the bedroom door, carrying a steaming mug of coffee and a bowl of warm porridge with one hand. The Toon man looked tired, having bags under his eyes.
He didn't have anything special in his kitchen at the moment so he was only able to put together a simple meal, figuring that even the scariest man in the world deserved something warm and filling in his stomach to help him heal. That was, if the food hadn't gone cold already by the time he woke up.
He took a few steps inside when he froze in confusion the moment he saw that the bed was empty.
“Huh?” Jack murmured, his brow furrowing. His eyes darted around the room, searching for any sign of where the man might have gone, but there was nothing.
"Hugh!"
Coffee and porridge spilled to the ground as the cup and plate he'd been holding came crashing down on the ground, splattering everywhere.
Rough hands closed around his neck from behind. The force of the grip was firm, not quite strangling but strong enough to hold Jack in place.
Cold sweat beaded on his forehead and rolled down his temples, the hair on the back of his neck standing on its end. It felt like his heart was caught in his throat. He didn't even dare breathe too hard.
The presence behind him was suffocating, a dense wave of danger which didn't fit with the comfort of the room they were in.
The hand holding him didn’t need a weapon.
It didn't take much for Jack to instinctively realize that he was currently bordering the line of life and death, a primal understanding that this man could end him effortlessly if he chose to.
Jack’s throat bobbed as he tried to swallow, his mouth as dry as a desert. It was as if time had slowed down. He could feel his heart thundering inside, each beat thudding louder and louder in his ears as he stood there, unable to do anything but wait.
The silence was deafening. Jack's mind told him to yell, scream loudly for help, but he couldn’t even force out a sound.
Jack felt his breath hitch as the man’s deep, rumbling voice cut through the suffocating silence. The voice was hoarse from fatigue and pain, but it still carried a commanding weight to it as he spoke.
"Who are you?" the voice demanded, each word slow and deliberate, laced with a barely restrained irritation. "Where am I and why am I here?"
Despite the fear pressing down on him, Jack’s mind raced, and something other than terror roused his senses. He sniffs subconsciously, his nose picking up a change in the air. That sharp, metallic tang that made his stomach twist.
"I-I’ll tell you everything you want to know," he stammered. "But please, d-don’t move too much." He could smell it. The fresh, unmistakable scent of blood. "You're hurt, s-sir…"
With those words, the room fell into silence again. The man behind him didn't say anything, as if contemplating Jack’s words, yet the grip around Jack’s neck remained firm. Each second seemed to stretch into eternity, and Jack held his breath, waiting for a response as a cold bead of sweat rolled down his face.
Finally, after what felt like forever, the grip loosened. Jack released his breath, silently gasping for air as his feet planted into the ground, trying to steady his balance after that terrifying experience. Slowly, he turns around, stumbling away slightly as he looks up to face the much larger man.
The Grim man stood there, towering over him with one hand clutching his wounded side, blood seeping through the bandages and staining his skin anew. With a shadow cast over his face, his sharp glare intensified.
His dark eyes narrowed, scarred face twisted into a pained look of irritation. Even when injured, such a sight would be enough to intimidate anyone with the sheer menace he radiated.
But as Jack’s heart raced in his chest, his gaze drifted almost unconsciously to the man’s wound. The fear was still there, pressing down on Jack’s chest, but something else was too.
Concern.
The sight of the reopened wound stirred something deeply instinctive and kind in Jack, something that momentarily outweighed his terror. He couldn’t help it. Jack’s eyes lingered more on his injury rather than his scary appearance.
“You’re bleeding again,” Jack whispered, his voice small but genuine, before he pressed his lips, meekly looking up to meet the man's eyes. The words had slipped out before he could stop them, his worry winning over self-preservation for just a second.
The man’s glare remained unwavering, burning with a mix of suspicion and impatience. “Answer my questions,” he ordered.
Jack nodded quickly in agreement. “Um, m- my name is Jack Desmond, you’re currently in my apartment, and…” His eyes wandered back to the wound, which was now dripping with blood from the man’s side, pooling on the floor in droplets.
“And.. and, um…” Jack tried to continue with his answer, but the view made him frown in discomfort. A wave of empathy coursed through him, unable to watch the man actively suffering in front of him while he does nothing about it. He took a small step forward without thinking.
The man reacted immediately, his expression souring like a cornered animal. His lips pulled back into a nasty snarl, and Jack immediately froze, eyes darting back to the man's face, his look carrying a clear message.
Don’t come any closer.
Jack was hesitant, taking a shaky breath before showing the man his palm, trying to let him know he was harmless and unarmed. “I just… I just want to help.” His eyes showed nothing but genuine concern, a warmth that was out of place in the tension.
For a long moment, the man didn’t move. His gaze bore into Jack with an intensity that made the Toon feel exposed but Jack held his ground, knowing that the man in front of him was in pain and had only been acting out of self preservation. Or he hoped that was the case.
Jack cautiously inched closer, his palm still raised and facing upwards to try and ease the man. The closer he got, the more he could see the strain in the man’s features. It was a silent battle between the pain and the effort to appear unwavering.
Finally, he reached the man’s side. The man's eyes followed, but he didn’t stop him as Jack extended his palm towards him. Jack's hand flinched and hesitated for a second when the man's grip on his wound tightened… Jack steeled himself and gently touched the lower side of the man's hip, his fingers being stained with the blood that ran steadily down it.
Despite not being injured himself, Jack still winced sympathetically at the sight. Though the Grim’s face showed no change, Jack didn’t miss the way the muscle around the injury flinched at his touch.
“Okay… okay.” Jack murmured, his voice soft but determined. His mind buzzed with worry, already trying to think of what he could do to keep the wound from worsening.
With a pang of dread, it finally dawned on him in fullness that this was only the beginning of him having to temporarily keep this dangerous man in his apartment.
Oh, boy. This was going to be a long week.