All Delighted People [Silas]

[Sabra]

Sabra was having a bad day. If she was generous in her self pity she'd admit that she was also having a bad week, and quite possibly, a bad month. The blood dripping down her chin only accentuated these notions. She could see her breath in the cold cab of the Plymouth, the steam rising from the pool of dark liquid that trickled past her fingers. It was going to be a bitch to replace the leather seats, but unfortunately it was the least of her problems at the moment.

It had been a relatively routine call, track down the target, put him out of his misery and spare the city one more lunatic. She had followed him to a ware house, a nice discreet location on the outskirts of Boston and out of sight and mind of any concerned citizens. The only thing Sabra hadn't accounted for was that her target might have friends. The first bullet had missed, and so had the second. She hated when they moved around like that, it made it much harder to manage a clean kill. In the end she was the one with a revolver, and those silver bullets, despite having cost her a whole month's rent, saved her ass.

Sabra walked (read: limped) away with some parting gifts though.

There were a couple options here, the safest and most sane of these would be to call her lovely man, James. He would take her to the hospital and they'd put her on some nice drugs, but then she'd be subject to that damned puppy dog look of his, somewhere between concern, anger, and pity. He'd ask questions and she would have to answer. Most likely, he would leave afterwards. That thought hurts nearly as much as the gash in her thigh and the most likely dislocated shoulder.

No one liked the truth. There was no way of dressing this up. It was all well and good to turn into a wolf when the moon grew full, but it was another thing to make your after hours work killing those who couldn't keep their teeth to themselves. Those type of people didn't often make good girlfriend material, and that was just a fact.

The next options would be to call Logan, but it seemed sort of rude, having only recently met the man. The third, and the most appealing of all, was to call a complete stranger whose number she only had on account of that boy scout like habit to always, always be prepared. The number of doctors on Boston's payroll was not entirely surprising and Sabra was suddenly very grateful for the existence of those who had continued on in their practice, regardless of the beast's desire to overturn the Hippocratic Oath. Already injured prey was akin to a frozen dinner, as far as wolves went. Fast food.

Set in the microwave at high for six minutes and ready to enjoy.

It takes a few tries before she gets the phone to ring through, on account of the cold and her shaking hands. "Silas Vincent?" She winces at the sound of her own voice, drawn out and cracked around the edges. "Listen, I'm from the pack and I need--" Alright, breathing hurts. Talking hurts too. Sabra sucks in a ragged breath, tightening her grip on the makeshift tourniquet around her thigh before speaking again. "Can ya stitch me up? I got cash, pay ya up front. Just get to the big warehouse on 32nd Street."

Was that descriptive enough? The warehouse was starting to get a little blurry through her windshield, and Saba sincerely hoped that was just because the glass was getting fogged up and not a side effect of blood loss.

"Make it quick."

She hangs up and hopes a patient in need will distract Mr. Vincent from the lack of cash up front. At this point, she'd just have to be boost to his good karma.

[Zephyr]

There aren’t many nights Silas gets home early, but his work schedule has been so goddamn weird lately that he finds himself home early more often now. This is just one of those nights. He’s sprawled out in bed asleep when his phone buzzes insistently at his side. He is more than willing to ignore it, growling softly and rolling over onto his side. As a good doctor though, he knows he shouldn’t because the hospital could have had a mass accident come in, and they’re understaffed or simple needs a consult. It could also be Zander or Matthias calling him for help or something.

It’s the last thought that finally gets him off of his ass to grab his phone and turn it on, pressing it to his ear and managing a groggy, “What?” The voice on the other end is unfamiliar, but the fact that she knows his name wakes him up somewhat. He sits upright, rubbing his palm over the back of his neck as the woman speaks. He doesn’t have time to tell her that he doesn’t give a shit about the pack anymore. He pretty much cut all ties with the pack after Nathan left. He didn’t care that much about it before the other werewolf left, so why should he care about it now that he doesn’t have a reason to stick around?

The woman doesn’t give him much of a chance to protest, and Silas realizes that this is probably by design…since he basically has no choice but to comply. He sits there, glaring at the phone after she hangs up, half tempted to ignore her plea for help. The pack has other doctors who care more about what happens to it…let one of them deal with it.

Still, she sounded pretty bad off, and there’s no way he can just ignore her. Snarling, he finally pulls himself out of bed and throws some clothes on.

~

He makes a pit stop at the hospital to get some supplies together. Evelyn asks him about it, but Silas gives her the usual ‘I will fire you’ bullshit, and while the fox shifter knows better than to take him seriously, she doesn’t stand in his way. Mostly because she knows Silas well enough to know that he wouldn’t be taking hospital supplies unless it was urgent.

It doesn’t take him too long to find the warehouse in question. Silas pulls off to the side, noticing a slight movement in the cab of the truck parked not too far off. He hesitates for only a second before he exits his car, bag in hand, and makes his way to the truck. He pulls open the door and the scent of blood almost knocks him off of his feet it is so potent. “Holy hell.” He growls, nose wrinkling lightly. “What the fuck did you do to yourself?” He wants to set some terms with her, but he knows that this isn’t the place to do it. It’s too cold out here to do this anyway. So whether or not she protests, Silas will glance back at the warehouse before looking back at the woman. “I need to get you inside.” Is the only explanation he will give before he slides his arms under her back and legs, being wary of her wounds, and picks her up easily, carrying her swiftly towards the warehouse.

Once inside, he slides his coat off without setting her down, and lays her on top of it. Normally, he’d be fucking pissed about anything happening to his clothing, and blood isn’t going to come out, but this is an emergency. “Now.” He says, looking her over. “Tell me what happened.” He only sounds a little grumpy as he waits for an answer and digs through his bag of doctoring stuff.

[Sabra]

In retrospect, this was the product of bad decision making, as were most times in her life Sabra had found herself bleeding in some far off place. The Plymouth, for all her speed and beauty, wasn't well insulated and the dark-haired woman shivers bitterly. At least while her teeth were clattering together, Sabra knew she hadn't met her maker quite yet. Unless everyone got it wrong and hell was in fact, a frigid wasteland.

That was what the Eskimos believed, if she wasn't mistaken, but then there was the matter of Dante. A gust of cruel Bostonian wind slips in as Silas cracks the door open, effectively ruining her meditations on the subject of hell's climate.

She could have written a college admission paper on that, damn him. It takes a great deal of effort to do so, but Sabra manages to look up into the face of her savior. He doesn't seem like a doctor, with the five 'o clock shadow and appearing about as chipper as a bear interrupted in the middle of its hibernation. Educated professionals didn't curse; it wasn't conductive to the healing process. "My boyfriend got rough, what can I say?" She trails her sticky fingers across the open wound on her thigh, and smiles crookedly. Maybe she could charm the good doctor out of his services.

A very un-badass whimper slips between her teeth as Silas lifts her into his arms, and the smile disappears under the jolt of agony that follows. Her abused shoulder feels like it might just fall off and Sabra curls her blood slick hands into tight fists rather than whine like a child. Great, the warehouse, just where she wanted to be. It was better than having him muck around in the Plymouth though, her baby had been through enough pain today.

The darkness of the evening falls into pitch blackness as the man reaches the warehouse, the scene of the crime and the cause for her current unfortunate situation. As irritated as Mr. Vincent is, he's gentle about it, and even gives her the courtesy of his jacket rather than the cold cement floor. Sheltered by the old building, they are cut off from the wind and any prying eyes that might happen upon them. Sabra can think of worse places to be, like in a hospital for example, with their blinding white lights and the overpowering scent of bleach and cleaner invading her nose. She can still remember her last visit, the neat rows of stitches they'd put into the skin of her back that pulled whenever she moved.

The bills that showed up in her mailbox afterwards. And that piled up and up.

"They happened." She points a wavering hand over to the south end of the warehouse, to a bundle of junk that lays in the corner, a tarp and bricks weighing something down. Rivulets of blood trickle out from under the cover. "I'm an enforcer, don't worry 'bout the bodies." Just in case Silas wasn't clear on what was hidden beneath. "Got it covered." Somehow. There were always more people to call, the pack wouldn't want their dirty little secrets discovered and would be more than helpful in disposing of the evidence.

She tries to sit up, lying down didn't suit the beast, who thrashed beneath her skin, and it didn't suit her either. Exposed belly, bleeding wounds, stranger, dark place? Ingredients for disaster. "I'm Sabra, by the way. I'd say it's a pleasure," She takes a long look at his medical bag and the shiny instruments inside, as well as the torn fabric of her jeans and the way Silas' nice jacket was already turning a rapid shade of crimson. "Under any other circumstance."

As it turns out, Sabra doesn't manage the upright position for long. She slumps back with a groan and prays that Silas won't need to use half of what's in that bag of horrors.

[Zephyr]

The comment about her boyfriend isn’t exactly appreciated by someone with a childhood of being beaten day in and day out, but Silas’ past hasn’t a place here, so he ignores it in favor of concentrating on the woman and carrying her into the warehouse. He had been so intent on Sabra, and the scent of her blood that he hadn’t noticed the smell of the other bodies until she points them out.

To anyone else, the sight of a pile of bodies covered with a tarp would be shocking. Silas just stares at it for a second; at the slow seem of blood. The doctor snorts lightly, turning back to Sabra, his eyebrows quirking as he catches her eyes. “What’d they do?” He asks calmly. Death doesn’t bother the doctor in and of itself. It’s something that happens to him on a daily basis. What does bother him is having people die under his hands; on his table. It wears on one after a while.

He isn’t particularly bothered by the bodies either. He shrugs lightly as she speaks, instead moving to focus on her wounds, using some scissors to cut away the bloody jeans around the gash in her thigh. This is definitely going to need stitches. He digs through his bag, listening to her introduction. “Would have been nice to meet you under normal circumstances.” He kind of knows of her already. He’d been told about Sabra and James, and while at one point he wouldn’t have been pleased to meet her, things that might have marred his opinion are gone now.

“I’m going to have to stitch this up soon, or you’ll bleed out.” He explains while he wipes the wound clean with an alcohol drenched pad. “I’d like to make a deal, though.” He says calmly, pulling out his surgical thread and a needle. The entire time, he stays calm, settling himself between her legs while he starts the stitches. “I’ve cut ties with the pack. I want to be allowed to stay in Boston. I’m not a threat. I don’t even leave my apartment on full moons.”

It might be more effective for him to make his deal and deny Sabra medical treatment until she agrees to take his deal to whoever’s in charge, but he isn’t so much of an asshole that he’s willing to let anyone bleed out in a dirty warehouse, especially when they’ve been decent to him. So, throughout his talking, he keeps stitching. It takes a while since he’s making the stitches small so that they’ll be less likely to rip. “Also, my friend. He’s a hunter.” Silas doesn’t know how much the pack knows about Matthias and Silas’ involvement with him, but he’s content to keep things vague for a while. “I don’t want you to touch him. He’s already agreed not to hunt wolves in pack territory. He will not be a threat to you either.” The depth of Silas’ feelings for the hunter is probably obvious by the way he speaks, but he can’t completely school his voice.

“In exchange, I will treat any member of the pack who comes to me for medical services for free.” He realizes that this is probably just as good as joining the pack, but he wants nothing else from it, just to be left in peace and to assure Matthias’ safety. If the other man hadn’t been a hunter, these measures probably wouldn’t have to be taken, but he wouldn’t take anything back now.

“I’m not going to let you bleed out though…so I can’t stop you from not agreeing to this.” But he thinks that pack wolves probably get hurt often enough that another doctor at their disposal probably wouldn’t be that bad of an idea.

[Sabra]

Sabra peers into the darkness, past the work of her own doing that lays cooling in the concrete and brick shelter of the warehouse. Hiding her sins from the city's cynical view. The doctor's question surprises her and she draws in a soft breath, working up the energy to talk. "Ate someone, last I heard." She appreciates his response, there are much worse ways Silas could have answered, fears that she doesn't need reassuring at this exact moment.

How long could she hold out telling James? How long could she claim long shifts and bad bosses before he began calling? He was such a worrier and Sabra worried even more that he loved her.

A deal, that sounds rather ominous. Sabra rolls her eyes towards him, watching the quick work of his hands against her stained skin, the contrast of red and ragged flesh to the nimbleness of a surgeon's fingers. She hisses through grit teeth when he cleans the wound and balls up his jacket in her fists. It sounds more like a growl upon reflection, and there is a welling of panic in her chest at the thought. The wolf and her work in harmony, and the line that divided their souls was hazy thing that wavered and shook under the slightest of pressures. Laying belly up and injured under the mercy of a stranger ranked somewhere in the 'the entirety of earth's weight pressing down upon it's molten core' scale of pressures.

Sabra decides to ward the beast off with smart ass remarks and a grin that reveals too many teeth. "I would've worn somethin' lacy and red, had I know there'd be a pretty man kneelin' 'tween my legs." He is, even all grumpy and wielding a needle--a needle that Silas promptly sticks into the edges of her raw skin and drags through as casually as if he was starting a quilt. It's a credit to her person that she doesn't arch her back and do a fine impression of the wolf man, throwing her head back and howling.

Still, the entire left side of her face twitches and that grin falters. The work is slow, and the more rational side of herself is thankful of the care he takes, but the wolf wants to gnaw those skilled hands of his to gristle and sinew. Sabra thought she knew how many nerve endings were in her inner thigh, on account of James, but it's with Silas that she learns just how many there are. And they're all screaming at the top of their lungs.

"Doc, I ain't exactly in a position to decline." She drawls, the words feeling like honey, thick and heavy on her tongue. Frankly, she had better things to do with her time then to track down wolves who kept to themselves and caused no harm, but the mention of a hunter catches her attention in a way Silas would probably prefer it didn't. In her days down South she had come across a few, and each experience had left a bitter taste in her mouth.

Why a werewolf would be friends with a hunter in the first place was beyond her though.

"Sounds like a pretty good deal to me." Sabra tries to sit up again, and manages it with a hand clutched over her knee. "Just stay in your apartment and keep your hunter friend on a tight leash, ya hear?" She catches Silas' gaze with hard eyes, the wolf coloring them blue and peering out with a distinct unfriendliness.

The southerner yanks a thumb in the direction of the bodies. While having no great love for the city, she took the care of Boston seriously and it was the day that hell froze over that she would shirk her duties.

"Or you'll be endin' up like those two."

[Zephyr]

For once, inappropriate jokes bring a slight smile to Silas’ face. The fact that she can make jokes when she’s in so much pain is a trait Silas can definitely appreciate. He knows that if he had been in her place, there’s no way he’d be able to casually make jokes like that. He’d definitely be bitching out whoever it was who had the misfortune of stitching him up, not least of all because Silas is a terrible narcissist who doesn’t trust anyone but himself with a needle. He chuckles lightly, almost doesn’t speak with the concentration he’s paying to getting the wound all stitched up in a neat line. “Not often I get ‘ta patch up purty women either.” Silas drawls, flashing a grin at her, comfortable enough in the other werewolf’s presence to let his southern accent out for a moment.

He isn’t exactly afraid that she’ll turn down his offer, he isn’t expecting her to agree to it so readily. His eyes widen in surprise and his hands stop what they’re doing for a fraction of a second when he looks at her. It isn’t like he’s just going to stop and let her bleed out if she refuses, and maybe she doesn’t know him well enough to realize this, but he didn’t think he’s been overly bitchy to her, given the circumstances.

Still, her easy acceptance of his proposal is met with a grin that lights up Silas’ face and he chuckles lightly, returning to his work after only a moment. He doesn’t tell her that he’s in love with the friend in question and that he can’t really keep him on a leash when he’s always hanging out with his fucking boyfriend. Still, he keeps a mental not to inform Matthias of this once he’s able to get Sabra squared away.

If Silas is anything, he’s an excellent doctor. No matter how he grumps and bitches, he will not let her out of his sight until he’s sure that she’s going to be okay.

He’s probably more amused than he should be at Sabra’s warning. It’s just funny, the thought that his wolf could make a big enough nuisance of itself that it would need to be disposed of. He’s been told the thing is a fucking pussy, and while that thought doesn’t exactly please him, at least it isn’t conducive with killing all the things. “Really don’ think that’ll be a problem, miss.” He drawls, trying to keep most of the amusement out of his voice. He doesn’t tell her it’s because his wolf is the biggest fucking fail in the world.

But some things don’t need to be mentioned.

Once he finishes stitching up her thigh, Silas breaks the thread with his teeth, biting his tongue about having his head between her legs before he sits back up. Her other wounds aren’t so deep that they need stitched, and as such, they don’t need attention right now. He’s noticed she hasn’t really been using her arm and thinks that she’s broken it or something. Silas slides over to her side, lifting her arm lightly. It’s difficult to tell through her clothing, so Silas quirks a grin at Sabra, snorting lightly. “Would it be inappropriate for me to ask you to take your shirt off so I can look at this?”

[Sabra]

It wasn't that she was ashamed of the work she did, not precisely. The modern day world had bred softness into people and allowed them to forget some of the ugliness of life. For a good portion, they existed only behind the television screen. And if one didn't wish to listen? Well, it was easy enough to change the channel.

People forgot that up until very recently, most of the world still operated on the premiss of 'an eye for an eye'. Thieves had their hands cut off, murders were hanged, rapists were castrated, etc. It seemed to Sabra, that wolves had never been enlightened to the modern ways of punishment. Just like with any animal, those who were defective--or those who could not hide their defectiveness adequately, were quickly and efficiently removed from the population.

Someone had to do the job, and Sabra thought it was a mercy that the one chosen for it took no joy in the loss of life and had good aim. She only hoped that James might have similar views on the subject.

"Alabama?" She guesses, and it brings a smile to her lips to hear the soft vowels and the clipped consonants of her childhood after living in Boston for so long, where peopled seemed to speak through their noses more than anything. The only worthwhile thing Sabra had found in the city so far was James, that and the absence of gravel roads.

Gravel dust did horrors to the Plymouth, and the potholes were hell on the shocks.

When Silas finally finishes his stitching, there's more than a few beads of sweat tracking down her face and Sabra doesn't even have it in her to make a crack about finishing the job he started with that mouth. It occurs to her though, the woman just doesn't think she can speak without the words wobbling around. Made the joke less funny.

Unfortunately, the good doctor isn't satisfied with saving her from bleeding out. Didn't she call specifically for stitches? She grits her teeth as he lifts her bum arm, abused muscle and sinew making their displeasure known. "You're makin' me blush, doc." The wolf gnaws at frayed nerves and the urge to crawl away somewhere dark and heal grows ever stronger. Sabra draws in a breath through her nose, gathering enough strength to fumble at the hem of her shirt. He'd asked nicely after all, and she was inclined to listen, especially considering the lack of money.

She manages to drag the cheap cotton t-shirt nearly over one arm, but the rest seems an impossible feat. Despite having to be carried and laid belly up, it was this simple action that made Sabra feel the most weak. Snarling in frustration she gives up, the beast at the edge of her chain and her own limit reached. It felt broken, but it wouldn't be the first bone Sabra had healed crooked and the thought is far preferable to letting Silas poke and prod at it. "Y-ya know, I think I'll live. Thanks to you." Her good hand pressed to the cement floor Sabra makes a valiant effort to stand, feeling as shaky as a new born foal trying to find his legs. The stitches pull tight, but they remain in place, although the world does a miraculous impression of a merry-go-around, spinning for all it's worth.

When the ability of speech is returned to her, and the contents of her stomach are choked back down in place, Sabra slurs out the truth with a death grip on the nearby wall. "Lied 'bout the money, but I meant what I said about the hunter and you." If there was a God she would stay conscious and Silas wouldn't pull those stitches right back out where they came from. If it was a particularly kind God he might even help her back to her car.

Optimism really wasn't her style.