"Well, where I'm from men — "
The priss had the gall to lecture him as she picked herself up. She got about halfway off of him, then yelped and fell back down again — right onto his bleeding arm. He winced. He'd had worse: regent knew he'd been flogged more times than he could count. But fucking hell, that cat meant to go for the kill. He was glad he'd seen the last of it. As for the woman...
It seemed she'd done something when she barreled into him. She'd gone and hurt herself, and now she couldn't get up. Fuck, Fletch thought. Not my bloody day, is it. Truthfully, he didn't want to help her. He didn't want to play the bloody hero. He didn't want that expected of him — not by some snotty little harpy. He was tired. His head still wouldn't stop pounding. And now he'd gotten torn to shreds by a cat of all things.
"Look, I'm flattered, but — " Fletch grunted as he rolled her off of him and onto the ground. He glared daggers at her and scowled as the bite marks began to sting something fierce. " — why don't you go and — argh — find some other rabid animal victim to throw yourself at, ey?" Using the wall as leverage, he hoisted himself to his feet. He didn't spare the woman a second glance. She wasn't important right now. Someone's face flashed in his mind. Someone's pale, thin fingers tended to his cuts and punctures. I told you to clean it as soon as possible, someone once admonished him. Honestly, Mr. Fletcher, if all of your wounds have festered so, I cannot comprehend how you have managed to cheat death with such ease.
Then the memory faded again. He knew what he had to do. Fletcher reached beneath his coat and pulled a flask from a pocket in the lining. Then he shook his jacket off, swung it to rest on one shoulder, rolled up his tattered shirt sleeve, and pulled the cork. It smelled so tantalizing. "Good fucking whiskey, too," he muttered darkly. "Wasted." He gritted his teeth, pulled the bite apart, and poured the contents over his arm. The pain surged and stabbed right down to bone.
"Motherffff — " Fletcher turned and kicked the wall, then leaned against it, panting. He roared and kicked it again, but only succeeded in stubbing his toes. "Aaaahhhh...fffffff...nnnnot my bloody day," he hissed. He allowed himself a bit more time to seethe and groan in lieu of dulling the pain with smoke and drink. He rolled over his shoulder and glowered down at the woman again. Then he saw it. Her ankle was all wrong. She'd rolled it. She wouldn't be able to walk. And there was something familiar about her, now, that he couldn't place. She reminded him of someone. Someone with yellow hair and a strong jaw and a hellfire temper. A friend. Someone he'd...
His expression softened imperceptibly. It wouldn't do to leave a thing like her alone. Not like this. "Shit," he muttered. "You've done a number on yourself, haven't you, love?" He bent and offered his good arm. "Come on, then. Tell me where I'm taking you."