Alex isn’t happy to see her. She knows this from the way his door opens at 2am, body braced behind the reinforced metal and almost black eyes staring out warily, bloodshot and attached to a grungy t-shirt and purple boxers.

Wordlessly, he blinks before sliding to the side and letting Myra in.

“You’re shit on my luck,” he says after a second, walking away with a barely perceptible limp towards the kitchen and turning on lights as he goes. The oddly mismatched blonde-and-brown hair, rumpled and lopsided, indicates that he has just risen – unwillingly – from bed.

“I’d say the same to you,” she replies, kicking the door closed with a foot and taking off her jacket with a wince.

Alex opens a cupboard in the kitchen loudly, reaching for a plastic cup and glancing over at Myra. She sees the clear disapproval even from her position in the entryway.

“I didn’t piss off a man with a bomb.” Alex says.

The cupboard claps shut, and he goes over to the sink. The water runs momentarily before Alex returns, cup held out in front as a peace offering.

“Thanks,” Myra says, taking it carefully with her right hand.

Alex notices the move, glances at her side.

And then sees the darker stain on the black shirt.

He waits a moment, letting Myra take a drink before speaking.

“Shrapnel?”

She nods.

“Yeah.”

The anger on his face is brief, but there, and within minutes he’s motioning her towards a couch, muttering as he does so, “stubborn mule...”

Myra sits – albeit slowly – on a particular black lounge chair and leans back, grimacing quietly and swallowing.

Alex reaches over her head, turning on one of the lamps even as she winces, shifting her head away from the light.

The pain hasn't gone unnoticed, and just as quickly as Alex turned on the light he moves away, walking to the kitchen again and coming back with a first aid kit, vodka and a cheap metal chair from his pathetic ‘dining room.'

The chair comes down with a loud groan, the vodka with a liquidy thump and Alex’s rear with a squeak on the chair. The kit on his lap is almost an afterthought.

The two stare at each other for a minute before Myra looks at the vodka. Confusion drifts across her face for a half a second.

“I thought you couldn’t drin–”

“I can’t,” Alex says, smiling awkwardly. “This if for you. You’re probably going to need it.”

She swallows again. “We’ll see.”

Uncomfortable silence fills the room, long and ominous. Alex finally clears her throat and leans forward.

“You wouldn’t come here unless you’ve royally fucked yourself up.”

Myra nods, wordless.

“And you wouldn’t be lying down unless that injury –” he points towards Myra’s left before unlatching the first-aid kit “ – really is making life a bitch.”

She smiles quietly. “A lot of ‘unless’ and profanity, Alex.”

Alex looks up from the kit, irritated as he squirms his hands into gloves with an audible snap.“It’s true.”

Myra doesn’t disagree, instead leaning her head back and closing her eyes.

“Yes.”

He looks back down into the case, rummaging about and coming out with a scalpel, a syringe (which can only be full of painkillers), a metal tin, bandages and a clamp.

Myra opens one eye, regards the work.

“Helluva first aid kit you got there.”

Alex doesn’t bother to give her a glance, instead continuing with the supplies.

“The homemade ones are always the best,” he murmurs, almost distractedly. “The ones the give you in the stores –” a shrug, Parisian-like in its indifference “– they won’t protect you against any of the shit on the streets anymore.”

“Experience?”

Alex pulls out scissors, looks up again.

“Always,” he responds before wielding the scissors in Myra’s direction.

“Are you ready?” he asks.

She waits a moment, inhaling heavily through her nose and exhaling just as loudly.

And then Myra nods.

“Yes.”

“What do we want to start with first?”

She closes her eyes for a moment as a wave of pain washes over, then motions down.

“The arm can wait. I have metal embedded near my liver, and two ribs are most definitely cracked. The side, please.”

Carefully, Alex reaches forward and grabs the shirt at the bottom, lifting it delicately and putting the scissors to the material.

“Have you been gushing?”

A shake of the head.

“Not since last night. I stopped most of the bleeding and put on a temporary.”

Temporaries – stitch kits meant for the battlefield – gave soldiers the unique ability to sew themselves up for periods of two hours to one week. A small, box-like attachment was put to the wound and held firmly for however long the machine needed to sew up. Once done and green-lighted, temporary, disinfected and dissolvable stitches were in place. Though the design had been originally created by trauma specialists overseas, it proved invaluable to more than just the occupation of soldier. Myra had always kept one in her purse before the incident, and now she was more than happy that she had.

He continues cutting gingerly, taking it one inch at a time. “Has it worked?” He was referring to the temp.

She shrugs. “For the most part. I ran into some action on my way down here though, so...”

Alex abruptly stops, eyes alarmed as he looks up. “What kind of action?”

Myra bites the inside of her cheek, reluctant. “I had to go through the park to get here – ”

“– shit --”

“– and had the misfortune of running into a would-be mugger.”

Alex holds her gaze for a minute. “A ‘would-be mugger’ meaning that you killed him?”

“No. Too young. I just took the gun and scared the shit out of him.”

There’s a grudging smile on Alex’s part as he turns back to the shirt, now almost to the bottom of the rib cage. The material is getting stickier now, heavier. Red provides a new shade to the skin beneath the black and when Alex hits the main, Myra tenses.

He glances up again. “For someone who’s supposed to have the endurance of a moose, you can’t be wussing out on me now.”

She glares at him. “I wish you’d shut-up.”

“I wish you hadn’t put your foot in your mouth,” Alex replies, head lowered as he peers at the stitches and the blood oozing between the cracks, “so I guess we’re kind of even at this point.”

“Humph,” is Myra’s only response.

Index finger pointed, Alex gingerly pushes down on the basic stitch and is rewarded with a swallowed curse from Myra. He doesn’t look up this time, now focused on what he has to do.

“Are you sure you want me to cut these?”

She nods. “I sewed up without removing most of the shrapnel...if that shit stays in there, it can kill me.”

Alex makes a sound of agreement, taking the scissors and moving in from a different angle, trying to edge one of the blades beneath the primary suture.

“Contrary to popular belief,” he mutters, “you aren’t Superwoman.”

They fall into a tense silence as Alex cautiously works his way through the stitches, grunting periodically and pausing only when he hits a particular spot that makes Myra grip the couch. He waits until the episode is over before continuing, silently working through until the entire wound gapes open, leering at him.

Alex focuses hard on the gash for a long second, black eyebrows knitted together, before leaning back and wiping at his forehead with a forearm.

“It’s a piece of work, Myra.”

They both understand the unspoken, the reality that this is going to hurt like a son-of-a-bitch. Myra swallows hard, biting the inside of her cheek.

“Get it over with,” she blurts suddenly. “Get it over with now.”

He stares at her for a long second.

“Okay,” Alex says finally.

Myra remembers after this moment, in a series of fragmented snapshots, a careful prodding with the clamps, a scalpel closing into her side and earth-shattering pain.

And then nothing.