Jan. 6th, 2006

not_that_spike: (ouch)
It's not that he feels any better today. In fact, he feels a hell of a lot worse but he knows that healing happens on a curve. Sucks before it gets better and he's been through it enough to know that's no fluke.

Inwardly, he's so damn mad at himself for not smelling that fucking setup before he walked right into it. Shit, Beth could have been shot. She could have been killed. So could he, but he cares about that a hell of a lot less than he cares about Beth. He was glad to take the bullet if it meant she'd be safe.

Rule Number One: never put someone you love in danger over a bounty.

He knows that. He knows it. He knows he broke the rules. But try to tell Beth any differently: what the hell was he supposed to do? Not take her out there with him?

Fuck that.

Outwardly, he's pleasant as hell. He figures he had his day to be grumpy and the time's past, and he's grateful for everything everyone's doing for him. Especially for Beth, who radiates everything he's ever wanted: calm, cool, caring, precise, stern when it's required, soft when it's warranted, brave, incredibly intelligent, sexy, interesting. He starts to button that shirt she managed to coax his arm into, the only Venusian vanilla one he's got left.

"Shit, Slim. That trip was hard on my wardrobe."

He gives her a grin. Even with a busted-up body, he loves her. No damn syndicate gunfight can change that.

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