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Damon wakes up with blood in his mouth.
It’s warm, sticky, metallic. The taste clings to his tongue, sickening and familiar. He tries to move and immediately regrets it, a sharp, white-hot pain lancing through his ribs like molten glass. His breath catches, coming in shallow, uneven gasps. Everything hurts. Not the dull ache of a bad fall or a bruised ego, but the kind of pain that sets the nerves on fire and makes every thought a struggle.
The floor beneath him is cold and unyielding, rough against his cheek. Dust clings to his skin, mingling with sweat and blood. His arm is twisted at an awkward angle beneath him, his suit jacket torn, shirt stained dark with something he doesn’t need to see to know is bad. His head swims, vision tilting and unfocused, the edges of the world blurring like a smeared painting. He must’ve blacked out for a while. How long? Minutes, hours? He has no way of knowing.
His first instinct is to assess the damage, to catalog the injuries with clinical detachment. Broken rib, maybe two. Dislocated shoulder, judging by the unnatural position of his arm and the grinding sensation when he tries to move it. Concussion is possible—likely, even—given the pounding in his skull and the way the room refuses to stay still. He grits his teeth, shifting slightly, testing his limits, trying to sit up—
Pain. So much pain.
It radiates through his torso, sharp and unforgiving, stealing what little breath he can manage. He lets out a sharp, involuntary sound, his fingers curling into the dust-covered floor as if grounding himself will somehow dull the agony. Focus. Regain control. He can’t afford to lose himself to this, to let the pain win. His pride won’t let him stay here, pathetic and bleeding, a mess of bruises and shattered dignity. He just has to—
The door slams open.
The sound is deafening in the silence, a jarring explosion that sends Damon’s already frayed nerves into overdrive. His breath hitches, body tensing instinctively despite the pain that flares in protest. The light from the hallway spills in, too bright, too sharp, cutting through the dim haze of the room like a knife. He squeezes his eyes shut against it, the sudden intrusion setting his head pounding even harder. Footsteps follow, quick and hurried, the sound echoing in the otherwise empty space.
And then—
“What the fuck?”
The voice is sharp, incredulous, angry. Familiar. Damon doesn’t have to look up to know who it belongs to. Of course, it had to be him.
Kai Monteago.
Great. Fantastic. Of all the people who could’ve found him in this state, it just had to be Kai. Life really had a way of kicking him when he was already down.
“Holy shit, you look like you got hit by a truck.” Kai’s voice is closer now, hovering above him, full of something almost like concern but too sharp around the edges to be genuine. “What the hell happened to you?”
Damon forces his eyes open, peering up through the haze of pain and humiliation. Kai is standing over him, arms crossed, his usual air of smug amusement tempered by what looks like actual shock. His yellow eyes flicker over Damon’s battered form, taking in every detail with a sharpness that makes Damon feel even more exposed.
Damon exhales slowly, forcing words out past the dryness of his throat. “You—” He swallows, wincing at the rawness. “You should see the other guy.”
Kai blinks. And then he laughs.
It’s not a kind laugh, not really—it’s sharp and incredulous and full of that infuriating Kai-brand arrogance—but there’s something else there, too. Something Damon can’t quite place. “Wow. Even on death’s door, you’re still a smug little asshole.” Kai crouches down beside him, shaking his head in disbelief. “That’s actually impressive.”
Damon wants to roll his eyes but isn’t sure his skull can take the movement without splitting open. Instead, he settles for a flat, unimpressed look. “Are you here to gawk or—?”
Kai tsks, cutting him off with a wave of his hand. “Shut up before you choke on your own ego.” And then—softer, almost begrudging—“Can you move?”
Damon hesitates. He wants to lie, to claim he’s fine, to push through the pain and get up on his own, to walk out of here with whatever scraps of dignity he has left. But when he tries to shift, his body immediately betrays him, a strangled breath escaping through clenched teeth as the pain flares white-hot and unrelenting.
Kai watches him, his usual smirk fading into something unreadable. For a moment, neither of them says anything, the silence heavy and strained.
“…Yeah. That’s what I thought.”
Before Damon can protest, Kai is moving, his hands surprisingly steady as they slide under Damon’s arm, carefully guiding it over his shoulder. The sudden weight shift sends a fresh wave of pain through Damon’s body, his vision swimming dangerously, but Kai doesn’t let go. He doesn’t mock him, doesn’t make some snide comment about how pathetic he looks. He just holds on, steady and unyielding.
Damon exhales sharply, biting back a groan. “I don’t need—”
“Oh my god, shut up.” Kai adjusts his grip, his voice exasperated but not unkind. “Just let me help, you stubborn freak.”
Damon swallows down his pride, focusing on breathing through the pain. One foot after the other, step by agonizing step, leaning more heavily on Kai than he’d like to admit. Kai takes most of his weight without complaint, his movements surprisingly careful for someone who usually operates with all the grace of a wrecking ball.
As they walk—or stumble, really—Kai mutters under his breath, half to himself, half to Damon:
“I don’t even know why I’m helping you. You’d probably let me bleed out if the roles were reversed.”
Damon huffs, too tired and too hurt to come up with a proper retort. “You talk too much.”
Kai snorts, the sound low and almost amused. “And you bleed too much.”
Neither of them argues further.
For once, silence feels like a truce.
The hallway stretches on, dim and too quiet, the only sounds their uneven footsteps and the occasional pained breath Damon can’t quite stifle. The world tilts dangerously every few steps, the edges of Damon’s vision threatening to go dark, but Kai keeps him upright, his grip firm and unyielding.
“You’re heavier than you look,” Kai grumbles after a while, his tone more annoyed than genuinely irritated. “What the hell have you been eating? Rocks?”
“Maybe,” Damon mutters, his voice barely audible. “Keeps me grounded.”
Kai groans, the sound exaggerated and theatrical. “Oh my god, is that supposed to be a joke? You’re literally dying and you’re making dad jokes? Unbelievable.”
Damon doesn’t bother responding, focusing instead on putting one foot in front of the other. The pain is still there, sharp and all-consuming, but it’s easier to manage with something else to focus on—even if that something is Kai’s relentless commentary.
They finally reach the end of the hallway, the door at the far end looming like a promise of salvation—or at least relative safety. Kai shifts his grip slightly, his movements careful despite his usual bravado.
“Alright,” he says, his tone lighter now, almost teasing. “Moment of truth. Think you can make it the rest of the way, or do I need to carry you like some kind of damsel in distress?”
Damon glares at him—well, as much as he can manage in his current state. “I’ll kill you.”
Kai grins, wide and infuriating. “Oh, I’d like to see you try.”
Despite himself, Damon feels the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. It’s small, barely there, but it’s enough to remind him that he’s still alive, still fighting.
And for now, that’s enough.
Damon isn’t sure how long it takes to reach wherever Kai is dragging him, but by the time they stop moving, his entire body is screaming in protest. His ribs feel like they’ve been ground into powder, his legs barely functioning under their own weight. The pain has settled into a dull, throbbing thing, relentless in its presence, his mind floating somewhere between exhaustion and agony. Every breath feels like a gamble—too shallow and he’ll suffocate, too deep and sharp pain will lance through his chest again.
Kai maneuvers him down onto what feels like a couch—leather, cracked, old. The cushions give slightly under his weight, but not enough to be comfortable. Damon’s fingers curl weakly against the surface, grounding himself in the sensation of something solid beneath him. The scent of dust and something vaguely medicinal lingers in the air, a strange mix of stale and antiseptic.
The room is dim, the light muted and soft, but not in the suffocating way of wherever he had woken up before. It’s quieter here, the kind of quiet that feels intentional, like a space meant for retreat rather than punishment. Damon lets his head fall back against the couch, his breaths coming in uneven bursts.
Kai steps back, hands on his hips as he surveys the situation. His usually sharp, smug demeanor is muted now, his lips pressed into a thin line. He exhales sharply through his nose. “Alright, stay put. Not that you have much of a choice.”
Damon forces a sound out—half a huff, half a wheeze. “No escape plans… yet.”
Kai clicks his tongue in irritation, but he doesn’t dignify the comment with a response. Instead, he disappears from view, the sound of rummaging filling the room. Boxes being opened, the clink of glass or metal against a hard surface. Damon closes his eyes, letting himself drift—not quite asleep, but not fully conscious either. His mind buzzes faintly, thoughts half-formed and incoherent.
Then something cold presses against his forehead.
Damon flinches, a sharp intake of breath hissing through his teeth. The sudden sensation shocks him back to the surface of awareness, his body tensing instinctively.
“Relax, drama queen. It’s just a cold compress,” Kai mutters, pressing the cloth more firmly against his skin. His tone is dry, but there’s no real bite to it. “Jesus, you’re burning up.”
Damon forces his eyes open, blinking sluggishly at Kai, who’s leaning over him with an expression that’s somewhere between exasperation and concentration. “Not… fever,” Damon mumbles, voice hoarse and strained. “Just… the whole ‘bleeding out’ thing.”
Kai rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue, which is uncharacteristic enough to make Damon wonder just how bad he looks. He moves with surprising efficiency, undoing the buttons of Damon’s ruined dress shirt with quick, practiced movements. Damon barely has the energy to protest, though his pride flares indignantly at the thought of being so exposed. Vulnerable.
Kai doesn’t make any comments about it, though. He just peels the fabric away, revealing black-and-blue bruises blooming across Damon’s ribs, streaked with dried blood. His expression hardens as he takes in the damage.
“Shit,” Kai mutters under his breath. “You really got wrecked, huh?”
Damon tilts his head slightly, the closest he can get to a shrug. “Could’ve been worse.”
Kai huffs a laugh, though it’s humorless. “Yeah? How?”
Damon exhales slowly, focusing on the damp cloth Kai is using to clean him up rather than the sharp stings of pain. “Could be dead.”
Kai pauses for half a second. It’s brief, barely noticeable, but Damon catches it. The tension in his shoulders, the way his hands falter for just a moment before resuming their work. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter, almost subdued. “Yeah. Could be.”
The silence between them stretches, heavy but not uncomfortable. Kai works with surprising care, dabbing at the worst of the wounds with a gentleness Damon wouldn’t have thought him capable of. He doesn’t crack any jokes, doesn’t fill the space with unnecessary comments. It’s… strangely grounding.
By the time he finishes, Damon is beyond exhausted. His head lolls back against the couch, his body too heavy to move. The pain hasn’t gone away—it’s still there, sharp and insistent—but it’s easier to ignore now, dulled by sheer fatigue.
Kai steps back, arms crossed as he looks him over. “You’re staying here tonight,” he says firmly, leaving no room for argument. “You can barely sit upright without looking like you’re about to keel over.”
Damon grunts in vague protest. “Didn’t—invite myself.”
Kai scoffs, the sound sharp but lacking its usual edge. “Yeah, no shit. If you had, I would’ve made you bring snacks.”
Damon huffs a weak laugh, the sound barely audible. It hurts, but it’s worth it just to see the faint smirk tugging at the corner of Kai’s mouth.
Kai hesitates for a moment, then lets out a sigh, his fingers raking through his hair. “Just… get some sleep, alright? I’ll keep an eye on you. Make sure you don’t, y’know, die in your sleep or whatever.”
It’s said flippantly, with a layer of sarcasm that Kai uses to deflect, but there’s something in his tone that makes Damon pause. Something almost like… concern.
Damon doesn’t comment on it. He just lets his eyes slip shut, exhaling slowly.
“…Thanks,” he murmurs, so quietly he isn’t even sure if Kai hears him.
Kai doesn’t respond right away. Then, after a beat, Damon feels the weight of a blanket being draped over him, the fabric scratchy but warm.
“You’re a pain in the ass, you know that?” Kai mutters, the words softened by something Damon can’t quite place.
Damon doesn’t reply. He’s already drifting, the exhaustion pulling him under like a tide. But as he slips into unconsciousness, he thinks maybe this is what safety feels like.