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Duncan? She glanced at Marius.
"Don't give a shit." Marius grunted the insult and acknowledgment as he moved toward the padded table.
"Which is why I handle the money and your fight schedule. So you don't piss off the wrong people and end up chained to a bunch of concrete blocks at the bottom of the bay."
Marius didn't bother to respond to that. He bent stiffly to pick up the basin and one of the jugs of water, putting them on the table. Regina met the Aussie's gaze. She could handle this part, and she wanted some privacy. He picked it up so quickly she thought he'd be an excellent submissive. Who knew? Maybe behind closed doors, he was. With that "lovely girl" who'd made him stop fighting.
"First aid kit and cloths are in that cabinet." He pointed. "Along with a shitload of peroxide for cleaning out wounds. Got some broad-spectrum antibiotics and ibuprofen in there. He can help himself."
Was Duncan Marius's real name? If he and Tal knew each other well enough, perhaps the older man had used it to help ground him further. Calling him Rabid right now definitely didn't seem to be a good idea.
As the Aussie took his leave, she drew Marius's attention with a gesture. "Sit on the table," she said. "You're in no condition to tend to yourself."
"I always do," he said, his tone flat.
"Yeah. I bet you do. But I'm offering. Once the adrenaline leaves you, you're going to be close to collapse. So don't be a shit. Sit your ass on the table."
He pivoted to square off with her. "Women line up to fuck fighters fresh out of the ring. You're at the front of the line, Mistress." He lifted his arms to his sides, sweeping his gaze down his own body. "Have at it, sweetheart."
"You call me sweetheart ever again, I will feed you your own nuts." She leveled a stare on him. "Hard as it may be to believe, a man stinking of sweat and blood is not my dream come true. You can't manipulate my emotions, Marius. I see you coming with that shit from a mile away. So accept my help, or go fuck yourself."
Some or all of that might be a lie, but one part wasn't. She wouldn't be played by a sub. He might pull this shit on a Domme who expected fair play from her partner, but Regina was forewarned and forearmed. He didn't know the meaning of fair play. Not yet.
She didn't know which way he'd go on it, and so was prepared to turn on her heel and depart, no matter how difficult she might find it to leave him in this state. After a long moment that stopped short of her doing just that, he moved to the table and lifted himself onto it. Spreading out his hands in another exaggerated motion, he gave her a look that said, "Here I am. So?"
There was a case of drinking water in the bottom of the dusty cabinet. She brought two bottles of it, the first aid supplies, peroxide and meds to the table. "Here. Hydrate. Slow so you don't vomit."
"I know that."
"I don't have the best opinion of your brain power. I'd rather tell you the obvious and remove any risk."
He muttered something uncomplimentary into the top of the bottle, but he was drinking. He did know what needed to happen after a fight, she could see that. That was somewhat comforting, when so much of this wasn't.
She cleaned the blood off his face and dabbed peroxide on one nasty gash. Killjoy had been wearing a ring with a spike on his left hand. "This could do with a few stitches."
"Naw, it'll be fine. Just use the stitch tape. I'll sew it up later if that doesn't work." He used the back of his hand to wipe his nose, which was also still bleeding sporadically. The graceless gesture made her cluck and take his hand, wiping it clean before she rolled up two small pieces of gauze.
"Here, stick those in your nostrils. Tip your head back. Barbarian. In the habit of giving yourself stitches, are you?"
He complied with the head tipping, his gaze moving to the ceiling as he packed his nose around her ministrations. "It's easy. Like fixing holes in socks, if the socks were a tough-skinned kind of Jell-O."
Her gaze slid to his face. He'd offered a faint, lopsided smile when he said it, thanks to the split lip. Strange as the setting and topic was, it was the first dialogue they'd had as normal people in the vanilla world, a side of him she'd not yet discovered. If his behavior now was real, not charm.
"What's your favorite flavor of Jell-O?" she asked. She turned her attention to wiping the blood off his left shoulder and arm, but also took the time to tuck another gauze pad in his callused hand and guide it to his lip to put pressure on it. It kept bleeding. The gesture muffled his words, but they were still intelligible.
"It's a non-food."
"What does that have to do with anything?" she asked. "So's a Twinkie. Everyone loves that. And you can play with Jell-O. Make molds."
He grunted. "Black cherry, then."
She slanted him a glance. "Seriously?"
That half smile came around the gauze pad. "Seriously. It wasn't a line, no matter that you are a fine black woman."
"With you, everything is a line. But black cherry is a good flavor. Particularly for wine slushies."
"Don't know. I don't drink, except for an occasional beer."
