[ this is pure SMUT and does nothing to further the plot at all. you can skip it altogether if you'd like. not really gonna list off all content warnings like the version on ao3, but we got some finger sucking, some bathroom spice, some spitting. not full on sex yet — gotta give tangerine incentive to not die a second time ]
☆︎
LET'S GO FUCKING KILL MY DAD.
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Rather than cram in a small economy-class washroom, Kliment opted to head to the front of the train, making her way to the first of the bathrooms in the first-class portion of the vessel. She knew they were a bit roomier with a counter that she could sit on. Each bathroom also had small cloth towels for drying hands — she figured she could tie two of them together and wrap them around her thigh as a makeshift bandage.
Though her wound did stop bleeding and she could walk on her leg, Kliment was still limping, not afraid to wince with each step now that the others weren't watching her. She couldn't stand to see the smug look Tangerine would sport over her moving without his assistance. And she definitely needed to be in better condition for whatever was coming with the showdown against her father.
Once she arrived at a bathroom, Kliment slipped inside and let go of the door to let it slide shut. But before the latch could click, a foot found its way in between, keeping the door cracked.
She turned quickly and found Tangerine was the one keeping her from being alone. He'd silently followed, watching carefully each time she stumbled or paused to take in a deep breath and shift her weight to help with the burning pain.
"I'm sorry?" Kliment asked, raising an eyebrow. "Can I fucking help you?"
Tangerine took a moment to keep studying her before responding. His eyes — they'd regained most of their beautiful blue color since finding Lemon alive — scanned down and up her form leisurely.
In the few hours that they'd been on this train from hell, her appearance certainly went downhill. She was still wearing the little black dress that drove him mad and a ratty pair of her brother's boots. Drying blood had trickled down her left leg and stained the brown leather and laces. Her hair was down and messy — she hadn't thought to grab her blade-hiding-hairpin after being shot. And her light brown eyes were surrounded by fading mascara marks that she'd been scrubbing away more and more since Vasili's death.
The only thing off about her appearance that was his direct doing was her swollen lips, all red and begging for him to claim them once again. Though, he supposed he could hold off on that desire for just a few minutes.
"I'm here to help you, love," Tangerine finally replied, finished with his visual assessment. He also fully stepped into the bathroom with her, having no problem with fitting them both.
"I told you—"
"That you don't need my help," he interrupted, rolling his eyes. "Look, I've been shot enough times to know how to take care of you, so just let me. We can fight about it later."
