𝖘𝖍𝖔𝖔𝖙𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖘𝖙𝖆𝖗𝖘 || 𝘥. 𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳

𝟎𝟎𝟑 ⌖ backseat hitchhiker

She didn't think he heard her, but he wrapped around back, unhooking the gas pump and sliding it into the filler, eyeing the meter for a moment before turning on his heel. His beat-up sneakers kicked dust as he stalked towards the station. Red and blue painted lettering obscured the windows, neon signs and wooden logos covering the rest of it. Cold Beer. Ice. Lube & Oil, Only $24.50! No Smoking.

Sam propped his elbow up on the seat and turned back to Fitz. Her white and gray flannel now had an ugly red-brown patch that seeped through its four folded layers, an odd polka-dot pattern bleeding through the sleeves and the body. He then scrutinized her expression — she was looking at her shoulder with such bitterness that he almost felt it on his tongue.

He wasn't sure when Fitz had lost her razor-sharp, wise-cracking edge, but he could guess that she'd left it behind somewhere in his apartment. Somewhere with Jessica.

"We could've pulled over an hour back," Sam said, trying not to sound too concerned. "You know, when we were still around civilization."

"Again," Fitz sighed, pulling a needle and wire from a compartment in her duffel. "It's not a big issue. I've been through worse." She tested the sharpness of the needle, tapping her forefinger on it. "Hurts like a bitch, though. That's why I gave your brother shit for it."

"It's alright. I've done more for less," Sam admitted, eyeing her wound. It was a mess of dried and fresh blood, crimson and scarlet, a few pieces of wire protruding from the wound. It looked painful, that's for sure, but thankfully not infected. "Is that a—"

"Bullet wound? Yes." Her tone was short, dismissive. She didn't want to get into it, clearly, and the look she was giving him said stop looking at it, dude. Very Dean of her. "Does your brother drink vodka?"

"...No, not usually. Why?"

"I'm fresh out of hydrogen peroxide," she said, extending her right hand. "Can I borrow your water, then?"

Sam nodded, placing his half-empty plastic bottle in her palm. She poured a little bit of it onto the clean part of her flannel, using it to clean the area. He watched as she retrieved a bottle of painkillers, popped the cap with her thumb, shook one out and swallowed it dry. She licked her lips, tongue catching on the split, already beginning to scar.

"I can help." Sam's eyes were on the disconnected needle and thread that sat on her lap.

"It's fine, really," she waved him off. "Go look at your map, or whatever. Read a law school book. Fawn over Polaroids of my sister; I know you keep some in your wallet, she thinks it's adorable. Even better," her eyes lit up at the prospect. "Call her."

There was a real smile in her words. Too bad Sam wasn't listening. He got out of the car, yanked the back down open, and slid in beside her, setting her duffel on the floor. When he spoke this time, it wasn't a suggestion.

"Let me help."

Fitz's eyes were half-lidded, like he was trying to spite her, or perhaps offer a brand of pity that she didn't take from Jessica, so she sure as hell wouldn't take it from him. But, to his pleasant surprise, she handed him the needle. She watched him effortlessly thread it, slipping the wire through the spring-eye's swaged end.

"You're pretty good at that," she noted, reaching for her duffel.

"I've had a lot of practice," Sam said, handing her the pair of tweezers. She hadn't even needed to ask.

"Right," Fitz said, pinching the tweezers together twice before getting to work on her arm, tugging at the snapped wires in her wound. "So," she said after a pained hiss. "How long have you been hunting? If it isn't a touchy subject."