The Glass Scientists micro-fanfictions

Mistakes were Made

Oh shit, Henry was going to be proper pissed in the morning.

Hyde could have almost laughed at his own priorities there, worrying more about whether or not he might be free to go out again the coming night, rather than the fact he was in a quite impressive degree of pain. It would have been more concerning if he wasn't in pain, however, given that his face was bleeding profusely.

Not five minutes ago there had been the blade of a stranger's knife sticking out of his cheek, the shorter fellow having bitten off more than he could chew. Unfortunately this was not quite so metaphorical as it should have been. In a moment of panic, he had jerked his head around, worsening the already horrible wound in the process, and clenched his teeth down hard as to be able to wrench the knife out of the offending person's grip, making off the moment he was free. The blade had still been in his cheek until he skidded to a stop when he was sure he was not being pursued.

With a cautiousness that seemed almost alien to him, he brought a hand up to investigate the injury, hissing loudly as doing so managed to double the pain that was already racing from his face and seemingly down each and every nerve in his goddamned body. Christ, he could feel his bloody - presently in every sense - teeth.

He had two options there and then, and neither of them were at all desirable. On one hand, he could try and stitch himself up, shaking hand and an unreliable mirror making it an entire ordeal, or, on the other hand, he could go and find someone he could ask to help him get into a somewhat better state. He could either risk further damaging himself, or he would have to deal with the absolutely mortifying ordeal of admitting a weakness to another person. Both were absolutely horrible.

Oh, and how would the good and gentle doctor Jekyll explain the wound? The stitches? The scar? Even if he could keep tuning Henry out of memory and moment until it's more dealt with, he couldn't keep him out forever, and he would be angry. It was almost certain that he'd be forced into a cruel and unfitting purgatory for, at the very least, the time it would take for it to heal up enough to be inconspicuous.

Would it ever be inconspicuous?

Probably not, but it would make for wild and exaggerated tales that he could tell over a pint or two - or three, maybe five? - to make him seem even more frightening, fearsome, and ferocious.

"Alright," he said aloud, his words slurred from his distorted face, blood bubbling up and out over his lips. Speaking aloud, he learnt there and then, was an absolutely dreadful idea. It already hurt like hellfire, but trying to move his face in speech worsened this still. He doubled over, as if instinctively trying to roll into a small, comforting little ball. But he couldn't let himself collapse there, even if there was nothing in the entire world that he would want to do more than let himself be pitiful.

Edward took a slow, shaky sort of breath, collecting himself, trying to steady himself the best he could in his current predicament. Not really thinking, he wiped blood from his chin, gingerly trying to make himself almost presentable, but with his newly blooded hand, he ran his fingers through his hair, leaving an almost interesting looking red and gold mix through the mess that was his hair. If it was even possible, his hair stood stiffer as the blood dried into his mane.

Striding forth with all the confidence in the world, looking as if he own the very streets he prowled, he knew he had to get back to the Society, get back and get himself patched up in one way or another. As long as he didn't run into anyone, malicious or friendly it didn't matter, he'd be able to have his little problem dealt with before all too long. Maybe, if it all went well, he'd even be able to head back out and let the bastard that stabbed him know precisely what he thought of them.

Or perhaps not.

The way the night was proceeding, all he wanted was to stop his face from looking like some horrible sideshow attraction, and maybe a glass or two - or four or six - to take some of the edge off. This said, he'd hardly thought of the fact it would hurt to no buggery if he tried to drink anything at all with his face in such a poorly state. If it hurt so very much for just air to touch his face, one could only imagine how god awful it'd feel to try and drink something.

But he was the goddamn Spirit of London at Night, and he was not going to let a little facial stab wound get him down! Far from it! This was a badge of honour, of power, and the inevitable scar that would worm itself forever across his features would be a thing of pride.

Oh god, it would be there forever.

A spark of sorrow, exaggerated but well placed, shocked him into his step faltering, just as the lights of his destination drew near. It would be permanent mark upon his visage from now until death finally took him in it's icy grip. Eternity never really had a place in his mind, existing moment to moment with no care in the world for what might come next, but at that moment he was forced into being aware of the fact that this would be his forever. Forever scarred because he wasn't even capable of looking after himself, all boasts and self glorification gone in a moment of absolute and utter stupidity on his behalf.

Oh fuck, Henry would be pissed when he saw their face in the morning, and in that they were in perfect harmony.