Chapter Text
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The bullet grazes over Striker's side and he grunts in pain, keeping himself quiet as he tucks back down against the chimney. Breathing heavily and pressing his palms down, he tries to stem the sudden flow of blood. It's not bad, it doesn't go through his ribs, just over them—though he knows the force of the bullet breaking his skin is going to cause some nasty bone bruising.
He stays down until the van is gone and he can't hear them anymore before he slides along the roof, skittering to climb down. He has to grit his teeth against the feeling of the skin splitting further as he stretches and moves. He drops back to the ground with a pained grunt, holding his side and breathing through his nose to steady himself. Striker says quiet, barely breathing and not saying a word, the only sound was his hooves tapping again the wood floor as he goes behind the bar.
Fizz didn't shout again, didn't scream, again. Weird. He's... Why didn't he even try to fucking leave?!
Some of the saloon has been destroyed, that fucking possum has been inside—he can't do this. Revenge isn't worth losing what little he has left. His life and this place... He grabs the arms and the legs and then makes his way back to the back, dark blood still oozing down his side. Striker doesn't say a damn thing as he stands in the middle of the room, he scans the location and realizes the imp must be hiding. Why? He sighs, clearing his throat a little and opening his mouth but no words come out. Fuck. He breathes steadily and then moves to the bed, where he had left the other imp. He drops to a crouch slowly, depositing the limbs on the bed as he peers under to gaze silently at Fizz's face.
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Fizzarolli hears the heavy boots entering in the room, the spin of spurs as Striker walks back into the saloon. He allows himself to open his eyes, knowing they'll glow in the darkness, and turns his head. Watching. Waiting.
Finally, the cowboy walks over to the side of the bed and peers underneath it at him, one glowing, ring-pupiled eye staring into Fizzarolli's face.
"Are they gone?" The limbless little clown asks, anxiety written across his features. He glances toward the door, then back at Striker worriedly.
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He nods silently and reaches under the bed to carefully pull him out, wincing as it puts strain on his side. He deposits the imp onto the bed and then starts quietly working on reattaching his limbs. His words stick in his throat, just like they had when the doctors had asked him what happened, still covered in dust and blood. Just like when he started losing them one by one and just... Couldn't anymore.
It was easier to not say a word.
Nothing much even happened. So, this shitty saloon has some new holes in it. So fucking what? So his rib is smarting like it just got hit by a landslide. So what? It was a single bullet. He's fine. The place is still standing...
He grits his teeth and connects the other imp's limbs without saying a word.
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"You're bleeding—" Fizzarolli remarks, as if Striker isn't aware. He's surprised as the cowboy starts attaching his limbs again. Wait, what happened? How did Fizzarolli earn them back? He doesn't dare ask...
Striker was too quiet.
"...Are you okay?" Fizzarolli asked, hesitantly reaching out an arm toward the cowboy after it was attached.
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The more he tries to open his mouth, the more his jaw clenches until it's painful. Fuck. He breathes in through his nose and then just nods. He's fine.
He is.
But his tongue is stuck to the roof of his mouth and his fangs are digging into his lower lip like snake bites as he ticks his jaw. He pulls away from Fizz slowly, batting his hand away as he walks back towards the kitchen. They took Fizz's hat too. Fuck! He slams his fist into the already broken mirror above the sink.
Fizz has his limbs now, he can do whatever the fuck he wants.
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Fizzarolli has his arms and legs connected. He sits up by himself, stretching his limbs and relishing in the autonomy they provide.
He watches Striker though, the taller imp walking over to the bar counter and slamming his fist into a broken mirror hanging over the sink. Shit! That looks like it hurts! It makes Fizzy jump, but not just because he's afraid of Striker's wrath.
"Striker!" Fizzarolli jumps up off the bed, rushing over to the cowboy and moving to check his hand. "Where's your bandages? You don't have antiseptic, do you?" His questions come in a whirlwind and he grabs a bottle of drinking alcohol from under the bar counter, uncorking it. "Hold on, I've got you—"
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His mouth actually opens this time, to protest, to say he's fine, he doesn't fucking need some clown's help... But the words never come. He just stands there, tense, looking at Fizz from the corner of his eye like a scared dog.
Bandages. He frowns. Is Fizz hurt? When the fuck did he get hurt? He starts moving the same time Fizz does, aiming to grab his arms and spin him around to check him over from head to toe. He misses and instead of doing any of that, he just kind of... smacks the bottle out of his hand, fingers fumbling. He blinks down at the bottle as it hits the floor with a thud, the liquid glugging out of it to paint the floor as he grips Fizzarolli by the shoulders.
Then he glances down at his side and sees the blood still oozing and his brain finally fucking clicks back into gear: God damn. Bandages for him, not for Fizz. Right. Yeah.
He squeezes Fizz's shoulders gently and then lets go, squatting down with a grimace at the feeling of slowly scabbing blood itching his reptilian skin. He pulls out a small, mostly empty first aid kit and puts it on the counter, knuckles itching from the shards of glass he put there with his own actions.
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Striker looks at him from the corner of his eye, and Fizzarolli doesn't get the chance to take hold of his arm before the man strikes, lashing out to knock the bottle out of Fizzy's hand.
"Dude!" Fizzarolli cries out as the bottle hits the floor and starts pouring liquid from its open neck. Striker's hands are suddenly on his shoulders though, and Fizzarolli meets his eyes in a panic, wondering if he has misstepped. Striker stares, returning his gaze with an unreadable expression, then lets go and backs up half a step, kneeling beneath the bar and pulling out a first aid kit. Fizzarolli beams at the sight, taking it in his hands and quickly opening it up.
"Oh, that's much better! Thanks!" He reaches in, rifling through the contents of the box and pulling out gauze, rubbing alcohol, and medical tape. He picks up the bottle from the floor and sets it upright on the counter so it doesn't lose the rest of its contents, then pulls Striker around to sit on the bed. "Just try to relax, okay? This might sting a little..."
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He's... Weirdly surprised when Fizz starts taking care of him before he can move to do it himself. He's not sure why.
That bothers him.
He sighs, settling down on the bed and scowling at the ground. "Sorry." He finally grits out, voice like gravel in his throat. "'M fine."
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"Nonsense." Fizzarolli replies of the apology, taking a cotton puff and applying the isopropyl alcohol to it generously. He moves to apply it to Striker's side wound first, showing it to him so the cowboy knows what he's doing and that it's coming before he begins gently dabbing it where he was grazed. "You know, accidents happened all the time on the circus grounds. First aid for minor injuries is something every clown knows if they're worth their salt."
Cash Buckzo had trained them all in how to take care of themselves to avoid paying medical bills in the greed ring. Fizzarolli didn't know that was the reason behind the training, and believed it was simply a normal part of being a clown. Even broken bones were often set with props like batons and cloth to avoid going to the ER, though he didn't realize that was extreme and abnormal.
Though perhaps, for Hell, it really was the norm.
"I hear all doctors are secretly clowns, too." Fizzarolli joked, unable to resist adding in a little humor despite the situation. He tried to make people feel better whenever he was the one applying first aid to anyone else. It usually made the pain lessen as they got distracted by his silliness, laughter being the best medicine and all.
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He hums softly, keeping his eyes cast down. He doesn't even flinch at the feeling as Fizz cleaned him up. He never found any of the doctors he went to particularly funny... He clears his throat slightly, humming along to the other Imps words. "I uh—Rodeo." Excellent work, Striker. Perfectly formed sentence. He shuts the fuck up before he embarrasses himself more. His ma always said him going quiet was a sign he was thinking about a lot, but he doesn't feel like he's thinking about very much... His brain feels numb.
He meant that he also does a lot of first aid because of the rodeos. The Pain Games, too. Granted, first aid waited until after he got home from the games.
Still. He hasn't filled his first aid box in a hot minute…
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Striker doesn't wince, doesn't even groan in pain as Fizzarolli finishes up with the antiseptic.
It actually worries the clown more.
The guy almost looks catatonic; is he just good at tolerating pain, or is something deeper wrong? Why does he care so much, anyway? Striker was his... His... What is Striker, at this point? Fizzarolli had been thinking of him as his captor, but it seemed more like he was his liberator with what he had shown Fizzy over the last day. And now, he'd given him his limbs back. Confided in him. In a way, even protected him, now... He didn't know how to feel about Striker at this point.
He got out some ointment and applied it to the wound, placing a patch of gauze over it and moving to apply tape when Striker said something in response to his joke about doctors being clowns too: "I uh—Rodeo."
Fizzarolli looked at Striker in absolute bewilderment, completely misunderstanding Striker's statement. "You're a rodeo clown, too?!"
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Striker blinks, the question confusing him enough that the lump in his throat dislodges itself. "I—what? No. I mean I do rodeo, bull rings, Pain Games, shit like that. I get hurt a lot. I know first aid, too." He rolls his eyes, like Fizz is the confusing one, not himself.
"Thanks... For uh. Patchin' me up. It weren't nothin', anyway. Got distracted." Because those bastards were destroying his fucking home... He sighs. "'nyway. You got your legs and shit. You can fuck off if you wanna... "
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"Oh." Fizzarolli blinks at the explanation, then laughs at his own stupidity. "Of course—that makes way more sense." He shakes his head, and it's weird not to hear jingle bells when he does it. But he's not even thinking about his hat anymore. He's thinking about Striker, and what the cowboy says next after Fizzarolli says,"It's fine! It just looked like you got a little banged up out there and you could use a hand, after you returned mine and all..."
"'nyway. You got your legs and shit. You can fuck off if you wanna."
It throws Fizzarolli for a loop to hear that and he pauses for a moment, stunned.
"You... you're letting me go?" He almost can't process it. What was happening? This morning, Striker was talking about Fizzarolli having to earn his limbs back, now the cowboy was just letting him leave? It didn't make sense... What made him change his mind so suddenly? Fizzarolli hadn't even called out when Blitzø's employee came into the saloon looking for him, and yesterday Striker had threatened to kill them all if Fizzarolli did—something was off, here.
"Wh—" Fizzarolli stammered, completely caught off guard as these thoughts raced through his head, "Why?"
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"I... Got cocky. Shouldn't have done this anyways, what—'cause I was mad? Put my home at risk to prove a point? Put all I have left at risk? I took you, an' far as that Sin is concerned, he'll stop at nothin' to get you back, even if it's just to kill you himself. He'll destroy everything. This saloon's all I got left of 'em, but they don't care." He doesn't blame them for not caring; who the fuck cares about a random kidnapper's belongings? But the axe bit a chunk out of the balcony support beam, and it wouldn't take much more for the roof to collapse with it.
"M... Gonna lay down. Do whatever the fuck you want." He shoulders past the clown as he takes his bed back. It hurts the developing bruise on his ribs to flop into it the way he does. Sleeping on hard shingles makes you appreciate a bed more, even if it is old and springy...
He can look at fixing the beams and the chimney later. Or tomorrow. Or whenever he feels like getting up again. He is not losing what little he has left for some fucking clown, even if the clown's tale was kinda sad.
It's not his problem.
He curls up, pulling the ratty blanket up over himself. He's going to fucking sleep and hope his skin sheds soon to deal with that little graze faster…
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Fizzarolli was bumped back as Striker pushed past him. He looked after Striker as the cowboy threw himself on the bed, and bit his lip as he considered Striker's words.
"He'll stop at nothing to get you back, even if it's just to kill you himself."
The words curl into his stomach, making him feel ill because he now knows how right they are. Asmodeus defended him against Mammon on a stage, declared Fizzarolli his to all of Hell. He absolutely would stop at nothing to get him back now. There was nothing holding him back from doing that.
"This saloon's all I got left of 'em, but they don't care." Fizzarolli looked around the place: Moxxie had done a number on it, running around, tearing it up and throwing things to try to find Fizzy.
...This was his fault.
It really wasn't, but he felt like it was. Truly, this was a result of Striker's reckless, impulsive drive for revenge. The cowboy even said as much. But Fizzarolli could've cried out earlier. Then I.M.P. would have taken him back, and Striker's home would be fine. That's what his mind told him, completely ignoring the fact that a shootout would have been unavoidable no matter what Fizzarolli had done. The poor clown was a victim in all of this, responsible for nothing that had happened to him in his life, but his heart told him that he was guilty anyway.
The least he could do, he reasoned, was fix what was broken.
He moved behind the bar, picking up the bottle Striker had knocked from his hand earlier and looking for a rag to clean up the spill. Maybe Fizzarolli couldn't cook, but he could certainly clean. He could fix things and jerry-rig stuff back together in a working fashion very well, thanks to his experiences in the circus. The clowns often worked together to set up and dismantle tents, and they kept props clean and organized so that they could find and use them properly for performances.
Striker had given him his limbs back. Time to put them to work.