Ilya tensed at the mention of contact, remembering the last time he'd tried to call a friend from his phone. The concussion had been painful and hard to deal with. He didn't want to suffer through another one. "I don't have a number that's safe. He reads my texts. Checks all my contacts." There had to be something, though! Damian was thorough, sure, but he was human. He slipped up. "Can you use my email? He doesn't look at that anymore."
Vaughn frowned at that, humming lowly in thought. “Well then is there any time i could meet you again? Any place that you’re at often where I might be able to find you?” he asked, moving to stand back up again now. This would be difficult. Different and difficult. His head turned to look at the figure that was lingering nearby. As much as he hated it, it would guide him to the right decisions
Ilya watched Vaughn move, wary despite his decision to trust the man. Vigilance had been beaten into him for as long as he could remember; one nice conversation wasn't going to undo that. "I'm here every day except Sunday and Monday from 2 to 6. I'm home for the rest of the time." He paused, weighing words carefully before he added, "If I'm not there I'm at the hospital."
Vaughn listened to Ilya, nodding his head in understanding. But he looked directly at him again at the mention of a hospital, his grey gaze seeming to soften. “You’re hurt that bad at times?” he asked. It was so very upsetting to hear people admit things like that. These filth of men weren’t meant to be alive to do things to people like Ilya.
Ilya nodded, eyes downcast and movements subdued. He didn't like the hospital with its impersonal hands and sharp, unfamiliar sounds, but he was a frequent visitor. So frequent that Damian had begun to take him to a newer one, farther away, to keep the doctors from getting suspicious. "I'm there once or twice a month. I should be there more but Damian says I'm too expensive."
Vaughn resisted the urge to sneer at that. He looked away again, up at the sky this time, and his fingers twitched again for a moment before he shoved his hands into the pockets of his suit jacket. He felt fidgety and shrugged it off, not minding that it just fell onto the slightly dirty concrete. It was hot out. He rolled up his sleeves as well. He had little marks on his arms from past jobs, and his tattoo was noticeable. He looked back at Ilya. “Should be? Do you have bad injuries at the moment?”
Ilya flinched at the twitch, unwinding as soon as Vaughn's hands were safely hidden away. He took in the exposed skin with interest- and more than a bit of jealousy, his own wrists were dark purple from being held in place- noting the tattoo. Adeline. A sister maybe, or a girlfriend. Someone important. "Can you define bad? I'm always a little banged up."
Vaughn noticed Ilya looking at his arms. Subconsciously, he tugged his sleeve down a bit to cover the tattoo. He didn’t like talking about Adeline, or his family in general, with his clients. It was a touchy subject. Something that left him feeling unstable. “Bad as in things you would need a stay at the hospital for. Like broken bones. But I’m guessing by that you have others. What are those?”
Ilya did a quick rundown of his body, trying to remember where all the bruises were. Most days his whole body ached from one thing or another and it all tended to smear together until Ilya felt like one big bruise. "My ribs might be bruised. And… I've got handprints here and here." He gestured to his wrists and hips, hands fluttering and light, never really settling on his skin. "And a bitemark." He rubbed a hand over the middle of his shoulder. "It stopped bleeding though."
Vaughn listened closely, having looked back down from where he was staring intently at the simple blue sky above them. He had heard of those marks from plenty of other clients he had spoken to. It tended to be from some form of sexual abuse, but he wasn’t for sure at the moment in this case. “Have you taken any pain medication?”
Ilya shook his head, mouth pinching downwards in a frown. It would be nice to take some painkillers every once in a while, but he disliked the woozy feeling he got from the ones Damian kept in the medicine cabinet. Almost as much as he disliked the way Damian raged at him for wasting medicine. "Damian says they make me more stupid than I already am, so I try not to take them."
Now Vaughn had scowled a tad at the mention of the verbal abuse. “Most pain medicine doesn’t do that. He must keep the high strength things.” Possible addiction to pain meds? Maybe. He needed to learn more about the man. “If you would like, I have normal ones on me. In the container- it’s just Tylenol. My old foster parents gave them to me last week when i got hurt on the job,” he said, dropping back down to sit criss cross on the pavement. He dug into his inside suit jacket pocket, taking out the bottle. It was true, he had been hurt. There was a decent sized gash on the left side of his waist at the moment that he had to stitch and bandage.
Ilya perked up at the mention of Tylenol, the mere thought of some kind of relief enough to bring a smile to his face. The smile quickly flickered out as he heard about Vaughn getting hurt, lips slicking into a sympathetic grimace, but he still held out his hands to accept the medicine. "Are you alright now? I don't want to take your meds if you need them." His hands curled inward into loose fists.
Vaughn reached over and dropped the bottle into Ilya’s open palm. “I’ll be ok. I just got a bit scraped up last week. The man was much bigger than me,” he gave a dry, small laugh that was very brief, and he rubbed at his face. “It was good practice for my stitching. But I’m ok. I have a bit more back where I’m staying.”
Ilya stared at the bottle in disbelief for a few seconds before he opened it, struggling a bit with the childproof cap. The pills were small and bad tasting and he swallowed four dry before he handed them back to Vaughn. "Damian'll be bigger than you too." Ilya's face contorted as he spoke, grim and haggard in the afternoon sunlight. "And strong. He knows how to fight properly."
Vaughn took the pills back, stuffing them away in the same pocket as before. “How big of a man is he?” he asked, arching a brow. “It’s better to use their own weight against them. I’ve done this 12 times now.. That’s good enough practice. I’ll have a blade.. Maybe a gun. I should be fine if I catch him by surprise.”
Ilya pursed his lips at the number, concern evident as he tucked his knees into his chest to form a makeshift barrier between Vaughn and himself. It was so easy to forget he was a killer. Ilya needed to keep reminding himself of that. "You'll want a gun. Damian's… a couple inches taller than you, I think. And meaner." He shivered, pressing down on the bitemark again. "Much meaner."
Vaughn listened to Ilya, propping his chin up against his palm. He would take the advice. Ilya obviously knew him much better. “Don’t worry. I’ll finish the job, you’ll be safe, and I’ll be out of your hair.” He couldn’t did just yet. He was only 21. He had so much to do still. Still had so many people to help save.
Ilya nodded, letting himself hope for the first time in years. Maybe Damian would die, and then Ilya could do what he wanted, and visit all the places he wanted to see, and never have to worry about flying fists. It brought a wavering smile to his face and he grabbed one of Vaughn's hands, holding it against his chest. He wondered if Vaughn could feel the wavering tempo of his heartbeat. "Thank you."
Vaughn tensed in the slightest when his hand was grabbed. He didn’t like to make much physical contact with his clients, or strangers in general for that matter. He however just let it happen, biting his tongue for a short moment. “It’s my pleasure,” he responded, the figure resting it’s cold, large hands on his shoulders.
Ilya dropped the hand quickly once Vaughn replied, a small smile still tugging the corners of his lips. It died quickly when he checked his watch, an instinctive flicker of eyes over the screen that returned an overwhelming storm of panic. Damian was home! He'd probably been there for ten minutes- maybe twenty if traffic was good. And Ilya had a fifteen-minute walk to the house on top of all that. "I have to go! I'll be back tomorro-" he cut himself off, anticipating Damian's reaction. In all likelyhood, he'd be in too much pain to walk tomorrow. "Friday. I'll be here Friday."
Vaughn noticed the obvious fear on Ilya’s face. He knew it had to be something to do with Damian. He stood quickly, taking his jacket up as he did so. “If he asks, say you were with that new friend. Tell him her name is Veronica and she is a 20 year old studying marine biology. Anything else just make up and I could let her know.” He paused before he spoke up again. “And stay safe. I’ll be here on Friday.”
"Friday," Ilya repeated with a nod. He rose to his feet, carefully running over the information Vaughn had given him in his head. Veronica. 20. Marine biology. Then, before he could so much as process Vaughn's goodbye, he paced through the garden paths and onto the sidewalk. If he got home fast enough, it would seem like he just went out to get some air and Damian would be mad and not pissed.
Vaughn watched Ilya walk away as he shrugged back on his coat. He looked over his shoulder at the figure. “See? I handled it,” he murmured to it, moving to leave the park and walk to the street. ’Barely. This is new. Finley. You’ll be a cop killer now too,’ It reminded him. “He shouldn’t be a cop when he does this. It doesn’t matter.”
Ilya reached the door to the apartment in record time, out of breath and trembling. His hands shook as he opened the door but at first, the panic seemed unwarranted. The entry hall was dark and silent, lights off with no sound echoing in from the rest of the house. Was Damian home late? He took a shaky step into the kitchen, breath punching out as he saw Damian sitting at the table with a beer in his hand and a glare on his face. "And where have you been, Sweetheart?"