by pebble/scifipony
Fandom: The Hitman's Bodyguard
Characters: Michael Bryce, Darius Kincaid, Amelia Roussel
Words: 2,157
Tags: Whump, Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Action, Extended Scene, Canon Compliant
Warnings: Blood, Injuries, Canon-Typical Swearing
Author's Notes: Originally posted to SquidgeWorld on Oct 15, 2024.
Chaos rippled through the court room in the wake of the explosion. Noise and confusion pressed in on all sides as some of the occupants made panicked runs for the door while others sat in shock.
Michael moved from his position at the door, alert and scanning the room for any tangible source of danger. It didn’t take long to find it. Dukhovich managed to get his hands on a weapon in the confusion. In one move, he hauled a security guard in front of himself as a shield while simultaneously drawing the man’s gun and raising it.
Everything else — the room, the panicked crowd, the wail of approaching sirens — faded to the background as Michael tracked the sightline from Dukhovich’s gun with his eyes. Not that he had any doubts as to who the bastard was aiming at. Darius, still down by the witness stand, was basically a sitting duck.
Shit.
Darius might have somehow gotten through security with a few firearms still hidden on him somewhere, but he didn’t have a clean shot. The coward was using a human shield. And, no matter what Michael used to believe about him, he now knew that Darius wouldn’t kill an innocent to get his man.
Frustratingly, Michael did have a clean shot from his angle. He could easily put a bullet in Dukhovich’s head without risking the hostage. Except that he’d had to turn his gun over to security on the way into the building, so that option was out.
No, he had no way of shooting the man, and no chance of getting to him on foot before he pulled that trigger.
A heavy weight settled in his gut as his brain immediately shifted to the only available course of action. He was already racing forward before he’d even consciously made the choice.
This is exactly why he always believed in being overprepared.
He pushed through several people as a curse slipped past his lips.
This is why you always have a plan for everything! he chided himself.
He hopped a row of chairs and practically flew down the last few steps.
Why hadn’t he planned for this? He always had a plan. He always had backups and contingencies and a million safety protocols in place. It shouldn’t have come to this.
And yet, he knows exactly how it did wind up here: Darius Kincaid.
The man who had managed to so thoroughly screw up Michael’s entire life with one moment of dumb luck. The man who’d ruined a career that took Michael years of hard work and struggle to build up in the first place. The man who’d spent the past couple days nonstop driving Michael crazy and almost costing his life on multiple occasions.
The man Michael was very possibly about to die protecting.
Why hadn’t he planned for something like this? He should be better than this. He used to be better than this.
The bang of the gun rang out, causing another outburst of panicked cries from the room’s occupants.
Michael dove the last remaining distance, slamming into Darius with enough force to knock his breath away. He grabbed the hitman, dragging them both down onto a nearby table. They rolled over the table and to the floor in one rather graceless tumble. Both men hit the ground beside the judge’s stand, Michael landing on top briefly before rolling off to smack into the wood paneling behind him.
It felt like someone had punched him in the gut, but he couldn’t tell at first if he’d simply landed wrong on the way down, or if Dukhovich was actually a decent shot.
He vaguely heard Darius laugh in relief beside him. At least he was obviously okay. The lack of any follow up gunshots also probably meant that Dukhovich had been disarmed by security — about time.
He tried to move — they were still in an active threat situation, after all — but fire erupted in his side. Ouch. Definitely the second option then.
Well, fuck.
“Now that’s what I call triple-A service,” Darius joked.
Michael attempted to say something in response, but all that he managed was a pained grunt as his body decided that actually it didn’t appreciate being shot and then thrown onto the floor. Okay, moving was definitely not a good idea. And apparently talking wasn’t, either.
“Fuck!” Darius wasn’t having the same problem, if the loud expletive was any indication.
A moment later, Darius was blocking his field of vision. Not that it mattered much — his vision was already blurring in and out.
“Medic! Medic!”
The hitman placed his hands over the bullet wound in Michael’s side and pressed down hard. Michael bit back a strangled cry at the new surge of agony through his body in response.
“I need a medic over here!” Darius yelled again, tone sounding more panicked than Michael had ever heard it.
Rolling his head to the side, Michael’s vision went hazy again before finally settling back into focus. He could see the crowd of people still scattering and running in every direction. Court security and Interpol agents were shouting orders back and forth as they swarmed in around Dukhovich.
Darius pushed down harder, putting as much pressure on the gushing wound as he could. The effort might be appreciated if it wasn’t resulting in such excruciating torture on Michael’s side of things.
“That was a dumbass thing to do,” Darius muttered, though he sounded more worried than angry, which wasn’t adding up correctly Michael’s addled brain. “For someone who hates me as much as you do, I would’ve thought that’d be your last resort.”
He didn’t though. Not really. That was the worst part. Hating Darius — his rival, his nemesis — would actually make things so much easier. And it wasn’t as if it’d be unreasonable to hold a grudge against the man. Darius had single-handedly ruined his life, his career, and his professional reputation. He really should hate him.
The man was right about one thing, though. Michael definitely dropped the ball on this one. How had he let his guard down simply because they’d made it to the court? He should have been prepared for Dukhovich making one last ditch attempt at saving his own ass. He needed to do better.
“Focus on me, Bryce,” Darius told him.
Michael shifted his head, to look back up at the hitman, but it was getting harder to see or hear anything, outside of the pulse pounding in his ears. The world was moving through a haze, sluggish and slightly out of focus.
“Bryce! Focus. On. Me.”
The intensity of the order snapped his mind back to consciousness. Michael saw the panic in Darius’s eyes, and for some reason that sparked a more genuine fear in his own gut.
He coughed. The coppery taste of blood coming up with it wasn’t too encouraging. Forcing his tongue to cooperate, Michael managed to wheeze out, “I’d really rather not.”
The humor fell flat — probably because, despite Darius’s best efforts, a truly terrifying amount of his blood was already coating the floor beneath them.
A commotion on the other side of the room drew Michael’s limited attention away from Darius again. He couldn’t see past the smoke and debris, not to mention the blurring of his own vision, but he could hear the situation near Dukhovich ramping up again. They were trying to move him from the building.
Realization hit him a moment later, somehow managing to pierce the heavy fog settling over his brain.
They were trying to get Dukhovich out of the building. There was absolutely no way the bomb hadn’t been some kind of diversion tactic. His men were probably waiting for Dukhovich right outside, ready to escort him off the grid to where Interpol would never get their hands on him.
“Stay with me, Bryce. Stay with me.”
Gritting his teeth against the pain it cost him, Michael gripped Darius’s wrist and forced out, “I did my job. You go do yours.”
Darius stared at him in surprise for a moment too long. He wasn’t getting it.
But Michael was not going to let that murderer get away from this if he could help it. He grunted past another stab of fire through his midsection and tried more firmly this time. “Go get that motherfucker.”
Darius pulled away finally. He stood over Michael, looking genuinely torn between following through on the order and the need to stay and help. Then something hardened in his expression, his eyes going cold in the span of a few breaths. In that moment, he looked every bit the deadly killer Michael had always envisioned him to be.
He was gone a moment later. Or maybe Michael’s attention wavered out just long enough for him to leave. Either way, he was gone.
Michael collapsed back against the floor with a heavy sigh. Without the pressure on his wound, he could feel the blood flowing freely again. He wondered if anyone had actually heard Darius’s earlier call for a medic. Or maybe they had, and there were simply too many injured people for them to get to him yet.
His eyes fluttered closed. He was so tired. Only a few minutes. That’s all he needed, a few minutes to rest.
The noises around the room were fading into oblivion. It probably should have scared him, the knowledge that he was rapidly losing his grasp on the waking world, but it was bringing a welcome relief from the pain, so he was okay with it.
A thought flashed through his mind before he was able to fully drift off.
Amelia.
She’d left the room only moments before the bomb had gone off. He hadn’t seen her since then.
The possibility that she could have been caught in the blast, or hit by falling debris, forced his eyes open again. Even if that hadn’t been the case, she could very well be in the path of Dukhovich’s men coming to his rescue. No, he needed to know for sure. He needed her to be safe.
Tears welled in the corners of his eyes as he tried to push up off the floor. He managed to maneuver his body until it was sitting back against the wall behind him. It cost him nearly everything, but he was upright. Mostly.
A quick scan of his immediate surroundings revealed a guard that was either dead or knocked out. Either way, his gun would be of more use in someone else’s hands right now. Michael retrieved it quickly and checked to make sure it had a full magazine.
Using the corner of a desk, he hauled himself to his feet. The room tilted crazily on every side. Black spots swam in and out of his field of vision. Michael leaned forward heavily, putting most of his weight on the desk that was single-handedly keeping him standing. He was pretty sure he was going to throw up if he tried moving, but he also didn’t have a choice.
Amelia might be in trouble.
That was all the motivation he needed.
He ignored the burn in his side, the bone deep chill spreading through his body, and the pounding headache behind his temples. He ignored the noise and confusion on all sides as he dragged himself towards the side door of the courtroom. He ignored the nagging thought that he probably couldn’t be of much use to Amelia in this condition anyway.
Thankfully, he didn’t have to go far to find her.
Bracing himself against the doorway, Michael raised his gun arm. It was shaking too hard, making his aim far too unpredictable. Biting back a curse, he took a steadying breath and tried to wedge himself a little more firmly against the wall. The barrel of the gun was still wobbling a bit more than he’d like, but at least the shot wouldn’t go too wild.
Michael squeezed the trigger.
Both figures at the other end of the hall froze. He held his breath as he was seized with the fear that the bullet may have missed and hit Amelia instead. A moment passed before Foucher slumped to the ground, dead.
Amelia staggered a bit, gasping for air as she tried to recover her breath, but she was alive.
Michael’s gun arm lowered as every ounce of adrenaline fled his body at once. He was done. That was the last he had in the tank. If he were being honest, he didn’t even know how he’d managed to keep standing as long as he had.
The wall slowed his descent as he collapsed to the floor. He tipped his head back against it and let his eyes fall shut.
He could hear Amelia’s shoes clicking across the floor towards him, and he let himself drink in that sound for a few moments. She was alive. She was okay.
Darius was alive. Amelia was alive.
He could rest now.
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