Slip and Fight

October 09, 2017:

Danny Rand gives his driver the slip, ends up back at home bruised and bleeding but still wearing his shoes. Emery is there to greet him.

Danny Rand's Home

Characters

NPCs: None.

Mentions:

Plot:

Mood Music: None.


Fade In…

Danny isn't someone who follows schedules. Oh, he has a schedule. He has two personal assistants who look after him in shifts. He has an executive assistant. He has a board liasion, he has a driver. And, he has Emery. Still, he manages to give this small army of people the slip. Not that it's too hard. They're supposed to support him, not babysit him.
His schedule said he was going to be back at his place to get ready for a cocktail party which included meeting some potential investors. He wasn't at Rand when his driver picked him up, which means he slipped his handlers somewhere in the building itself. No small feat. He also didn't show up at the cocktail meeting, much to the dismay of all of the people on Rand's payroll.
It is in fact, quarter to midnight before he shows up at home. Somewhere along the way, he lost his tie and suit jacket. The unseasonable warmth means there's sweat beading across his forehead, and his once-pristine white shirt is now stained perhaps beyond repair.
At least he's still wearing his shoes.

*

The Irish Butler is actually someone who follows schedules. He has to, in order to juggle fatherhood, a criminal past, and working for 2 people at the same time. Emery is settled on one of the stools at the island in the apartment, nursing a glass of amber liquid with one hand while his other arm is folded across his chest and he watches the door with the focus and attention of someone who has had to sit in dark places for hours focussing on doors before.

He got the message from the driver, about Danny giving him the slip and the conversation ended with Em sending a message to Rand Enterprises about needing to hire a new driver. He has his phone resting on the counter, because god knows he's tried to track the man via GPS as well as well. But for now, he just sips whiskey and watches the door open and his ellusive charge slipping in.

Dressed in a simple pair of dark slacks, leather dress shows and a white button down top, vest left unbuttoned and hair pulled back in a man-bun. He stares for a moment before pushing himself to his feet and retreives a second tumbler, filling it with whiskey as well and setting it on the counter. "Ye know, polite people text when they are gonna be runnin' a bit late…" He starts out easily enough, hint of concern in his tones.

*

Someone else might give Danny credit and say he's good at giving people the slip. He didn't have his phone with him. That wasn't because he knows that phones can be tracked by GPS (he hasn't figured out they can give him the weather yet, let alone that.) It's just because he genuinely forgot it.
He senses that there's someone else there before he reaches to quickly flip on the light. He's adopted a ready defensive posture. He's got a bruise on his forehead and his knuckles are caked in dry blood. He relaxes almost immediately when he sees who it is. "I don't like texting," he says simply. That, like most things out of his mouth, is the truth.

*

"Well…" Emery's eyes flick from the bruise, to the knuckles and he's unbuttoning his cuffs and rolling up his sleeves with a shake of his head. "I'm guessin' since ye still be walkin', you won teh fight?" He picks up the glass of whiskey and gestures towards the couch in the living area. "Go sit, here…take this." He frowns and sighs softly. "I'll go fetch the kit."

*

"I uh…I guess you could say that," says Danny as he takes the glass from Emery. He sniffs it curiously, then takes a small sip. Then he moves where he's directed, eyeing the other man suspiciously as he moves. "I don't need a kit. It's just a few bruises." And a cut on the outside of his lef arm that slashed through the fabric and left a pool of dried blood that has stuck the shirt to his arm.

*

"Take off yer shirt." Emery mutters as he retrieves the first-aid kit. "And I didn't ask ye for yer self diagnosis boyo. I said I was goin' to fetch the kit." He returns with the kit, a bottle of whiskey and his own glass, settling down on the couch beside Danny and setting the kit and other things on the floor. "Ye wanna talk about it?" He asks softly.

*

Danny sets his jaw. He looks like he doesn't actually want to follow that instruction. His interactions with one Jessica Jones has tempered his trusting nature somewhat. "Is this about missing the meeting? Because I didn't want to meet them, and I'm pretty sure they didn't really want to meet me." He grunts softly as he tugs off his shirt. The undershirt covers all but a tiny bit of the ink on his chest. "And I'm sure Joy is secretly relieved I wasn't there."

*

"I dun give a rats arse about teh meetin' right now." Emery nods to himself, eyeing the various wounds with a small shake of his head as he breaks and cracks an ice pack for Danny's bruised forehead, gesturing for him to hold it and then he's eyeing the arm and sifting through bandages with another soft sigh. "M' talkin' about why it appears ye be gettin' into fights…or runnin' from fights…instead of stakeholders askin' asinine questions about material tings?"

*

Danny works his jaw to the side and picks a spot on the wall to look at. He doesn't resisit the wound cleaning. The bare skin he reveals shows a roadmap of scars and old injuries, many long-healed. Most are faint, but Emery is close enough and knowledgable enough to pick them out. "I had something more important to do than to shake hands with rich men."

*

The Irishman cleans, closes, and wraps the arm wound with practiced ease and then pulls off the gloves that he put on to handle the treatment. Used swabs and opened bandage wrappers and put into a small pile as Emery considers how to reply to this. "Mm. Well. Ye be a grown arsed man. But when ye gonna go do somethin' like this, please let me know so I can be havin' an excuse ready for your face."

*

It's not a bad wound, but it does benefit from a cleaning. Other than that, there's no obvious wounds other than a few bruises. The caked blood on Danny's fists is mostly not his. "I don't always know when I'm going to do something," he says with a touch of sheepishness.

*

"Ahh." Emery replies softly, holding out a hand to gently take one of Danny's if allowed, so he can start cleaning the blood off his knuckles with a wipe and he shrugs his shoulders. "M' not askin' ye to schedule all of yer fist fights. M' just askin' that…ye be honest and open with me about the amount of danger ye might be in when you're slippin' away like a gassy eel."

*

Danny grins a little at that description. No matter how beat up and scruffy he might be, he's at his most boyish when he smiles. "As it has been pointed out to me recently, I trust a little too easily. And to be totally honest…" he takes a breath, "I'm not sure how much I can trust you just yet. So you might have to live with me keeping secrets."

*

Emery purses his lips for a moment, and looks down as he sighs softly and then looks back up. "Ye can however tell me if somethin' is broken, cracked, bruised, or bleedin'. Ye can call me at any time to come an' pick ye up so that papparazi doesn't have a field day catchin' a look at ye limpin'. Ye dun 'ave to spill your darkest deepest knowin's. But ye gotta trust me enough to let me at least be of service in patchin' ye up."

*

"I'm pretty adept at patching myself up. But I appreciate it." So earnest. Earnestness leaks from Danny, despite his best efforts. As for the papparazi? He sighs rather heavily. "I suppose that's why you were hired, isn't it? To keep me out of the spotlight? For the wrong reasons, at least."

*

"Hm." Emery just rubs a hand over his face. "Ye daft idiot. Ye may be able to patch yerself up, I'm sayin'…that ye dun have to go through that bit alone anymore." He idly pours himself another glass of whiskey and throws it back with a shudder. "They hired me to babysit ye and help ye look more like they'd prefer. I took the job, to be who ye need me to be as ye adjust to be the 'saved billionaire son'. This shite right here, I dun get paid for. But I'll do it gladly because I know what its like to be alone and bleedin' without anybody else to at least sit there with ye as ye push yer own intestines tine back in."

*

Danny picks up his own glass of whiskey, eyes Emery, then takes a guilty sip. As if one of the things he wasn't doing right was not drinking. "You're right. You didn't sign up for this." While edging around what 'this' is. But in a city full of vigilantes and superheroes, it's not hard to imagine what an earnest young man might get up to. "I need to do what's right, Emery. Even if it hurts my reputation. Even if it hurts Rand. But I could definitely hide it better."

*

"Oooh, these unexpected bits of me job is what makes it all worthwhile sometimes." Emery takes another sip of his drink, narrowing his eyes as he considers next steps. "Aye, hide it better and dun /get into fights and lose bits of yer clothing/. I mean, if ye give the Rand goons the slip, 'ave the courtesy to at least give me a heads up. Even if it weren't planned. We're going to 'ave to figure out sometin' for ye to be wearing…under yer suits, to better hide the blood…"

*

To better hide the blood. Those aren't words Danny expected to hear when Joy said 'we're hiring you a butler.' Though it is rather bad etiquette to show up for a dinner party bleeding. He looks like he wants to say something, but gives himself another moment to think by sipping his drink. He was barely wetting his lips before. Now he takes a proper swallow. Eventually, all he can manage is, "If you say so."

*

"Now, go get cleaned up and get some rest. Ye 'ave a big day ahead of ye, stayin' in because ye be sufferin' from allergies. All messages and memos will be fowarded to tat electronic device that ye lost all the time. And we'll say ye slipped away because of residual nerves about large crowd, I'll order and send out the apology gifts." Emery pushes himself to his feet to start gathering up all the trash and such. He pauses for a moment to just stare at Danny for a moment and then nod. "It'll be okay boyo."

*

"I don't like bringing a phone everywhere. It's too fragile and I can't figure out how to turn off all the sounds," says Danny with all the joy of your grandpa trying to figure out the internet. He stands up, looks at his glass, then tosses back the rest. "Just…don't promise I'll meet them again soon if you can help it. Two of them are headed back to their respective cities I think in a few days. If you can put it off, I might be able to deal with them in smaller groups."
He looks at Emery for a moment longer, as if he could figure out the man's intentions by looking. Unfortunately, being a great judge of character is not one of his strengths. "Thanks." He sets the glass down, then picks up his dirty, torn shirt. "Sorry for the trouble."

*

"Meet them again? Pssh, ye feel so bad for missin' out but ye will be actually takin' a thank you call from a children's home where ye donated quite a bit of money so tat they can have an amazing halloween party. The thank ye letters alone from that will take ye a couple of days to sort through." Emery winks and flahses a dimpled grin. He really does stay on top of most things.

But he just shrugs a shoulder at the apology. "This? This is no trouble at all lad. If ye 'ad shown up coked out ye mind havin' just married a stripper named Cinnamon after sellin' yer car for an apple pie and a bottle of gin…/that/ would be a wee bit a trouble. This? This is just growin' pains." He nods again. "Get some rest Master Danny. I'll have tings all sorted out in the morning."

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