small mercies

Who: Dutch and Evelyn
Where: Streets, Dutch's place
When: Late night
 
 
Someone was following her.

Evelyn picked up the pace, not running and not looking back, but walking briskly as her focus tuned in to the footsteps behind her. She had heard them echoing after her for at least a block now, and although her heart raced as they got closer she noticed they never got too close... yet. So she didn't run, because the streets had been otherwise empty and the shoes she wore from work were useless for running. Instead Evelyn kept her gaze straight, shoving her hands in her coat pocket where a knife -- a gift from her brother months ago -- was tucked away against her right side. She kept on walking as if she were confident; walking as if she knew exactly where she was going. ... walking as if she weren't lost in a seemingly barren part of the city at night. She was trying to make her way to the center of the city, someplace populated and familiar, keeping an ear on the footsteps while she fixed her eyes on the skyscrapers for orientation. She turned another corner, and finally spied something hopeful across the street: a phone. She made a beeline for it, safely locking herself in the booth before grabbing the phone off the cradle... only to hear nothing and belatedly spot the 'Out of Order' sign beside it. Fuck.

Evelyn stepped out of the booth and for a brief moment froze. There was a guy, she assumed the source of the footsteps, crossing the street towards her. Any doubt he had been following her was gone, the panic set in, and she ran. But she had barely gotten halfway up the street before she felt a sharp jerk in her right shoulder as she was pulled back. She started to yell - the street couldn't be nearly as empty as it looked, right? - but was silenced by hand over her mouth and the feel of cold metal shoved against the nape of her neck. And then she didn't really have much say in what happened next as she felt her body being shoved against the brick of an alley wall, letting out a muffled cry as she felt the right side of her face taking on the blow. Her hands were up, palms splayed against the brick to both sides her head. Despite it all she tried to breath calmly, tried to keep a clear head... but it was difficult to do with the throbbing at her temple and panic pulsing beneath the surface.

She felt her purse being pulled down her arm, and then there was a sound of shuffling as the gun was pulled away from her neck and she felt the weight pressed against her let up. But she barely had time to let out a relieved breath before being again pinned by a sharp pressure -- an elbow? -- between her shoulderblades. Her attacker apparently needed both hands as she heard the tell-tale signs of her purse being rifled through. A mugging, Evelyn thought dimly, trying to still her breathing as she heard her purse drop and the guy shove something into his coat. Her heart dropped; her week's wages -- in cash -- were in her purse... well, had been. "P-please--" she stammered the words out against the brick only to be cut off by another rough shove against the wall. She felt the smack! of her head against the brick a second time, and her wits hadn't fully recovered from it before she found herself turned around, now with her back against the wall.

The street had been dark --the alley was even darker -- and the disorienting pain in her head required some effort to get through. For a moment she couldn't make sense of the rustling and movement that followed, but at some point the fact that the man already had her money drifted through the haze. ...That got her senses kicking: this guy wasn't going to stop at the mugging. Her mind and body went into overdrive, consumed only by the certainty that whatever this guy had planned she did not want. She struggled. She kicked. She screamed and cried out as loud as she could before his hand again silenced her. With each struggle his body shifted to quell it. His hand holding her left wrist against the wall, an elbow sharply pinning her upper right arm down, and her kicks hit mostly air and were largely ineffective. Evelyn stilled her movements, but she hadn't given up. No longer was a gun pressed against her -- he must've dropped it in the struggle. And her right hand hung low, and slipped into her coat pocket, with easy access to the knife there. Heart pounding, she forced her body to be still for a couple moments. Just long enough to fool him, let him think she surrendered. Just enough to get him to relax. She needed surprise on her side -- she didn't have anything else.

Now, the problem with stabbing somebody? It wasn't quite so simple as 'pointy end in first'. Especially not in the dark, with limited movement, and a throbbing head. The first swipe only caught air. Although not noticing the knife, her attacker forced more weight against her in response to her continued struggle. The second go at it, however, stuck. And this time it was him that let out a yell. Evelyn was on a one-track mind at this point, only able to focus on the fact that she wanted to get away and had to hold onto the knife at. all. costs. Unfortunately, she wasn't prepared for the difficulty in pulling it out. And when she finally did, he proved to deal much better with pain than she did because he quickly seized her wrist and twisted it. Hard. She was determined to not let go of the handle, however, but a wrist can only bet twisted so far before the grip had to loosen and the knife clattered onto the floor. And the guy, now furious and disbanding whatever intentions he may have had with her, seemed intent on paying her back. The gun and knife were scattered somewhere on the ground, but he didn't need them. He only needed his arm with the full force of his weight behind it pressing down across her neck. And then Evelyn couldn't really think about anything at all... except for trying to breath.

All at once, seemingly even faster than she'd lost the ability to breathe, the pressure was gone from her throat. There had been a slight scuffle of footsteps in the dark, lost among the fight between Evelyn and her attacker, and abruptly the man pressed down into her was hefted away. "Pretty sure that's no way to treat a lady," came a rough growl from the dark, followed moments later by snarls from two sources. Two shapes moved upright in the dark now, one releasing the neck from the other as a punch came flying through the dark. Sadly, when you saw as many bar brawls as Dutch Giacomo had? A punch like that was just plain sloppy.

He grabbed the other man's wrist easily, yanking him forward to smash the assailing hand square into the brick of the wall behind him and twisting the entire limb a moment later. A sick pop resounded through the alley as he wrenched the would-be mugger's shoulder from its' socket and flinched at the volume of the man's scream. He dropped the man near both the gun and knife, smirking bitterly in the shadows as he watched the desperate scrabble for one of the weapons. "Can't play fair, can ya?" he asked, stomping down on the man's good hand with another crack of bone. Dutch dropped low, rolling the man over and slamming a fist down three times in rapid succession.

"Now I know you can hear me," he spat, clenching a fist against the dull pain that teeth against knuckles left behind, "So listen good. Drag yourself down to Eidolon General, get a sling on that arm, and get your shit together. There's way, way worse out here at night than you, boy. And if there's a next time? I'll feed you to 'em." He rose with a huff of breath, awash in the twofold high of liquor and adrenaline, and looked to where Evelyn had been pinned. "Miss?" Dutch called uncertainly, hoping he wouldn't have to carry an unconscious woman out of here, "You alright, miss?"

Evelyn was too busy hyperventilating to answer right away, remaining close to the ground and slumped against the wall as she made up the lost breaths. She wasn't in a state to be highly observant -- not that it was particularly possible in the darkness anyway -- and the actual meanings of the movements and sounds were lost on her. But when the knife she had dropped came into her field of vision Evelyn scrambled towards it; her movements were shaky and her wrist none-to-happy to support any weight, but she only needed to make it a couple feet; then she grabbed the handle with her left hand and raised her arm to point it in Dutch's direction. "D-don't come any closer!" she put an effort into sounding threatening, but it didn't come off outstandingly well. Evelyn kept to crouching on the ground, not quite composed enough to manage two feet... and her right hand would've been useless to push her up anyways. And using her left? That would've meant putting the knife down and that was not happening.

There was a dull glint from the blade, a faint catch of light from a street lamp beyond the alley's mouth that warned Dutch about it even as he registered the scrape she'd made when she picked it up. Both hands raised up slowly as he took a step back, shaking his head even if Evelyn couldn't see it. "Easy now, miss, wasn't me who jumped you. That'd be this piece of shit here," he rumbled, putting a boot to the prone man to get a groan from him. He didn't want to have to hurt her, after all, and Dutch knew that some people just lashed out in the wake of trauma. He had. "Hang onto that blade if you like, just try not to stick me. It's a poor way of sayin' thanks. Now... can you stand?"

She didn't answer that. She really didn't know the answer yet, because a whole lot of her hurt and pinpointing exact spots and how badly they hurt was difficult. Especially since she had a poor pain tolerance to begin with (the worst she had dealt with before was a twisted ankle when racing Dorothy home as a child). And if the answer was that no, she couldn't stand? Well, she certainly wasn't keen on broadcasting that. She was also not keen on putting away her blade, but her left hand was the only one that was useful and she couldn't stay there holding the knife all night. So Evelyn reluctantly pocketed the blade and, after a bewildering moment of not knowing what to do next, she went about the task of reaching for her purse and searching for its scattered contents.

She wasn't sure if she had everything, but there was something she certainly didn't have. She glanced up to where she could sort of make out Dutch's figure, "My money--" her voice was a bit raspy and she cleared it before softly continuing, "--he took my money. It's in an envelope... I think he put it in a pocket." Even if she was now free to push herself up and walk over to get it, the last place Evelyn wanted to be was anywhere near the guy that had just try to kill her.

"Don't think he's in much shape to get it," Dutch muttered with a pleased little smile for himself, "Allow me." He moved back to the groaning man, dropping down with a knee planted on the guy's ribs as Dutch gave him a pat-down with such ease that he felt like he was still a soldier, still rolling people for protection money. There was a short grunt of a laugh as he felt the wad in one pocket, pressing his knee down heavier and tugging the envelope free. "Dirtbag," Dutch spat at the guy, moving back to Evelyn warily. "Must've been tailing you," he mused as he crouched again, nearer to Evelyn, and offered both the envelope and a helping hand, "Where'd you pull a wad like this, anyway?"

She took the envelope and put it in the purse that now dangled from her right elbow. The helping hand she left well enough alone, however. It wasn't that she didn't appreciate having her money and the ability to breath back -- it was just that, still shaken up by the ordeal, she was more comfortable using her left hand to push herself up than placing it in the stranger's. It was fear, not pride. She winced on her way up -- neither her throbbing head nor any of her muscles appreciated the moving; Evelyn closed her eyes for a moment, shutting out the vertigo, using the wall behind her to steady herself before answering Dutch's question. "Tips, mostly," she quietly mumbled. Flashing her eyes in Dutch's direction, she took another steadying breath. Emotionally it was useless but it helped keep her voice even, "normally I get my wages on Friday, but I had them defer it to today -- so I'd get the money from the ball. ...At the Drake?" The answer was interrupted with pauses as she caught her breath... getting out the words had proved trying.

Not wanting to stay in the alley any longer, Evelyn started towards the street, using the wall to balance herself whenever the nerves or woozy head got the better of her. Walking, she became dimly aware that her coat was open -- it hadn't been before. Bringing a hand to pull it closed she noticed her shirt was untucked and partially torn... and wet. Getting closer to the street, there was enough light now to make out the dark hue staining her fingers -- blood? She grimly recalled stabbing the guy, and wondered if it was his or hers. She didn't think it was hers, but she also wasn't in the clearest of mindsets right now. When she reached the sidewalk, and therefore the end of the building, Evelyn stopped. She had been using the wall to prop herself up more than she cared to admit. After another moment, she murmured a soft "Thank you." She would've turned to face Dutch, but was worried angling her head would bring back the vertigo.

"Oh hell," Dutch murmured, moving to follow after Evelyn. She was staggering, it was plain to see, and it wasn't like he could call a decent moment done if he left her in the state she was in. As he followed after, things began to click in his head. Her voice, the more he heard it, seemed familiar. She worked at the Drake? And that had been some sizable cash in the envelope, which meant she was good at her job. "Miss Amelia?" Dutch asked uncertainly, quickening his step to catch up to her.

That got her to turn around. Evelyn's eyes narrowed at the figure approaching her from the darkness, suspicious rather than relieved at hearing her 'name', "Who the hell are you?"

Dutch sighed wearily, again raising his hands to try and make himself less of a threat. How did he explain remembering her without making it sound creepy? It wasn't like he could outright say that he remembered women who were kind to him, after all. That'd put him on the list to be the next serial killer in town, most likely. "Dutch," he said plainly, "You served me a pair of drinks a few days back? I live up the street a ways, heard the commotion while I was walkin' home."

"Dutch?" Evelyn let out a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding and relaxed slightly against the brick -- turning her head so quickly before had brought back the vertigo. She remembered the name, and if the sun had been up and the lighting had been better and her mind more composed she would've recognized him too. She didn't remember all the people she came across at the Drake, but his name and presence and the expression once the other guy showed up had been hard to forget. Her eyes scanned what she could of the street without turning her neck too far before they rested back on Dutch, surprised and wary. "You... live here?" Apparently she hadn't gotten Tact back along with the purse and money. Dutch hadn't been nearly as refined as the guests she was used to, sure; but he had still been at the Drake and a Giacomo after all.

He let out a genuine laugh with the faltering question, moving a bit more steadily towards Evelyn's side as he nodded. "That I do," he confirmed, "Somethin' splendid to behold, isn't it?" The self-deprecating humor was rich in his voice now that she'd recognized him, though he wondered if her ease before had been business. Maybe she was as spooked by his gnarled, grimy look as most people. "I mean, it's not the Drake, but I keep a clean place and the rent's cheap. Vacuum salesmen don't come knockin'."

Taking a few steps past Evelyn, Dutch stopped long enough to get a cigarette lit off a match before he nodded back at the building across the street. It wasn't pretty, to be sure, but it was a far cry from being condemned, largely due to handiwork Dutch himself did. "I, ah... you got anyone to call? Family who could pick you up, maybe? I'm not about to let you walk wherever it is you're goin', and it's a touch unseemly to offer a ride. But I could call a taxi," he offered uncertainly, clearly not about to abandon her minutes after intervening.

She winced a small smile at the 'vacuum salesmen' comment, but it fell when he asked about her family. She had left her parents after dinner -- all her sisters and Jessie had been there. It had been a wonderful time... except for the horrible guilt, made worse after Jesse's, that hung over her during the whole visit. "A taxi would be fine," she answered quietly, still leaning against the brick as she watched the glow of the cigarette. It wasn't as if any of her family had a car... and Evelyn had no idea what time it was, or whether everyone would be asleep back home. And right now? Her throat hurt, her wrist and head were taking turns killing her, and there were some other aches going in the background. She just wanted to crawl into her bed, back in familiar territory, and get away from whatever part of the city it was that she was wandering. She did not want to wake her parents up because she had been so stupid enough to fall asleep on a fuckin' bus. ...And calling Jesse, if she could even reach him?... well, she had caused enough grief there, hadn't she?

Evelyn used her arm to push herself -- slowly -- up off the wall and made a couple steps in Dutch's direction. Physically, she was fine for walking -- it was only her nerves that made it complicated. She wrapped her arms around herself, using them to keep her coat closed and hold the nerves at bay. "And... thanks, again." Even if she couldn't hold it long, she offered up another small smile.

"Wouldn't be much of a man if I turned a blind eye," Dutch said plainly, giving her a weathered smile around his cigarette and nodding for Evelyn to follow as he crossed the street. He dropped the smoke before moving up the front steps of his building, tugging the door open and shaking his head her way. "Here's hopin' your ankles didn't take a twist, I'm up on the top floor. I'd spot you a bit for a pay phone, but I'll be damned if any of the ones 'round here ever seem to work."

She let out a short, humorless laugh that her throat really didn't appreciate. "So I've noticed." Passing him to enter the building, Evelyn eyed the stairs warily. Her ankles were fine, but having the side of her head shoved twice against a brick wall meant she was fighting a dizziness that stairs weren't compatible with. She managed a wry glance in his direction, "... you just had to have the penthouse view, huh?" Then she brought her eyes and attention back to making her way up the first couple of steps, a task that required more focus than usual and gratuitous use of the left-hand banister. So as long as Dutch didn't need to get to his apartment any time soon, they were good!

The funny thing about being a functional alcoholic was that while Dutch could fight just fine with a stomach full of gin, he always needed a little time with his own stairs on nights like these. He'd been down at the Round, sampling his most recent batch of homebrew with some of the regulars, and while he wasn't tanked? He knew when to watch his footing.

Still, it might've seemed like he was being patient, waiting for Evelyn with every couple of steps. He certainly didn't look the part of a stereotypical drunk as he walked to the first landing gradually, waiting for her before continuing. "Old building, y'know?" he offered conversationally, "They could get a lot of repairs done if the rent got raised, but then some of the folks here'd be on the street. So the super cuts me a discount here an' there when I fix the plumbing or the electrics."

She was listening but didn't respond (her throat thanked her for that), instead keeping her eyes on the stairs as she made her way to the landing. It wasn't just because of the dizziness that she was so focused, it was because she needed to keep her mind on one thing and one thing only. It was what she usually did whenever her stressed mind became a messy place to be: do something and put all her concentration into it. And, though she hadn't had the time to really think about what had just happened, she was counting her recent experience as a Pretty Big Stressor.

"You a plumber?" she asked once she was on the landing, glancing up at the next flight of stairs. If she had all her wits about her she would've recalled the notebook he pulled out at the Drake for whatever meeting he had that was DiGiovanni, and she would've figured that he did something that was not plumbing and not something she should ask about. But the thought never got the chance to emerge, because Evelyn was soon too preoccupied with putting one foot in front of the other as she started in on the next flight.

"Mechanic by trade," Dutch answered from a few steps ahead of her, keeping his voice to a low, resonant rumble. He could hear the faint din of life from other residents in the building all around him, and he knew how fleeting the moments of respite from the city could be. "Handy man of all sorts, it seems. Not to brag or nothin', but you work one set of complicated guts long enough, and the others start makin' sense. It's a learnin' process, so long as you can deal with zappin' yourself or having a pipe spew at you here and there." He chuckled roughly with the musing, leaning on the bannister of the next and final set of stairs as he waited for Evelyn.

If she had been able to let her mind wander, his answer would've brought to mind Roy Grady's fix-it skills; but her subconscious suspected that thinking on two or more things at once? Was a slippery road to a breakdown. So Evelyn worked on making her way up the final flight of stairs, not so much listening to Dutch as letting a couple keywords break through her concentration. And when she reached the top and final floor, the only word retained was 'mechanic'.

"What... cars?" It wasn't the most coherent way to put forward her question; normally she would've phrased it as 'What kind if a mechanic? Cars, bicycles, machines..?' and followed with a quip about taking a go at pay-phones. But her mind and throat weren't up for so many words, so she went with the bare minimum in as soft a voice that was audible.

"That'd be it," Dutch confirmed, nodding and trudging up the last steps, "Got a little shop a few blocks over, I like that we've got a solid reputation. Stop on by if you ever need work done." He paused with a grin, thinking over how he'd found her tonight. "Or a line on a cheap ride, too. Taxis add up, but a drive's safer than walkin' these parts at night." Once she'd joined him, he moved for a door positioned right next to the roof-access stairs, popping key to lock and twisting the door open. "This is me," he invited, stepping inside and clicking on a light.

He'd been truthful out on the streets, his place wasn't anything remarkable, but it was clean and fairly well-kept. The lights were somewhat dim, muting the deep breen of the wallpaper, and there weren't many decorations filling the walls. But there was an inviting couch near the door, within arms' reach of a cabinet radio and a small end table that held both a phone and a few framed pictures. "Go on and rest for a sec," Dutch offered as he shed his coat, "I'm gonna dig up that taxi line's number." And he was off, moving for his kitchen without a worried glance back.

Properly listening to him was doable now that she didn't have to worry about climbing up stairs. She winced a bit when he clicked the light on, but the pounding in her head adjusted a bit to the dim strength. She saw the place was clean, and -- still a bit skittish -- managed a sweep of the apartment, warily keeping an eye out for something or someone to jump out at her. But Evelyn didn't possess her usual observant capabilities, and after the initial scan couldn't take much more in other than the couch. She dimly wondered where the bathroom was; she suspected she looked a mess and there was a sharp sting somewhere between her right cheekbone and temple that told her of a cut there. And she had felt, before, the the shirt beneath the coat she kept wrapped around herself was all kinds of disaster. But Evelyn only slumped down into the couch, because wandering around the place and looking for the right door to the bathroom just seemed like too much effort.

"I wasn't--" she cleared her throat, before softly continuing and hoping Dutch could hear her. "I fell asleep -- on the bus." She paused for a moment before starting again, "End of the line. Had to get off." Stuck in some place she didn't know and where she got mugged. ...and nearly killed. Evelyn leaned her head back and closed her eyes for a moment, listening to Dutch's movements as he got the number.

There were strange sounds for a moment, the clink of glass and the low thud of cabinet doors as Dutch lingered out of sight. "You wouldn't be the first to hit trouble off the bus," he called from the kitchen, returning a moment later with two glasses pinched in one hand and a scrap of paper in the other. "Still, count me glad you didn't join the tally," Dutch mused encouragingly, offering Evelyn a glass with a splash of amber-colored liquid in it. "You can pass, no fear of offense, but a swig of brandy's good for a sore throat." He set his own glass aside, plucking up the phone with his free hand and starting to tug the rotary-dial around.

Evelyn took the glass with her left hand, letting her right arm rest across her lap and hold down her coat. She briefly smiled her 'thank you' instead of verbalizing it. Hell, her throat hurt so badly she figured a swig of brandy couldn't make it worse, at least. ...That was a mistaken thought. She gave a sharp wince as the alcohol burned down her throat, only to force the rest down in the next tilt of the glass. As the burning from the liquor subsided, Evelyn looked around and for a place to put down the glass... and then felt like and idiot as she spotted the end-table with the phone right next to her. As she put the glass down, she noticed the picture frames. Instead of angling her head for a better look, she let it rest again against the back of the couch, but kept her eyes on Dutch. The frames had reminded her of the glimpse of the family photo from his wallet a couple days ago. "...Family?" She wouldn't have pinned his place as housing a family, even if her thought process was a bit off. Although she hadn't really got the best look around the apartment, 'bachelor' had certainly gotten through her harassed senses.

Dutch had given a slight, welcoming nod to her smile, smiling himself as she drank the brandy. He sat back as the line buzzed and connected, and Dutch had to chuckle at the gruff answer he got. "Need a taxi for pickup, 1237 Royale Street," he said, waiting for a confirmation before hanging up. Once he set the phone back on the cradle, he took a moment to smile sadly, tossing back his drink in one swallow and nodding at Evelyn's question. "My wife and daughter, they passed on a while back," he told her in a much more subdued tone, "Everyone's got a reason for livin' around these parts." His just happened to be convenience with getting glimpses of his daughter.

"...What happened?" It was almost a whisper, her head still leaning back. It wasn't a question she would've asked had her head not been knocked twice against a brick wall. But Evelyn was holding onto only about half her wits by a thin thread right now, and the appalled reaction at her own question came lethargically. Her expression briefly turned into an apologetic one. "I mean... I'm sorry." She wasn't sure if she was apologizing for his loss, or just for her uncalled-for question. Either way, she was dimly aware she should be apologizing for something.

Dutch had nearly started shaking his head pre-emptively; it seemed like people always had to apologize for wanting to know what happened. Well, 'always' was relative, given how little the topic ever came up, but still. "It's okay, Amelia," he assured her, "It was... it was a long time ago." Though it had never stopped feeling so raw. But she'd asked, hadn't she? My last name happened, Dutch thought darkly, knowing he couldn't say as much. "There was a fire, and after... just had to start over. So I opened the shop, learned a trade."

She was silent for a long moment, looking in Dutch's direction but focusing on a spot on the wall just beyond him. Even when she was herself, she wouldn't know what to say about things like that. Which was why she normally had the mindset and tact not to ask. "For what it's worth," she finally murmured, shifting her eyes just a bit so they rested on him, "I'd rather -- been helped by a... tradeless... family man." She almost gave a little smirk, but she didn't feel like smirking in general and even in her warped state wouldn't smirk at a subject like that. She belatedly noticed she had said 'helped' and not 'saved'; but really... had Dutch not come around she might be a body waiting to be discovered about now. But that thought was one Evelyn was keeping pushed down right now. She'd let herself break down over it back at home in her own bed... if she got around to dealing with it at all.

He managed a small, slow smile for her at that, nodding in understanding. It was a strange sort of well-wishing to hear, but strange wishes were still more than none at all. She was a good kid, Dutch decided, and he could only hope that her job at the Drake was temporary. "It's kind of you to say," he told her, "But I think any help tonight is good help." he sat quietly for a moment, trying not to dwell on the same thoughts he'd had when he first met Evelyn, the slight similarities between her and his wife. They weren't dangerous or compelling ones, just enough to put him in a mournful mood. And in that grief, Dutch decided he didn't want Evelyn to die the same way as his beloved Mariella, dead just for being in the wrong place or knowing the wrong people. "Forgive me if I'm oversteppin' my bounds here, Amelia, but... you shouldn't stick 'round the Drake. There's gotta be another spot in town that can net you some cash."

Evelyn lifted her head up a bit and blinked at that, caught off guard by the comment. "Oh..." It was difficult trying to think of what to say when she was trying to blocking more than one thought out of her head... and thinking about the Drake and work had a floodgate of troubling thoughts and emotions tied to it that threatened to break. And that was just too messy. But, she had to say something. "...Not nearly as many spots as you think," she wanted to soften it with a smile, but a short and mirthless laugh slipped out instead. Realizing that wasn't the smoothest response, Evelyn tried to remedy it. And this time she managed the softening smile, "Don't plan on waitressing forever, though." She had really jumped at the job in desperation, after all.

"Yeah, I know the money's great at your age," Dutch said, seeming to understand the allure that might have kept her in the place, "Just... have a next move planned." He wasn't about to lecture her on the DiGiovanni at any rate; she served drinks for them, she didn't pull hits. And she gave off the impression of enough intelligence to know that the proprietors of the Drake weren't angels, either. "Sorry, think I probably shoulda skipped my own brandy," he murmured, trying to excuse his own nosiness after it had already made a mess.

'Next move planned'... well, Evelyn was sure as hell finding that easier said than done. She'd had a plan. And then she'd had another. In fact, her initial plan? She was supposed to have gotten a degree from a different part of the country about now. And then it changed to working her way up a law firm. None of her plans had involved wasting her talents on balancing cocktails atop trays. But despite all her hard work, that's exactly where she'd ended up. She gave a small shake of the head at his apology, quietly murmuring, "You've got a point." Hell, he was right; he had only told her what she had thought to herself for quite some time. But Evelyn had personal experience as to just how dead the job market was for a girl, save for the oldest of professions.

But she wasn't going to let herself waste away as a waitress. So she kept her little plan of moving up within the Drake to herself. But keeping that thought in her head when the guy who had just saved her life was giving her legitimate advice about leaving the Drake... it made her feel a bit uncomfortable. Lying usually did, even if it was only by omission. After another silent moment she asked, "Bathroom?"

"Second on your right, just down the hall," Dutch indicated with a nod, "Light switch is behind the door, it's a trick to find on your own." He settled back on the sofa, giving a little sigh and tilting his hand to inspect his knuckles as he left Evelyn to her own devices. After all, Dutch hadn't bothered to really check immediately after pounding on her attacker, and sometimes the busted knuckles got him questions at work. Not too often, the boys knew he liked a brawl, but they also liked a story. And Dutch? Well, Dutch didn't always like telling them.

Evelyn walked cautiously, finding the bathroom but still having to search a bit for the switch behind the door. She winced sharply as the flood of light grated against her senses, closing the door and then resting against it with her eyes closed. But she didn't rest too long, because leaning on her right side wasn't doing her any favors and she had come here with a purpose. But before turning towards the sink and the mirror above it, Evelyn took a moment to slowly raise her arm off the coat she had kept wrapped closed. The fact that she hadn't been the one to unbutton it nagged darkly at her in the back of her mind, but she kept pushing it away. Now was a time to merely assess the damage -- to her clothes, her body, her possessions -- not mull on how it occurred.

But finally taking that step towards the mirror and her reflection shot all intentions of composure to hell. For a moment Evelyn could only blanch in shocked silence; seeing her standing there with her coat open and the full display of the encounter revealed -- there were no two ways about it: she was an absolute mess. For starters, brick walls were kinda dirty -- but that was the least of it. Her shirt, missing some buttons, was untucked and torn and bloody; her carefully-done hairstyle ruined by escaped strands from the struggle; the suspected cut by her temple was confirmed and bleeding. And the bruising -- her pale skin showed even the slightest bruise all too easily; and right now it seemed littered with ones, still red, that weren't slight at all. The most noticeable areas being along the far right side of her face, her neck, and -- as she brought up two fingers to her throat -- her wrist.

Her breathing became less steady, and she quickly grasped on for something to do -- clean up what she could, or try covering up what she couldn't. She saw a small towel hanging, and started to reach for it before stopping herself: she was a hell of a mess, and dirtying Dutch's towel was a poor way of saying 'thank you'. She took a step over to the door and opened it a crack, giving only enough room to press her mouth next to the doorframe and hoarsely call out, "Mind if I use your towel?"

Back in the living room, Dutch had opted to mull over another splash of brandy against his better judgment as he waited on Evelyn, relaxed on the couch and smiling as peacefully as he ever did at the redness in his knuckles. It had felt good to actually help her, to pull her away from the violence that plagued the city, even if he knew she'd be stepping into far worse of her own volition. When her voice carried out to him, Dutch's brow creased as he got his feet under him, moving to linger in the mouth of the hallway. "Not one bit," he called back, "You, uh, you need a hand? Got myself a bit of experience in cleaning up scrapes."

Evelyn considered it, eyes darting towards her reflection for another moment. Maybe it was because the sight showed the ordeal worse than she cared to remember, or maybe it was because seeing what she looked like made it feel real... whatever the reason, she found herself choking on a sob she hadn't prepared for. It wasn't loud, and she quickly stifled it behind her wrist, letting the escaped emotion pass before she trusted herself enough to answer. "Uh... yeah, sure."

She wasn't actually keen on it -- hell, she wasn't keen on the whole situation and feeling vulnerable at all, really. But her first aid knowledge was limited, and she found it be a whole different thing when faced to use it on herself. And, right now, the less she had to look at her reflection the better. So Evelyn hastily rubbed away at the stray tears that had slipped through before opening the door further and taking a step back, again holding the coat against herself. The blood on the shirt wasn't hers, and she had on an underslip anyway... but she didn't feel like displaying it regardless.

There was only an instant where Dutch actually looked squarely at her, and it was all he needed to see the raw panic that was still holding her reins tight. he aimed his gaze down at his feet a moment later, shoulders hunching as Dutch took a step into the bathroom. "Figure my mug kinda gives it away, but I've had to patch myself up a few times," he admitted with a gruff laugh, crouching low to pull open the cabinet beneath the sink. Out came the battered old first aid kit hat Dutch kept handy, and he set it aside as he stood back up, plucking his hat off and pushing his hair back.

"Don't gotta be embarassed, neither," he assured Evelyn, "I'm not lookin' to ogle you, miss Amelia. Even got a clean shirt if you like. You'll be swimmin' in it, but it's warm, probably more comfy than your coat." Dutch flipped open the medical kit with those words, grabbing a fistful of layered gauze and a bottle of bactine, then finally daring to look up to her again. "No offense if you don't, either. I'm 'bout as hard to offend as a rock..." he joked, grinning reassuringly, "So let's get you cleaned up."

The left corner of her mouth quirked into a smile -- a small sign of her appreciation even if she didn't immediately say anything. She did appreciate it: she appreciated his saving her, and helping with the first aid, and even the humor helped keep some of her mind off the situation in general. But for a girl who worked hard to suck it up and not admit her troubles to the world, taking her coat off to display what just seemed a billboard of them just went against the grain. Then again maintaining that front also required some energy of its own, and Evelyn was internally undergoing a push-and-pull of feeling overly tense and just feeling emotionally drained.

"A clean shirt'd be good," she finally answered. She remained standing, but made herself relax a bit and let her arm drop from the coat. And, yeah, he could see a clean shirt was something Evelyn was lacking. She used the hand to brush the hair away from her face as she watched Dutch, her facing grimacing at the bactine smell, "Lotsa patching, huh? You save a lotta girls?"

Not enough. "Nah, I'm no hero type," Dutch told her, shaking his head as he ran the corner of a towel under the tap, "Just get the hell kicked out of me sometimes, and I'm the only one takin' care of me." He raised the wet towel, brushing a few strands of hair away with surprising gentility from such roughshod hands, then started to gradually wipe clear the grime on one side of Evelyn's face.

It had been sixteen years since Dutch had been in this spot, cleaning up Cheyenne after she'd taken a bad spill in Fontaine Park, and the thought stung. But he forced himself to focus, cleaning around the cut at her temple carefully before he went back to the remainder of the dirt from her assault. "This is probably gonna sting a touch," Dutch warned before dotting the gauze with bactine and pressing it to the cut at Evelyn's temple, "But you just hold it right there, it'll kill off some of the crud in that cut. I'll grab you that shirt."

She hissed a little as the gauze touched the cut -- it did sting and Evelyn had a poor tolerance for pain. But she brought a hand up and held the gauze there as Dutch left for the shirt. She had felt like a child, standing still and trying not to tense up as someone else wiped her face clean for her. That kind of feeling was one Evelyn had never been a fan of -- not even when she was a child. But she was hating looking at her reflection at the moment, and Dutch had really been the kindest one human being could be to another for her. Hell, if he had wanted her hurt or dead... then he could have just looked the other way tonight. She let her eyes fall to the first aid kit and recalled his words on being the only one taking care of himself. She felt incredibly sad for him, even though she figured he hadn't said it for her pity. It was an ironic sentiment really, coming from a girl who so determined to depend only on herself.

While Dutch moved quickly from the bathroom to his bedroom, he also took his time. After all, it only took maybe ten seconds to open his closet, grab a much-patched flannel, and turn to head back. But he took longer, leaning against the wall by his bed and lighting up a cigarette. Dutch pulled deep, using both the action of smoking and the burn in his lungs to try and tune out his thoughts. Too much of this called up old pain, but at the same time it felt good to be given this chance to help. There was no profit except what he'd think later, but that seemed like plenty.

He smoked half of the cigarette in three long pulls, crushing it out prematurely in the ashtray next to his bed and moving back to the bathroom. "Think this is gonna be more of a blanket on you," he joked, "Or a... what's it those fellas wear in Mexico? A poncho?" He laid the shirt across the sink, shooing Evelyn's hand away from the gauze and placing his own there just to take it away. "Lookin' better already," Dutch promised, grabbing a fresh bit of it and quickly fixing it in place with little bits of medical tape, "Just wear your hair down for a few days if you wanna hide it. As for them bruises? Ice or a raw steak is your best bet, but they'll fade."

Her stomach dropped, his words bringing a new dread: she hadn't even thought about the fact that looking the way she would -- with the red areas changing to an even more noticeable purplish hue against her skin --was going to be a big issue. Her long hair let down didn't work in a restaurant, and her injured wrist was an even bigger problem. And even if her wrist were fine, there was no way in hell she could work looking like... well, like she had been thrown against a wall. As if that weren't enough, the shirt she was wearing? This was her work outfit -- or at least it had been. She really didn't have that many clothes. And for work she only had two shirts (well one, now) and the on skirt now in need of mending. Of course, she couldn't mend or sew anything with her wrist... thus making the cycle of Her Personal Hell complete.

But at least she had tomorrow and Tuesday off -- two whole days to figure things out. And she wasn't in a state of mind to figure anything out tonight, and there was no point laying such trivial troubles on Dutch's shoulders. The man had more than helped her enough already and had (rightfully) expressed concerned for her job anyway. So she shrugged off those worries for tomorrow, or at least until she got home, and -- feeling somewhat cleaner -- smiled a thanks at Dutch as she reached for the shirt, "Got plenty of ice at home, at least." Talking still hurt, but silence would let her mind dangerously wander.

"Be grateful for small mercies, that's what my momma always said," Dutch agreed, absently cleaning one last bit of errant dirt away. "And keep the shirt, so long as you don't have a fella who's gonna think you've been up to no good," he added with a good-natured grin, "I'm past due to buy a new one, I think." Dutch stepped back and out of the bathroom, making room for Evelyn to exit with him. "Think I've kept you late enough, miss Amelia. There's gotta be a bored cabbie sittin' outside, thinking he's been pranked by his buddies."

"Got a lot of mercies to be grateful for right now, don't I?" And then Evelyn, despite herself, gave a last glance at her reflection before leaving. She still wasn't fond of what she saw -- who would be? -- but she handled it with better composure than previously. Because really? At least now her face was clean, if throbbing and bruising, and the wayward strands of hair had been brushed away from it. And even though she was still bothered by the whole ordeal of the night, she at least recognized this was a lot better than dirty and bloody and dead. Before heading out, she stopped by the couch to pick up her purse. As she approached the exit, also walking with better composure, she stopped to face Dutch one more time:

"And, thank you, again," despite her soft and still hoarse voice she made sure to emphasize the 'thank you'. But she gave a pause afterward because she wasn't sure what kind of good-bye she should give somebody who just saved her life. Hugging anybody right now made her kind of tense, so instead Evelyn settled with sticking out her left hand for a handshake. "And... what's the name of your garage?"

"Occam Automotives," Dutch told her with a proud grin, taking Evelyn's hand and giving it a light shake, "We may not be the biggest or fanciest place in town, but we cut right through the problem." He just nodded at her thanks, walking Evelyn to the door with a little smilein place. "You're welcome," he told her sincerely, "I'm hopin' this isn't the last time we cross paths, either. I'd like to see that you're doin' better. Maybe next time I'm up on your side of town." Though that would mean business at the Drake, and that would automatically sour Dutch's mood.

"I'll look forward to it," she replied, truly meaning it. She had a lot to ponder, and a lot of other pondering that she was putting off, but she knew enough to know she'd see him soon and that it probably wouldn't be at the Drake. ...There was a reason she had asked the name of his garage, after all. And then Evelyn was off, and in a taxi, and - both mentally exhausted and racing at the same time -- knowing she was on her way to another restless night.