Well, he might be able to. He's not sure he'd make it very far with the broken ribs ⸻ and actually, now that he's trying to pay attention to every part of his body and not just whatever organ might be punctured by said broken ribs, something's off with his left ankle as well ⸻ but he could make a valiant effort. He's stubborn enough. He could maybe reach down into his patchwork soul and grab some essence of werewolf or something similar to make himself stronger for a bit, but that wouldn't help much with the injuries.
You know what would help? If the angel grace he stole healed him in any way. But it doesn't, because it's pissy like that. Loves to help other people, though!
He pushes off the pavement, and back into sitting against the wall, punctuated with a grunt. And then, his good arm reaching up for a handhold of a plumbing pipe sticking out of a brick wall, Grayson hauls himself upright, still heavily leaning against the wall, one hand spread over the left side of his ribcage and dug into his t-shirt. It hurts like hell, but he can stand. Maybe he can even work on walking, in a minute.
For now, his wary green gaze goes to the vampire. Tall, grey hair, eyes shining in the dark like an alley cat, the kind of face that looks like he's got a million secrets⸻ handsome, in the way that's interesting more than magazine-cover-worthy. Grayson has no idea who the fuck he is. (But then, Grayson has no idea who the fuck most people in London are, so. That's not unusual.)
"Who says I did anything? Maybe she was just in the mood to flatten someone," he bites, lips thin. Grayson turns his head just enough to catch a glimpse of his canvas shopping bags, still laying at the entrance of the alley. "If I'm not your next meal, mind doing me a favour, and grabbing those for me? Not sure I can bend over right now."
Of course, he doesn't need to be this close to discern the man's facial features. But he does take his own sec to look, now, in a way he hadn't before, given how certain other characteristics—physical and non—really leapt to the fore. And it's not the eye-color, or the general pleasing symmetry (under, ya know, the blood and shit) which stands out at a glance. It's the weariness in his face, something too dug-in and aged, for all he's clearly young, to be a result of the fight alone.
As he starts heaving himself upwards, by painful degrees, the vampire shows no sign of pity, much less moving forward to help. He just watches while the guy clambers brokenly to his feet. Though he does rise from his crouch by the end, his brow arching curious, not cruel. At his full height, Jasper's the shorter by a bit: an eventuality among others, just like being the taller, that counts for next-to-nothing, compared to his human days.
"Sounds right on the money, for Bellis." He's been speaking pretty equably, so far, if with an audibly wry overtone. But there's an earnest disgust that cuts through his voice here, accenting the agent's name with an edge of teeth.
He doesn't think twice about fetching the shopping bags. Even zips there and back, a streak of motion in the nightbound alley, less than a finger-snap's worth of time to accomplish it. And yeah, might be he's showing off, just a little. Why the fuck not?
Jasper stands before him once more, groceries over an arm. Polite as your five-star app-ordered shopper, if your five-star app-ordered shopper could shred the ligaments in your throat like so much spaghetti.
He could make a better preface, probably. At least offer, by way of reassurance, that old 'the enemy of my enemy' cliché. Instead, he only cocks his head and asks:
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Well, he might be able to. He's not sure he'd make it very far with the broken ribs ⸻ and actually, now that he's trying to pay attention to every part of his body and not just whatever organ might be punctured by said broken ribs, something's off with his left ankle as well ⸻ but he could make a valiant effort. He's stubborn enough. He could maybe reach down into his patchwork soul and grab some essence of werewolf or something similar to make himself stronger for a bit, but that wouldn't help much with the injuries.
You know what would help? If the angel grace he stole healed him in any way. But it doesn't, because it's pissy like that. Loves to help other people, though!
He pushes off the pavement, and back into sitting against the wall, punctuated with a grunt. And then, his good arm reaching up for a handhold of a plumbing pipe sticking out of a brick wall, Grayson hauls himself upright, still heavily leaning against the wall, one hand spread over the left side of his ribcage and dug into his t-shirt. It hurts like hell, but he can stand. Maybe he can even work on walking, in a minute.
For now, his wary green gaze goes to the vampire. Tall, grey hair, eyes shining in the dark like an alley cat, the kind of face that looks like he's got a million secrets⸻ handsome, in the way that's interesting more than magazine-cover-worthy. Grayson has no idea who the fuck he is. (But then, Grayson has no idea who the fuck most people in London are, so. That's not unusual.)
"Who says I did anything? Maybe she was just in the mood to flatten someone," he bites, lips thin. Grayson turns his head just enough to catch a glimpse of his canvas shopping bags, still laying at the entrance of the alley. "If I'm not your next meal, mind doing me a favour, and grabbing those for me? Not sure I can bend over right now."
no subject
As he starts heaving himself upwards, by painful degrees, the vampire shows no sign of pity, much less moving forward to help. He just watches while the guy clambers brokenly to his feet. Though he does rise from his crouch by the end, his brow arching curious, not cruel. At his full height, Jasper's the shorter by a bit: an eventuality among others, just like being the taller, that counts for next-to-nothing, compared to his human days.
"Sounds right on the money, for Bellis." He's been speaking pretty equably, so far, if with an audibly wry overtone. But there's an earnest disgust that cuts through his voice here, accenting the agent's name with an edge of teeth.
He doesn't think twice about fetching the shopping bags. Even zips there and back, a streak of motion in the nightbound alley, less than a finger-snap's worth of time to accomplish it. And yeah, might be he's showing off, just a little. Why the fuck not?
Jasper stands before him once more, groceries over an arm. Polite as your five-star app-ordered shopper, if your five-star app-ordered shopper could shred the ligaments in your throat like so much spaghetti.
He could make a better preface, probably. At least offer, by way of reassurance, that old 'the enemy of my enemy' cliché. Instead, he only cocks his head and asks:
"You want a hand getting home?"