I may not always know what's right, but I know I want you here tonight.
Ugh ugh ugh ugh ugh.

Why couldn’t Sperantia have just teleported him back home? Mallos could be in his own bed in his own house right now – or, better yet, he could be wherever Croe was. Just show up at her hotel, or campsite, or wherever it was she stayed when she was out on twenty-four-hour plus mission. Maybe it depended on the mission. However much agony Mallos was in, it would become infinitely more bearable if it was Croe picking the metal out of his wounds and rolling her eyes at him.

Instead, he was stuck here with his cat and a stupid pharmacist. Mallos groaned again when the guy spoke, earning himself a glare from Sperantia. Great, mortal healing. What the fuck did this guy think, that his herbs or mortal magic were going to make any difference here? Mallos was suffering from multiple fatal wounds and would have died tonight from trauma alone if he weren’t immortal. And since he was immortal, and a god, he had his own magic which was bloody taking care of it. If the pharmacist could just toddle off to bed, that would be fab. The sooner he realised he wasn’t needed or wanted here, the better.

Don’t be rude, darling, Sperantia told him pointedly through the privacy of their telepathic link. Other than to give her the most withering look he could muster in the circumstances, Mallos ignored her.

Annoyingly, in his present state, a witty comeback to the stranger’s smug retort was just beyond his grasp. Propped up against the wall in a rapidly expanding puddle of his own blood, Mallos had no real choice but to accept both the verbal jab and the foul-smelling paste the pharmacist was starting to rub on one of his open wounds. He made his feelings known by rolling his eyes. What exactly was the point of this? His own divinity was dancing frantically across his body in a show of vibrant yellow sparks, targeting the worst injuries first. He could sort himself out. He didn’t need some second-rate mortal wannabe nurse rubbing gunk all over him.

His back arched as another spasm of pain shot up it. Divinity wasn’t fussing around with painkillers; it was trying to patch him up enough to get him back on his feet. Mallos gritted his teeth, and then rolled his eyes again when the pharmacist appeared to finally realise who he was.

“Yes,” he and Sperantia said simultaneously, in quite different tones. “Obviously.” Mallos added in a muttered undertone.

Now it was Sperantia’s turn to shoot Mallos a withering look.

“Just ignore him, sweet,” she told Osiris firmly, “that was his favourite Ferrari he just smashed up. Heaven knows why you picked that one to roll around in, Mallos.”

Magic spiralled back up Mallos’ right arm, down his chest and to his legs, where bits of shrapnel were still poking out. He flexed his fingers experimentally, checking that the arm was fully healed, before flipping Sperantia a rude gesture. She rolled her eyes at him.

“The Mallos can patch himself up, mate.” He grouched, easing backwards a bit so he could sit up a little straighter. His head was still pounding, but there was a marked improvement in his ability to move and speak over a few minutes before. “Suggest you fuck off before I’m healed and decide to see what you look like in a bottle.”

Mallos
I've learned enough to know I'm never letting go