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By the ways he knows, still secret, Lamont leads him home. There's a ride caught from a friendly cab driver….one somehow working for Lamont already. There he removes his costume - turns out he's wearing a black dress shirt and pants beneath. The cloak and hat both fold up into a surprisingly small pile of fabric…..and the wound's almost invisible beneath his hand.
Only once they're in the safety of that empty old house does he let the pain and exhaustion show. "Been a while," he says, wanly, as he settles on the edge of the tub in the bathroom, "Since I had a fight like that."
*
Lindon in the meantime has taken off his button shirt, wearing just his white tee undershirt. The better not to get blood on work clothes, and he has set out the first aid kit, including sutures. He's never done them before, but he knows how. "Let me take a look at you," he says, and he sits on the toilet with the seat down. He winces. "It got you good."
*
"It did," he agrees, without hesitation. He's carefully kept anything he's bled on. He'll need to burn it all, for magical sympathy's sake. Back at home, out of costume….he's just the same old Lamont. Quiet, middle-aged, restrained. "Can you stitch it, or shall I?"
*
"I think I've got the better angle, unless you want a nice new scar." Lindon smiles faintly, then looks back to the wound. He's got iodine and swabs. "I'm about to cause you a lot of pain," he says. Then he adds, wryly, "Try not to wreak vengeance, Shadow."
*
Lamont reaches up to touch his face, gently. "You and Strange and his child are the only ones to know. Well, Captain Rogers, too. You're too young to remember when I was the Shadow, I imagine." Which isn't true - he vanished from that role in '39. "But I'll forgive you." There's that twinkle in his eyes, amused, despite all of it.
*
Still, Lindon was very small. There's a remembered name, a few stories. "Of course I won't tell," he says. "It stands to reason; I'm surprised I didn't come to the conclusion earlier." He grins, demure as he lowers his gaze. Then, briskly, he sets to work, cleaning the wound, sterilizing it with the iodine. The needle he sterilizes with a lighter. He himself is wearing sterile gloves. Dr. Mills is in the house. "All right, I'll hold you to your mercy," he says, and he sets about putting the wound together with neat stitches.
*
He's stoic, meditating his way through it. Channeling the pain, such as it is. But he occasionally clenches a hand on the porcelain rim of the tub. Only when it's all cleaned up does he let out a slow sigh. "I could use a drink," he admits.
*
Lindon dresses the wound with sterile bandaging. "There we go. You know the routine, keep it clean and dry. It'll be really sore tomorrow, and we'll keep an eye out for poison." With all that done, he plants a soft kiss on Lamont's lips and says, "Go get a drink, I'll clean this up." Another quick kiss. "I'll accept you, no matter what."