If he was the sort of man who smoked it would be about now that he would take out a cigar. Or maybe a pipe. He would look very distinguished with a pipe. And then he could give it up. A man ought to have at least one vice because giving it up showed strength of character. Drinking didn't count of course – that was practically a requirement for a gentleman these days.

But he had no vice, so instead he just eyed up the shots that were streaking towards his friend's back. Six bullets, a whole revolvers worth. Maybe two of them aluminium by the shine. Wayne stood directly in front of them to get a better sight on their path. Yep. All headed straight for Wax: they'd all hit too. Wax was beginning to turn – slowly - and was probably going to fire at the source of the gunshots but it would be too late. He might be able to deal with most of the bullets, but he wouldn't be able to Push on the inert metal and he couldn't exactly move out the way right now.

Wayne considered his options: a luxury he had courtesy of the speed bubble he had thrown up.

Wayne wouldn't be able to get to Wax fast enough for his partner to be able to avoid the bullets: there was always a couple of seconds between when Wayne's bubbles went down and when they went up and the distance between them was too great.

Wayne could leave this speed bubble up: he had managed to jump down from where he had been dealing with some miscreants above and land directly between Wax and the shooter. The bullets would be deflected as they passed in and out and miss Wax. Probably. Mostly. He might get a bit shot, but that was generally considered to be better than a lot shot, right? Right.

Except for the other complication. The group of builders huddled around and behind Wax where they would surely have been squashed by falling debris if Wax weren't there, Pushing up to create an opportunity for them to run to safety. They had been chasing saboteurs of the city's latest tall building, but hadn't expected the bastards to blow the supporting structure when there were still workers underneath.

If Wayne deflected the bullets they might all miss Wax, but they would hit someone. How many innocent people would he kill? It wasn't fair that a man could shoot someone when he wasn't even holding the gun. One man dead was better than possibly six, it was simple mathmatics, the only sort of mathmatics Wayne was really comfortable with. Wax would probably understand once he explained it, would probably even agree with him though they might fight about it for a bit first.

Wayne did a check of his metal-minds – bracers firmly against his upper arms and brimming full of health, more than he ever had before- he hadn't even had a scratch in months! Just as well really.

He studied the bullets again – a nice close grouping so that was good? He supposed? As a matter of principal Wayne knew as little as possible about guns and bullets, but if they were closer together there was less chance of one hitting an innocent bystander. He chose his spot carefully, double checked his health and wished for a vice to give up as he dropped the speed bubble, bracing himself. A wave of returning sound hit, as did the six bullets and Wayne hit the dirt.

Damn getting shot hurt! He thought to himself, feeling the pieces of metal wedged in his body. It would have been better if they were through and through: more messy but easier to heal. As it was his body would have to push the malformed pieces of metal out and that would hurt. The grouping wasn't quite as good as he first thought as he had two in his right shoulder, two in the gut and two in one of his lungs. He got all six though and hadn't been shot in the heart or head so today was a good day.

Wayne tapped his metalmind to start healing but, as expected hit what can only be described as resistance from two of the bullets. The others were being slowly – and painfully - pushed out but the two in his shoulder were not. Wayne didn't really understand why that would be, but all sorts of things went wonky around aluminium.

The bullets needed to come out first. It was lucky they were in his shoulder really as he didn't like the thought of digging into his own lungs but his shoulder was bleeding heavily. He must have nicked something important there so he didn't have time to waste.

He reached a hand up and tentatively prodded the first entry point.

"What are you doing?" Came a voice, and Wayne opened one eye just enough to see Wax kneeling besides him, his concern clear.

"These two... are alumin...ium" Wayne said, voice wet sounding as blood began to collect in his lungs. Wax understood, Wax was smart. "Let me" he said, and then, without grimacing too much put his hand into Wayne's shoulder.

Damn damn damn damn that hurt, Wayne thought, trying to keep still as Wax explored the wound, searching for the bullets. He thought it had hurt before but that was nothing compared to having your friends hand poking around inside you.

"Got one."

One to go. Wayne braced himself as Wax reached in again, trying to breathe shallowly but noting how that was getting more difficult and how he was getting more lightheaded. "Hurry" he spluttered, blood at the back of his throat, blood soaking through his shirt. He couldn't heal his other wounds jjust yet, not if he wanted to waste a lot on that Ruinious aluminium.

Wax continued to rummage. Wayne stifled a groan at the feeling of Wax's fingers in his flesh. How did Wax manage to stay so composed? He could have been looking for his favourite pair of socks for all the expression he had, not plucking yet another bullet out of a cocky bloodmaker. Wayne saw darkness begin to creep in from the edges of his vision and now the fight was not to lose consciousness and bleed to death.

"I can feel it" Wax was muttering, "just got to..." And Wayne let out a whimper as Wax dug a bit deeper. "It's out, it's out Wayne!"

Wayne could feel that, could at last tap his metal-mind to start healing, feeling the bullets shift as his torn flesh started to knit together again. Lotsa damage though. Gut wounds were messy. His lungs were torn up and breathing was difficult. His shoulder was still the source of most of his blood loss. This would take a lot of health so he would have to go slower than he liked. He moved his hand to press against his shoulder to try and stem the bleeding a little: the less he lost the less he would have to replace. He found a hand already pressed firmly there however. He might have felt it if he didn't already hurt so badly. He cracked an eye open just in time to catch Wax saying "You rusting fool."

Wayne tried to reply but his lungs were filling up– have to do something about that or he'd drown. He drained he metal-mind a bit faster. He felt the unpleasant sensation of bullets being pushed about his body – he hated this part, when the things felt alive and they were squirming about inside him. They always seemed to go for the path of least resistance though and usually came out exactly the way they came in. But he was unlucky this time with the two in his lungs: instead of out the two bullets were pushed in, and were sealed inside as the wounds healed behind them. That meant he wasn't going to drown in his own blood at least. Today. Look on the bright side. He eased off the pace of his healing, concerned at how quickly his stored health had dropped in a few short seconds. His other wounds had healed as well of course, and were now only three quarters as deep as they were.

The two bullets resting in his lungs were quite uncomfortable, which was why it was lucky that Wayne started to cough. Oh Harmony that hurt. Feeling metal rattling round inside him was the worst part, feeling the spasms as his muscles tried to expel the invading items. The rest of his body pulsed in sympathy, especially pulling against his shoulder and stomach.

Wayne felt himself being moved, tipped onto his side and his head held out of the dirt. Wax was lambasting him again even as he held him steady. Wayne thought he worried too much: they both knew how this would go. And if it didn't go well? Well then he'd had a good run. Been given a second chance and done his best with it.

Wayne coughed and coughed some more, retching as he bought up both bullets and a lung full of blood. He spit them out and turned his head away, not ready to look at the metal pieces settling into a pool of blood. Wayne thought He had probably done some damage to his throat as well so that was another thing to heal. He tried to stop a groan from the affect that had on his other wounds but wasn't entirely successful.

"I'm... not..." he gasped out between coughs "the fool who... turned his...back on... a gun...full of...alumin...ium."

Wax's expression instantly added guilt to the concern but Wayne closed his eyes on that, concentrating on healing. He couldn't go as slowly as he would have liked as he was still bleeding too heavily. Six bullets was a lot to heal, even now – he wasn't sure that he had enough for that but if he passed out from blood loss it wouldn't matter either way.

Healing was a funny skill: it largely did it's own thing, flowed it's own way though you could control how fast it went. Wayne hated filling his metal-mind: the feeling of being weak, being exposed, at risk. He tended to do it in large chunks so it took as little time as possible, with the curtains closed and the door locked.

Wayne didn't like walking around without a large amount of health, in case of situations just like this. Well, maybe there weren't many situations just the same as this, but it seemed there was always someone who was trying to shoot him. And he didn't even always deserve it, either.

He didn't like to think in too much detail about what his body was doing: sometimes the thought of organs rearranging or bones rekniting gave him the wibbles. And regrowing fingers just felt plain weird when the bones went all stretchy. So instead he was just lying there waiting to not be hurt any more.

It was nice to have a little cushion against life's unexpected bumps and bruises but it did lead Bloodmakers to taking more risks with themselves: he had lost count of the number of times he had jumped off a roof without checking what was below him. He might have to stop doing that. Not only did that use a lot of stored health but he ruined a lot of clothes too. The blood didn't always come out and there were an awful lot of holes. Take this shirt for instance: no goodwife in the Roughs would let him set at her table wearing it now, even patched. And the gentry here in the city …. well they probably would. It would be impolite to turn him away, but they sure would talk about him behind his back afterwards.

Despite going as slowly as possible Wayne had been right, he didn't have enough health stored to heal six serious bullet wounds. Drawing his attention back to his body, feeling it in the strange way only a Bloodmaker can Wayne discovered six holes that might be better called grazes. He gave them a pat, just to check. They were deep grazes, stinging, maybe half an inch deep still and weeping slowly. All internal organs were present and accounted for though, if feeling a little bruised.

"Think I'm gonna need you to stich me up mate." He told Wax who had been watching as he probed the bullet holes, wiping down his own hands. Wayne gave a hacking cough and spit out more blood - hopefully the last of it.

"You out of health?" Wax asked with a frown as Wayne pushed himself slowly to sitting.

"Yep." He let Wax pull him to his feet but almost found the ground again when dizzyness made him spin. Ah yeah. Blood loss. He tried to find his balance but lost it completely. His knees gave out and Wayne found himself slumped onto Wax's shoulder. "Were you able to replace any blood? You lost... quite a bit."

Looking down – not that he had any choice, his head feeling too heavy for his neck – to see a rather large pool of dark red sticky liquid soaking into the dirt. Wayne knew from bitter experience that a little liquid – a pint of beer for example - could look like a lot when it was spread out across the floor – his favourite gunsmiths workshop for example. And that didn't include any soaked into his shirt and coat: rapidly cooling and heavy on his body. How much blood was one person meant to have in 'im anyway? More than this? Surely not. He hadn't often had to think about it.

"Fine thing for a blood maker eh?" he muttered "Can't even make a drop of blood."

"Easy, easy then Do you have a headache? Nauseas?" Strong hands gripped him and that was the only thing Wayne could feel. The rest of his body had gone thankfully numb so he could no longer feel the sting of his wounds and the ache of bruising that surrounded them.

"Yes and yes." he managed. He lost a bit of time then, finding himself sitting on hard ground, propped up against something. A hand was once again pressed to his shoulder, this time with a cloth in it. Wayne hoped that he wasn't ruining one of Wax's fancy handkerchiefs – his friend paid way too much for them. He tried not to imagine how pathetic he looked and failed, giving a shiver.

"I need to get you home and stitched up" Wax's voice came from far away. "Do you remember the last time I got shot you gave me that ghastly concoction?" Wayne did. He had hoped Wax had forgotten "Good for anything, you said." He had said that, hadn't he. Damn. "I think I remember the ingredients."

Wayne remembered. It was full of goodness to be fair – something for pain, something for exhaustion, plenty of vitamins and minerals. Something to put hair on your chest and strength in your bones. Maybe Wayne had added something to give it a pungent odour and strong taste, but he had been annoyed at Wax at the time. He couldn't remember why right now but he was sure it would have been a very good reason. Wax could be very annoying.

"Aw Wax" he complained through blurry vision and against a thick tongue "No need t' use a man's own medicine 'gainst him. Not when he's just saved y'r life a'd all."

He felt more than saw Wax sit down beside him, shoulders touching.

"Thanks for that by the way. I didn't even know he was there." Wax said. That was all that was needed between the two of them. Effusive thanks and debts of gratitude were for those who didn't save each others necks twice a week in a slow month. And they both knew that Wayne always owed Wax one extra anyway.

"Did everyone g't out ok? And did ya' get the bastard who shot me?"

"Yes and yes. They might have to start building again though, it's quite messy in there."

"Good. That's good." Wayne gave another shiver: cold despite the cool night air feeling good against his clammy skin. He was feeling much better sitting than he did standing but he didn't exactly feel good.

Now the adrenaline of the chase and the fight was running out weariness was replacing it. He counted himself fortunate that though he had been shot a lot, stabbed a lot, hit, broken bones, lost fingers, burnt, squashed and trampled good he'd never spent much time actually injured so this floaty feeling was a rare experience. Was this what Wax felt like when he was filling his metalmind? Prob'ly. Shu'd ask 'im s'metime.

"Hey, don't fall asleep here. I will carry you home if I have to but you are too heavy a lump for me to do so willingly."

Wayne woke up with a jolt as Wax thumped his shoulder, shaking his head to try and free it of encroaching darkness. Everything seemed so much effort though, and the reasons why were slipping away. He must be hurt. He should try ta heal... oh. Tha' right. He couldn't

"You won't carry me 'cross one... tiny ci'y when I... carried you, fif'y miles through wilderness... that time?" Wayne moaned, trying to hide his disorientation and speak clearly despite the fact his head was filled with clouds. Wayne was with it enough to notice Wax's sideyed glance: he may not be a tin-eye but damn did that man notice stuff.

"It was five miles. And I made sure I barely weighed anything."

The reality was it had been closer to fifteen and they both knew it. But this part of the game they played when they each pretended not to be counting the close calls and the near misses, getting the numbers confused and getting one up on the other. It still kept them both awake some nights though.

"But I think we have a better alternative." Wax raised his voice "Maybe one of these nice people would go find us a carriage instead." Wax addressed the small crowd that had gathered: workers from nearby buildings, passers-by and the small group who Wax had recently saved from being crushed to death. People always seemed keen to get a look at the renowned Dawnshot, particularly when there was no active shooting. Just a shame for them they had to look at his sorry form at the same time. There was some hushed conversation in the group, and then a couple ran off into the surrounding streets.

Wax nodded in satisfaction. He always seemed to get what he wanted: he had some sort of natural charm that made his life easier the bastard. Wayne had to pretend to be other people to be liked. Not that he blamed them, not really, he could be difficult to like.

Now was not the time for this sort of self pity however. Now was the time for another type of self pity entirely, one in which he was still bleeding, his thoughts felt as slow and heavy as his heart and he was longing to sleep. Wax would no doubt poke him full more full of holes later and call it 'stitching' being much better at inflicting bullet wounds than repairing them. Maybe Wax would even let him drink while he was sown up. Steris didn't usually approve but maybe just this once, being as he had saved Wax's life an all.

"Do ya think I sh'd get a pipe?" Wayne asked his partner as a carriage came into view, making it's way through the gathered throng. At last.

"What are you talking about now? Did you get hit on the head as well?" Wax gestured to the carriage driver, who pulled to a stop in front of them.

"No, I just …... think it might look... distinguished." Wayne muttered.

Wax stood, brushing the dust from his jacket briskly, before reaching his hands down to Wayne. He was eased to his feet, slower this time and Wax kept a firm grip on his shoulders. Wayne was grateful for that, as his head swam at the movement. This 'being injured' thing was getting old fast: how long would this dizzyness last? How long until he would be able to start to store health? Too long, that's how long.

Wayne saw the driver give him a dubious look as he allowed himself to be helped in – no doubt wondering how much damage a bleeding lawman could do to his upholstery. A lot. The answer was a lot, and he had Wayne's sympathy for the clean up.

Sitting down heavily Wayne felt in some sort of trance as Wax joined him, pulling the door closed: lightheaded, woozy and slow of thought. Wax looked at him with concern.

"Do you want me to take you to a hospital instead?"

Wayne didn't shake his head, knowing how much of a mistake that would be so just said "Nah... just … s'me sleep. I think. These're not too bad." Six grazes where there had been six deep holes in his chest? Most people would feel lucky but he just hurt right now and was in no mood to be poked and prodded by curious doctors who wanted to see a Bloodmaker laid low.

"Fine. For now." Wax gave him a stern look. "Stiches, something to help you heal and some sleep are the order of the day."

Wayne could already feel his eyes slipping closed, the heavy weight of fatigue draping over him like an unwelcome blanket. At this rate... Wax would... have to... carry him.

The last thing Wayne heard before he drifted off against the rocking motion of the carriage was the calm voice of his longtime friend confirming, that yes, he would look very dashing with a pipe.