Patrick looked on uselessly, completely unable to act for all the weight he now bore. He grimaced; for all her confidence, it looked like she was just deadweight in the end.
"Aye, a right helpless princess," Patrick chided sarcastically, despite the currently rather uncaring state of the subject of his criticism. "A major pain in the arse. Probably worthless, too."
The bags clinked as he assessed their value once more. It wasn't a terribly easy decision, as he could only manage two of the three; whatever, or whomever, he left behind was as good as gone by the time he got back from his place. If he hid a body, they'd either wake up, bleed out, or get kidnapped before he could return. If he hid the money, well...it was always safe to assume some thug or crook was watching from some rancid pit that lined these streets. The bags wouldn't stay hidden for long.
Then what was the point in keeping them? Dropping Walker to the ground unceremoniously, he stuffed as much cash into his pockets as he could. Satisfied, he dumped both bags onto the ground, spilling out their contents and leaving the empty cloth skin in his hands. Next he bent down beside Sapphire's unconscious form and began a field treatment to staunch the wound, stuffing one bag into the cut and using the other (once it had been cut longways to stretch its length) to hold the first in place. Satisfied, Patrick stood back up.
The rustle and scuff of shoes on concrete grabbed his attention, and he turned. Several forms stood hidden in the shadow of the nearby alleyway, wide eyes filled equally with fear of the large gun he carried and greed for the cash on the ground. He raised his voice commandingly.
"Soon as I'm outta here, it's all yers, ya vultures."
Paddy stole a look at the chick. The impromptu bandage was already turning red. Time to go. Hoisting Sapphire onto his shoulder as he'd done before with Walker, the Irishman bent down to grab the theif around his middle, carrying him under his arm. A gate flashed into existence before him, its brother appearing farther down the road toward his apartment. With a final glance at the stalkers and a shake of his head, he stepped through the gate. And as soon as it disappeared, the horde descended, clawing and lashing out for even a bit of free money.
For his part, Patrick kicked open his door. He let Walker go, not minding the crack of his skull against the peeling yellowed linoleum. Sapphire he placed on the table, allowing her legs to hang from it so as to keep her head on the plastic surface. Two steps out and two steps back secured him a sewing kit and a mostly empty bottle of scotch whiskey: his last. He didn't think twice. Twisting the cap off and pushing free the bandage, he doused the wound, the needle, and the thread in the alcohol. Carefully as he could manage, Patrick got to work, trying his best to recall the very, very brief medical class he'd received while in the service.