Bloody Intentions { BL SLOWBURN }

Seven : Lucky

Luka sat shirtless on the examination table in the dimly lit back room of the De Luca headquarters, the harsh smell of disinfectant filling his nostrils with each shallow breath. The acrid, chemical tang burned the back of his throat, making him want to cough, the sharp odour mingling with the faint scent of blood and sweat he knew came from him. He needed a shower, or some kind of scrub down, but for the moment he was confined to the medical room, forced to undergo treatment in the first time in years.

His body ached with every slight movement, the dull, throbbing pain radiating from his ribs to his shoulders, arms and face. Each breath sent a wave of discomfort through him, the sharp sting of his fresh bruises making his skin feel tight and inflamed. Beneath the cold, clinical light, the purplish marks on his torso stood out starkly against his pale skin, a map of the damage Damon had inflicted marred with the blood that smeared over them, courtesy of a split lip he’d also been gifted.

The doctor's hands, cool and steady, ghosted over Luka's ribs with practiced detachment. He flinched slightly at the contact, muscles tensing instinctively, though he forced himself to stay still, determined to get this over with as quicky as possible to reclaim what was left of his fractured ego. The cold air in the room clung to his sweaty skin, making the sharp ache in his bones even more pronounced and each time the doctor’s fingers probed a particularly sore spot, Luka’s body tensed, the sting shooting through him like an electric current as his muscles twitched beneath the bruises.

His chest heaved slightly as the doctor leaned in closer, the sterile smell intensifying, the pressure on his ribs making his entire body scream in protest. But Luka said nothing, gritting his teeth and staring at the ceiling.

Finally stepping back, Dr Hwang wiped his hands on a towel before letting out a soft sigh. “A few fractured ribs and more bruises than I can count. But considering who you were up against... You’re lucky, Luka. You could’ve come out a lot worse.”

Luka didn’t respond. He just stared ahead, eyes locked on a spot on the wall, the doctor’s words barely registering. His mind was still stuck in that bar, reliving the fight in fragments, replaying Damon’s every move, every strike. He could still feel the weight of that gaze on him, the unnerving calm that had shaken him more than the hits ever could. The door to the small room creaked open and Tony strolled in with usual swagger, sounding out a low whistle as he leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his chest as he took in Luca’s battered form.

“I’ve gotta say, I’ve never seen anything like it.” He muttered, voice filled with a kind of impressed disbelief. “Everyone’s talking about it, man. The whole crew can’t stop. I mean, I’d heard stories about Damon, but to actually see him fight...”

He trailed off, shaking his head like he was still trying to process what he had witnessed. The Doctor hummed.

“I can tell by Luka’s injuries it was pretty brutal.”

“Even I got chills. Hell, I don’t know how he managed to survive that, let alone hold his own.” He stepped forward and gave Luka’s arm a nudge. “I admire you even more now. Not many people can say they walked away from a fight with the Damon Salvatore and lived to tell the tale!”

Luka’s gaze slowly shifted to Tony, his expression unreadable. There was no satisfaction in his eyes, no pride in surviving the fight. He simply stared at Tony, jaw tight and body tense despite the obvious pain.

Tony chuckled awkwardly. “Hey, I get it. But believe me, you would’ve been dead if I hadn’t dragged you away. That psychopath wasn’t going to stop.”

Despite his intention to remain calm, Luka’s fists clenched at his sides, knuckles white against the bruised, split skin. He couldn’t shake the quiet shame that had begun to seep into his chest, the slow, gnawing sense of disappointment in himself. He had fought bigger men before, stronger ones too, but none had ever pushed him to the edge like this. None had ever made him feel so… Vulnerable. Damon hadn’t just been better—he had known he was better and that stung more than the bruises littering Luka’s body. If his men hadn’t dragged him away, if the fight hadn’t been broken up, Luka knew Damon wouldn’t have stopped—he would have kept going until one of them wasn’t walking out of that bar. And deep down, Luka knew that person would’ve been him.

That knowledge left him feeling hollow, like a part of him had been stripped away, leaving only raw nerves and a bruised, battered pride.

“You should’ve left me.” He muttered.

Tony frowned. “Come on, Luka. You know that’s bullshit. Damon would’ve killed you, and then what? You think any of us want to see you dead because of some pissing match with the Novak’s?”

Luka didn’t respond. He stared down at his hands, flexing them, remembering the feel of his fists connecting with Damon’s jaw, the shock of realizing it had barely fazed him. No one had ever made Luka feel that way in a fight. That kind of helplessness.

The doctor, having finished bandaging his ribs and cleared his throat. “You should rest. You’re not in terrible condition, but you need to take it easy for the next few days after the strain your body’s gone through. Don’t push yourself.”

“I can’t rest.” Luka snapped.

His jaw clenched as he shifted on the table, wincing as the pain flared through his bruised ribs. The words felt sharp in his throat, each one dripping with irritation. There was no rest for him. Not now. Not when his body still burned with the memory of every blow Damon had landed, not when his mind was caught in the storm of everything that had happened.

“You can’t rest, or you won’t?”

He glared at the wall. “Same thing.”

The doctor glanced at Luka but said nothing more. He simply gathered his things and quietly left the room.

“You should listen to Doc. You’ve fought guys bigger than you, tougher than you, but this? It’s different.”

Luka looked up sharply. “I know what happened, Tony.”

“I’m serious, Luka. You need to stay away from him. Damon’s—”

“Not like the others.” He finished, voice edged with bitterness. “Yeah, I got that loud and clear.”

Tony stared at him for a moment, unsure of how to respond. Finally, he sighed again, running a hand through his hair. “Just... Be careful. You’re not invincible.”

With that, Tony turned and left the room, finally leaving Luka alone. He exhaled slowly, the tension in his body not easing as it should have. The fight, the intensity of it, Damon’s cold gaze—it all stayed with him, refusing to let him go. There had been something in the way Damon had looked at him, something unsettling, as if the fight had meant more than a simple pissing match. He couldn’t shake the image of Damon walking backward out of the bar, that smirk still playing on his lips. What even was that? He still wasn’t entirely sure he even had seen it.

He climbed off the table with a wince, pain shooting through his ribs as his bare feet hit the cold floor. He reached for his shirt, the fabric feeling rough against his sore skin and pulled it over his head, deliberately avoiding the mirror on the wall. He didn’t need to see the bruises to know they were there—dark, angry marks. He could feel them with every breath, every movement, a constant reminder of just how close he'd come to being taken down. Without sparing a glance at his reflection, Luka straightened his back and left the medical room, his head held high despite the aching in his body.

As soon as he stepped into the common room of the De Luca compound, he felt the weight of eyes on him. Conversations faltered, the low hum of chatter turning into hushed whispers as he walked through the space.

“Is that him? He’s the one who fought the Novak psychopath…”

“They say he almost went down…”

“How’s he even still standing?”

The words hung in the air, just loud enough for Luka to catch but not confront directly. He kept his gaze fixed ahead, steps steady though he could feel their judgment, their awe mixed with disbelief that someone had faced Damon Salvatore and lived to tell the tale. And despite the bitterness simmering inside him, Luka knew that those whispers were true. Their words clung to him like shadows as he made his way toward the hallway leading to the private rooms. His own, tucked at the end of the hall, felt like the only place where he could finally be alone. But even as he reached for the door handle, the tension inside him refused to loosen. The bruises on his body were nothing compared to the knot of frustration and anger twisting in his gut.

He’d survived the fight, but for the first time in years, he wasn’t sure if that had been enough.