Chapter Text
You wake up through a haze of painkillers. Your stomach turns at the feel of the drugs, in memory of the intoxication that stole away your identity.
You realize you're back in your room at the Whirling, staring up at that familiar ceiling fan. As everything else comes into focus you catch the smell of your own sweat, the hospital aroma of antiseptic, and some kinds of cleaning solutions. The room has been restored since you started crashing in that shack across the water.
You can tell your body is stiff and aching. It's hard to tell precisely where. You have a dull throb of a headache, your mouth is parched, your lips flaking.
After a few minutes you start to feel yourself drifting away again, then the noise of the door opening and closing rouses you. A waft of fresh air, a few quiet footsteps, then the scent of tobacco on his clothes as he approaches the bed. You twitch your right hand in greeting.
Would you like some water? His voice, softly, close to your ear. A straw presents itself against your lip a moment later, and you fill your mouth as greedily as you can manage.
His face comes into view then, his usual expressionless mouth, his eyes blurred at this distance.
If you're awake, he says, this may be a good time to use the bathroom. You take a moment and then blink your agreement at him. Can you sit up?
With his help you pull your torso up and rotate until your legs dangle off the bed. The drugs are still working but you can tell you'll feel it more later; for now every limb is a sandbag. When your head is fully raised you need a moment to sit through the rush of blood to your brain.
He stands and lifts your hands in his. You slowly shift to standing, leaning into his shoulder, his arms steadying you and holding you close. He smells like cigarettes, like he's been having more than one a day. And fresh laundry. And the breezes of the street, brought from the balcony into this tiny closed space. He sighs softly in your ear as he takes your weight.
When your eyes can focus again you lift your head and find him peering back at you, the concern in his eyes magnified through the thick lenses of his glasses. You rotate bathroomwards and he follows you, a step to the side, hands still on your upper arms. Putting weight on your leg is one giant throb, everything below your hips, but if you look down and make sure nothing is bent impossibly, walking is smooth.
You deposit yourself in front of the mirror, hands holding your weight on the sink, and look yourself in the eye. Under your tank top strap you can see a giant ovaline purple. That armour worked, but you wouldn't have lasted long under a hail of bullets. Kim's breath behind you indicates he is imagining something similar. Your hair is even worse than usual, your skin pasty and blotched, the circles around your eyes nearly black. You focus on Kim's reflection and realize he looks much the same under these lights. Time to attempt croaking out your first word:
Ouch.
He snorts at you.
Were you hit? you whisper.
No hits, he says softly. A concussion. At this you remember he's told you already. You've woken up before, you guess.
Two or three times, he confirms. This is the first time you've gotten up, though. You can tell this progress of yours is a relief, making his smile rueful.
Well then, you croak. To the next step. You hobble a few feet to the toilet and realize you're not sure you can lower yourself without falling. Your assistant steps up without asking and takes your hands in his again. Once you're seated he removes himself silently and closes the door, while you shift and wiggle to remove your underwear. When you're done, you manage to rise up to your feet and shuffle back to the sink. You are breathing hard with the effort. The mirror has nothing new to say to you at the moment. He hears the flush and the tap and comes in to escort you back to bed.
As you sit you hear a squishing sound, feel a strange texture, like Kim or maybe Garte has wrapped this cheap foldout futon in a plastic bedsheet. Smart, and also typical for this seedy hostel. You wonder if you already soaked the threadbare cushions beneath with your blood.
How is the ....? you ask, gesturing at what looks to be a lot of bandages starting just under your underwear hem and reaching almost to your knee. He lifts your heel and stretches your leg out onto the chair you notice is sitting facing the bed.
Have you been sleeping there? you ask as he starts to peel up an edge of tape. He's wearing a plain white tee and grey elasticized sweatpants. No sign of the gloves. You find yourself mesmerized by his bare, slim, pale hands, neatly cut nails, a shadow of knuckle hair worn short from the friction.
Better to be close if you needed anything, he says, focusing on his work.
But you have a concussion. You need your rest too.
He is replacing the gauze in silence, avoiding your face. The wound is shallow, he says once it's revealed. Very small. The big wrapping was just to contain the ... blood, at first. I'll do a neater one now.
He is ashamed of his work, a voice says. He went overboard, wasted materials, showed a lack of objectivity.
The stitches are so neat, you say to mollify him. That will heal nicely. I won't even notice it soon.
He huffs a breath out and continues bandaging. Standard training. You can do it too, I imagine.
You risk a joke at him. What, with my renowned steady hands?
You seem to pull yourself together when needed, he says quietly. I haven't thanked you for saving my life yet.
But he has, you think. You can hear an echo of his voice, feel the pressure of his hand on yours. Probably the other times you woke up. He made a point of it.
He is finished and sits for a moment to survey. Your leg is wrinkled in tape lines and its usual sallow unhealthy colour, but the smell lacks anything noticeably rotten. He's done an admirable job alone in this room, with barely any tools, and no help.
We've saved each other now, you whisper. We're even.
You silently follow it up with a No we're not. You've saved me from getting myself killed at least five times in one week. Never mind pressing your weight into my wound or pushing a needle through my skin.
He looks up at you then and you worry you've said this bit out loud too. He blinks slowly, owlishly behind his giant lenses in the thin light, then raises up from his crouch. Time to sleep, detective.
There is one more pill and another long drink of water. Then he gently holds your shoulders to support you as you lower yourself back and swing your legs up. You think for a moment he might kiss you on the forehead when he pauses over you, but then he straightens.
As he steps away you reach out and latch onto his wrist. Well, you try to. In actuality you sort of clumsily bat at his hand and pinch his pinky finger a bit on the way by. Kim, you say. Don't go.
He glances at that terrible chair and you say, No. You twist as quickly as you can to move to the far side, making a spot for him, and your shoulder twinges at you angrily. There's space for two, you try to say in a normal voice. You look down and are happy to see there are no immediate blood pools on offer.
He stands, silent and still, for a long moment. You avoid his gaze and instead focus on lying back down and taking up as little space as possible.
Another long breath and you feel the cushions dip beside you. Your outstretched right hand makes contact with his cool bare arm, the skin soft over wiry muscle and sinew. You reflexively reach for his hand, lace your fingers into his, and squeeze, and he doesn't squeeze back, but he doesn't move away either. He just leaves his hand resting loosely on top of yours.
You need hardly any time at all to fall back asleep. The room turns to mist around you, the faint evening lights of the city through the windows dissipating through your eyelashes. You only feel a warmth along one side of your body, a tug like a string tied to your right hand.
There are no voices in your dreams.