[Anthony] Stubborn
Time passes.
I sleep and dream, wake and hurt. Anthony is always close, never farther than the kitchen. Sometimes I wake and he is beside me in the bed, warm and comforting, most when he is asleep with his metal arm wrapped around my waist. When I wake from a nightmare, he curls around me and murmurs into my ear words that have no meaning. I sleep again.
Anthony cares for me awkwardly. He supports my head and makes me drink water, or feeds me thin soup that tastes healthy and of nothing much else. He tells me that I need warm fluids and I don't disagree. Disagreement is too much work. When he lays my head gently on the pillows, I go back to sleep.
Time passes.
Anthony wears sweatpants and a sweater with the arms rolled up, showing a metal arm on the left, and his large, muscular arm on the right. He moves slowly as he makes his way across my loft, favoring his right leg a little and his back a lot. His left arm moves slowly, as if it, too, has not yet regained its strength. A white bandage is taped haphazardly across his forehead, while other scratches on his face have merely been covered in antibiotic gel and left to heal.
"Okay, what is it?" He smiles wryly from the kitchen, a saucepan of water in one hand.
I wrinkle my nose at being caught staring, but can't quite manage embarrassment. "You were hurt a lot more than you admitted."
He frowns and puts the saucepan on the stove. "Well. Yes. Would it have done you any good to worry about me?"
"That's not the point." I lay my head back in my pillows where he's propped me up like a rag doll and pluck disconsolately at the blankets pulled up to my chest.
Anthony turns the heat on under the water before coming to the bedside. "I'm going to be fine, Joule. You wouldn't have been. If I'd told you about the wounds I took, you would've distracted yourself on me, and I needed you focused and as calm as possible." He perches on the arm of my old armchair and rests his flesh hand on my shoulder. "What is the point, if not that?"
I frown and refuse to admit that he's probably right. "You're not Atlas to carry the entire bleeding world on your shoulders. You'd try if I let you." I intend my words to be sharp, but I'm tired and my chest has started hurting again.
Anthony releases a slow breath, then nods with a rueful smile. "I might, if I thought it was gonna crush you if I didn't."
"Current circumstances not withstanding, I'm stronger than I look." I look down at myself, the line of sutures across my breast, disappearing under the blanket, and my bandaged arm which aches steadily. "I really am. Don't... hide from me. I don't think I could stand it if you did." Don't be a martyr, Anthony. I thought we were past that.
He purses his lips, then they relax into a small, tired smile and nods. "Okay. I won't promise full disclosure the next time I've got you bleeding out. But I won't hide, either. Just remember, you asked for it."
I nod, accepting it as he shifts from the chair to the side of my bed. It creaks a little under his weight. Then, he turns his back half to me and brings his sweater up over his shoulders to show me the damage. His right side is covered in scratches and rakes, jagged and ugly, but healing, some better than others. Only a few are bandaged; the rest have been slathered in antibiotic ointment and left to their own devices. The set of claw marks left by the outsider are still bandaged, and none of the new ones are nearly as deep as those. His skin is hot under my cool fingers and he shivers.
"Oh, Anthony," I sigh. He's right; there's nothing that I could have done about it, and not much that I can do even now.
"Other than those," he continues as if I never spoke, "my right calf barely escaped the same treatment your arm got, when one of them swallowed a kick. I shattered its neck before it had time to bite down much." He lets the sweater drop back over his chest and back, and half-turns to me. "Some slashes on my face and chest, about the same as the back." He taps the bandages spanning the cuts on his forehead ruefully. "Oh... and burst blood vessels and wrenched muscles from the..." he bites back a curse. "From the paradox."
I shake my head at him sympathetically. My own adventures in paradox are painful enough, and I can imagine how he feels. "Are you really going to spare my virgin ears?" I ask him wryly. I try for a smile and think I succeed.
Anthony barks a laugh. "Not with how much you swear. No, it's... I try not to swear because of the whole Buddhist thing. Do no harm, control what you put into the world, all of that. It's... you know, it's a small thing, and maybe kinda stupid, but it's mindfulness training, too."
I nod solemnly, squeeze his shoulder gently. "It's not stupid. But it does amuse me sometimes." I drop my hand back to my lap awkwardly. "If you bring me the antibiotic goo, I can probably get these better than you can," I say at last.
He looks at me carefully, scrutinizing, and I don't try to hide anything. I'm tired again, everything hurts. But I need something for my hands, to feel not completely useless. He affects a look of disapproval, then leans towards the table and fishes around in my kit to pull out the tube of ointment. "Fine, have at. But no straining yourself, and as soon as you're done, it's soup, a little anesthetic, and back to sleep."
"Yes, sir," I murmur with a smile that doesn't take any work. He sits back and pulls his sweater halfway up his back before making an aggravated sound and rushes to the kitchen to turn off the burner. When he comes back, he mutters under his breath and strips to the waist.
I fumble withe the cap for a moment, then smooth the gel over the scratches on his back, starting with the ones that look hardest to reach. As he relaxes under my ministrations, I am glad to finally feel like all will eventually be well.
I sleep and dream, wake and hurt. Anthony is always close, never farther than the kitchen. Sometimes I wake and he is beside me in the bed, warm and comforting, most when he is asleep with his metal arm wrapped around my waist. When I wake from a nightmare, he curls around me and murmurs into my ear words that have no meaning. I sleep again.
Anthony cares for me awkwardly. He supports my head and makes me drink water, or feeds me thin soup that tastes healthy and of nothing much else. He tells me that I need warm fluids and I don't disagree. Disagreement is too much work. When he lays my head gently on the pillows, I go back to sleep.
Time passes.
Anthony wears sweatpants and a sweater with the arms rolled up, showing a metal arm on the left, and his large, muscular arm on the right. He moves slowly as he makes his way across my loft, favoring his right leg a little and his back a lot. His left arm moves slowly, as if it, too, has not yet regained its strength. A white bandage is taped haphazardly across his forehead, while other scratches on his face have merely been covered in antibiotic gel and left to heal.
"Okay, what is it?" He smiles wryly from the kitchen, a saucepan of water in one hand.
I wrinkle my nose at being caught staring, but can't quite manage embarrassment. "You were hurt a lot more than you admitted."
He frowns and puts the saucepan on the stove. "Well. Yes. Would it have done you any good to worry about me?"
"That's not the point." I lay my head back in my pillows where he's propped me up like a rag doll and pluck disconsolately at the blankets pulled up to my chest.
Anthony turns the heat on under the water before coming to the bedside. "I'm going to be fine, Joule. You wouldn't have been. If I'd told you about the wounds I took, you would've distracted yourself on me, and I needed you focused and as calm as possible." He perches on the arm of my old armchair and rests his flesh hand on my shoulder. "What is the point, if not that?"
I frown and refuse to admit that he's probably right. "You're not Atlas to carry the entire bleeding world on your shoulders. You'd try if I let you." I intend my words to be sharp, but I'm tired and my chest has started hurting again.
Anthony releases a slow breath, then nods with a rueful smile. "I might, if I thought it was gonna crush you if I didn't."
"Current circumstances not withstanding, I'm stronger than I look." I look down at myself, the line of sutures across my breast, disappearing under the blanket, and my bandaged arm which aches steadily. "I really am. Don't... hide from me. I don't think I could stand it if you did." Don't be a martyr, Anthony. I thought we were past that.
He purses his lips, then they relax into a small, tired smile and nods. "Okay. I won't promise full disclosure the next time I've got you bleeding out. But I won't hide, either. Just remember, you asked for it."
I nod, accepting it as he shifts from the chair to the side of my bed. It creaks a little under his weight. Then, he turns his back half to me and brings his sweater up over his shoulders to show me the damage. His right side is covered in scratches and rakes, jagged and ugly, but healing, some better than others. Only a few are bandaged; the rest have been slathered in antibiotic ointment and left to their own devices. The set of claw marks left by the outsider are still bandaged, and none of the new ones are nearly as deep as those. His skin is hot under my cool fingers and he shivers.
"Oh, Anthony," I sigh. He's right; there's nothing that I could have done about it, and not much that I can do even now.
"Other than those," he continues as if I never spoke, "my right calf barely escaped the same treatment your arm got, when one of them swallowed a kick. I shattered its neck before it had time to bite down much." He lets the sweater drop back over his chest and back, and half-turns to me. "Some slashes on my face and chest, about the same as the back." He taps the bandages spanning the cuts on his forehead ruefully. "Oh... and burst blood vessels and wrenched muscles from the..." he bites back a curse. "From the paradox."
I shake my head at him sympathetically. My own adventures in paradox are painful enough, and I can imagine how he feels. "Are you really going to spare my virgin ears?" I ask him wryly. I try for a smile and think I succeed.
Anthony barks a laugh. "Not with how much you swear. No, it's... I try not to swear because of the whole Buddhist thing. Do no harm, control what you put into the world, all of that. It's... you know, it's a small thing, and maybe kinda stupid, but it's mindfulness training, too."
I nod solemnly, squeeze his shoulder gently. "It's not stupid. But it does amuse me sometimes." I drop my hand back to my lap awkwardly. "If you bring me the antibiotic goo, I can probably get these better than you can," I say at last.
He looks at me carefully, scrutinizing, and I don't try to hide anything. I'm tired again, everything hurts. But I need something for my hands, to feel not completely useless. He affects a look of disapproval, then leans towards the table and fishes around in my kit to pull out the tube of ointment. "Fine, have at. But no straining yourself, and as soon as you're done, it's soup, a little anesthetic, and back to sleep."
"Yes, sir," I murmur with a smile that doesn't take any work. He sits back and pulls his sweater halfway up his back before making an aggravated sound and rushes to the kitchen to turn off the burner. When he comes back, he mutters under his breath and strips to the waist.
I fumble withe the cap for a moment, then smooth the gel over the scratches on his back, starting with the ones that look hardest to reach. As he relaxes under my ministrations, I am glad to finally feel like all will eventually be well.