fall.
He sat down on the edge of the bed, leaving her to straddle the chair. She had to pry, he knew. He would as well, if it had been him, not knowing. He had to let her then. She would give up, and either shoot him, turn him in, or let him be. For the first time he noticed she didn't have the gun on her. She must have forgotten it somewhere. That didn't bode well. He didn't want her to be too frightened now, couldn't afford for her to scream.
He got up and walked to the closest armor alcove, took down a stun gun, and walked back to where she sat, unmoving, mortified.
"Here, take this and point it at me," he said softly. He flicked the safety off while handing it to her, handle first, and sat back down on the bed, not two meters away from her. She didn't strike him as someone who'd ever fired one of these, but at this distance, even a toddler would hit the target. She should feel in control again. He needed her to feel in control.
"Riley," barely above whisper, that. Her gun hand was dangling uselessly over the back of the chair. He was paying attention to that hand for some reason. She called him by name. He didn't like hearing his name from her lips.
"Some of your wounds need stitches. There is an old med kit on the floor below. It's unoccupied now. It should have the basics, a needle and thread at least. I can try to stitch them up, but I don't have any way of getting you pain meds or HealX without going to the med floor, and there is always someone there," she trailed off, looking down at her feet, anywhere but his face, "I don't know if you can take it, the pain, or if I can do it right, but they look too deep to heal on their own..." She looked up at him timidly.
There was sadness or maybe pity in the way she was looking at him. He didn't know if their implants included feelings, if that was even possible. Did she feel the pain of the loss of her dog, Blanche, she said its name was? Did she miss his smell, the impossibly soft fur on the top of his head, or was it just a name to her? Yet this, her looking at him with so much sadness, no, probably pity. This felt real, and it made him ache deep down in a way he hadn't ached in a very long time. He had no right to hurt this girl. He didn't ask for her to find him this morning, but she didn't ask for it either.
Still, he could tell she was hurting now. He could try to just send her away, beg for her to pretend this never happened, and let him be. Something in those sad eyes of hers told him that wouldn't work. He got that too. He didn't think he'd walk away in her place either. But this, the hurting her, had to stop. And yet, she could be useful now, and she seemed to want to help him. Maybe that, helping him, would be enough for her to go back to her almost-wife life, thinking about the boy she'd make babies with, the nobility of her purpose or whatever it was they made them believe to make them so happy and docile about the whole thing.
Think, stupid. Wounds, stitches. No more agonizing pain after this . Could he do it without screaming was really what she was asking. He'd be risking her life as much as his if he did scream. He knew that much, even if she didn't. He couldn't ask her to do that, couldn't ask her to risk that. So he had to be certain he didn't scream, had to find a way not to. He didn't remember screaming with Hassinger. He was pretty sure he didn't, but he was too embarrassed to ask Drake. This can't be as bad though. He couldn't imagine anything ever hurting as bad as that did. So this, this he could do. He had to. He nodded to her, finally, dismissing her on her errand and leaned back, exhausted from the strain of keeping it together and the strain of trying to ignore the agonizing pain from the slices in his back.
He drifted to sleep, hoping he was far too tired to dream, to relive that last walk home. He wasn't. He could almost smell the impending melting of the snow, the stale greenery still trapped beneath the bark and under the coal
He sat down on the edge of the bed, leaving her to straddle the chair. She had to pry, he knew. He would as well, if it had been him, not knowing. He had to let her then. She would give up, and either shoot him, turn him in, or let him be. For the first time he noticed she didn't have the gun on her. She must have forgotten it somewhere. That didn't bode well. He didn't want her to be too frightened now, couldn't afford for her to scream.
He got up and walked to the closest armor alcove, took down a stun gun, and walked back to where she sat, unmoving, mortified.
"Here, take this and point it at me," he said softly. He flicked the safety off while handing it to her, handle first, and sat back down on the bed, not two meters away from her. She didn't strike him as someone who'd ever fired one of these, but at this distance, even a toddler would hit the target. She should feel in control again. He needed her to feel in control.
"Riley," barely above whisper, that. Her gun hand was dangling uselessly over the back of the chair. He was paying attention to that hand for some reason. She called him by name. He didn't like hearing his name from her lips.
"Some of your wounds need stitches. There is an old med kit on the floor below. It's unoccupied now. It should have the basics, a needle and thread at least. I can try to stitch them up, but I don't have any way of getting you pain meds or HealX without going to the med floor, and there is always someone there," she trailed off, looking down at her feet, anywhere but his face, "I don't know if you can take it, the pain, or if I can do it right, but they look too deep to heal on their own..." She looked up at him timidly.
There was sadness or maybe pity in the way she was looking at him. He didn't know if their implants included feelings, if that was even possible. Did she feel the pain of the loss of her dog, Blanche, she said its name was? Did she miss his smell, the impossibly soft fur on the top of his head, or was it just a name to her? Yet this, her looking at him with so much sadness, no, probably pity. This felt real, and it made him ache deep down in a way he hadn't ached in a very long time. He had no right to hurt this girl. He didn't ask for her to find him this morning, but she didn't ask for it either.
Still, he could tell she was hurting now. He could try to just send her away, beg for her to pretend this never happened, and let him be. Something in those sad eyes of hers told him that wouldn't work. He got that too. He didn't think he'd walk away in her place either. But this, the hurting her, had to stop. And yet, she could be useful now, and she seemed to want to help him. Maybe that, helping him, would be enough for her to go back to her almost-wife life, thinking about the boy she'd make babies with, the nobility of her purpose or whatever it was they made them believe to make them so happy and docile about the whole thing.
Think, stupid. Wounds, stitches. No more agonizing pain after this . Could he do it without screaming was really what she was asking. He'd be risking her life as much as his if he did scream. He knew that much, even if she didn't. He couldn't ask her to do that, couldn't ask her to risk that. So he had to be certain he didn't scream, had to find a way not to. He didn't remember screaming with Hassinger. He was pretty sure he didn't, but he was too embarrassed to ask Drake. This can't be as bad though. He couldn't imagine anything ever hurting as bad as that did. So this, this he could do. He had to. He nodded to her, finally, dismissing her on her errand and leaned back, exhausted from the strain of keeping it together and the strain of trying to ignore the agonizing pain from the slices in his back.
He drifted to sleep, hoping he was far too tired to dream, to relive that last walk home. He wasn't. He could almost smell the impending melting of the snow, the stale greenery still trapped beneath the bark and under the coal
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