dust-colored, iced over banks that would soon be dripping away in tiny gray streaks and then turn to slush underfoot. Few blocks to the little shack of a house, to Samson...the little grave he never knew about. He jerked awake with a start, Samson's collar on the floor of the mud room blurring into none-being from his memory.
The girl was at the sink, filling up a bowl with steaming water. The gun was off and on the shelf behind him, within easy reach of him, but not her. Just as well. She couldn't shoot him. He thought as much when he first saw her staring at him, scared, pointing the gun at him and terrified of it going off. Some people just weren't wired to kill, even if they thought of you as the enemy.
She walked over to him, carrying the opened med kit in the one hand and the water in the other. She had him straddle the chair, and grab the back so he didn't fall. He had no intention of falling, but he complied. An impossibly warm, wet towel was gently washing his back. If not for the open wounds, he would have enjoyed it. Even with that, it felt entirely too familiar, too soft and warm, too comforting. He hadn't had anyone wash him since long before they lost Ella. He could barely remember the touch of his mother's hands on his back...
This felt too intimate. Too personal somehow. He couldn't do this. Not the stitching, but this gentle, warm washing away, this touch. He bolted upright, facing her, looking at this gentle girl, her eyes liquid silver, ready to spill tears again at any moment, and the ache got worse, "I'm sorry, Amelia... I'm sorry, but I can't," and inexplicably, he had to turn away from her, hide his face. He would have run, if there was anywhere for him to run to, but all he could do was walk away from her.
He made his way to the back of the den, into the semi-darkness, sat down on the floor, and put his head into his hands. He knew he was being a weakling, a whimpering little boy, a coward. He needed for his mind to just go blank for once. He needed to not think at all, if only for a little while. He sat there, willing himself into the lull of not quite sleep, that in-between place where his dreams couldn't chase him. Time, he was wasting time. He bit his bottom lip, hard, harder than he should have. He felt the trickle of liquid tickle its way down his chin, tasted the tinny salt of it. Stupid, idiot, moron child... He needed to calm the hell down and let the girl stitch his wounds. He could bear it, he had to.
He slid up the wall and walked back out towards the loft, looking for her, "Amelia." This came out more croaky than he would have liked. And then he saw her, sobbing into her knees, crouched under the shelf with the gun on it, her tiny shoulders rising and falling fast, too fast. He knelt in front of her, not accustomed to comforting anyone, not quite knowing how to.
He tentatively patted her hair. Samson always liked when he did that. Samson, the dog. He was taking cues from his dog. He was thinking too much, he knew. Overthinking. He just needed to hold her, tell her that it wasn't her fault, that she didn't do this to him, that it was something else, something she couldn't fix anymore than he could. It wasn't something anyone could fix, but no words came out. She looked so small and so helpless. Without a word, he reached over and folded her small form into his arms, nestling her head on his chest, and rocked her, stroking her hair, breathing into it, waiting for the sobs to stop.
He calculated they still had a few hours left before dinner. That was the good news. But this girl was too fragile. He didn't think she could stitch him up now, not after he bolted like that. Not without him telling her something, only there wasn't anything he could tell her to make this any easier for her. He was angry at himself for reacting so stupidly, for letting it get to him like that.
The girl was breathing softly now, head still on his chest, the wetness cooling. The sobbing was over, at last. He
The girl was at the sink, filling up a bowl with steaming water. The gun was off and on the shelf behind him, within easy reach of him, but not her. Just as well. She couldn't shoot him. He thought as much when he first saw her staring at him, scared, pointing the gun at him and terrified of it going off. Some people just weren't wired to kill, even if they thought of you as the enemy.
She walked over to him, carrying the opened med kit in the one hand and the water in the other. She had him straddle the chair, and grab the back so he didn't fall. He had no intention of falling, but he complied. An impossibly warm, wet towel was gently washing his back. If not for the open wounds, he would have enjoyed it. Even with that, it felt entirely too familiar, too soft and warm, too comforting. He hadn't had anyone wash him since long before they lost Ella. He could barely remember the touch of his mother's hands on his back...
This felt too intimate. Too personal somehow. He couldn't do this. Not the stitching, but this gentle, warm washing away, this touch. He bolted upright, facing her, looking at this gentle girl, her eyes liquid silver, ready to spill tears again at any moment, and the ache got worse, "I'm sorry, Amelia... I'm sorry, but I can't," and inexplicably, he had to turn away from her, hide his face. He would have run, if there was anywhere for him to run to, but all he could do was walk away from her.
He made his way to the back of the den, into the semi-darkness, sat down on the floor, and put his head into his hands. He knew he was being a weakling, a whimpering little boy, a coward. He needed for his mind to just go blank for once. He needed to not think at all, if only for a little while. He sat there, willing himself into the lull of not quite sleep, that in-between place where his dreams couldn't chase him. Time, he was wasting time. He bit his bottom lip, hard, harder than he should have. He felt the trickle of liquid tickle its way down his chin, tasted the tinny salt of it. Stupid, idiot, moron child... He needed to calm the hell down and let the girl stitch his wounds. He could bear it, he had to.
He slid up the wall and walked back out towards the loft, looking for her, "Amelia." This came out more croaky than he would have liked. And then he saw her, sobbing into her knees, crouched under the shelf with the gun on it, her tiny shoulders rising and falling fast, too fast. He knelt in front of her, not accustomed to comforting anyone, not quite knowing how to.
He tentatively patted her hair. Samson always liked when he did that. Samson, the dog. He was taking cues from his dog. He was thinking too much, he knew. Overthinking. He just needed to hold her, tell her that it wasn't her fault, that she didn't do this to him, that it was something else, something she couldn't fix anymore than he could. It wasn't something anyone could fix, but no words came out. She looked so small and so helpless. Without a word, he reached over and folded her small form into his arms, nestling her head on his chest, and rocked her, stroking her hair, breathing into it, waiting for the sobs to stop.
He calculated they still had a few hours left before dinner. That was the good news. But this girl was too fragile. He didn't think she could stitch him up now, not after he bolted like that. Not without him telling her something, only there wasn't anything he could tell her to make this any easier for her. He was angry at himself for reacting so stupidly, for letting it get to him like that.
The girl was breathing softly now, head still on his chest, the wetness cooling. The sobbing was over, at last. He
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