It wasn't really her fault; he knew that. But still, getting mauled by a sand wolf was really not his idea of a good time, and the damned fiend would never have been able to sneak up on him if he hadn't been preoccupied, thinking about Rikku. And his own carelessness – and pain – made him mad.
The only resident Al Bhed doctor had whiskey-breath and some sort of palsy in his gnarled hands that had made the required stitches all the way up his forearm painful and lopsided. Furthermore, the last shipment of pain-killers and potions from Rin had gotten intercepted by a bunch of thieving Yevonite bastards who called themselves defenders of the true faith.
"I wouldn't worry about it too much, son," the doctor – and Gippal used that term loosely – chortled. "Rikku'll be along any minute. She's decent with the cure magic, that girl."
"Someone told her?" Gippal prodded the awkward-looking stitches and winced. Not only would he have to endure Rikku's embarrassing attentions, as he, a frequent visitor to the Infirmary, often did, but the other guys would likely tease him for weeks about her penchant for always running to his side like some sort of faithful pet. She wasn't even his girlfriend. Yet, anyway.
"They always tell her when you get brought in," Doc chuckled. "There's no keeping a secret from Cid's kid." He tossed a couple of blood-soaked bandages in the trash can as he shuffled out the door.
"Gippal?" Rikku burst into the Infirmary a few minutes later, disheveled and out of breath. "Are you okay? I came as soon as I heard."
"Yeah." He scowled. "I'm fine. Just like I was the last three times." It was a veiled hint for her to leave, but Rikku had never been much good at seeing anything beneath the blindingly obvious.
Either missing his irritation entirely or choosing to ignore it, she sidled closer, concern etching her face. "You got stitches."
"Yeah. Happens when you get mauled." He was more curt than he really ought to have been, but he still couldn't quite help blaming her for a good portion of his current pain.
"Do you need anything? A pillow? Something to drink?" She reached out to touch his forehead. "I don't think you have a fever. Doc said there was no medicine. I know some cure magic, I could help…"
"No." He reared back, away from her searching fingers. "You've done enough. Don't you have an engine to take apart or something?" Anything but giving the guys something more to taunt him with.
"No, I'm done for the day. I could find you something to eat. I think the kitchen's closed, but I'm sure I could get Yzta to open it up again if –"
"No," he snapped. "Look, I don't want you here. I never wanted you fussing over me. I hate having you run after me like a lovesick puppy. Just leave me alone, okay? I don't need you."
He didn't miss the look of hurt that crossed her face, and instantly felt guilty – like he'd kicked a puppy or torn the wings off a butterfly. He'd been needlessly cruel. It didn't sit right with him.
She turned her back for a moment, her entire body tense and trembling from the lash of his temper. Then, slowly, the tension drained from her body. "Okay. I get it." She straightened, setting her shoulders. "You don't want me here? Fine. See if I ever come back. I'd like to see who else is gonna look after you when you get yourself knocked ass over heels."
She didn't even look back as she stalked angrily out of the room, slamming the door behind her.
Sullen and annoyed, he lashed out, kicking the steel wall hard with his booted foot, sending ricochets of pain shooting up his leg.
"Hey, don't destroy the one Infirmary I got," Doc said, returning with a stack of extra bandages, handing them over to Gippal. "Use these. Change 'em out every six hours for a week. Come back here if anything don't look right."
Gippal accepted the bandages, tucking them into one of his pockets. "Hey, Doc," he called before the other man could leave the room. "Did she…cry?"
Doc shot him an enigmatic look. "Not until she got well away from the Infirmary. She wouldn'ta wanted you to know." He shook his head in disappointment. "Your mama taught you better than that, son."
"Damn," Gippal swore, feeling even worse. And he didn't need pain and guilt. Angry all over again, he threw himself back on the narrow cot and slammed the pillow over his head and resolved to forget all about Rikku and the regretful loss of his temper.
Two Rikku-less weeks later, a Yevon-planted bomb exploded in his face.
---
Through a haze of pain and confusion, he felt himself being moved. People were shouting to clear the Infirmary, as they dragged him through the long, winding halls of Home. There were frantic voices, desperate calls for people to bring whatever spare potions they had available to Doc right away, and the metallic thud of retreating footsteps. Gippal hovered at the edge of consciousness, wondering why they'd waste potions on him when he was sure he was going to die.
Then he heard it.
"Somebody get Rikku! Now!"
He didn't know who'd said it, he couldn't seem to open his eyes. They felt stuck closed, probably by drying blood – and the right one burned like fire.
His lips were chapped and bloody, his throat and mouth dry, but he forced the words out anyway. "Don't bother. She…won't come." His voiced was choked, hoarse. As they lifted him onto a small cot in what he assumed was the Infirmary, someone pressed him back, telling him to save his strength. He passed out before his head touched the pillow.
Voices faded in and out. Time passed in a blur of pain and odd hallucinations. Soft, cool fingers stroked his forehead. Soothing, somewhat distorted murmurs filled his ears, clouded his mind. An eternity later, he managed to crack his left eye open. Light pierced it with the intensity of a knife. He winced, hissing as the movement tugged stitches on the right side of his face. In fact, his whole right side throbbed and ached. He was sore and bruised and hot – he probably had a fever. The right side of his face burned beneath its bandage. He lifted his right hand to his head, smoothing back his hair. It crunched beneath his fingers, coated in dried blood. Damn. How badly had he been hurt, exactly?
"Don't move too much," Doc said in a low voice from across the room. "You'll wake her. She needs the sleep."
Confused, Gippal turned his head a little – and saw Rikku at his right. She was seated in an uncomfortable-looking metal chair at his bedside, bent over his bed with her head resting on her folded arms. Her lips were parted with her deep, even breathing, a little frown-line etched into her forehead. She looked terrible – her face was pale, her clothes wrinkled and covered in rusty bloodstains, her hair a mess of tangles.
"She came running just a few moments after we got you on the cot," Doc said, shaking his head. "Then she spent the better part of the next two days keeping you alive. Exhausted her personal stash of ethers and potions and passed out more'n once. Poor kid's worked herself harder'n any ten men saving your hide. Ain't much slept nor ate nor left this room since you got brought in four days ago. Won't even leave long enough to change clothes. I figure she just couldn't keep it up any longer, so let her sleep a while."
He moved away from the wall he'd been casually leaning against, folding his arms. "I'll see about getting you something to eat," he said. "When that girl wakes up, you better mind your manners."
He shut the door gently on his way out, but Rikku stirred a little anyway. Her brows drew together, her hand stretched across the bed, seeking his. He gave her his left, feeling her small, cool fingers clutch desperately at his even in sleep, and drew their joined hands to rest over his stomach in a more comfortable position for him. With his free hand he stroked her soft hair, trying not to get his fingers caught in the tangled web of it. It hurt his arm to move it, but it felt natural to be touching her. Touching her meant he was alive, meant he hadn't damaged their relationship irreparably with his callous disregard. Whatever she'd said, she was still here at his bedside.
A few moments later, her fingers tightened on his. Her shoulders tensed, then relaxed as she stretched a little. She yawned loudly, slowly pulling herself off the bed and into a sitting position. Her fingers left his. Rubbing her eyes, she blearily opened them, focusing dazedly on his face.
"You're awake." She sat up straighter, surprised, relieved. "How do you feel? Do you want anything?"
"I feel like hell," he answered honestly. "Some water might be nice. A potion or two wouldn't go amiss, either."
"I'll have to ask Doc for them," she said, pushing back her chair and heading to the small sink. "I can't…" she cleared her throat awkwardly. "I don't have any more, and I ran out of ethers last night. I won't be able to do any magic for a couple of hours."
She slid her palm behind his head, angling it upward so he could drink comfortably from the glass of water she'd retrieved.
"Thanks. I appreciate it," he said when he'd drained the glass and she'd set it aside. "You know, I really didn't think you'd come. Not after what I said to you a couple weeks ago. Hell, you even said you wouldn't."
"I lied, idiot." She settled back into the chair, looking down at her fingers in her lap. He wished she'd take his hand again. He missed the comforting squeeze of her fingers on his.
"So tell me," he said. "How bad off am I?" He tried to smile, but it hurt his face even more than it already did. And she didn't look like she'd much appreciate him trying to make a joke of his situation.
She plucked at fuzz on the threadbare blanket, hesitating. "They pulled shrapnel out of you for hours," she said. "There was…there was a lot of blood. You almost died a couple of times." Her breath shuddered out, like she was on the verge of crying. "You had a fever for two days, so high Doc was afraid you weren't going to make it. You kept pulling your stitches."
His hand crept across the blankets towards hers. He had the feeling she was working up to the worst part, and he dreaded it. His fingertips brushed her knuckles – she looked down, surprised, but curled her fingers in his, squeezing tightly. She took a deep breath, as though gathering her courage, then looked him right in the eye.
"You took the biggest hit to the right side of your face," she said.
"How bad?" His voice sounded hoarse, fearful, even to him.
"Doc pulled five bits of shrapnel out of your eye alone," she said. "It was too damaged, Gippal. They couldn't save it. I'm sorry."
"Wow." He fought the urge to reach up, yank the bandage off, and check for himself. Though if he did, and discovered just an empty socket beneath the eyelid, he wasn't sure he could handle it. "Anything…anything else?"
She shook her head, biting her lower lip worriedly. "Gippal, you'll get through this, okay? It'll take some adjustment, but it's not the end of the world."
He bit back a sharp retort. Rikku was still whole; she couldn't possibly understand how he felt. He took refuge in humor. "Guess I won't be winning any beauty contests any time soon, huh?"
She shot up, suddenly furious with him, planting her fists on her hips. "Don't do that!" She said forcefully. "Don't you dare wallow!"
He tried to push himself to his elbows, but the motion set pain coursing through his body. "What the hell else am I supposed to do? I just lost my fucking eye!" He made a frustrated sound in the back of his throat. Couldn't she even let him feel sorry for himself for a while? "I'm not the same person anymore," he said. "My face just got blown all to hell, in case you hadn't noticed. I'm gonna look like this the rest of my life, so why are you even here? I'm not handsome anymore, Rikku!"
"Idiot!" She kicked the metal frame of his bed, then raked her fingers through her disheveled hair, wincing as they caught on some knots. "How could you be so stupid? How could you think I'm so shallow? Even if you lose an eye, even if you have scars, you're still you. It doesn't change the fact that no matter how many times you get hurt, no matter how many times you yell at me, I'll still come running when you're taken to the infirmary. It doesn't change the fact that I…" she trailed off, hiccoughing. She shook her head disbelievingly, shooting him a betrayed glance over her shoulder. "I'm really mad at you right now," she whispered.
Silently, she walked to the door. She turned the door knob and paused before stepping over the threshold. "Get better," she said softly, without looking back at him. She closed the door behind her.
A few moments later the door opened again as Doc entered, carrying a small tray of food. "You say something stupid again?"
Gippal winced. "Yeah. Was she crying again?"
"No, but she looked like she wanted to. She'll forgive you. She always does. You hungry?" He offered the tray to Gippal.
"Yeah. Yeah, I am." He let Doc pull him carefully into a sitting position that didn't unnecessarily jostle his wounds, then tackled his breakfast.
"Take it easy, son. You ain't ate for a couple days. I don't wanna have to clean it up if you gotta hurl." Doc settled into a chair, kicking his feet up on a small end table. "You're taking it pretty well. Rikku tell you how bad it was?"
"Yeah." He tapped the bandage over his eye. "I just don't have time to feel sorry for myself anymore."
"Oh? Why not?"
"Rikku," he said, shoveling a bit of potato into his mouth. "She'll probably kill me." At the very least, she'd given him a bit of insight. No matter how he'd treated her, no matter how badly he got blown up, she still came running. And he knew that even if he'd pissed her off, if he called for her, she'd come. She would always come. Because – as he was pretty sure she was about to say before she'd left – she loved him.
She'd given him something to hope for, something to look forward to…something to live for. That trumped any pity he might have for himself.
"Most of the scars'll fade," he heard Doc say behind him. "Give it a couple of months; you won't even notice 'em."
"Huh." Gippal peered down at his reflection in shiny metal tray. A little distorted and macabre, considering the bruises and stitches all over his face, but…not altogether hideous. He regretted the loss of his eye, but like Rikku had said, it wasn't the end of the world. He'd adjust.
And he couldn't help thinking he'd probably look pretty damn good in an eyepatch.