Wilderness
Thearpy
Chapter Four
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"Are you feeling any pain?" Hutch asked as he pulled the toilet seat down and lowered me to the lid.
"No!" I looked into his eyes and lied, "Nothing." My stomach was doing three-quarter loops and something unpleasant was trying to creep up my parched throat.
"Nothing, huh, buddy?" Hutch used the same suspicious tone he used when we interrogated suspects.
I paused to take a breath, still looking Hutch in the eye. I could tell every protective instinct in him was on high alert. "Except for that hole you're burning into my skull," I added. Feeling a dribble of blood drip down my cheek, I reached over, taking a few bits of toilet paper and pressing the tissue against the side of my face.
Hutch stopped staring at me, going about the business of gathering up the supplies he would need to mend my wounds.
"Here." He took my hand away from my cheek, the toilet paper shredding and sticking to my fingers. "Hold this there," he ordered, pressing a peroxide-moistened washcloth against the side of my face.
"Ouch! That burns," I complained.
"Really?" Hutch deadpanned.
I should have thrown the washcloth at him and split, but behind the angry voice rang the sound of my partner's fear. Hutch had had enough difficulty the past few months. Watching me nearly die left a hole in his heart the size of the Titanic -- I couldn't tear that empty space open more, he'd sink for sure.
"Sorry," I whispered and hung my head.
"Buddy..." Hutch squatted down before me, dabbing at my bloodiedknees with a cotton ball." "Don't be sorry, just please do what I ask. Okay?"
I could have continued the argument. Hutch had to learn he couldn't protect me forever. Instead I pasted on a smile, gave a half-salute, and said, "Okay, sir, Capt'n, sir."
"Okay."
Hutch groped for some gauze, and I could tell by the expression on his face he didn't believe me. Hell, I didn't believe me either.
Hutch performed his nursing duties smoothly and efficiently, while I handled his maneuvers with as few grunts and groans as I could manage.
I held my breath and measured Hutch's every move. His hands shook as he continued to dab the cotton ball, cleaning up the dried blood on my arms, elbows, and then my knees. He kept his touch light and gentle but pain shot through me. Everything always hurt so much more after the shooting. I bit my lip, but Hutch's compassion always outweighed the pain. Even in the hospital, his touch comforted me better than any syringe full of morphine could.
"You still mad?" I asked, shifting the leg he was working on.
"Nope." Hutch shook his head. "Man, Starsk, this is going to take a long time to heal."
"Just like you, huh?"
Hutch managed a weak grin, accepting my observation.
Hutch was torn between caring for me and allowing me some independence. I knew that. How many times in these last four months had I wished I had gotten down when he had told me to.Who knows. Things happen for a reason. Maybe if I'd gotten down -- I'd be dead right now. Still, sometimes I thought anything would have been better than seeing the awful sense of guilt written on my partner's face.
I had it easier. My pain and my wounds could be fixed with a surgeon's blade and medication. Hutch's wounds were invisible -- like the wind.
"Hutch," I paused wanting to say so much and not sure what I really could say. "Thanks," was all that came out.
"It's what friends are for." Hutch gave a half-smile. "Listen,you think you might want something to eat, and then we can play a little chess or cards, maybe use the hot tub?"
"Just give me my pills Hutch," I said, hearing my own defeat in my tone. "I jus' need to lay down on the couch a while."
Hutch leaned against the vanity and rubbed the back of his neck, looking disappointed. His lips never moved as he stared at me, conversing without words, but I could hear his voice -- a whisper in my ear.
'Starsk, it will get better. I'm not giving up on you. Just don't want you pushing yourself so hard.'
"'I know you'll never give up on me, Hutch, and that is what keeps me going. But you have to ease up on yourself.' I replied to his unspoken words.
"I know, buddy," he said, not surprised at all that I had read his mind. "Let's get you to the couch for a nap, pal." Hutch stepped away from the vanity, slipped an arm around my waist, and got me to my feet.
Realizing how weak and groggy I really was, I leaned heavily against him. Before I knew it I was lying on the couch, and Hutch was covering me with a thin blanket. He took two steps backward, biting into his lower lip, fists clenched, and observing me, as if he were studying some bizarre Vincent van Gogh painting.
"I'm fine, Hutch." My right hand involuntarily moving to rub the ache in my chest.
Without saying a word, Hutch plucked a throw pillow off a chair and handed the cushion to me. The simple gesture nearly made me cry.
"Get some rest," he said, softly. "When you wake up, we can ask the chef about dessert."
"Hot fudge sundae," I requested, pulling the fluffy pillow against my chest, the warmth easing some of my pain.
"I think the chef can manage that." Hutch studied me closely, unclenching a fist long enough to reach down and gently touch the side of my face that wasn't bruised.
I knew Hutch was still furious with me, but he wouldn't say. Guess he figured we'd had enough drama for the day.
Through hooded eyes, I watched Hutch go to the kitchen, grab a beer from the fridge, and stalk outside.
TBC...
