Climax – 8.187's POV – getting closer


A/N Finally we're getting to the juicy stuff. Another chapter and I'll have to change the story to M-rated. I hope you like it!


200213RJUN17

87 awoke to the touch of Jo's fingers on his right wrist. She was checking his pulse, counting his heartbeats without taking her eyes off the road. Then she gave a gentle squeeze to his thumb nail keeping the pressure for a few seconds before releasing it, briefly looking at his fingertip.

She's assessing my capillary refill time to be sure the blood pressure in my injured arm is not too low.

She nodded satisfied, switched off the passenger compartment light and brought her full attention back to the drive. She had moved delicately and in silence, believing him asleep. 87 didn't stir. He felt numbed, his eyelids were like lead weights and his head rested heavily against the window. After the previous night his ability to sleep while sitting upright seemed to have evaporated. It was not because of his wounds – he had taken worse in the past – but it was as if his body was reclaiming all the hours of deep slumber it had been denied.

When they had taken the car, a Mercedes AMG,

a nice set of wheels!

Jo had insisted that he let her drive. He had tried to say no but he had surrendered when she had pressed on. He was glad that he had.

The bullet hole in him was not too bad, he was still able to move his arm – which meant that the bone was not broken. He had managed to climb down the cliff, swim to the boat and drive it to the small private jetty where they had stolen the car.

Jo had requested that he let her see to the wound – requested, not asked – her tone clearly meaning that she was not going to take no for an answer. He had complied. The entry hole was neat and bleeding slowly, so Jo had let out a sigh of relief:

"Thank God it didn't hit the brachial artery. … Now let's just hope it also missed the main veins."

When she saw that there was no exit wound, however, she bit her bottom lip, cursed and ordered:

"Shit… the bullet is still inside, don't move the arm unless you really have to, ok?" and waited for him to nod in reply. Then she had borrowed his knife, cut her t-shirt into strips and used them to dress the wound. She was shivering slightly

She's probably cold … she's still wearing the scuba suit and the air is quite chilly tonight

and now that they were so close he could swear that she had shed a few tears…

It must be the release of the tension after the fight.

After all, she had almost died that night and she was not used to it. She was a soldier but she had rarely been in a firefight.

After changing back into their clothes – Jo wearing only a sweater over her bra – they had set off without wasting any more time: the route to Charlotte was long and he wanted to be there as soon as possible to end it once and for all.

But the bullet was not the only injury he had received. In that fortress there had been one of those fucking potentiated men

A wolverine guy, as Jo would call him

None other than the famous Mr Smith. The fight had been bad, he had really doubted that he could get out alive of that room.

Which corroborates my idea that the world is better off without potentiated agents…

He had made it, quite fortuitously, using a cable to convey electricity through the man's wired body, but he had made it. Mr Smith was dead

and so is Al-Bayati.

He should feel satisfied –pride in the positive outcome of his missions had always been an emotion he had not been deprived of – but the truth was that he was too exhausted for it, the mental effort of stifling the pain, cramming it in the back of his mind, was draining the energies he had left. Because it was not true that agents didn't feel pain, they had just been trained to ignore it, but it was tiring. So, yes, he was glad Jo was driving.

She had proved really useful that night, if it hadn't been for her, his mission would have failed utterly, instead she had managed to buy him enough time to get out and destroy the helicopter – and the doctor with it. Still, perhaps things could have gone better, he might have done something differently…. And so, going over the events of the past few hours, he dozed off again.

He woke up when Jo pulled over at a gas station.

"Where are we?" he asked

"Not far from New York" answered Jo.

"What time is it?"

"Half past three. Do you have a credit card I can use safely?"

87 nodded and extracted one from the inner pocket of his jacket.

As she opened the door 87 mumbled "Remember to avoid…" but Jo finished his sentence for him with a smile "the cameras, I know, don't worry. I'll be careful, you taught me well".

She filled up the car and bought a couple of bottles of water. When she came back from the shop she made him drink a few sips and changed the makeshift dressing. The bleeding had stopped, but he still felt weak and beaten-up. His eyelids closed as soon as she got the car started.

Jo woke him up again after a couple of hours when she checked his arm once more. He could see that she was exhausted, with red eyes and dark shadows beneath them. He was feeling a bit better, instead, the last hours' rest having dulled the pain in his other limbs. And also his right arm felt somewhat stronger. He volunteered to drive and Jo accepted without too much resistance. She dropped off quickly but her sleep was light, waking up from time to time to check on him.

At 0910 hours they stopped at another gas station near Richmond. It was full daylight now. Jo looked way more rested. She brought him breakfast and checked his arm again. That time she frowned and chewed the inside of her cheek for a second then said:

"Andrew I don't like the way it looks. I need you to find a place for us where we can stop for a couple of hours. I want to treat your wound."

He shook his head and answered "There's no need" – after all it was not his first bullet. He knew he could resist for another day or two, but Jo insisted firmly "There IS need." Then she added, with a faint smile and a shrug, "Look at it this way, that's the only advantage of having ME as your travel mate… I treat wounds every day, I trust I won't screw up with that at least."

87 wasn't sure what she meant with the last part of her sentence, but she certainly had a point: they were early, he had planned to be in Charlotte by late afternoon so that he could recon the Syndicate data farm before breaking in during the night, but at the pace they were going they'd be there by 1400 hours. They could spare a couple of hours – even three – to dress his wound.

I can bear the pain, but it doesn't mean that I'm not better off without a bullet in my arm.

And he just knew the perfect place where to stop: a chalet for rent at Nunn Mountain, not far from Denver. He had already been there once: there were no neighbours or staff. They only cleaned it once a week, on Thursdays, and today it was Tuesday. They'd be safe and undisturbed. When he told Jo about his plan she beamed at first but then she pursed her lips before asking: "I don't suppose we can stop at a pharmacy or hospital to get the stuff I need, can we?"

He shook his head "It's too dangerous, they might be monitoring them to find us".

Jo sighed and shrugged saying: "I'll figure out another way".

She went back behind the wheel, absolutely adamant that he was not to move his arm anymore until she had removed the bullet. After an hour's drive she uttered a surprised "Uh!" then added with excitement "That's exactly what we need!" pulling over in the parking lot of a big pet store.

87 didn't have time to voice the question which had formed in his mind

Why the fuck should we need a pet store?

because Jo jumped out of the car and with a hasty "It won't take too long" she hurried inside.

She came out a good half hour later, with a satisfied look on her face and a bag full of stuff which she passed to him before driving back into the main road. 87 inspected the content of the bag with curiosity. Evidently that store had a pet pharmacy inside because she had bought surgical suture and needle, some disposable drapes, saline solution, clamp forceps, disinfectant, gauze and waterproof dressings.

She's a genius, I'd never have thought about it.

When he saw the package of canine antibiotics, however, he picked it with two fingers and showed it to her with a raised eyebrow.

"Gunshot wounds tend to get infected because of the stuff pulled into the wound with the bullet, so it's always better to take some prophylactic antibiotics" Jo explained but 87 replied

"I know this… but canine antibiotics?"

She chuckled "They're exactly the same we use for us, it's only the dosage which changes". After a second she added, "The painkillers instead are different but I found those tablets of Rimadyl which are made of carprofen, an active principle that was used for humans in the 80s. It's not great, but it should anyway numb the pain a bit without knocking you out."

87 shook his head and said "I don't need painkillers. I'm not taking them."

Jo frowned and looked at him with a worried expression saying "Andrew, it's gonna be very painful. I'll have to cut the skin and maybe even the muscle, I may touch your nerves or the bone… you NEED something for the pain."

But he just answered "Pain is not a problem. I need to stay sharp. No painkillers".

Jo furrowed her brow and emitted an unconvinced hum, but then added "Ok, as you want. I'll try to be as delicate as I can."

87 nodded and went on rummaging through the bag. He was just going to ask about the instant glue he had seen, when his attention was diverted by a strange box with the picture of what looked like the head of a dog inside a traffic cone.

"What the hell is this?" he asked nonplussed

Jo gave a chortle then explained gleefully "They wanted a vet's prescription for the medications so I had to pretend we're on holiday with our dog and that he got stuck with a big thorn in his paw. They strongly recommended the Elizabethan collar, that's what it's called, to prevent… you from chewing the dressing…" and she chuckled again.

87 smiled, very impressed by Jo's resourcefulness.

The last two items he took out of the bag, however, were the most disconcerting: she had bought two pairs of red boxer shorts with a pattern of tiny little pugs and two white t-shirts with a big picture of a bulldog smoking a pipe.

"And these?"

She shrugged and, perhaps he was wrong, but it looked to him that she blushed a little while answering: "Well, I don't know about you, but I'll want something clean to put on after the shower this evening. These were the only clothes for humans I could find."

He honestly doubted she could have bought any piece of clothes that looked more ridiculous – and the prospective of wearing them made him feel slightly embarrassed – but he had to admit that it had been a very good thinking. He also couldn't deny that he felt a certain pleasure at the idea that she had envisioned another night of … intimacy – or whatever one could call what had been forming between them. "Intimacy" sounded good, though, ripe with expectations.

That won't be fulfilled. Stop fantasizing!

Then Jo said: "Unfortunately they had run out of gloves… and of course they didn't sell scalpels … but I trust you have a knife that will do the job, don't you?" and she smirked at him with a knowing look.

They arrived at the chalet little after midday, the mountain air was fresh and the inside of the place was almost chilly, due to its being shaded by the wood. It was simple but clean, there were fresh towels and white sheets to make the bed. Jo immediately set to work: she chose one among his knives, a hunting knife, quite surprisingly – he had expected her to go for the stiletto – which she threw in a glass where she had poured a large quantity of disinfectant. Then she covered the shelf that departed from the bedpost with a sterile drape and made him sit on the right side of the bed. She helped him remove his jacket and shirt – the proximity of her face and the touch of her fingers on his skin giving him goose-bumps.

He felt compelled to justify himself "It's quite cold here",

but Jo hadn't noticed it. She was looking at the bruises on his chest, in particular a large blue contusion over his left ribs – courtesy of Mr. Smith's steel-coated knee – she clucked her tongue once and whispered "Jesus" while delicately passing her forefinger over it. Then she fixed her brown eyes into his and asked:

"Are you sure you don't want any painkiller? One tablet at least?"

"Positive"

Jo sighed and went on with the preparation.

"Put your legs on the bed and relax for now, ok?" she instructed, then she made him stretch his arm over the shelf, removed the dressing and poured a large quantity of disinfectant over the wound and all around. She directed the light of the bedside lamp onto his arm and disposed the surgical instruments on another sterile drape over the bedside table avoiding directly touching them. After the "operating theatre" was ready she went to the toilet where she scrubbed with soap and disinfectant her nails, fingers, hands, wrists and arms up to the elbows with obsessive care for almost 15 minutes.

87 found these preparations strangely relaxing. He had been shot before and once he had had to remove the bullet in a precarious situation. He remembered having to instruct a sobbing woman on what to do, guiding her trembling hands to his body (which she had previously touched without restraint) only to have to conclude the task by himself when she almost fainted on him. But this time it was different. Jo perfectly knew what she was doing. It was her that was in charge, not him. A very strange feeling, as if he could, for once, let his guard down and put his life into someone else's hands. A feeling which he didn't mind at all.

So he observed placidly as she cleaned the wound, prepared the knife and the gauze and then looked at the entrance hole up close.

She mumbled almost automatically: "Relax the muscle now…"

but 87 answered "It is relaxed".

At this Jo's eyes snapped to his for a second then instructed:

"Ok, then, contract it as much as you can, even if it's painful … and now release it."

The problem was that his muscles were simply like that, toned and hard even when relaxed. He could hardly hide an amused grin when she sniffed annoyed and muttered to herself "Unbelievable".

Then she took the knife and made a neat cut over the bullet hole. He had been surprised by her choosing that blade but now he saw the reason, the sharp point acting as a scalpel and favouring the precise movements of her hand. In that moment the blood started seeping out of the wound but Jo wasted no time, she inserted the forceps in the hole and extracted the bullet without hesitation. She irrigated the cut with the saline solution then inserted the forceps again and picked out a round piece of rubber, the portion of his scuba suit that the bullet had taken inside the wound. That was painful, the fabric having glued to the skin tissues around. 87 felt the pain slowly creep out from the back of his mind and threaten to submerge him. He suppressed a wince and, inhaling deeply, he subdued it once again.

Jo looked at him, her eyes studying him with intensity "Are you ok? Do you need to lie down?"

But 87 shook his head and managed to say quite composedly "I'm fine."

She resumed her work, irrigating, cleaning and suturing the wound with precise stitches and then covering it with a waterproof dressing. When she seemed to have finished, 87 moved his arm contracting the muscle and nodded satisfied: he could feel almost no tension from the suture and the pain was slowly depleting. However, when he moved as if to stand up, Jo put a hand on his chest and pushed him back on the bed. With the same, detached tone she had used during all the surgery, she ordered:

"Rest your head back against the bedpost and close your eyes." As soon as he did so, he felt Jo's hand cup his chin and immediately after, from his closed eyelids, he perceived the light from the lamp shine directly on his face. After a few seconds Jo's hand left his chin and 87 felt her body straddle him, her knees pressing his hips, her bottom almost brushing his groin.

Fucking hell

She took his face in both her hands … she was so close that he could feel her warm breath on his skin. A tremendous flash of desire went through his body, he opened his eyes and croaked:

"What are you doing?"

Jo was looking at him with an unreadable expression, her pupils dilated

no surprise for that with the lamp light pointed in our eyes … mine must look the same

With her lips slightly parted she breathed "You've got a cute face".

87's heart skipped a beat, his cock growing hard in his pants

Is she going to kiss me?

But then, with a sharp intake of air, she imperceptibly shook her head and, with a smile which seemed somewhat forced, she added loudly "We'd better patch it up". And she set to work. She touched his upper lip with care, cleaning it with gauze and then took the instant glue.

"Glue?" he asked curious

She smiled thinly "The composition is the same of the surgical skin glue … this one is just not sterile, but the antibiotics will take care of it. … Keep your breath" she ordered and put a thin layer on the skin over the edge of his upper lip. The glue smell was sharp in his nose and it provoked an unpleasant tingling on his skin which 87, however, ignored without difficulty. Nonetheless Jo came close and blew gently over it. 87 raised one eyebrow and Jo, stopped immediately and shook her head saying "Sorry. I know it usually burns a little… but I've just cut through your skin without even a drop of local anaesthesia…so I guess it's bearable for you."

Then she took care of his left eyebrow. She looked at it for a few seconds then cursed softly "Shit…There's still a shard of glass inside". She chewed her bottom lip while she removed it with the clamp and glued the cut then whispered "I'm so sorry, I should have looked at it earlier".

87 answered decidedly "It's ok, Jo, don't worry!"

but Jo looked worried and sorry all the same. Her eyes seemed somewhat bigger and watery, as if she was fighting against tears. But she didn't lose the fight.

After she had finished with his face she got out of the bed but didn't move away, on the contrary, she put her hands on his chest and pushed delicately over his ribs. After a few movements, however, she murmured

"Oh my God, you're made of marble… It really doesn't help…"

Then she put her ear against his chest and asked him to breathe deeply and repeated the same manoeuvre on his back while tapping lightly with her knuckles.

She concluded, a dissatisfied look on her face, "I can't exclude a broken rib, and you certainly are not going to tell me that it hurts, are you?" she waited for him to shook his head and she went on "But at least the lungs seem to be ok."

"Are you done?" he asked

"It depends. Have you got other injuries?"

"No" he lied.

Actually his legs were certainly bruised too. But he was not going to own it. She had already done too much, she should get some rest. And he was not used to being taken care of. Though he must admit he didn't mind. But it was clear that she was feeling sorry for him and there was no need. And then there was the strange way she had looked at him a few minutes before… He felt confused and out of his depth, he was not used to feeling like that and he didn't like it at all.

While Jo started collecting the tools and the cloths he grabbed his shirt to put it back on but she stopped him.

"No, wait. I want to take off the blood from the sleeve. Get some sleep, we've got almost two hours before we need to go, right?"

"You should sleep too".

"I will, in a minute" she promised, handing him a blanket and disappearing inside the bathroom.