Disclaimer: Have I told you yet that this isn't mine? Because I can see how you would be confused. . . .
A/N: Do-do-do! Another chapter. I'm so proud of myself. More tender loving care in this chapter. Next one should be fun. I'm already giddy and all I have are ideas. Read on.
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Don't go anywhere. Where does she think I'm fucking going to go? Not only can I not see, but I think I'm finally feeling the affects of losing so much blood. My head is spinning and I haven't even stood up in the past half hour.
And the pain. The pain was relentlessly and sadistically chipping away at his control. He'd never passed out before in his life, but now he would be more than willing to. He wasn't sure how long it would be before he was willing to beg for the pain to leave, but he knew it wouldn't be too long. Just as he knew he'd kill anyone who witnessed such an indignity. Or perhaps he'd just shoot himself, but he doubted that. He'd lived this long, he wouldn't roll over and die quietly now.
Even as he thought that, another wave of pain crashed over him, stealing his senses from him. He couldn't see, couldn't hear, couldn't taste or feel anything but the pain. Couldn't smell anything but his own blood. And it didn't stop, didn't falter, didn't ease up. It gripped him in much the same way that sadistic bastard of a doctor's instrument had gripped his eyes, tearing at him. And when it finally let up, it left him feeling hollow and raw. Left his lungs and his muscles burning from a lack of oxygen, his mind reeling, his senses muddled and confused. And cold. He realized that now.
He leaned against the wall and waited for his mind to return to normal, afraid it never would, afraid that the pain and the dark would warp his sanity until he screamed for death. Can't let that happen. Won't let that happen. I'll blow my fucking brains out before that happens. With that promise, he could feel his mind and his perceptions returning to normal for the time being.
With the return of his mental facilities, he heard a tapping where he assumed the doorway to the room was. It was hard to tell. The room he was in distorted sound with echoes and hollow rings. He was assuming that it was loft-like in design - high ceilings, uncarpeted floors, lots of open spaces and few hiding places. A bad place for a confrontation. Not that he currently had any weapons. That woman had taken them.
Tap . . . taptap . . . tap . . . t-tap. . . . Sands realized that the source of the sound was localized. It wasn't getting any closer or farther away. He listened harder, concentrating, determined to figure the puzzle out. The sound was too soft to be a pair of boots. The floors here were hardwood. What is that?
He suddenly relaxed. It was the sound of nails against a hard surface. Apparently his hostess was waiting for a less awkward moment to walk into the room. He felt rage begin to boil as he wondered how long she had been standing there – if she had stood and stared at the eyeless man in the throws of pain. No. Dangerous time to get angry. Not enough control. Her only sin is being softhearted enough to take in an injured man. He forced himself to calm down. If she's standing outside the door, she's waiting for me to let her come in. If that's the case, she's the most intelligent woman I've even met. In his experience it was rare to find a human who was willing to let someone deal with pain on their own without butting in or goggling. He didn't want to be coddled, and somehow she knew that. That could be a problem later. Intuitive people were often more trouble than they were worth. They screwed plans and often instigated disorder. Look at what he did with the information he gathered about how peopled acted. He was a first class manipulator because he could read other people in the same way drivers read street signs. If he didn't watch it, this woman would become a liability. And liabilities were always disposed with. A shame after the way she was helping him out. He had to make sure she didn't learn too much.
Tess returned with the promised blanket to find her patient in the throws of another pain attack. Perhaps the most awful thing about it was the way he refused to make a sound. How long, how much pressure until his jaw breaks? She desperately wished she could give him something for the pain, but knew she couldn't. Knew that Dr. Guevera favored the use of this particular pain altering drug because it interacted with any other pain-killer in such a way that the heart often stopped. She wasn't prepared to kill just to stop pain. Not when she still had other alternatives.
She stood in the doorway of the room and watched for several moments before turning her back on Sands. She knew that he wouldn't be pleased if he knew she had stood and watched him suffer. She had known him less than two hours, but she knew that he'd rather suffer alone than endure any attempts she made to ease his pain. He wouldn't thank her for butting in, no matter how much her guilty conscience cried out for her to do something to let them off the hook. No matter how much the doctor within her screamed to alleviate pain in any way she could. I will not impose anything else upon this man. He has lost enough today. Let him keep what is left of his dignity.
So she stood, a stranger in her own house, sharing her personal space with yet another stranger. She tapped her fingers on the wall out of nervous habit – one of the few she hadn't been broken of. She had been a nail-biter – but after having her nails pared down below the quick on several occasions, she had taught herself to stop. It was no fun to go around with bloody fingers, especially since any schoolwork she turned in that was in anything less than pristine condition she was punished for and made to do over. But tapping nails was acceptable.
Tess had no idea how long she stood in the corridor outside her room waiting for some signal that it was okay to enter. A lazy breeze moved past her, ruffling shoulder-length waves of brown hair. I should tie it back before I start stitching, she thought idly. She studied her toes, thinking it was about time to repaint them. She mentally ran through her inventory of medications, antibiotics, bandages, and saline solutions. It would probably be best to hook the man up to an IV, get some fluids in him. All the while her fingers went tap . . . taptap . . . tap . . . t-tap. . . against the wall. She closed her eyes. A stray melody ran through her mind, a fly buzzed in a corner somewhere, the harsh breathing of her patient settled out.
She heard nothing more for several minutes, until a question came from the bloody figure on her bed, "Are you planning on freezing me to death? Because if you are, I'd prefer you simply put a bullet between my eyes. I'm afraid I don't have the patience for anything else today."
Patching Sands up was a long, tedious, and painful experience for both patient and surgeon. Tess didn't dare use anything stronger than topical Novocain to lessen the bite of needles and antiseptics. The worst part of the gun wounds was making sure that the bigger pieces of cloth and thread were removed from the wounds. This involved painstaking care and the constant swabbing of blood. But luckily the Novocain had been enough to dull that pain to a level where she could work on him without too much guilt.
Still worse was the need to wash out the wounds. She used a syringe much like those given to people who had had wisdom teeth removed to flush the injuries with saline solution. She heard "Giovanni" grit his teeth, but never mentioned it. In fact, the two spoke little beyond the occasional question if more of the numbing salve was needed. After the wounds were stitched and well slathered in antibacterial ointments, Tess wrapped them in several layers of gauze to keep them undisturbed for the time being. She had a feeling that it was going to be a long night, and she'd like to do all she could to keep her stitches from being ripped out.
The only moment that was not so grim came after Tess managed to get Sands' jeans off him. While in the process she had been too busy to observe anything. It was beyond her why men or women felt the need to squeeze themselves into tight pants. She knew why, but her intellect still declared it was stupid. It'd probably be easier to cut them off, but I don't know if I'm going to be able to replace these. I'd rather he have pants should the need arise.
Finally getting the black denim off, she looked up to see if she had caused too much pain and saw the pattern on his boxers. They were black cotton with yellow smiley faces. Oh my god. That just figures, doesn't it?
"Look, I know the view is admirable, but when it's cold, its really not worth the attention you're giving it. If you wouldn't mind?"
Tess looked up guiltily, before realizing that he wouldn't be able to see what she was doing, or not doing for that matter. Still, her cheeks were lightly flushed. To recover her composure, she quipped, "You know, I had you figured as a boxer brief kind of guy."
He looked puzzled for a moment, but then his forehead cleared of the baffled lines. "You know, I had forgotten I was wearing those today." He laughed bitterly. "They were supposed to be my good-luck boxers. Fat lot of good they did me." After that, the mood in the room stayed oppressively somber.
Finally, Tess could do more. There was nothing left to tend to but Sands' face, and all that entailed. This was most likely going to be one of the hardest things she had ever done. And it would be no easier for him. He had kept his sunglasses on as if to deny his injury, which was ridiculous. The blood now dried and caked on his face and throat told their own story.
She sat on the bedside for several minutes praying for fortitude for them both, and a light touch for her. In the hour she had been tending his other wounds, Sands had had four more pain attacks, each one coming closer together with more intensity. There was no way she was going to be able to do this without causing more pain, and she hated that. Hated how helpless it made her feel. She was a doctor – she was supposed to make pain go away, not incite it. Yet here she was, numerous painkillers on hand, and not one she could safely give him. Except for the one that was still in his system.
Staring at her hands she asked, "You know I'm going to have to tend to all your wounds, right?" His right hand was just visible from the corner of her eye. She watched it curl into a fist in her bedding. "I need to clean up your face, and then . . . and then take a look at . . . at the . . . the injuries. And I'll probably need to flush them out in the same way I did your bullet wounds." The knuckles of his hand turned white.
"Now, Novocain isn't going to do much to dull the pain, even if I gave it to you in injection form. It's just too mild a painkiller. But there is one possibility to make this more . . . more comfortable . . . physically comfortable. I can give you another shot of the same stuff that the cartel gave you. It wouldn't make the pain go away, but it would make it seem more distant. Less of a threat. The cartel must have overdosed you severely, but I could avoid doing that. I think. I have no way of knowing how much is still in your system. But it's up to you. I won't give you anything without your permission . . . unless I feel that doing otherwise would be putting your life in danger." She had to be truthful with him. This was going to put him in an incredibly vulnerable state, one that he would most likely hate her for. Hate her for perpetuating.
"Why can't you put me under?" The question was strained even if his face was emotionless.
"Because of that bastard Guevera. He knew what he was doing when he gave Barillo's henchmen that medication. It's a type of neural suppressant that interacts badly with any kind of painkiller or narcotic. Ten percent of patients who have a reaction slip into a coma. But seventy percent die because their heart stops." She laughed dryly. "They wanted to make sure that even if you did seek out help, it would only kill you. I always knew there was a good reason I hated them all." She fell silent for a moment. "I can tell you this though. If we proceed with just the Novocain, it'll handle the pain of actually cleaning the blood off your face. But once I start cleaning and examining the actual wounds, the pain will probably be so great that it will overcome the last of the drugs in your system, and you'll pass out. As small of a comfort as that may be."
Tess let Sands think. She was offering him a hell of a choice. Incredible pain and oblivion in which he would be defenseless, or more of a drug that had left him defenseless enough for this to happen in the first place.
Ten minutes or so went by as he weighed his options. "Is this drug habit forming? Am I going to walk out of here as messed up as an opium addict?"
"Not after just one more dose. Anything past that, and yes, addiction is a possibility, especially if you're addicted to anything else." Tess just trailed off. What else was there to say? The choice was his.
"I'd ask you to simply shoot me in the head and put me out of my misery, but I suspect you're getting tired of cleaning up my blood."
"No, I wouldn't ask that if I were you." She felt cold at how casually he spoke of murder and suicide. If she hadn't been able to tell that he was a natural killer upon first seeing him, she'd be able to now. She wasn't even sure why she was helping him. She'd watched him gun down people today with no remorse. Of course today might be a bad day to set standards for him. But she had been around enough men like him to know that killing men gave him no more pause to stop than killing an insect. She wondered if her own quest had driven her mad as he. But surely, he didn't deserve this. If it's in your power to help, hadn't you do so? The only person you're capable of judging is yourself. Beyond that, you're out of your depth.
"Give me the drug." Tess was startled out of her thoughts, and grateful that it had happened before she had given herself a headache. She wasn't too surprised by the decision. This way he would at least be aware of what was happening around him.
"Okay," she whispered. "Just give me a moment to prepare a dose."
It was simple and easy to fill an unused syringe with enough of the medication to circumvent Sands' nerve endings. Tess even used a little less than a full dose to make up for what was still circulating through his veins. She came back to the bed, needle and a jar of cotton swabs in hand. She sat down on the edge of the bed and said, "You're going to want to lie down for this. When we're through, we'll sit you back up because it'll probably be more comfortable to sleep in that position for the time being." Until your eyes stop bleeding. He nodded, probably guessing at what she hadn't said. Slowly, he started to lower himself onto the bed.
She started to help him, but then realized just how unwelcome that move would be, so she kept her hands to herself. She supposed his silence was gratitude enough for that. Once he was laying down, she set the syringe on the nightstand, and opened a drawer. She removed a handgun from it – a simple revolver. Her first weapon. The gun she had learned to shoot with. Carefully, she placed it in his hand.
"What's this?" It was a rhetorical question and they both knew it. Sands knew what a gun felt like, no matter what his state of mind was.
"I thought you might feel better if you knew that I knew that you could do me some lasting harm should I overstep my boundaries as a physician. In other words, feel free to fire off a round if you have even the slightest suspicion that I'm betraying your confidence."
The woman was crazier than he was. He was beginning to doubt if she was really even a doctor. What made her think that he could keep from firing the next time the pain got the better of him? What made her think he wouldn't kill her as soon as she was done to keep his whereabouts a secret? "Are you fucking nuts?"
"No, señor. Simply trying to level the playing field. I thought you might appreciate the gesture."
"The gesture. So what, there's not bullets in this gun?"
"Oh no, I assure you that there are six rounds in that weapon. I simply know that I'm such a good doctor that you'll have no need or cause to fire it." Tess reached for the pitcher of water, the wastebasket, and her cotton swabs. Then, having everything situated to her satisfaction, she reached for the syringe. "I'll explain the steps I take as I take them, so you know what's going on." She primed the injection. "You're going to feel a little jab."
She gave the shot quickly and efficiently. "Now, I want you to tell me when things start getting blurry, when reality seems to be hazy, distant." While she waited for the drug to take affect, she pulled on a pair of latex gloves. She didn't want anything from her hands getting into the wounds.
Tess didn't have to wait long. After about ninety seconds, Sands made a noise. It sounded like, "I'm ready," but she really wasn't sure. It was enough to be going on with though.
"Okay. I'm going to start by cleaning the blood off your neck and face." Sands reached up to remove his sunglasses, but she stopped him. "You can wait until the last minute to remove those, 'Giovanni.' I'm in no hurry." His hand fell back down to his side.
She was as gentle as she could be as she cleaned the dried blood off his face. It was stubborn, not wanting to be removed, but she was determined to remove the mask of gore that was doing so much to keep this man a mystery. She had no desire to know him intimately, but she needed to at least be able to read his face if she was going to be able to tend him to the best of her ability and his willingness.
As much as she lingered over her task, all too quickly she reached the point where she would have to ask Sands to remove his glasses. She refused to do it herself. Wanted to give him control over at least that. "Señor? Señor, I've cleaned as much of you as I can without removing your glasses. I was wondering if you wanted me to remove them, or if you would rather do it." She waited for a response for several minutes, but got none. "Señor?"
Slowly, Sands reached up and removed the shades that were hiding the worst of his injuries. Tess waited until his hand was back at his side before moving her eyes to her face. What she saw was much more graphic than what she had been prepared for. While she had seen doctors remove organs and tissue from the bodies of organ donors, this was nothing like that. Involuntarily she gasped, "Madre de Díos."
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Author's Thanks – thanks to Merrie, Sue, Miss Becky, Luck11, and Vera for reviewing. You guys have been brightening my days since I started writing this. Thanks a ton.
