Deacon wasn't sure at this point what was going on. He had fallen asleep...a fitful sleep, but sleep, nonetheless...and suddenly he was struggling to get air. Then Nora pulled a gun on someone, and the protective mama bear arm she kept around him while aiming it was oddly comforting... and kind of hot, if he let himself admit it.
Apparently the new arrivals were people Nora knew, because she reholstered her gun and returned her attention to him.
"OK, hotshot. Let's get this shirt off of you. Can you lift your arms for me?"
He grumbled a little. He hated being helpless, and he hated being helpless in front of an audience even more.
"Deacon. Don't make me do the pre-war game of "skin the rabbit" that we used to do to get children to cooperate when changing clothes."
"You people were some sick bastards."
That was one of the newcomers... Nora had called him Rhys?...and Deacon chuckled because he was thinking the exact same thing.
Regardless, he lifted his arms above his head, and Christ did that hurt. But he managed it, dropping his arms again as soon as his t-shirt was clear of his head and arms.
Only then did Nora allow him to lay down again.
"We're going to take care of you, D. I promise."