Equinox
Chapter Seven
I shifted awkwardly, staring straight down at my shoes. The tip of my boot cut invisible patterns on the floor, and my fingers began drumming restlessly on the counter I was leaning on. To cease their movement, I tucked them across my chest, curling my fingers around the thin fabric of my shirt.
Silence encompassed every particle of smothering space in the lab room. Even worse, I could feel Fang's obsidian gaze observing me from where he was sitting on the sterilized surface of the examination table. Since the moment we had arrived, not a word had been spoken . . . and his eyes had never left my form.
It made me squirm with self consciousness . . . and I had never been self conscious. Ever.
Now, I could sense all the little things about my body. My damp, limp hair. The dirt crusted under my fingernails. My baggy, incredibly un-form fitting t-shirt. The sweat, mingled with other undesirable odors emanating from me (not that my scent was anything compared to his).
The lone black feather - his feather - still suspended around my neck burned worst of all. Not that he could feasibly know it was there, but I knew it was. That made it so much the worse.
Finally, his surveillance seemed almost patronizing, and I didn't deal well with patronization.
"What are you looking at?" I lashed out, my temper flaring. My head snapped up, brown eyes meeting his own much darker ones. He didn't seem startled by my sudden movement, or the glare I was sending his way. If anything, he looked amused.
"You," he said simply, unashamed. There was a kind of intoxicating intensity with which he stared that made my legs turn to mush.
"Well . . . stop," I muttered, at a loss for words.
His upper lip twitched slightly, but was immediately replaced with a blank mask.
"Does it hurt much?" I asked, changing the subject. I nodded to his injured wing, which was now hanging more loosely from his back.
He glanced back at it, giving me a welcome break from his unyielding focus. I jumped slightly when the feathers rustled, extending even more. Fang paled considerably at the movement, and his lips were pressed into a hard line. The wound was more visible now, and glistening with fresh blood. He would most likely need stitches. Dylan very rarely missed his mark, and this particular arrow had hit home.
"She should be here any minute. You'll be in good hands," I assured him, though that only seemed to intensify how tense he was.
He nodded all the same, dropping his gaze to his callous, scarred hands. It was the first opportunity I had to really study him, and I didn't let it go to waste.
His hair splayed in a perfect disarray around his head, streaked through with dirt. Lean muscle was wound tightly all throughout his body, and visible scars peeked from underneath his clothing. Everything about his features seemed shaped and weathered, like he had been living in the wild for some time.
I hated to even think it, but the fact was undeniable. He was kind of . . . beautiful.
"What are you looking at?" he mocked me, raising an eyebrow. My eyes widened, and I wondered furiously how long he had been watching me . . . watch him. The thought made me cringe.
"I don't know what's taking her so long, but we should probably get as prepared as possible. You'll need to take your shirt off," I pointed out, without sparing a thought to the certain consequence of my words.
"You want me to take my shirt off?" he gloated, unable to hide his smirk this time. Impossibly, it seemed to make him even more infuriatingly attractive.
"No . . . I . . . I just," I spluttered, stuttering over all my words. "Keep your shirt on!"
My face flamed, red burning up the side of my neck. I couldn't even pause at the foreign sensation. I had never blushed before; had never had any reason to. Yet here I was, pink as a freaking pig.
His smirk grew, and he tugged at the worn edge of his black t-shirt. Before I could look away, he had pulled it effortlessly up over his head, carefully maneuvering it around his afflicted wing. As expected, his torso only encouraged my embarrassment.
Just as I was about to, oh- I don't know, crumple to the ground in complete and utter mortification, the door swung open. A gust of cool air followed it, which managed to alleviate some of the heat in my cheeks.
A familiar figure moved into the lab room. She smiled first at me, then very warmly at Fang. His amusement had all but vanished, turning stony at the change in events.
"This is Fang," I said by way of introducing him. Then I turned to address him and said, "This is Dr. Martinez. She's going to try to save your wing. You can thank her later."
He looked anything but thankful.
"If you don't mind, I'd like to take a closer look at it." Dr. M paused at Fang's side, snapping a pair of gloves into place. She waited for his permission before continuing.
After a few seconds, he nodded stiffly.
She proceeded to do her vet thing, and I watched from a safe distance. I still had no idea if Fang could be trusted, therefore I certainly wasn't leaving him alone with one of the only genuinely good adults in the administration. Whether or not I could stomach a needle was another matter entirely.
Instead, I attempted to focus on anything other than what was happening in front of me; like the apparent fact that we had interrupted Dr. M's free time. Usually, she was either wearing scrubs or a lab coat. At the present moment, she was clad in jeans and a sweater. I felt bad, but Fang needed help. Fast.
My mind drifted, and as she worked I day dreamed about the lavish stories that would begin circulating as the other hunters shared their solstice stories. When I was younger, I'd stay up way too late, hiding so that I could hear them talk about their kills. I'd fall asleep to the steady reassurance that paranormals wouldn't be hurting me or anybody else. That was a long time ago though, and I wasn't quite so naive now.
Nothing was ever as perfect as it seemed. Solstices were their own sort of monstrosity.
"All done," Dr. M announced, looping my attention back to reality. "You'll need to stay off it for a few weeks. If you put too much stress on it, the wound will tear the stitches and re-open. Give it time to heal, and you'll be back to normal."
Fang nodded wordlessly, brushing a finger over the gauze wrapped tightly around his wing.
With another smile in my direction, Dr. M disappeared through the door just as she had come. I knew there would be questions later, but for now she'd leave things as they were. Enough strange paranormals came through the CSM. She was used to an assortment of winged creatures. Fang probably hadn't fazed her in the slightest. It was the part about keeping the transaction a secret that would pique her interest.
"Come on," I gestured to Fang, heading for the door. "Let's find you some clean clothes . . . and a shower."
-o-o-o-
I slumped comfortably on my bed, waiting for Fang to finish in the bathroom. There was a pile of neatly folded clothes at my feet. Luckily, Dylan was roughly the same size as Fang. He probably wouldn't miss the few things I had snatched from his closet . . . probably.
A door creaked open, and Fang emerged from the it. His hair was wet and dripping down his neck; a towel slung around his waist. I indicated the clothes, averting my eyes from his nakedness as best as I could. Though I was no longer looking directly at him, I could feel the condescending smirk riddled across his lips.
He appeared minutes later, this time fully dressed. I had done my best to find clothing similar to that of his before. The dark gray shirt was a little too loose, Dylan being bulkier than he. The jeans fit fine though, and the black jacket and coat would keep him warm during the remainder of winter.
"Do you have everything you need?" I asked, coming to my feet. He stood across from me, a good few inches taller than me; and I was pretty tall.
He nodded. It was becoming clearer and clearer that he was a man of very few words.
"So . . . what now?" I inquired, slipping a stray lock of dark blonde hair behind my ear. There were so many questions burning up inside of me; things I wanted to ask about him . . . about who and what he was. No one had ever interested me quite as much as he.
He was . . . different. I had never encountered someone like him, and it wasn't like me to just let such a complex enigma walk away. Everything about our meeting had happened much too fast, and I still knew virtually nothing about him.
"Now . . . I leave," he stated, no emotion behind his words. There was an immense brick wall built up inside of him; a barrier I was quickly becoming sure I could overcome.
"That's it?" I couldn't hide my incredulous expression.
"Thanks. For everything. But I need to go." He didn't seem to be partial to a further explanation.
"You don't need to leave. You could always stay here. I'm sure you'd be better of than wherever it is that you came from," I replied insistently. A frown twisted its way onto my face, my brow furrowed.
He just shook his head in response.
"So you're just going to walk out, and we're never going to see a feather of yours again?" I knew this wasn't true. I had one of his feathers hanging right around my neck, but the example was still effective.
"You don't know me. Not a thing about me or where I came from. But you helped me. And . . . as much as I appreciate that, it still doesn't change a thing." He appeared to be struggling with his words, unable to provide the adequate emotion.
The room seemed a lot smaller now, and the absence of windows more pronounced.
"I'm never going to see you again?"
He paused, flashing me one last smirk. "Only if you're lucky"