It’s not a towel pressed to his face, but his white button up shirt, and it’s completely destroyed by the amount of blood it’s soaked up.
I reach for his hand to pull the shirt away and assess the wound, but he leans away from me.
“It’s fine,” he says. “Go to bed.”
I can’t help the incredulous laugh that bursts from my throat.
“Maxim, you’re covered in blood, and it looks like you have a black eye. You’re notfine.”
“I can handle it.”
I see now what made all the noise; the contents of a first aid and suture kit are spilled over the counter amidst drops of blood.
“Don’t be stupid. Your hands are shaking,” I say, and he looks surprised to see that this is true. Then, because I’m trying to be nicer, I lower my voice. “Please, Maxim. Sit down.”
His resolve cracks and his shoulders slump before he steps past me to sit on the side of the bathtub.
I prepare some sterile pads, gauze, and reach for a clean towel. I step to him, and he’s just below my eye level like this.
“Show me,” I say, and with a wince, he pulls his shirt away from his head. I squint at the wound, a small but nasty gash on the corner of his forehead beneath his hairline. That would be why there’s so much blood. Head wounds always bleed more, the drama queens of injuries, but this one luckily doesn’t look exceptionally deep, but butterfly bandages aren’t going to cut it, he’s going to need a few stitches.
“Why didn’t you call your doctor?” I ask. I toss his shirt into the bathtub and press my fingers beneath his chin until he tilts his head back.
“I’ve dealt with worse.”
“On your forehead? In a mirror?” I ask, but don’t let him answer. “You need stitches.”
“I’ll do them.”
“Maxim,” I start, exasperated. I raise my eyebrows and prop my hand on my hips waiting for him to realize how he sounds. He smirks and huffs what’s almost a laugh through his nose.
“Alright.”
I roll my eyes and almost laugh, despite the open wound on my husband’s forehead. Placing a wad of gauze against the wound, I have him hold it in place while I put up my hair, put a still-meowing Greta in the other room, and wash my hands thoroughly. I’m not the best at stitches, but I can hold my own. I know things need to be sterile at least. Last thing we need is the cut getting infected.
I pull my sinus rinse supplies from under the sink and mix a couple of the saline packets into the bottle, shaking it until it’s all dissolved. I hate nasal rinses, but my allergies are shit sometimes, and in instances like this, it’s handy enough.
Maxim doesn’t ask what I’m doing, only watches my movement. He looks pale, like, I don’t know, he’s been bleeding from a head wound for at least twenty minutes?
The first aid kit has multiple pairs of gloves, so I put a pair on and peel the bloody cloth from his head. “Let’s get it washed.”
I push his shoulder back until he’s leaning over the bathtub and pour the saline solution over the cut. He grunts at initial discomfort, but otherwise makes no show of pain. For balance, his hand holds my side and I feel his grip loosen as I keep rinsing the wound.
“Here,” I tap his knee with mine, nudging his leg open wider so I can stand between them to get a better look at the wound. It’s really not so bad now that it looks less like a bloodbath; I’ve fixed up many worse cuts on Leo, and once on Sean while Willa tearfully watched, holding his hand and scolding him for not being more careful.
“Deep breath,” I say to him, but really it’s for me before I get to work stitching him up.
He doesn’t complain the whole time, doesn’t make a sound while I tie off each suture which is impressive since I know from experience that stitches without anesthetic hurt like hell.
“What happened out there?” I ask after tying off the third stitch. Only a couple more to go and he’ll be fine. His palm is warm and grounding where he holds my hip, so I don’t tell him to move it.
“Drunk, belligerent fuck threw a bottle at my head when I was otherwise engaged in a conversation.”
“Did you kill him?” I ask, no judgement in my voice. I think I would have.
“No. He’s a fine man that’s gone through something horrible. It wasn’t meant for me. Sasha did snap his arm though.”
“Good.”
