"Max." My voice comes out harder than I intend. Sharper. Concerned disguised as authority.
He doesn't look up. Doesn't react. Just sits there. Staring at nothing. Or at something I can't see.
I crouch in front of him. My knees hit the cold patio stones. I can smell the blood now. Copper. Iron. Fresh. "Let me see your hands."
"Go away." His voice is wrecked. Raw. Like he's been screaming. Or crying. Or both.
"Not happening. Let me see." I reach forward. Slow. Non-threatening. Like approaching a wounded animal.
"I said—" He pulls back. Tucks his hands tighter against his chest. Defensive.
I reach for his wrists and he flinches. Jerks back like I've hit him. Like he expects me to hit him. Actually flinches. Like I'm going to hurt him.
Something twists in my chest. Sharp. Painful. Unexpected. Like a knife between ribs. Like something breaking that I didn't know could break.
"I'm not going to hurt you," I say quietly. Keep my voice soft. Even. The way I talk to Bane when he has nightmares. The way I talk to Zero after bad jobs. "But you're bleeding all over the patio. Let me see."
He doesn't move. Just sits there. Breathing too fast. Shaking. Blood dripping from his clenched fists.
I wait. Patient. Still. Let him make the choice. Let him come to me.
After a long moment, he slowly extends his hands. Uncurls them from his chest. Holds them out like an offering. Like a surrender.
Fuck.
Both of them are destroyed. Worse than I thought. Worse than I imagined when I saw him hitting the wall. Knuckles split open, the skin peeled back in strips, some hanging like torn fabric, skin torn, flayed, some areas down to the bone, blood everywhere. Fresh and old. Wet and drying. Dripping and crusted. His fingers are already swelling. Puffing up, turningpurple, the joints disappearing under inflammation. He can barely flex them. They move wrong. Stiff. Limited. Painful.
"What the hell did you do?" I try to keep the judgment out of my voice. Try to just assess. But it's hard. This is bad. This is really bad.
"Just leave me alone." He tries to pull his hands back. I don't let him.
"Too late." I stand —my knees protesting, my muscles tight from the sudden movement— and offer him my hand. "Come on. We need to clean this."
"I'm fine." The lie is so obvious it's almost insulting. He's not fine. He's the furthest thing from fine.
"You're not fine. You can barely move your fingers." I keep my hand extended. Waiting. Palm up. Non-threatening.
"Atlas—" His voice wavers. Breaks on my name.
"Inside. Now." Command. Final. No room for argument. I don't give him a choice. I reach down, grip his elbow —gently, carefully, mindful of how he flinched before— and pull him to his feet.
He's lighter than I expected. Almost weightless. I could pick him up with one hand. The realization is startling. I tower over him by almost a foot, have to look down, way down, to meet his eyes, and when I guide him toward the house, my hand on his lower back, feeling the knobs of his spine through his shirt, feeling how insubstantial he is, he doesn't resist.
He doesn't have the energy to resist. Doesn't have the fight left. He moves like a puppet with cut strings. Like someone who's given up.
I close the back door behind us—the click too loud in the silent kitchen, the cold air cut off, replaced by warmth that makes the blood smell stronger. I guide him to the island, my hand still on his low back. I can feel him breathing. Fast. Shallow. Panicked. He’s shaking. I'm not sure what comes overme, but as he turns to face me, I grab him by the hips —narrow, almost delicate, my fingers span them easily— and lift him onto the island. He's so light, absurdly light, worryingly light, his hips so narrow. Like someone who doesn't eat enough. Like someone who's wasting away and no one's noticed.
His eyes don't meet mine once. He stares at his hands. At the blood. At the marble beneath him. Anywhere but at me.
He perches on the edge like he's ready to bolt at any second. His body angled toward the door. His muscles tensed. His weight forward. Flight mode activated. Blood drips from his hands onto the white marble. Dark drops spreading. Staining. The white is ruined. I don't care.
I only care about him.
"Stay there," I say. Firm. Doctor voice. The voice that expects to be obeyed.
I grab the first aid kit from under the sink —tucked behind cleaning supplies, the plastic box is dusty, I pull it out, set it on the counter— and bring it back. Antiseptic. Brown bottle. Warning labels. Gauze. White rolls. Sterile packaging. Medical tape. Everything I need. Except maybe a hospital. He probably needs a hospital.
Max is staring at his hands like he doesn't recognize them. Like they belong to someone else. Like he's watching himself from outside his body.
