Tadhg continues to comply as I take his soiled clothes off piece by piece and toss them into the bag. I’ll find somewhere to burn them later, I guess. I also make a mental note of everywhere that needs to be deep cleaned once we’re done here.
As I’m doing this, my brain pulls up the images of a couple hours ago, when I was doing the exact same thing for my patient. Pulling off each item of clothing and carefully bagging it to protect the contents.
Although in that case, it was to preserve everything inside, while right now I’m already knee-deep in my plan to destroy evidence on Tadhg’s behalf.
The thought brings me up short. What are the chances that someone ends up brutally beaten and tortured—in an area where that’s not exactly an everyday occurrence—and then Tadhg shows up covered in blood immediately after?
I don’t want to think about the miniscule chances that the two things are not connected. Because I saw whatsomeonedid to that man. And it’s a level of violence I would never want to see from someone I love.
Those are later thoughts, though. Right now, I have evidence to destroy.
Medical ethics are well and truly in my rearview mirror, apparently.
Once Tadhg is stripped, I hustle him toward the big cubicle shower and turn it on as hot as I think he can stand. This shower is huge and never runs out of hot water. It was the reason I took this apartment, and until today, it was my favorite thing about it. I have a feeling that’s about to change though, after these new memories get attached to it.
I strip off my own scrubs and throw them in the garbage bag, because it’s possible that there’s traces of blood on them from coming in contact with him. Which I could also have gotten at the hospital, but why invite more trouble than I have to?
Once I’m down to my briefs and everything Tadhg touched is in the bag, I tie it shut, wrap it in another bag, scrape up all the others that were on the ground to toss them in there and seal the whole thing again. I’ll deal with it later.
I glance over to check on Tadhg, but of course, he hasn’t moved since I left him. He’s standing in the shower, half under the spray and half out, staring at the ground like he’s completely dissociated.
Fucking shitballs, this is not good.
I’ve seen him in a lot of terrible states since he showed up, but it hasn’t stopped each one of them from feeling like another string of barbed wire wrapped around my heart, squeezing it tighter.
I just want him to be okay. Which isn’t going to happen if he keeps going on murder adventures while I’m at work.
Or if he ends up in prison.
With a sigh, I step into the shower with him. The only times he moves are when I move him, so it’s clear he needs a little extra support right now in the form of babying. That’s fine. When hewas injured and unconscious, I bathed him just like any other patient.
To be fair, I wouldn’t normally join a patient in the shower, but I need to shower the blood off as well. My underwear is still on, and if he can gather the wherewithal to be annoyed about me coddling him, frankly, I’ll be thrilled.
Right now, he doesn’t look capable of being annoyed about anything.
Standing next to him, I grab his arms and maneuver us until we’re both under the spray, more or less. I’m not getting a lot of it, but it still feels like heaven on my sticky skin, after the day I’ve had. I tip his head back, letting the water run through his hair.
It’s grown out a little at the back, long enough to curl around his neck. The water runs pink for a while, but I work my hand through his hair a couple of times, letting him sink into the contact, and eventually the blood fades away and the water turns clear.
When I tip his head back down, he blinks the water out of his eyes and looks at me properly. For the first time in a few minutes, I feel like he’s actually seeing me.
“No.” He speaks in a whisper, but when he goes on, his voice rises to turn into a plaintive sort of whine. “No, no, no, don’t touch me, please.”
I’m torn. I don’t want to hurt him. I don’t want to force affection on him that he doesn’t want. But I know in my fucking gut, that this reaction isn’t about what he wants. It’s about what he thinks I deserve, or some other shit.
Like he’s tainted.
His hands come up, batting at mine with all the strength of a wet kitten. The weakness in his movements is what convinces me.
He needs me not to give up on him. He needs me not to run.
“Everything’s fine, Tadhg. I’m not going anywhere. You’re fine.”
He keeps struggling though, so I wrap my arms around him and squeeze, which is more difficult than I expected. He’s fucking thick.
As soon as I squeeze, he starts to thrash. It’s like holding on to him has given him permission to lose his shit. Which is what I wanted, I guess.
He’s still saying “no” and “please” and making noises like he wants to cry but can’t quite get there, and jerking so hard one of us slips and we both end up on the shower floor. With the water still pelting down into us, Tadhg pulls away from me until his back hits the tile wall, but I don’t let him go that easily.
