“We’re home. Lemme help you inside.”
“Emma?”
“We’ll go back later, come on.”
He tries to walk on his own before leaning his weight against her. That’s how she knows he must feel like shit. Under other circumstances, she’d expect a cursing protest. They shuffle inside, where she deposits him on the bed and attempts to peel blood-coated clothing from his wounds.
He scrambles back from her touch, almost climbing the headboard, wild-eyed and confused, like he can’t figure outwhy she’s trying to undress him. Her frantic movements aren’t helping, so she forces herself to slow down.
“We need to get these pants off and your shirt unbuttoned so I can get a better look. I can cut them off if it’s easier? I saw scissors in the kitchen.”
“You’re not cutting my fucking pants off, they’re my only pair. I don’t need help. Leave the supplies and let me do it alone.”
There is no chance he can do this alone. He’s still on the verge of passing out a second time if his slow reactions are any indication. She’s asking him to trust her enough to be vulnerable while she cleans him up, and she can’t blame him for being hesitant.
“Please, let me help you,” she says softly, knowing it wouldn’t be so simple for her either if things were reversed.
He seems more worried about taking his clothes off in front of her than he is about bleeding to death. It takes him trying to fetch the supplies himself and falling backward onto the bed again before he admits defeat. Reluctantly, he shoves his pants down his hips, pausing with a hiss when they catch on split skin.
She takes his boots off and drags the pants off his legs, slow and careful, like she’s working with a skittish deer.
The scars across his thighs explain the sudden shyness. They are thick and rough, like burns etched into his skin, deep into the muscle. They stray higher and disappear under his boxers before showing themselves again across his back when he sits to unbutton his shirt and reveal the other stab wound.
She wants to ask what happened. Did he earn these marks during the outbreak, or were they forced on him before the world ended? The words almost tumble unbidden from her lips before she thinks better of it. Drawing attention to something he clearly wishes could remain hidden won’t calm him.
“Not so bad, right?” he slurs, his head lulling to the side. “Just a scratch.”
She nods, though it’s obvious she’s lying. “Not so bad at all.”
If it were her on this bed, she’d want him to be matter-of-fact about it and not linger. Just do the job without making it weird, so that’s what she tries to do for him.
Once she has a clear view of his thigh, she can’t help but hiss through her teeth. Can hardly see the entry point through all the blood and doubts herself all over again. She doesn’t know how to help him. He needs a doctor.
They had to remove the belt cinch to get his pants off. The fact that he isn’t bleeding a river yet has to be a good sign. “It’s not gushing. I need to clean it so you don’t get an infection. Wait here.”
She grabs the first aid kit and peroxide from the bathroom. Splashing this on his leg is all she has right now.
“Hold on to something.” She gives him a moment to brace before dumping at least a cup of peroxide into his open wound.
Wyatt almost levitates off the bed, screaming as if she stabbed him all over again. He isn’t the type to show when he’s hurting, so the fact that he’s so open about it now worries her more than she has been since this began.
She packs it with gauze without warning. Anticipation only makes the pain worse. A new bandage sticks over the top before she moves higher to address the second problem, repeating the steps there.
That one is shallow. At least they got one stroke of luck.
Wyatt tries to stuff his tears back where they came from. Tight fists clench the sheets until his knuckles go white. Guilt creeps up her spine and into her nerves. Hurting him to help him doesn’t make it feel any less awful.
She’s been detached since they got back, but now that she’s finished, it’s easy to soften again at the sight of him. She takesa chance and lays her hand over his, like she did up in the attic at the gas station. She’d been desperate for comfort then, hoping he wouldn’t shrug her off. It was the first time she sought out contact in years. The first time that she wanted to.
Addison tells herself she doesn’t need that sort of thing. That she’s fine dealing with everything alone. For the most part, that’s true. Except for today, when she was overcome with fear in the attic and decided to let the cards fall where they may and reach out to him. By some miracle, it worked out.
Now, it’s her turn to offer him the same.
Surprise flutters across his face when she makes contact, conflict coursing through his limbs as he prepares to jerk his hand away. It only jumps a fraction before settling under her touch.
“You need to rest. You’ll be fine. You’ll be fine.” She isn’t sure if she’s saying it more to him or herself.
She stares at the rise and fall of his chest and the pale tone of his skin as he struggles to sleep. She can’t leave him like this, not yet, so she pulls up a chair and plants herself in it for the long haul. If she left and came back to find him dead, she’d never forgive herself.
