"You can't?—"
He cut me off. "Disinfectant."
I tried to think if I had any left in the first aid kit. "Will vodka work?"
He nodded. I wasn't a drinker, but I always kept a bit of alcohol at home. Except for a once a year cocktail, I didn't know what for. Well, until today.
I grabbed the bottle from the kitchen cabinet and set it on the coffee table next to the couch. He popped the cap open and poured a handful of it over the wound, then exhaled slow, the way some people blow out birthday candles.
Then he took the stapler from my hand, set it next to the bottle and doused it with vodka too.
He glanced at me, eyes dead calm. "Don't faint." Then he readjusted a little on the blanket to be able to see what he was doing.
"I can't make any promises," I whispered, averting my gaze a little.
Still, from the corner of my eye, I saw how he lined up the metal teeth over his own skin.
Then he squeezed the lever.
The sound was exactly like a regular staple—sharp, metallic, final. The flesh puckered together and a single line of silver shone against the red.
He did it again.
And again.
Then he switched hands—was he ambidextrous?—and continued on.
Each time, the skin closed tighter my pulse hit a new gear. The worst part wasn't the blood or the violence—it was the control. He didn't even grunt. I would probably be screaming and then passing out.
The man was made of steel or titanium.
When he finished, he fell back down, and doused the closed wound with more vodka. The scent stung my nose.
"Bandages?" he asked. His voice sounded weaker now, like he'd used all of his strength.
"Let me check." I rushed over to the bathroom and found gauze and tape. I brought them over to him. He cleaned his skin, and wrapped himself with the efficiency of a surgeon.
My hands shook.
He noticed. "You okay?"
I nodded, but the world felt rubbery. "Do you need Tylenol?" I offered. "You should probably drink some water too." I had no clue how to fix blood loss but water always helped with anything.
"That'd be nice."
I went back to the bathroom to retrieve the pills from the medicine cabinet, made a detour to the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge.
He swallowed Tylenol and chased it down with several big gulps of water, then looked at me for the first time in minutes. Really looked.
His eyes—gray, endless—locked on mine and he studied my face.
"Sorry for the mess," he said. "And about your furniture."
"It's not a mess," I said, and maybe I was talking about more than just the blood on my linoleum and carpets.
He was quiet for a long minute before, in a tone so gentle it was almost unfamiliar, he said, "You need to clean your place."
I blinked at him. "What?"
