Chapter 30

Injuries keep appearing.

Mostly minor bruising, but the splattering of dime sized wounds across his chest and shoulder looks gruesome and there's a cut along his ribs that makes her worry the more she looks at it. One of her good friends is an emergency doctor—she should know what to do—but she's frozen in disbelief as new marks appear across his skin faster than she can process the one before. It's not until Seth wads up his shirt and presses it over the wound at his side that she remembers the basic first aid lesson Miles gave her when she sliced her finger on a paring knife.

Stop the bleeding. Keep it clean.

"Sit down," she ushers, relieved when he obeys without argument. With some difficulty (damn that boot), she kneels between his legs and ignores the way his eyes widen.

"What on earth are—" he yelps as her hands cover his, pressing the cloth more firmly against his side.

With his thigh pressing intimately against her ribs, she doesn't dare meet his eyes. "Pressure, right?"

His breath hisses between his teeth as he leans his head back onto the cushion. Beneath her palms, his hand trembles. The pained grunt would be hard to interpret if not for the sharp nod. "Pressure."

They fall silent, the only sound Seth's rasping breaths and the hammering pulse in her ears. "How long?" Her murmur sounds louder than it is, plucking at her nerves like a guitar string.

His thumb strokes the back of her pale knuckles, crimson smearing over her skin, and Sara realizes that she's trembling too. "A while yet, I'm afraid. Perhaps another ten minutes."

Jerkily, she nods—tries to swallow down the panic she can still feel clawing at her throat. She can't stop staring at the blood streaking their hands.

"I must confess, when I dared to imagine it, I envisioned us partaking in much more enjoyable activities," he jokes, words breathy. His eyes are dark, rimmed with pain, but his lips are turned up into a smile that borders on flirtatious.

Sara knows it's an act; an attempt to distract her from the anxiety clawing at her chest. She loves and hates that, in some small part, it works. "You're bleeding all over the couch. Maybe now isn't the best time to clue me in on your sexual fantasies."

His grin is wicked. "I was talking about the cake you promised. But, please, do tell."

Sara's laugh is breathy, but at the tail end it sours into a sob. She hears her name, a sigh on his lips, and the tears come faster than she can stop them.

"Shh, breathe, Sara. Breathe."

"You're hurt. There's—the blood and the bruises, how can you even—"

"Look at me." There's a gentle command in his voice, one that begs for no arguments. When she obeys, his face softens. "I promise you, I'm in no danger. It looks far worse than it is." Gently, he lifts their hands away from his wound, exposing the cut along his ribs. The bleeding has stopped. "There now, see? Right as rain."

"There's nothing right about this," she snaps, voice hoarse.

He hums. "There are a few aspects I wouldn't mind repeating, but faced with the overall situation and your temper, I will concede defeat. Also, I'm afraid I need to borrow your shower."

Shower. Right.

Stop the bleeding. Keep it clean.

She helps him up, leads him down the hall with a hobbled gait. The bathroom is too small for the both of them—it's a struggle to keep a respectable distance when the very walls seem to push them together. "The towels are in that cabinet there and, um, you can just use my shampoo if you want."

She turns to look at him, but his eyes are trained on the mirror.

On his reflection.

"Oh," she breathes, chest tight. "This is the first time since…?"

Seth nods before clearing his throat. "Yes."

He continues to stare, his hand raising to his cheek as if he's lost in the shape of his face. It strikes her as an intensely private moment—one she probably shouldn't be witnessing—but he's blocking the doorway and, well, despite the intimacy of the moment, he doesn't seem uncomfortable with her being there.

She steps closer to him; their reflections standing side by side. "Well, it looks like you."

It's a weak joke, but he huffs on a laugh, his hand dropping from his face and eyes meeting hers. "That is a relief," he murmurs, before turning back to his reflection. "It's strange. I thought…" his words trail off, a frown furrowing the smooth skin between his brows. He seems entranced by the change. "Tell me, is it terrible that I don't recognize myself?"

Sara's hand folds around his own and he starts as if he had, in that moment, forgotten that he's as human as she is. "No," she says, bypassing the mirror to look at him directly. "But it is kind of sad."

Seth swallows thickly, before he clears his throat and tears his eyes away from his reflection. "It is, isn't it?"

The smile she offers is weak. "Do you need any help?"

"Undressing? No, I'm fairly certain I remember that much."

Her face flames. "With the shower. Do you know how the knobs work?"

"I like to think myself capable of figuring it out."

"And you won't pass out, right? You're not—"

"I promise you, I am fully capable of washing myself without further injury."

"Right. Ok, yeah, but if you need anything—"

"You'll come wash my back?"

She returns his teasing grin with a glare. "Please don't die in the shower."

"I shall try my very best."

Sara nods, throat tight, before closing the bathroom door behind her. She sits with her arms wrapped around her bent knees and her back against the door, and listens to his grumbled curses as he fiddles with the water temperature. Then she catches his pained gasp, and she flinches. She's a second away from asking if he's ok, when he gives a long exaggerated moan. Sara flushes, burying her face in her hands and muttering under her breath, "Oh my god." She can still feel the imprint of his lips, the branding touch of his fingers. She really doesn't need to add on to the list of ways he will haunt her.

He yells, voice picture clear over the sound of running water. "This is bloody brilliant. Why does anyone ever get out?!"

Sara takes a deep, calming breath—tries to cool the heat in her cheeks—and clears her throat. "There's this thing called utility bills," she yells back, grateful there's no hitch in her voice to give her away. "And you only have about ten minutes before the hot water runs out."

"That's criminal!"

"Welcome to the real world, Casper."

He comesout of the bathroom wearing the same blood stained trousers and holding the bottle of antiseptic wash she had stashed under the sink. Sara knows, even before she presses the cloth to his skin, that it's going to hurt, but his reaction still makes her jump.

He hisses, body arching off the couch. "Bloody buggering—"

"Sorry!" she squeaks, hastily removing the rag. "Should I stop?"

His words pass through clenched teeth, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides as he eyes the bottle in her hand venomously. "No. Pain is temporary, infection isn't." Seth lays his head back, eyes staring at the ceiling. "Be kind and get it done quickly."

Sara licks her lips, eyeing the wound with growing trepidation. "I—shouldn't you have X-rays? Or something? What if the BBs are still in there?"

He laughs. "Oh, they're most definitely there. It'll be a terribly fun time getting through TSA in the future."

She stills. "You want to leave them?"

Shifting his weight on the couch, he grimaces. "As opposed to you digging around my chest with a pair of tweezers? Most certainly." He looks at her, sees the horror painted across her face, and sighs. "It will be fine."

Everything is so, so far away from ‘fine', she wants to scream. "There's a hospital right down the street."

"And they will ask for identification I don't have." He takes her hand, thumb stroking her knuckles. "I don't exist here, Sara. There will be questions that I'm unprepared to answer."

"But the BBs..."

"There's no need to remove them." He gives her hand a gentle squeeze. "As I've said, it will be fine."

She stares at him, eyes tracing the shape of his smile. "You're hiding something," she murmurs, frowning.

His fingers twitch against her skin, a grimace painting his face. "It's not worth you fretting over."

"Tell me."

Seth hesitates, eyes flitting over her determined expression before releasing a resigned sigh. "I'm not worried about the shot. I'm worried about the infection that could follow." He nods toward the rag in her hand. "This... may not be enough."

"You need medication," Sara breathes, bile rising in her throat.

"Possibly."

"They would still treat you. They have to, right? They do that, that Hippomatic Oath thing."

The corner of his mouth twitches. "Hippocratic, Princess."

"Whatever! Point is, we're going. Let's go."

"No."

"But—"

"Do you have any idea, precisely how broken the American healthcare system is?"

"That is not the point."

"I have nothing, Sara. No identification, no money." He gestures to the wound on his chest, eyes dark. "This isn't an emergency. My life is far from endangered. There's a fair chance it will heal well enough on its own, no antibiotics needed."

"But what if it doesn't!?" she snaps, frustration rising. "You can't just leave something like this up to chance! You can't break the curse only to—" The word sticks in her throat.

Die.

Leave.

She swallows, chest tight and eyes burning. "You just can't."

Seth reaches for her, fingertips brushing her own in a coaxing whisper. "Sara." Tenderness softens the edges, but her name leaves his lips like an apology. "I swear to you, the moment it becomes a danger I will go, but not a moment before then." His fingers curl around her own, squeezing gently. "Believe me, I have no wish to be anywhere you aren't."

"I really think it should be looked at." She bites her lip, eyes trailing over the gash spanning over his ribs. There is no doubt in her mind that it would at least benefit from some stitches.

He stares at her, lips thin. "Fine. What about your friend, then?"

"Miles?"

"Well, I certainly wasn't referring to his other half."

"He's a resident."

"Yes, I'm well aware," he says. "Good thing he won't be able to order a slew of unnecessary tests."

Standing, Sara paces the living room, one hand carrying the rag in a white-knuckled grip while the other tangles in her hair. "This is insane. I can't—how does that conversation even go, Seth? There's no way."

He rolls his eyes, pushing himself off the couch. "Right, I suppose I'll do it myself then. I apologize in advance for the mess. Do you have a needle and fishing line?"

"What?! No! Ugh! Sit back down. I'll call."

"Will you make up your bloody mind?"

Sara doesn't respond—she's already pulling her phone from her back pocket and hitting the call button before she can talk herself out of it. Even though she dials Miles' number, it's Jen that answers. "Hey, it's like, almost midnight. You ok?"

Sara cringes. She hadn't even thought about the time. "Yeah, um, well sort of? I'm not in, you know, danger or anything but—"

Seth takes the phone from her. "Yes, hello Jen. Terribly sorry to intrude, but would your husband, perchance, be available?"

Sara grabs the phone, hand slapping over the receiver and hissing at him, "What is wrong with you?! Perchance?"

He shrugs. "Good manners get you anywhere."

If he wasn't injured she'd smack him, as it is she lets out a frustrated growl before bringing the phone back to her ear. She sends him a glare before hobbling into her bedroom and shutting the door. "God, I'm sorry. I really—"

"There's a guy in your apartment."

Sara winces, heat pricking her cheeks. "Yes."

"A guy, with an accent like that, is in your apartment. Right now."

Sara doesn't have time to respond before there's a scuffling sound of the phone changing hands. In the background, Sara can overhear Jen squealing that, "there's a guy in Sara's apartment" just before Miles speaks.

"Am I happy or worried for you?" he asks. "Because considering the time, I'm leaning toward the second. Do you need me to call the police? Just say yes."

"No, no, it's nothing like that. I'm not in any danger, Seth is a..." Oh god, what were they now? "Friend."

There's a moment of silence on the other line. "You hesitated."

Sara bites her lip, releasing a long, internal scream. "I haven't exactly had time to figure out our relationship status, ok?" she hisses into the phone, trying not to think of the shirtless sort-of-something-more sprawled across her couch.

"Whoa, wait, relation—"

"Miles, I need your help," her voice cracks, threatening to break.

"Sara, you're seriously starting to scare me, girl. You sure you're ok?"

She sniffs, rolling her eyes in frustration. "Yes, I'm fine. It's just—it's been a really crazy day, there was this moose and now Seth's hurt and he's being a stubborn jerk and refusing to go have someone look at it, even though I really think he could use some stitches, and—"

"Ok, ok. Take some deep breaths for me, alright? I'm putting some clothes on now. I'll grab my bag and be over in about fifteen minutes. Sooner if I can manage it. Ok?"

Sara breathes a sigh of relief. "Thank you."

"He hurt anywhere else?"

Sara thinks of the lead in his chest, the myriad of bruises decorating his skin, and swallows. On the other end of the line, she can hear the sound of their front door closing. "Yeah, but he says none of it's an emergency."

"Everyone's a doctor," Miles grumbles, car beeping in the background. A moment later, she hears the start of the engine. "Put him on." He must sense her hesitation, because his voice softens. "I'm just making sure there isn't actually an emergency." A beat of silence, then, "You did mention a moose, right? Or was I hearing things?"

Sara swallows, opening her bedroom door. "It's a long story." From the couch, Seth tilts his head questioningly. She's relieved to see no new injuries, but there's fatigue in his gaze that wasn't there before. "Miles wants to talk to you."

He blinks, drowsily, but holds out his hand expectantly. "Very well, then. Hand it over."

Sara places it in his palm, sitting in the empty seat beside him and wringing her hands in her lap. She can hear the murmur of Miles' voice, the questions in his tone, but can't make out the words.

Seth releases a long sigh. "I assure you, there's no cause for concern. No head injuries to fret over, no breaks to throw out any clots. The only thing that could use some attention is a laceration along the upper left quadrant. I would suture them myself, but I'm afraid I'm left-handed."

Another garbled question from the other line, and Seth frowns—eyes meeting hers across the room. The weight in his gaze makes her breath still. "No." Miles says something, and Sara can almost feel Seth's irritation. "Because it isn't." He pauses, listening. "Well, because she won't stop fussing."

Overhearing Miles' laughter, Sara takes the phone back. "I'm not fussing."

"Yeah, ok," he says, sounding entirely unconvinced. "Where'd you find this guy?"

Somehow, admitting that she met him in front of her hometown's emergency room seems like the gateway to a longer conversation than she can deal with right now. "Uh, you know, around."

"That doesn't sound suspicious at all. How long have you two been—"

No way she's letting him finish that question.

"I'm going to get him a glass of water. I'll see you soon, bye." She hangs up, collapsing on the unoccupied section of the couch. There's five missed messages displayed on her screen. Apparently, Jen has been texting her during the call.

How long have you been seeing this guy?

Is he cute?

Because he sounds hot as—

Sara drops it onto the couch without bothering to read the rest, hiding her face in her hands with an embarrassed groan. When she looks up, Seth looks as if he's fighting a grin.

"You're truly terrible at this. A child lies more convincingly."

"I was trying to avoid lying, actually."

His expression softens, smile warm. "I know. It was a commendable effort." He sits up with a growling hiss, a hand resting over a large bruise spanning across his side. They look deeper than before, more angry. She wonders if she should be worried about broken ribs, too.

"What are you doing?" she scolds. "Lie down!"

"You're too far away," he grumbles, sitting up until they're shoulder to shoulder. "It feels strange."

His bare arm brushes hers, and she tries to suppress a shiver. Strange is definitely a word for it, though it isn't the distance so much as the feeling that's alien. "What do you mean?"

Head tilted back, the long expanse of his pale throat exposed, he closes his eyes. "The pull is gone."

Sara shakes her head. "I have no idea what that means."

He yawns, jaw cracking. The hand cradling ribs lifts to tap at the center of his chest clumsily, his voice a tired murmur. "Here. It's all empty. Feels strange to have to look for you without it."

It hardly answers her question, but Sara can't bring herself to ask anything else. There's an unguarded softness to his expression—lips parted, dark eyelashes trembling with an effort to remain open. He's exhausted; beaten and bruised. How long has it been since he's been able to rest? Her heart pangs, her hand reaching for his. She knows it's been far, far too long. "I'm right here," she assures him softly.

She catches the smallest of smiles before he drifts off to sleep.

It takes exactlytwelve minutes for Miles to arrive; his knuckles a soft rap against the door. Too soft to wake the man beside her.

Slowly, Sara untangles their fingers—relieved when his breathing remains steady. Rising from the couch is a struggle, but she manages to grab her crutch and limp her way down the hallway before the knock can sound again. She's barely opened the door, when Miles pins her with a knowing look.

"Don't think I don't know when you're trying to avoid a question."

Sara's face heats. "This really isn't the time."

Miles hums skeptically, shouldering his duffle bag and closing the door behind him. "Mmm…that long, huh?"

"Keep it down," she shushes, "he's sleeping."

He steps through the threshold, his smile falling as he notices her foot. "What the hell happened?"

"It's just a sprain."

"And you didn't think to mention it to your friend, who"s a doctor?"

"I told you, it's been a really long day."

He only looks more concerned. "Right… you going to explain that whole moose bit?"

Sara closes the door, locking the deadbolt. "I was taking pictures. There was a moose."

"Please," Miles deadpans, eyes lingering on the scrape on her chin. Sara wonders how bad the bruising is now. She hadn't checked since leaving the clinic. "Don't bore me with the details."

Sara can't even summon the energy to retort, the day weighs on her almost as heavily as the anxiety. Instead, she leads him into the living room—thankful for the wall that blocks Seth from sight until the moment they've turned the corner.

Miles freezes. "That's a shotgun wound." Then, his eyes flit over the rest of the injuries—cataloging every bruise, every scrape—before grabbing her arm and pulling her back around the corner. "Sara, what the hell is going on?"

"I—"

"No." He cuts her off, finger in her face. "No lies. You suck at them. Why the hell does your boyfriend look like he just came out of a leading role in BBC Fight Club?!" His eyes search hers, more serious than she's ever seen him. "What have you gotten yourself into?!"

She swats his hand away. "It's not like that, ok?" she hisses. "And keep your voice down or you'll wake him!"

Seth's voice materializes from the living room, tinged with sleep. "Too late for that, I'm afraid." He stumbles around the corner, leaning against the wall. Sara notes that his short nap doesn't seem to have done him any favors... if anything he looks paler. The bruises under his eyes deeper. "Hello, lovely to meet you. Now, will you please tell her I'm not going to die in my sleep so we can all tuck in and call it a night?"

The muscle in Miles' jaw jumps. "When we talked on the phone, you didn't think to mention you've been shot?"

Seth gives a slow blink. "No, not particularly." When the other man's expression darkens, Seth sighs, hand gesturing lazily to the wound. "It's merely tissue damage. You're more than welcome to verify it for yourself."

Miles' seems less than impressed—shoulders tense and hands fisted—but he nods stiffly. "Fine. You want to lay on the bed?"

"And risk getting blood on the sheets? Don't be absurd. There is a lovely couch around the corner."

"There's a hospital around the corner, where you wouldn't have to worry about getting blood anywhere."

"Why does everyone keep saying that as if it isn't already common knowledge?" Seth grumbles, already making his way back to the living room.

Miles pins her with a look, his voice a harsh whisper. "Don't even think we're done talking about this."

Sara glares back, unmoved. "It's not what you think."

How could it be?

His jaw works silently, but he doesn't push the conversation further. He stomps into the living room, instead. Sara follows, flinching when his medical bag—his old army duffle he keeps jam packed with supplies—hits the ground.

From the couch, Seth raises an eyebrow. "Very dramatic, bravo doctor."

Mile's doesn't look up as he unzips the bag, pulling out some supplies and lining them up on the floor—antiseptic, a bag of gauze, and a box of gloves. Ansel sniffs at the last before Sara picks him up, holding him against her chest where he'll stay out of the way. "You going to tell me how this happened?"

"There was a gun and I was shot," Seth quips, tone dry. "I thought that to be fairly obvious."

Miles' mouth tightens, snapping on his gloves. "Was there a reason why?"

"If memory serves, it was because he believed me to be the devil." Seth frowns, hissing as latex hands prod the wound. "I'm not. For the record."

Sara sends him a pointed glare that she can only hope screams shut up. Seth's attention seems more focused on her lips—or maybe Ansel? He keeps rubbing his face against her chin, purring loudly against her cheek.

Miles pauses. "And the rest of it?"

Seth glances down his body. "More or less the same, actually."

"…Uh huh."

Seth rolls his eyes. "Give it a few more years, doctor—I'm sure you'll find much stranger cases."

Miles looks at her, eyebrows raised in what Sara can only interpret as ‘where the hell did you find this guy'?

Sara doesn't dare even try to answer. Glancing at the deep purple bruising along Seth's side, she asks, "What about his ribs? You don't think they're broken, do you?"

Miles huffs on a laugh. "You know? That's a great question, Sara. If only there was a place your boyfriend could go to find out."

Sara doesn't even have the energy to correct him. In her arms, Ansel squirms—nails biting into her shoulder—until she sets him down. He scampers down the hall, no doubt beelining for the spot he's made for himself under her bed.

Miles pulls out sutures, opening the package with careful, aggravated hands. "You look like shit."

"I haven't slept in—well, ages really."

Miles' eyes narrow. "Are you on something?"

"No, unfortunately. Though I wouldn't say no to a spot of gin."

"There a reason you're not sleeping?"

Seth's expression hardens. "None I care to share at the moment, no." He grunts as the hooked needle slides in, glaring. "Feel free to drop this irrelevant line of questioning. If you absolutely must know, I have no plans of hurting or involving her in something that could."

"Yeah? That why her foot's in a boot and her chin's all banged up?"

Sara doesn't miss the way Seth recoils, face paling. Scowling, she resists the urge to slap Miles' shoulder, but only because his steady hands are preoccupied knitting Seth's flesh back together. "Will you stop? That wasn't his fault."

Miles scoffs. "Right. It was the moose."

Seth doesn't answer. He's too exhausted.

Sara can see it in his face—the way his eyes struggle to remain open, the hitch in his breath the moment he catches himself drifting too deep. She suspects it's only the pain and sheer stubbornness that keeps him awake. The silence is tense, suffocating, as Miles finishes his work. It's only when the last stitches are tied and the open wounds nearly dressed, that Seth speaks.

"Antibiotics," he murmurs, eyes lifting drowsily. "Do you have any?"

"No, because carrying a pharmacy around is illegal," Miles grumbles, tying off the last bandage with a little more force than Sara believes to be strictly necessary.

Seth winces.

Sara glares.

She's tempted to accuse Miles of being petty, but the truth is both of them have done nothing but push at each other's buttons the entire time, and she really doesn't have the energy to play peacemaker. Not tonight. "Should we be worried about infection?"

Seth makes a small sound in the back of his throat—probably irked that she's even asking—but Miles seems more concerned with her phrasing. "Oh, so it's we now?"

"Miles…" She says his name like a warning.

He rolls his eyes. "I can write a prescription," he grumbles, rifling through his bag. "Make sure his pasty ass finishes it."

Pulling out his prescription pad, he clicks a pen and begins to fill out the blanks. "Last name?"

Sara pales. "He doesn't—"

"Hastings," Seth says, eyes closing. "However, being that I have no identification it hardly matters."

Miles' hand pauses, a muscle in his jaw jumping as the words hiss between his clenched teeth. "Of course you don't."

Sara sets a hand on his wrist, eyes pleading. "Could you prescribe it under mine?"

"You do know that's illegal, right?" The hand holding the pen shakes. Sara's never seen Miles so furious. "It's fraud."

From the couch, Seth sighs—his eyes closed and head tilted back. "It'd be easier to just tell him at this point, Princess."

Miles' eyes narrow, flitting between them. "Tell me what?"

Seth holds her gaze patiently, waiting for her approval. Sara's chest is so tight she can barely find the space to breathe let alone answer.

"Sara, what the hell is he talking about?"

She closes her eyes, sends a small prayer to whatever power that will listen, as she forces herself to speak the words. "He doesn't have any ID," she says, voice thready and weak, "because, until a few hours ago, he was a ghost."

When she dares to open her eyes, Miles is staring back at her like she's spoken a different language entirely. Considering what she just admitted, she may as well have.

"Do you honestly expect me to believe that?" She wonders what kind of diagnoses are going through his head, what kind of tests he's on the verge of calling up and ordering. There's a worried edge to his voice, an unsung plea for her to tell him she's joking. "Honestly?"

From his spot on the couch, Seth grunts. "How else would she have cleaned the table on your poker night? She can't lie to save her life."

Sara offers a weak smile. "I did tell you I had an invisible friend."