Chapter Text
A line of blood stains the rolling green grass of the roadside. It’s bright and vivid as it trickles down the edge like a ribbon—curling into the gutter.
You park your car behind one already on the curb and climb out to see where the red is coming from. Stepping around both vehicles, a booth comes into view. On one side, a person wields a bloody knife. On the other side stands the recipient of much affliction.
Your feet crunch into the dirt when you move. The one with the knife takes notice. Before you have a chance to process anything more, they’re gone. The cracking of tires on asphalt travels to your ears. A pitiful sound of the human tongue follows it, and something thuds to the ground.
Mind still catching up to you, you hurry to the booth. Roots of blood stain your eyes and lead up to the collapsed body of a man in a suit. His terrible state is too much to process. Kneeling beside him, you find what you’re looking for with two fingers to his neck—but it’s faint. The weak beat pulses with the blood pouring out his body.
“Can you move?” You try to see if he’s conscious. For a response, all you get is a gargle of noise. One bleary eye blinks open at you; a diamond surrounded by shining rubies. You make a quick decision. “Help me lift you up.”
Slinking a muscled arm over your shoulder, you help the man to his feet and aid in walking him to your car. The engine is still running. It takes two attempts to maneuver him into the passenger seat and buckle him in.
“The nearest hospital is over twenty minutes away,” you say once you’re on the road, touching your fuzzy dice for good luck and sparing a quick glance at him.. “I’ve got supplies at my place, if that’s okay. It’ll just take a few minutes to get there.”
The man only nods. It’s a drunken movement with his disheveled head lolled against the shoulder of the seat. That blood is going to be a pain to clean out. You brush the annoyance away.
The rest of the brief ride is silent—only punctuated by ragged breathing and the occasional groan. Each sharp sound has you wincing. You can only imagine how much pain he’s in. Thankfully, the sight of your residence pops up, and you pull off the main road. It’s less of a struggle this time to get him out of the car and into your place. He only gags up blood twice. The door has to be unlocked and opened with one hand, but you manage.
“What’s your name?” you huff in effort as you step into your living room. Shuffling over some carpet, you turn to lower him to your sofa.
“H-Harv—“ He cries out when his body drops to the cushions. “Harvey—“ he gasps, trying to swallow his pain back into his mouth. Apologetic, you help him adjust so he’s sitting correctly.
“Right—Harvey. I have a medical kit. I’ll be right back.”
He nods sluggishly. It’s only now you’re noticing that he’s missing his right eye.
Zipping to your closet and grabbing the red kit, you zip right back and spot your scarlet appearance in the hallway mirror. There’s blood on your jacket. You shrug the article off without a second thought and toss it onto a wooden chair. Next thing you do is scrub your hands clean in your kitchen sink.
Harvey looks up at you when you return to him. His hands are limp at his sides; completely empty. He looks lost without direction. Purposeless. You decide to be the guide to bring him back to health from whatever cruel incident fate planned for him earlier. Already, your mind is running through procedures of how to do that.
Feet in front of his, you sit on your coffee table; medical kit open at your side. Before you do anything, you examine his wounds visually. More accurately: you take in his appearance now that he’s not bleeding to death at the side of the road. It has you grimacing.
He’s so terribly out of place in your living room.
The pale green of the sofa beneath him resembles the grass stained with his blood—and now they match in that regard too. Around him, a haze of red aura creeps into the pastel yellows of your wallpaper. It’s a violent color, but instead of inducing danger, it carries the heaviest weight of silent suffering—only broken by the little groans that slip out of his lips.
More blood scrapes across his living corpse in a deranged artwork; paintbrushes of knives and matches echoing across his skin with the bright color they brought to life. He’s hanging by blue tinted threads, tilting unsteadily. His single eye is cold and empty, swallowing the emptiness of what had been, and what will forever be. When he stares, he stares right through you. Except he’s the ghost. Not you.
If you don’t do anything, he’ll die.
Knowing that his life is like an hourglass nearing its final grains, you examine his wounds with tentative hands. Harvey winces at every brush of fingertips against skin, at every graze of bare nerves and sensitive flesh.
“Sorry,” you whisper, hoping his fragile state isn’t as glass-like as it seems. The damage is so extensive. Whenever you look past one thing, you find something trailing from it, or underneath it. Deep cuts. Burns and bruises. Needle points of all things! More cuts.
Your huffing laugh was void of humor when you found remnants of a feather sticking to some drying blood. There may be more that you’re missing. Unfortunately, his shirt and jacket will get in the way of treating him, and taking them off will only hurt.
You find your trauma shears in your kit. The one positive is that his inflictions are from the waist up, and only from the front. “I need to remove your shirt and blazer,” you explain, showing him the specialized scissors and hoping he understands.
Harvey nods weakly. When he says “okay”, it’s a response that’s afraid to pierce the silence; like it might bring more suffering if he’s louder than a whisper. Whatever happened to him… it’s messed up his mind too. He’s probably lightheaded from blood loss. The symptom is the least of his worries, but he seems too caught up in his own head to notice anything. You’re just glad he trusts you, a complete stranger, to aid him.
Moving quick, you cut through the ruined fabric clinging to his body—the second layer, then the first—and drop it to the corner of the coffee table. Now, you can see every gash, burn and bruise. Only a few new welts catch your attention.
You’re going to have to purchase a whole new kit once you’re done.
Getting a white cloth, you go and run it under tap water before returning to clean Harvey’s wounds. It’s a gentle process—you don’t want to harm him more than he already has been. Most of the blood comes right up. It stains the cloth pink, then cherry. Another trip to the kitchen is required, but there’s already improvements. You started from the hands up, making sure the burns get extra attention from the cooling agent, and only a few spots you passed over continued dribbling new blood. Now his face needs cleaning. Unfortunately, it’s going to be the most sensitive.
You start around his missing eye. He winces. “Sorry,” you murmur, trying to be tender in every possible way. His next wince is lighter, and you wipe his uninjured cheek to spare him for a moment. The other side of his face has you biting the inside of your lip in concentration. The cut over the eye is shallow—that one’s easy. But when you get lower, the sight is grisly to say the least. He will need stitches. Many areas will need stitches.
Washing the cloth again—along with your hands—you complete this instance of cleaning to prepare your medical needle and thread. After disinfecting it, you pull the string through. Ever since having the blood on his face wiped off, Harvey remained silent. A shell of himself. However, once he sees the needle, that changes.
“What are you—“ His eye widens in realization. He freezes up, then starts quivering. “No…” he whimpers, turning into a cornered animal.
Thinking he won’t move, you set your palm against his face to still him as you bring the curved needle to his mouth. He jerks back with another whimper. “Please don’t…” He doesn’t push you away, but his reaction is clear.
“I’m sorry,” you say sincerely, hushed. Holding his face a little firmer, you murmur words of encouragement as you slip the pointed metal through the corner of his lip. Cutting your ears is the most heartbreaking yelp you’ve ever heard.
“Please stop—” Harvey turns his face away but doesn’t resist; only continues sobbing in tiny little gasps as tears start flowing down his cheeks.
It hurts so bad to see him like this—to know you’re the one causing this. But you can’t stop. “I’m so sorry Harvey,” you coo like a parent to calm him. The needle only has a few more stitches to make. “We’re almost done. Almost there.”
The next few seconds are the tensest of his entire life. Then it’s over. He sags against the cushions and obtains a lungful of desperately needed air through his snotty nose while you tie off the thread. You instruct him not to move his mouth too much and to resist anything that stretches his jaw too wide. He mumbles pitifully in understanding. His shaking hasn’t stopped.
With a hand against his wrist, you see him flinch. You turn apologetic. “You need a few more stitches. Can you sit still for me while I sew them up?”
“Okay.” His voice remains hushed and high-pitched. He winces when the needle goes into his arm, but he does his best to stay motionless for you. Only a few tears roll down. One sniffle sneaks through. All the while, you continue your little encouragements and praises; wiping up blood and sewing up gashes as you do so. Each word eases at the stress plaguing him, becoming balm to soothe his aching skin. When you announce your completion, he heaves out an exhausted sigh of relief. Then, the dam breaks, and the rest of his anguish is let out through the unshed tears.
They roll down his face in thick rivulets—choking him with every inhale. Its noisy and messy. He’s sobbing uncontrollably, so you grab some tissues from the box behind you and begin wiping up the salt water. More continues to flow down, only to be met by your loving caresses as they sweep up to catch them in motion. The sadness gets caught in them too. Emptying his emotional well, Harvey’s cries lessen. You guide his chin in place to brush a new tissue under his eye. The other socket has some blood leaking out that also needs to be cleaned. He’s mostly dry now. With another tear threatening to spill, he looks at you and shifts your palm against his face, desperate to feel something loving.
“No more… no more pain please…” he begs, all vulnerable. The tear wobbles, then escapes. You catch it with your thumb and promptly pull away. It’s time to bandage him.
The medical needle falls to the carpet when you pick up your damp cloth. When reaching down where it lays at an angle, there’s a pinch on your skin. “Ouch—“ The needle gets returned to the coffee table. This time by the corner of clothes.
A crimson droplet forms when you examine your finger. Harvey is compelled to comment even in his emotionally distressed state. “You’re bleeding.” He makes sure to keep his mouth almost closed.
You brush him off, “It’s nothing,” and wrap your lips over your finger to suck the blood. It’s metallic. A strange, uncertain fascination swirls in Harvey’s eye as he watches you.
You tear open the packet of bandages. There are different kinds. The patches go to areas that have less movement; like the cut above his eye. Harvey angles his jaw up and you stick one to the side of his neck. He does such a good job at following your instructions. He barely flinches when you cover his missing eye. He keeps his breath steady when you seal the wound over his heart. Some cuts have already scabbed over, but there are pinprick punctures that haven’t. Those ones get tiny bandages. His face scrunches up when you fix a baby pink bandaid to his right cheek. It matches his hair. While you look at every injury, he looks like he can’t decide what to make of you. Harmful or healer. The two often go hand-in-hand.
The medical fabric is next. You unwind some to use.
There’s a thick gash on Harvey’s right hand that needs to be wrapped. You hold his wrist sideways. “C-careful,” he stammers, closing his eye in a wince. You go a little slower. It's a clean process. The white gauze loops round and round before being finished in a knot and snipped of its excess. A baby blue bandaid is added to his pinky finger.
Moving up, you wrap gauze around the muscle of his bicep, making sure not to cut off any circulation. With enough layers fitting snuggly against his skin, you tie and snip. There’s another cut in need, but it’s touching a burn that hasn’t been treated yet. You confirm your kit for burn cream. Yes, there it is.
Double checking that everything previously bleeding is accounted for, you lift the round container up. The contents are smooth and cool to the touch; easily gathering on two fingers. The patch in Harvey’s hairline catches your notice first. You go to apply the burn cream.
Harvey jumps at the contact. “Ah—that’s cold!"
You let out an easy-going chuckle. “That’s kind of the point.” Pushing past the interruption, you spread the white gel in circles, humming as you do. When your fingers catch over a particularly bad piece of skin, Harvey makes a pained response. You apologize softly and adjust your pressure to your voice. “These will take a while to heal.” You apply cream at the end of his arm, getting lost in the methodical process. “Most of it will, of course, but the attention they require is very demanding. Don’t worry: I’ll help you through it. You don’t have to go through a single second of this without me.” Harvey starts quivering again. You let him tremble as you soothe the last of his burns. “I just need you to trust me. Can you do that?”
Nodding, he lets his arm return to his side with your permission. With all his burns covered and cooling, he gives a happy sigh. “That’s much better…”
Having a little gel left, you reapply it to his hairline. He decides to be quippy.
“I hope that’s not bleach.” He averts his eye with the beginnings of a smile. “I just got my roots done last week.”
A surprise laugh slips out of you. After wiping your hands, you grab some new bandages to cover the burns. “I’m surprised you still have some humor left in you.”
“My humor’s all I have left,” he mutters, somewhat amused, almost bitter, and leaking blood over his lip. The pink floof of hair sitting on his head is an absolute mess—yet it’s the least messy part of him right now. A fleeting thought of your spare hairbrush passes through you. You grab some cotton gauze to slip into the gap of his missing tooth.
“Bite down,” you instruct. He does as you ask. Taking a mental step back, you look at your finished handiwork.
Harvey looks like he’s just emerged from the hospital after a horrible accident; which is half-true. But considering the situation, he couldn’t be better. It’s all taken care of for now. You’ll still need to check his wounds for infections and change his bandages, along with getting some more burn cream. That’s at least a week of work, and then there’s his eye, which is beyond your capabilities. Despite missing it, Harvey seems content. He isn’t quite smiling, but he no longer has one foot in the grave.
In another reality, he’d be off much worse.
You abruptly get to your feet. In and out of the kitchen, you come back to your spot on the coffee table with a glass of water. “I hope you don’t plan on drowning me with that—” Harvey tries to joke again, but is cut off by a cough that hacks at his lungs.
“Here—" You wait for his breathing to level, take out the bloody gauze, and raise the glass to his lips. “You need to drink fluids to hydrate yourself.”
Looking up at you, then down at the cup and back again, he grabs it—you don’t let go—and slowly tips it to his lips. Immediately, he sputters the water out in a choke. It resurfaces tainted with red. A tissue calmly wipes his chin. “Easy,” you urge, trying again and tipping the glass to his mouth. He takes a small sip. Then another. Whenever he has to cough, you pull the water back and return when he’s ready. You both fall into a rhythm. The glass is refilled and set to the side for later. New gauze goes between his teeth.
“Thank you for the water…” He keeps his lips pressed and eye downcast to the side. Its avoidance, you think. A thumb brushing against his cheek to catch a stray droplet has him returning his attention. You grace him with a sweet smile.
“I don’t know about you—" you start picking up the bloody mess of bandages and clothes. “But all this has been making me hungry.” It’s a statement filled with sarcasm. Judging by the rough laugh, you weren't the only one who found it funny.
After wiping down the coffee table and laying a couple towels over your couch—you’d clean that later—you situate in the kitchen to mash something together. “Soup sound good?” You call back. Harvey needs something easy to down with his stitched cheek. The broth itself will be good for him.
“Yes, that would be lovely.”
You grin at his vocal inflections, then rummage around for kitchen supplies. The stove sparks to life. It doesn’t take long for a savory aroma to cloud out of the kitchen and into the living room. Harvey’s stomach growl can be heard from miles away. Once you’re able to leave the simmering soup for a spell, you dig through your medicine cabinet. Success only takes a few minutes.
Harvey’s right where you left him. He smiles at the sight of you, then winces when his mouth stretches too far. You sit next to him purposefully. “For the pain.” The pill presents itself in your palm. He hesitantly takes it and you pass him his water. “I’ll give you some more in four hours. Let me know if the pain gets worse before then.”
He nods; swallowing the pill like a lump in his throat. Some sweat dots his forehead, but he tries to act normal. “I’ll make sure to do that.” The physical trauma won’t just go away so soon. The pain will last even longer. Maybe a lifetime.
Nodding in affirmation, you return to your cooking. The spices swirl around in a tantalizing sort of way, and you can hardly wait before you’re turning the burner off and ladling soup into a bowl. The smell almost brings Harvey to his toes.
“Sit,” you chuckle, listening to your own order and sitting beside him. The towels underneath are for his sake, but they’ll also catch any food that falls. You dip the spoon into the bowl. The liquid follows the stirring motion.
Raising his hands, Harvey insists, “Don’t worry, I can do it.”
You eye the way they shake. He sighs and lowers them. With his cooperation, you spoon-feed him soup—but only a little with each sip. It’s a slow effort, and he quite literally eats up every second of it. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t enjoy it—the way the spoon disappears between his lips and returns with proof of him receiving delicious nutrition. He doesn’t sputter this time. Instead, he makes tiny noises of delight at the taste of your cooking.
“Is it really that good?” You pause for a moment, lowering the bowl to your lap. Harvey looks at you with his eye lidded; reacting like it was a five-star meal of the highest quality.
“‘Good’?” he echoes. His eye flickers to the bowl, then earnestly back to your face. “Darling, it’s divine.”
Heat creeps up your neck at the sudden pet-name. Excusing it for pain and medication, you raise the spoon back to his lips. He eagerly partakes. A satisfied hum tears through. “Ambrosia,” he insists, drawing closer to receive more. You both indulge. The happy aura in your living room matches your attitudes. The soft color of the sofa blends into the yellow wallpaper. It wafts out like pastel butterflies on a soft breeze, like the shore gently caressing sand. The two of you are happy and warm, having all that you need in each other's company.
“Make sure you eat something too, alright?” he says quietly, like you’re the injured one. Your eyes meet. A beat passes, along with something between you. Broth traces the corner of his mouth; highlighting the subtle concern. You dab it with a napkin without thinking.
Per his request, you go and retrieve a bowl of soup for yourself. The heat settles nicely in your belly. It eases the stress of the evening, and the taste makes everything better. It’s almost as nice as Harvey described. Almost.
You don’t even notice Harvey staring at you. He ends up wincing again from smiling too brightly, but he recovers. “It’s funny,” he chuckles, looking like he’s gazing at the moon. “I set out to make another stranger’s day better, but it seems you’ve taken on that role for me.” He looks at the empty bowl in his hands. “Though I can’t say this is exactly how I expected my day to turn out…” The comment is wry; Humor wrapped over hurt. He sighs. “At least I’ll have something positive to tell my gerbil about when I get home…”
Home.
It had never even occurred to you. You were so caught up in playing doctor. In playing healer. “Do you have someone at home who can help you?”
He perks up, being momentarily distracted. “Hm? No, don’t have anyone at home. Would be nice though.” When he speaks, he’s all bubbly. “It’s just me and my gerbil, Soups.”
“I like gerbils,” you say, though you’ve never had one. The cat you had growing up would have eaten it.
Hervey’s eye lights up like it’s Christmas. “Oh you’ll love him! I’ve had him for two years now—going for three. He has enough food to last him a few more days… though I hate to leave him alone and worry him.”
“I can drive you tomorrow,” you offer, trying not to sound insisting. He’s the patient here, not you.
Luckily, he likes the idea. “Sounds great!” His cheery demeanor is shocking compared to mere hours ago. You welcome the change. Then, his face falls in confusion. “Wait—tomorrow…“
You sigh with a smile and stand up, taking your empty bowls to the sink. “You can stay the night. You still need medical attention, so it’ll be better if you stay here. Of course, you need to go to the hospital for your eye, but the roads around here are dangerous at night. I’ll take you in the morning and we can go to your apartment. We can even bring Soups back?” You lean around the wall for his response. He heartily agrees with two thumbs-up.
Back in the kitchen, you start scrubbing dishes. Your heart thuds softly in your ears against the scrape of ceramic. It’s unfamiliar. Now that the worst of it was over, your mind has finally decided to let go of its apprehensions. The situation is scary—someone had attacked Harvey and nearly killed him—but there’s a brighter side to it. Today, you got to meet this wonderful man. Today, you got to save someone’s life. And now you get to save it tomorrow. You get to help him for however long he needs, in whatever ways he needs. When the day after that comes: who knows?
Maybe it’ll be something even better.