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Certainly not for the first time since the crash brought them together, Linda studies Bradley. This time, no narrowed eyes or scowls discourage her, so she makes the most of it.
Taking in the battered mess he has become at her hand.
He seems so far away, crumpled on the floor. Too far away. She sits to get a better look at him.
Those golden brown eyes are hidden from her by no doubt heavy eyelids. His gaping lips expel steady breaths, occasionally interrupted by gentle moans. Taps to his cheek and calls of his name don’t rouse him; neither does a quick impulsive peck of his temple (to shock him awake, of course, nothing else).
She wonders if, in the moment after the club tapped his head, Bradley had the chance to realise he’s still alive, and just how lucky he is that Linda is letting him live.
Oh, who’s she kidding? He probably thought it hilarious that her killer swing absolutely sucked.
Nursing him back to health once again is not going to be easy. But the moment she reconsiders letting him live, she reminds herself it’s better than being alone. Hmm. It’s better than being alone. That’s something like an affirmation, right? If the last month or so is any indication, she’ll sure as hell need one until he’s… well… how she wants him to be. That’s one way to put it.
She better ensure he makes it far enough for that, first.
She does not entirely regret the onslaught of injuries she gave him during their battle, she decides, while assessing them. The stab wound, the bite, the pinkie finger, the thwacks to his chest and ankle are more than enough to keep him down and out for a while. Maybe the club wasn’t necessary. Not that she’ll tell him.
His next moan catches her attention; she looks up, seeing his brow furrow, then his teeth clench as he hisses, pain no doubt doubling, tripling, even quadrupling, as consciousness graces him.
“You okay down there?” she finds herself asking. She would show him more concern if he hadn’t been out to kill her not long ago. There’s time to be kind, yet.
All he gets through his teeth is a “Hurts…”
No shit, sherlock, she thinks. Out loud, though, she asks, “It hurts? What hurts?”
His deep guttural groan tells her, What the fuck do you think? Open your eyes! - And well, she would, but… her injured eye throbs a little harder.
She swallows the urge to ask him, Tell me what hurts, Bradley, and goad him through naming every injury. Only because she really should begin nursing him back to health.
As she stands, though, he gripes a “Fix it…”
“Yes, yes, Mr Bossypants - I am about to fix this, okay? If you’d just give me a minute -”
His eyelids flutter - her next breath catches - then open, only so far. And though she doubts he’s in any state to focus, to take her in, she crouches back down. Meets his gaze, gives a wave, and winks.
After a moment, he mumbles, “Kill me…”
“Well, which one? Fix you or kill you? Clear communication goes a long way, you know. Especially with me.”
He makes a noise she can only deem a whine, making her stomach flip. The silence he leaves is a gaping hole.
She fills it with, “You can survive all this! I know you can! Don’t tell me you’re not tough enough to see that.”
A grunt, now. Indignant.
She pats his hand - condescendingly, if anything. “How about I make the executive decision here, huh? To fix you or kill you. You don’t seem up to it.”
His fingers curl under her touch. The noise he makes is probably a Kill me.
“And I think I’ll let it be a surprise.”
She kisses her fingers, then presses them to his cheekbone. Another impulse. She should probably stop that.
Though his brow furrows again, he’s silent. She finally stands.
The house’s first aid cabinet is the size of a pantry, and is incredibly well-stocked - as it should be, this far from civilisation (and CVS). But as she assesses its contents, and contemplates treating his wounds with antibiotics, the risks with that eagerly present themselves. If she lets the antibiotics run their course, they’d need to accompany them back to camp. Then she’d need to get rid of the evidence. The blister packaging won’t burn to ash in a fire; she can’t shake the idea that if she throws it into the ocean, even at the other beach, the currents will return it to camp. Yes, she could bury it, even return it to the house. Or she could bring the pills in a different container, though she can’t see him believing that a glass or tupperware just ‘washed up’, now the house is in the picture…
Decisions, decisions.
Decisions that can wait, while his wounds are so ripe.
Though she’s terrified that sedating him this injured, somewhere so remote, is like inviting his heart to give out, and he really’s been such a pain in her ass and doesn’t deserve an out from the impending procedures, let alone all that pain… It’s too cruel not to sedate him, really. The cabinet has valium tablets, one of which she crushes, tipping into a glass. The 15-60 minute window of action would be inconvenient if she didn’t have her own wounds to treat - put on your own mask first, and all. He really should appreciate the fact that he’s come first, again. And that the valium isn’t in rectal suppository form.
He groans as she lifts him by the shoulders, propping him up against her. Instincts have her shushing him, soothing him - she shuts up. He doesn’t deserve it right now.
He offers no resistance, not even a sound, as she prizes his jaw open, then slips a finger in his mouth to hold it -
He bites. Hard.
She yelps - a lingering instinct from the battle makes to slap him - no. He didn’t mean it. He doesn’t know. Just… be gentle with him, something tells her. She trusts it - only because she’s fiddling with his mouth.
Trying again, even gentler, she pries, finger -
She never enjoys making a mistake once, let alone twice.
The second bite is harder. Like he does know. A Fuck you, Linda.
He gurgles when she squeezes his jaw, mouth an O, gentleness be damned, as she tips the water in and snaps his jaw shut.
If only he could’ve taken it up the ass.
Some 45 minutes later, her scalp bandaged and eye tended to, he’s stopped moaning, and is still. Still enough to be ready for her, anyway. Her finger’s still throbbing.
Yes, she does stitch the stab wound, sure he won’t be alert enough for a few days to register the sensation. If, by some miracle, he does get suspicious, she’ll conceal the stitches and swat his hands away until he settles again.
But when it comes to the stub his pinkie has become, and the gaping crevice that is her bite? Cauterising those shut are her best bet, she decides.
In modern times, cautery is known as the medical practice of burning parts of the body - to either remove something like a wart, or close off something like a wound. Historically the process was used by the Ancient Greeks, the Chinese, and Native Americans for various ailments. While electrical and chemical cautery are more common today, the practice came from actual cautery - some form of metal device heated to a dull glow, and applied to a wound to treat it.
Stitching, she’s practiced before, on several layers of fake skin meant for tattoo practice. Cautery, though? That’s one thing she’s never tried (even on tempting papercuts). But she decides it can’t be too hard. It’s not like she has any other choice.
So they don’t burn down the house between them, she drags him outside. She finds her procedure space in a fire pit inside a concrete circle, shaded by a doughnut-shaped canvas, a tap and hose nearby. Though he stirs on their journey, and when she weasels his shirt off, he settles while she gets a fire going, his back against the concrete.
His eyes are tightly shut by the time she straddles him - as far as she’s concerned, he’s not going anywhere.
She doubts he’ll find this as fascinating as she will.
Finger first, she decides. While the fire strengthens, she tests the best grip on his hand: first, she lifts it at the wrist, grasping it both loosely and tightly. His hand, limp, tilts forward, his thumb, fingers and the stub sloping downwards. Soon, she’s frowning - should the stub be allowed that much wriggle room? Will the other fingers get in the way of the heat? She’s sure his hand will naturally make a fist in response to the pain - well, it should. Who knows, with Bradley.
But she thinks of another grip.
Her palm finds his, her fingers lacing up between his; though she doesn’t expect him to reciprocate, his fingers slightly relax at the contact, dangling mid-air. Almost a hand hold. The flutter in her chest distracts her momentarily, but she shoos it away.
His palm is still soft - thinking soft baby hands makes her smile. She almost feels bad for subtracting from them, for a moment… Then again, taking off fingers is a good punishment… No, she needs him to be useful (or as useful as he can be, with hands this soft). Threats only, then.
Now she zeros in on the stub; she’s soon glad she wounded his left hand, because her own left thumb can rest over his fingers, and keep them out of the line of fire. No matter how the stub flails at the moment of contact - be it away from the hand, or to assist with the fist - his ring finger will burn before her thumb does.
Once the fire is strong, she lifts the waiting poker from the flames, checking the end. Talk about red hot.
Incredibly gently, she inches the poker towards the stub, waiting for the moment heat and skin meet.
They touch.
He cries out. Brow furrowing. Arm making a sluggish retreat she foils without effort. His hand makes a fist, fingers now trapping hers.
Though he writhes beneath her straddle, he fails to get out and away from her, once more.
She keeps herself upright, even squeezes her thighs tighter around his torso. Takes a steadying breath. Then guides the poker back towards the stub.
Touch.
This time, he whimpers. His eyelids flutter, releasing a fresh batch of tears that cascade down his cheeks.
And that feeling in her stomach stokes to life again.
She tries to keep her head, gripping his hand tighter. An urge tells her to brush his hair back, even hold his face for a moment, but all she does is shush him, and murmur, “It’s okay, sweetie. Just relax.” That’s all she should offer him, right now.
And despite his noises of protest, and attempts to escape, she’s soon happy with the way the stub is festering, already blistering, under the running hose. Though the water seems to have alleviated some of the pain, he groans, clearly not impressed.
She lowers the hose, resisting another urge to brush back his hair. “It’s alright, sweetie. It’ll all be over soon, okay?”
The bite should take much less effort to cauterise, in theory, being in a prime location. Now she’s seeing it in better light, it turns out to be deeper than she thought (she did a good job!).
But he can’t help but make this difficult. Holding the poker to the depths makes him thrash, and scream - an instinct thrusts her hand over his mouth. And though no one will ever hear him, she keeps it there. His muffled screams eventually simmer down to pained moans, lips chapped against her palm.
The bite appears to respond well to the heat, regardless. She wonders if one day, they’ll laugh about it. Call it a love bite. Thinking that alone makes her stomach flip three times.
When the bite is sparkling wet, she drops the hose. Only now does her hand find the side of his face, fingertips stroking, catching on weeks-long growth. It won’t hurt to comfort him just a little bit. He doesn’t protest; he does nothing at all, his screams having worn him out.
“You silly thing,” she coos. “That wasn’t so bad, huh?”
Though he says nothing, she knows he’d disagree wholeheartedly. She gives a sigh.
“You’ve got a long road to recovery ahead, my sweetie. But it will be worth it. Sure, you might not agree right now, but eventually you will.”
Again, nothing.
Yes, she’s noticed how absent his presence feels without his constant griping, but for now, in all honesty, she’s not minding the silence.
He’s still here with her, after all.
And maybe she imagines it, but she’s sure his head tilts to rest against her palm. Like he’s leaning into her touch.
No. That can’t be right.
That, or… to him, she’s not Linda.
…Oh, well.
She’s the one on top of him.
She’s the one gazing down at him, stuck beneath her, unable to escape, after being so difficult for her - okay, not necessarily during this procedure, but definitely before that…
Despite her certainty she’s done here, her hand finds the poker, waiting in the fire. She reassesses the tip. Wonders what it could do to healthy skin. Wonders what shape she could make with it.
Because, once upon a time, cautery wasn’t a term specifically reserved for a medical practice.
Back then, cautery could also refer to the branding of a human.