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Ambrose sighed. He’d been a stubborn asshole. His worst trait exposed like a wound to a stranger who had given him fish and saved him from dropping into a freezing river. What the hell was he doing? When Barrett got back, Ambrose was going to have tea waiting for him. A tiny repayment for all the kindness he’d been shown. Fuck his ankle, he could get to it in a moment.
The frog teapot whistled a minute later, so Ambrose hobbled over to the stove and dug out two mugs from the drawers. The box of tea on the counter was the usual grocery store chain stuff and Ambrose thought of his carefully curated tea collection at home. All loose leaf and specialty blends, some of which he’d made himself. If Barrett was drinking stale leaves….
He shivered, dug out the least offensive-smelling green tea packets, and left them to steep. The kettle was nicely made and ever an admirer of unique things, Ambrose turned it in mid-air by the handle to see it better. The glaze was even and bright, a soft moss green that looked right at home in a fire tower six stories in the air. And the frog was kind of adorable; it was hard to not smile at the novelty of pouring steaming water from a frog’s mouth. It was an object clearly made with loving care.
He was digging through the cupboards for sugar or honey when a heavy buzz filled the air. It set his hair on end, like static electricity over his skin and Ambrose jumped back from the little kitchen corner. His ankle throbbed hotly with the movement but he didn’t dare look down at it. “What the fuck?”
The overhead light snapped on with a harsh click and he jumped again, heart jackrabbiting as steps sounded below. “Thank fuck,” he muttered as he hobbled to the chair, flipping the electric fireplace on before sitting down. The steps grew closer, louder, and then Barrett burst inside. He wascoveredin snow. It adorned his wool hat, nestled in the long, unruly curls that rested on his shoulders, and dotted his beard like confetti. “Fuck,” he said, eyes going right to Ambrose. “It’s bad out.”
And it was. Ambrose had been too wrapped up in not shivering to death or fainting at the sight of his ankle to take too much note, but even a quick glance outside the massive windows that lined all four walls of the tower showed snow falling in a thick sheet. It blinded any vision past the immediate line of pine trees, dousing the world in white.
While Barrett was shaking himself loose of the snow and his gear, Ambrose sucked in a few deep breaths before poking gently at his swollen, almost purple ankle. “I think it’s broken, or at least fractured.”
Barrett froze mid glove pull. His stare burned through Ambrose in a way he couldn’t help but shift uncomfortably from. “Shit, you didn’t get those tights off? Ambrose.”
His name rolled softly out of Barrett’s mouth and something twinged low in his gut. Ambrose pushed it aside with an irritated flick of his hand. “I was too busy shivering and making tea. You did leave me with a kettle on the stove.”
“Yeah but…” Barrett’s hand was now in his hair, pulling slightly. “Okay, we gotta get those off. Hope you’re not attached to them.”
“What the hell does that mean? They’re new, if you must know.”
Barrett stomped over and kneeled down before Ambrose. “We gotta cut them off, check your ankle, and if it is sprained, rewrap it. If it’s fractured, we gotta elevate it.”
Well, that didn’t sound so bad. Except for the cutting his running tights off part. The thought of it made him itch, like when his skin got too dry. It wasn’t the thought ofBarretttouching him that made him want to curl up in the corner. The thought of anyone he didn’t know well touching him did that just fine. It wasn’t a trust issue, it was...just him. Weird Ambrose, with his weird, crooked nose and solitary nature and difficulty making friends.
He was an adult. He could do this.
“Fine.” He smirked, tried for levity; even if just to make Barrett stop frowning. “Please don’t tell me you’re going to pull a knife from your boot.”
Barrett snorted, his eyes flicking up to Ambrose in surprise. “Shit. I do look the type, don’t I?”
“The knife in your boot type?”
“Yeah. Huh. Usually I get lumberjack.”
Ambrose gave his heavy ranger gear a once over. “I’d say forest ranger but that seems like cheating.”
Barrett barked out a laugh. “You’re funny.”
“Could you tell my friends and family that?” Ambrose didn’t mean for it to sound bitter. He didn’t mean to say it at all. But as soon as the words left his mouth, Barrett’s face softened in sympathy. Fuck. He didn’t want anyone’s sympathy. “Can we do this?”
“Yep.” Whatever had lingered so softly on Barrett’s face was now gone and that air of authority was back. Apparently Barrett was the kind of guy to adjust temperament based on the task before him. It was hard not to admire that kind of flexibility. Didn’t Brad say Barrett was grouchy? He seemed...the opposite.
After rooting around in the first aid kit he’d pulled from another footlocker, Barrett came back with bandages and a pair of angle-bladed scissors. “Do you want to do the honors? I can hold your leg up.”
“I don’t think I can bend down that far and not put pressure on it.”
“Fair enough.” Barrett held his left hand out and Ambrose slowly raised his leg.
“It’s okay.” It was the only way he had to tell Barrett he could touch him, but the bigger man seemed to understand.
Thankfully, the running tights kept a bit of a barrier between his skin and Barret’s hand as it wrapped around, then under, his knee. “I’m gonna try not to bump your ankle but I’ll apologize now just in case.”
Already the fire-hot throbbing was back and it was worrying. He might have really fucked up his ankle. And what if not getting his running tights off sooner had made it worse? Ambrose swallowed hard and nodded.
Watching Barrett concentrate was a study in contradictions. He was too big, too burly of a person to do something as delicate as stick his tongue out. Hells, his face barely changed but then again, with all that hair, it was hard to tell for sure. He pulled the tights away from Ambrose’s knee, stretching the material out until it faded white, then quickly cut a line down, following the tibia. As the cold blades skimmed harmlessly along the tights, Barrett quietly said, “This might hurt, but I’m going to do my best. I won’t cut you or press on your ankle, but handling it might make it throb. Okay?”
His breath left him in a rush. Something in Barrett’s tone was steady and comforting, but soft. A good book and a cup of tea on a cold day. Shit, the tea. “I left your tea back there,” Ambrose said as he turned in the chair. “You should drink it before it goes cold.”
