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God.
He was so handsome.
Gently, she touched his cheek.
“This is going to hurt. I’m sorry,” she said, when she doused her hands with alcohol and hit his wound with some vodka.
He moaned, his body wracked with pain. She could see him bleeding on the couch, so the gunshot was likely through and through.
The bad part was she had to do this twice.
God.
This poor man.
Kneeling beside him, she got the sterilized needle and threaded it with the fishing line.
Then, she cleaned his wounds, and made sure there was no debris from the water. When she started stitching him up, he flinched, and then settled down.
“Just do it,” he whispered, his body shaking.
“I love you, Remmy. Hang in there,” she said, starting to stitch him up. Slowly, the wound closed, and she got the hang of it.
When he whimpered, she found his mouth and kissed him, trying to soothe his pain.
As he struggled to kiss her back, she knew he needed some peace. She needed to hurry.
When Calyx threw in the last stitch, she needed to do the wound on his back. Rolling him onto his side, facing the back of the couch, she saw the hole.
Jesus.
How had he stayed on his feet for so long?
Calyx cleaned that hole, too, and poured more alcohol on the wound.
Remington flinched.
“I’m sorry. I’m almost done,” she promised.
Then, she did the same thing over again, and this time, placing a sterile bandage over the wound.
When she laid him back on the couch, he was more peaceful.
And asleep.
Going to the cabinet, she found some soup in a can. Calyx knew instinctually that she needed to get some food into him. She could go without food, but he was going to need calories because he was fighting an infection.
Making some soup, she went over to the couch and touched his arm.
“You have to get something in you. You’re healing,” she said.
His eyes fluttered open.
“Can’t sit up.”
She put the bowl down, and lifted his head so he could rest it on her lap. Then, she carefully spooned the soup into his mouth.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
