log: chicago - atticus/matt
Abnormally sharp nose or not, he could smell the wound from where he was standing at the door. That smell meant infection, the reek of it flat and plain and familiar as shoe leather. He slipped the black bag from his shoulder and dropped the handle into his hand, shutting the door behind him, quietly. He took a little longer at it than he needed to, facing the door until he had his expression under control.
There was morning sunlight battering against lace curtains, but this room felt like a fucking sauna. "That's infected," he said, crossing to the curtains, dropping the bag at the end of the bed as he went. "And you've got a fever." He cracked the window to let a stream of cool air into the room, and let a little of the sick smell out. His tone was neutral enough, but his eyes were tight with dislike. The house was pleasant and clean, Stephen was polite, and Atticus had obviously been well-cared for so far, and he still didn't like anything about it.
The saxophone music had started up again downstairs. Matt went back to the bag and unzipped it, removing supplies one by one - disinfectant, bandages. Finally, when he had everything he needed laid out in front of him, he said, "You were supposed to come talk to wolves."
He glanced up at him. It was an opening to explain. Not an excited one, but open to a more thorough explanation of how it had come down to this. He understood not wanting to be vulnerable, but this, this felt like a permanent solution to something that could have been solved another way. Atticus had hurt himself to shut that book. He could understand it, but he wasn't obligated to like it, not right now, not while he was feverish and infected on a stranger's bed.