Re: log: chicago - atticus/matt
Matt was worried, and Matt's version of worried meant a jaw set in a thin, straight, unhappy line. His words were clipped and short, but his ears did prick up a little when he failed to hear Atticus' overtaxed lungs wheeze with his laugh. He finished laying out his supplies, and carried the disinfectant and the gauze with him when he sat down at last on the space cleared by the blankets. "We have to stop meeting like this," he said - Atticus sick in bed, Matt taking his vitals.
He didn't meet Atticus' eyes until he was settled on the bed, in a depression much deeper than a man his size should have left - the arm, adding an alarming amount of weight. He was still wearing his coat, but he removed the glove from his left hand, now that the door was closed. He held the gauze in his hands while Atticus talked, pinched between thumb and forefinger.
He didn't repeat if it doesn't kill you. He didn't see the need. Instead, he stared at Atticus, and that flat, displeased expression somehow deepened even further.
"Need you to sit up a little," he said. "Need to disinfect that. Saliva or not. Not going to make any difference if I clean it, but it'll help the inflammation." He offered him the broad stretch of his left arm to support himself on while he slid up, if he needed it. Now that he was closer, he could see the full effects of the foreign substance his body was trying to kill, the fever rising in a hopeless effort to create an inhospitable environment for something determined to integrate itself into his being. He had watery memories of something similar, some of his least complete of the whole war - the cold length of a steel gurney under him, body raging with heat, dry retching, trying to eject the poison.
He looked at him for another moment, then peeled off a pad of gauze and swiped Atticus' sweat-slick forehead, soaking up some of the moisture and swiping his curls to the side. "Need some clean towels," he muttered, and drenched the flat pad in his hand with disinfectant. Atticus needed a bath, too, or at least a chance to wipe himself clean with a wet, cold washcloth. Feeling clean could do some good to making you feel better, even when your body was still trying to kill itself. They'd need to do that before they got on the road. If they did - now that he'd seen Atticus, he wasn't feeling so sure about that anymore. "This is gonna hurt."