Re: log: chicago - atticus/matt
"You're right," he said. "Not fair. Should go talk to the guy who put him there." It was halfway a joke, meaning Atticus, and halfway not, meaning he was thinking of the person who had kept him prisoner, a person whose identity he still didn't know. The better for them.
Matt didn't like the idea of shoving Atticus back out onto the road, and that much was plain on his face. Under any other circumstances, Atticus' pain tolerance would have been the least of his concerns when deciding whether to move him cross-country with an open and deeply infected wound. These people in this house understood its nature, if nothing else. What if it took a turn for the worse halfway to Repose? He could treat it medically with his patchwork knowledge, but he couldn't fix a supernatural problem with a medical solution. If something went wrong, he might not be able to fix it, or even know what it was.
"Need to talk to your friend before we leave," he said. He wanted confirmation, from a source that wasn't Atticus, that it would be safe to take him back to Repose like this. If these strange wolves were not only willing to let him go, but willing to advise on his care, he'd also feel a little better about their motivations for letting Atticus do this stupid thing to himself. Right now, it was hard not to feel like someone had talked him into joining a great new cult with saxophones and an aversion to lunar cycles.
"Stephen," Matt responded, with a flick of his eyes from Atticus to the door, then back again. Stephen was a handsome werewolf who could play a musical instrument. It couldn't be a surprise that he was curious about the origins of that relationship.
Matt didn't mind no matter how hard Atticus squeezed. Saline hurt, but it was meant to flush the wound of infected matter and cleanse it. The bubbling was atypical and a little alarming, but he didn't stop. Atticus sagged against him, but he held him up and set the empty bottle of saline aside only when the wound was clear.
He pulled the gauze from its sterile package and carefully daubed at the wound to clean away the excess moisture. A sterilized metal hand did the job just as well as a clean human hand in a glove. "That's it," he said. He ran his right hand over Atticus' forehead and down the back of his neck. "It's over."
The wound looked angry, but more clear than before. He tore a fresh gauze pack open by rubbing the seam between metal thumb and forefinger, and he applied it to the wound. He could see the sweat standing out on Atticus' back. This close, the smell of adrenaline coming off the wounded man was intense. "Just hold still," he murmured. "I'm going to get this on, then you're done. They give you anything for the pain?" Best to get the answer out of him now, before he had a chance to fall unconscious. If they were going to move him, he was definitely going to need the painkillers at the bottom of the black bag. His face was close to Atticus' shoulder, his hand still wrapped around the back of his neck, and he began securing the gauze one-handed. Finally he let go, holding the roll of tape in one hand, finishing the job with the left.