Chapter 8
You're standing outside on the curb, huddling in your jacket and trying to keep warm as the brisk December wind whistles down the street. It wakes you up a bit, cutting through the drunken haze that had overcome you inside the club.
What the hell was I thinking? You can't believe that you've met Williams again, can't believe that she's real, more than just a dream born within a nightmare. Can't believe that you actually touched her like that …and that she seemed to like it. Maybe. You're not too sure, wondering if you're just imagining what you want to be true, if your alcohol induced blurred memory is making things up. But then you think of the weight of her gaze on you as she swallowed everything you gave her, her tongue darting out to lick her lips after.
You glance at her from the corner of your eye.
Williams cups her hands close to her face, trying to light a cigarette against the wind. She glances over at you, trying to blow some warmth into your hands, and silently slips off her jacket. It falls with a comforting weight over your shoulders, and she moves to stand beside you, blocking the rest of the wind with her tall body. She goes right back to flicking at the lighter. “For fucks sake.” She mutters around the cigarette as the flame keeps going out.
She did it so casually, almost unthinkingly, you're not sure if its something she would have done for a friend or if it was meant to be flirty. It has you hiding a smile anyways. You slide your arms into the sleeves and notice it's the same jacket she had worn last time, the blood now washed away. You wonder what this jacket has been through, what it’s seen, with an owner like her.
I wonder what she's been through. The thought comes to you unbidden and you shake your head to clear it.
Not my business, and I don't care. You lie to yourself.
You know you should refuse, do the polite thing and give the jacket back, but you feel so much warmer now, and as long as you're wearing it, you think that she probably won't suddenly disappear without it.
Am I seriously holding her jacket hostage? You grimace. It would seem so.
It looks well worn and it smells like her and you can't help wrapping it around you tighter. You won't deny that you also like the idea of wearing something of hers, more than just for the warmth. “Thank you.” You tell her. Cigarette held between her lips, she waves you off. “S’fine.” She’s just in a hoodie now, but the cold doesn't seem to affect her.
“So…” You start, while she goes back to trying to get her lighter to spark. You're not quite sure what to do now, your confidence gone along with your drunkenness. “What did you need from me?”
Williams takes a triumphant drag from her cigarette, turning her head to blow the smoke away from you and your eyes catch on the rings on her long fingers. The skin along her knuckles is red and raw looking, and as she taps the ash from the end of the cigarette, you wonder if she's been in a fight recently. You have to stop yourself before you reach out and touch her hand. You're not feeling quite as bold out here, in the cold and quiet, and you look away quickly, even though you weren't really doing anything wrong.
“I didn't expect to see you here.” She says after another exhale. “Or ever again, to be honest. But, now that you're here, it seems like it was meant to be.”
You hold your breath, staring at her. “I was thinking the sa–”
“I need you to take my stitches out.”
Oh.
“I’ve been putting it off.” She adds with a shrug, like your heart didn't just drop out your ass.
You stare at her. There go your thoughts of a romantic and steamy evening. “That’s what you want?” You ask, incredulous, trying to hide your disappointment. “I told you, I'm not a doctor. Did it even heal properly? Did you clean it?”
Williams shrugs again and you suddenly have visions of a festering wound, swollen and infected.
“Oh god.” You shudder. Maybe you had better take a look after all. You can't imagine that someone so casual about a serious wound would be taking the necessary steps for proper healing. “Please tell me there’s no pus at least.”
“Why, you gonna faint again if there is?” She asks with a little smirk, her next breath of smoke disappearing in a french inhale.
You fix her with a look. “Does it matter? Would you go to a doctor if I did?”
“Nah. I don't trust em.”
“And you trust me?” You ask skeptically. You’re still a stranger to her, after all.
“More than a doctor.” She shrugs.
“I'm drunk.” You say next, trying to come up with an excuse. You're not, not anymore, but she doesn't need to know that.
It’s not that you don't want to help her, it’s that you don't know if you can be that close to her again, standing between her legs while she’s shirtless and be focused on anything but her. You don't know what will happen if you have to get that close again, without the distraction of blood or alcohol this time, or how you’ll handle it when she inevitably disappears again. You wouldn't be able to stand the disappointment if you took out her stiches and she wanted nothing more.
Better to be safe than sorry and avoid the whole mess, like you should have done when she had first come into the store.
“My flat’s, a bit of ways away, the walk will sober you up.” She says, stubbing out the cigarette and shoving her hands into the pocket of her hoodie. “Come on.”
“You’ve got to be joking.”
She turns to glance at you over her shoulder, noticing your stillness.
“I’ll pay you.” She says after a moment. “I’d really rather not do it myself.”
You find yourself waiting for a ‘please’ that doesn't come, and then wonder why you had even expected it in the first place.
“I don't need your money.” You sigh, following after her reluctantly, unable to stay away and staring down at your shoes as you cross the pavement. “I’ll help you for free. I just wish you wanted me to come home with you for a different reason.” You say quietly.
You look up to gauge her reaction to that, but she didn't seem to hear you, already walking up the street.
And maybe that's for the best.
You jog to catch up to her, trying to not be too obvious in huddling against her side for warmth. “But seriously,” You say, looking up at her. “Tell me there's no pus.”
She smiles. “I guess you’ll have to find out.”
• ───────────────── •
“All that money and you couldn't have at least paid for an Uber?” You pant, feet aching as you climb the stairs up to her flat at last.
Williams, totally unaffected by the long walk, huffs out an amused laugh. “Wanted to make sure you sobered up.” She says, and there's a little sparkle in her eye that makes you wonder if she knew you hadn't really been drunk. You wonder if she still is. “Can’t have you operating on me under the influence if you still haven't changed your mind.” She turns, unlocking the door and motioning you inside before you can reply.
Was she hoping you wouldn't, or worried you would? Or, are you reading too much into it? You can't be sure, and it frustrates you. The entire walk, she had kept up friendly conversation, asking if you had gone back to nursing school (you had, thanks to her generous contribution), if you’d had any more bullet wound cases (you had not–but a patient with a particularly nasty stab wound had given you some trouble last week), and how your holiday had been going so far.
She had been painfully polite.
You wouldn't have expected someone in her profession to have such good conversational skills, but she kept you relaxed and chatting the whole way, you hardly even noticed how much your feet hurt until you reached the stairs.
It left you unsure of where you stood. Was this an even exchange like last time? Did she want more? Were you supposed to take out her stitches and then leave? You’re not sure you can do that, not sure how to tell her so, but didn’t want to impose yourself on her.
She was attentive and courteous, but is that just because you’re doing her a favor? You suddenly wish for another shot or two, just so you could have the courage to press her against the wall and kiss her to find out for yourself.
But then she’s following you inside, and the opportunity is gone. You sigh.
It’s fine. You tell yourself, only partially believing it.