Seeping
You sat on the couch, tense and ginger. The blanket did little to soothe your worries about the blood.
You couldn’t have cleaned yourself up before he came? You couldn’t have just not chosen to cut?
You can feel the blood slowly but surely congregating on your thighs, pooling up and seeping into the fabric of your sweats.
This wasn’t good.
If Tony saw the blood — if he — he can put two and two together — he’d find out — you were screwed — you —
You bit back a grimace, trying to take deep breaths and be calm.
Tony put the bottles of whiskey aside, apparently not bothering to pour some out for each of you. Not giving you a chance to see if the blood was noticeable on your pants.
Tony was attentive to you, and it sucked. You didn’t want him to look at you — see you like this.
“I was looking at the overview of the Tower and stuff and saw that one of the air conditioners there was broken too, had to fix that,” Tony said, making small talk. “Same motor problem as yours.”
He paused, waiting to see if you’d say anything in response. You didn’t. You didn't trust yourself enough to keep your voice steady enough.
You smiled, feebly.
“You, uh, cold?” He asked, tilting his head in the stupid — annoying way he did.
You nodded tightly, drawing the blanket up.
The feeling of the blood seeping out of the cuts in front of him was too much now, you had to do something about it.