Chapter Text
you sit up in a tree huffing clouds of condensation, about twelve miles north-west of the nearest town: Machias, Maine. Your rifle is angled against another branch, and you hold it perfectly still in your gloved hands. Your garter is pulled down to bunch around your neck, and your cheeks bleed warmth in their pinkish hue.
You are hunting.
Well, mostly you are waiting. Specifically, you are waiting for a moose. Your tongue runs over your dry lips, and you tug your trapper hat forward with your other hand. Currently, you're knee deep in the biggest bet of your small, dying town. Four people, you being one of them, have been sent to catch the biggest, fiercest, most fucking terrifying moose. Cash may be involved, as are a few precious family heirlooms.
The majority of hunters —as well as your three other competitors— prefer the ground, to be able to chase their prey. Trees are also a pain to get into in the first place. You have no such qualms. There are a few perks to being a mutant after all, despite the political climate.
You place your eye against the scope of your rifle, following an owl flying early through the bare trees. The sun must be setting soon. You check your watch: 3:07 PM. A little less than an hour before evening, then. You wipe the heel of your palm against your nose and puff out another breath of warm air. Your truck is only a few miles away, parked on the side of a tumbledown dirt backroad that runs through the wilderness.
If you don't find your prey today, then the walk to your awaiting vehicle should only be half an hour. The idea of trudging back with your gear makes your cramping quads flex beneath your layers. At this point in the day, you doubt you'll find a moose at all, never mind a moose big enough to be worth killing and hauling back.
Of course, just as that thought passes your mind like a migrating Blue Jay- a rustle reaches your perked ears from a dozen meters away. You quickly reposition your rifle to track the noise. You adjust the scope to zoom in on a denser patch of bushes and trees. Your gaze sharpens, eyeing down the creature that crunches leaves under heavy steps. You can't see it yet, but you know it's there, and it doesn't know you're here.
Your finger twitches above the trigger. You bite your tongue.
One of the bushes sways with a disturbance, and you force your muscles to relax. You take a deep breath, holding it for a moment as the sounds stutter. Then, another crunch of leaves, and you can hear the weight behind each step, the mass of a large mammal. Your hands still over the collection of foliage, mind jumping alert despite your best effort to talk yourself down. There's no way it's the winning moose, but <em>what if</em>?
Then, suddenly, everything moves again. Quickly and loudly, bushes, low branches, and fallen sticks snap and twist and rustle against each other; and a hand reaches out to steady itself on a birch tree. A human hand.
You immediately lift your head from the scope, but hesitate to lower the rifle from the now visible human figure dressed in black and stumbling. It's idiotic, to not jump down and help the most definitely lost and possibly injured man who sways a handful of meters away, because he's shown no sign of being anything other than dazed. But, contrarily, it would seem to yourself similarly idiotic to lower your guard in the face of a strange man walking alone in the woods. Strange things have been happening your whole life: aliens, villains, gods, and heroes. But, you've only ever experienced such occurrences on the box television in your living room or the overhead one in the bar. You’ve never come face to face with something so unbelievable, and you certainly aren't looking to live through anything that happens on television.
The man, whose clothes you now notice are torn and not exactly fit for the chilling weather, wavers again and puts his palm out onto a maple to keep himself upright. His other hand is... wrong, in some way. You lower your head back down to your rifle, adjusting the angle to follow the unsteady figure. It's metal, a prosthetic; or some fancy armor. It’s specked with dark, rust colored blood, and you notice that’s not the only part of him covered in it.
You shut your eyes tightly, understanding what the right thing to do is. You understand that you must.
Your mother really did teach you nothing.
You move to haphazardly stuff your rifle into its case and climb your way down to a spot you can safely jump from. Landing, your boots meet intimately with the orange leaves below with a startling noise, and the mystery man seems to finally notice your presence. He jumps back, breath hitching in a way that sounds painful. It's probably the consequence of contracting the muscles next to an injury, which is believable by the weary state of the man.
Still, you put your palms up to face him innocently, taking slow steps in his direction, "Relax, man. Yer kinda in the middle of nowhere, ya alright?" You ask, tilting your head to try and get a better look at his tense face partially obscured by shoulder length hair. He's taken a defensive position, now, and looks like he's prepared to fight you here in the middle of the forest.
He looks... confused more than anything. Wide eyed like a deer. A frown pulls at your cold-chapped lips. "I don’t want to hurt ya, seems like someone else has already gotten to it," You observe not unkindly, stepping closer. You glance at the wound in his right thigh and left calf, probably the cause of his stumbling. He doesn't say anything, it doesn't seem like he's even registering your words. God, what happened to this guy?
"Listen, I got a place... less than half an hour out- probably the closest shit yer gonna find. I just want to help, yer not looking too good there, man."
He's hesitating, twitching every which way like a malfunctioning robot. He's also flexing his hands in the direction of a knife strapped to a belt. Oh nuh uh. You gesture your still-raised hands at him, stopping in your tracks. Leaves swirl around your feet. "Man, stay chill. I don’t wanna do nothin' to ya. I don't- you don't even gotta come wit' me, I just... I'd feel like a murderer if I didn't offer." You murmur the last part, your accent slipping heavier as you try to placate the man.
No response, his hands lock up, though, so at least he’s not reaching for a weapon anymore.
“Ya don’t gotta come, honest. I can call an ambulance- or take ya somewhere if you have somewhere ta go-”
Suddenly, like a switch was turned, his shoulders drop and every tense muscle in his body seems to fail. He takes a weak step back, knee buckling briefly under him. "I had to kill 'em. You don't understand." He said, and his voice was firm and intimidating, but his face reflected a pure, deep set fear.
Fuck. This was far more than you had bargained for.
-----
Eventually, you get him into the passenger seat of your truck. He even lets you get close enough for you to help him walk through the uneven woody terrain to get there. It feels like he just... gave up after a few minutes of coercion. Maybe he really is a robot.
You are deathly curious about how a man like this ended up in the backwoods of Maine. However, you don't want to set him off, he obviously has got a few screws loose already. For instance, he's sitting in the back of a stranger’s car dressed in a tactical vest and armed with at least three guns- that's how many you have been able to count so far. He's quiet as you let him get comfortable in the passenger seat, and he doesn't move an inch as you toss your unused gear in the truck bed with a metal-tinged thump.
You start the car, letting it run for a moment as you reassess your situation. The man stares blankly ahead.
No moose, pork in the freezer for dinner, mystery guy who’s probably killed someone in my passenger seat. I should start a load of laundry when I get home. Yeah, fantastic. Do-able. You run your gloved hands over your face, heaving a sigh. Then, you bite down on one of your gloves to yank it off and press your thumb onto the heater.
The man turns to you as you tug off the other glove, tapping your palms against the freezing cold steering wheel. You sigh, seeing his icy blue eyes and red nose in the corner of your vision. "You hurt bad 'nough that we should get to a hospital?” You ask tiredly, slowly coming to terms with your predicament.
“No hospitals…” he murmurs. Then, he seems to pat his hands over his pants, testing pressure on his thigh and knotting his brow at the sight of blood on his palm. He looks back up at you, "I can't feel my legs." The heater finally stutters on and it feeds into the already running white noise of the engine. You do at least a triple take at the brunet before setting your mouth in a grim line.
First, you twist to dig around in the back seat to retrieve a black and red wool blanket for him. You toss it in his lap and he doesn't seem to know what to do with it. You bet he'll figure it out... eventually. Then, you lean over him to tug open the compartment of the dashboard to pull out some of those instant heater packs - the ones that work with chemistry and shit.
By now, he's gained enough sense to unfold the blanket over his body and put his hands up to one of the vents, teeth chattering despite his obvious best efforts to clench his jaw into silence. You crack one of the heater packs with one hand and use the other to carefully move his hands from the vent, not wanting to startle him into a violent knee jerk reaction. It's nearly a miracle that he hasn't snapped already.
He lets it happen, watching with a carefully guarded face as you place the rapidly crystallizing and heating square pack in his purple tinted hand and… his other one. Coolly as possible, you remove yourself from his space and let him explore the new source of warmth. "Ya might want to take off yer boots. I dunno know how bad yer hypothermia is but I sure don't wanna be the one shakin’ yer toes out of those things," You advise, beginning to shed your own layers in simple routine.
The car warms up slowly, and the man pauses as if to weigh the command before complying. He pulls at the laces of his tall boots, probably the only thing that could pass as prepared for 30 degree weather. You run your hands over your face and down your hair, sighing quietly to yourself. As he tugs off his boots and begins to fold his feet up and under himself, you pull out of the small outcropping on the side of the road to begin the drive home.
For a few simple minutes, it's quiet. The man's breathing is ragged but measured, and you begin to really worry about who you have in your passenger seat. Then, he sneezes, and you glance at him briefly from the corner of your eye. You realize he's moved to holding the heating pad to his... shoulder. Oh, yeah. Metal.
You shift in your seat, and the air suddenly feels awkward. The road is thin and winding with orange leaves sweeping around the car. You sniff, sparing another look at him. He's staring blankly ahead, flesh hand pressing the heat packet firmly against his metal arm and looking tense.
God, it feels like someone’s sucked all the oxygen out of the room. You reach for the radio in hopes to release some of the tension. The quietest tinny jazz begins humming from the speakers, and your hand pauses over the dashboard as the man twitches his head in its direction. God, you really don't like being a possible victim in your own car. He doesn't immediately pull his shoulders up or try to turn it off, so you take it as a win and risk changing the channel to something different.
After a little button pressing and a few grimaces at static-y pop frequencies, you land at a 60's channel. No one can take a life to The Beatles, right? Right.
Nowhere Man sung out at the third lowest volume available in your truck ---barely comprehensible over the purr of the motor--- and the man in your passenger seat seems to be faring okay. Though, he doesn't seem to be in the mood for conversation, not that he had before, so you decide to leave him be for the moment and settle your full attention back onto the faded asphalt.
The dead trees arched into the empty space of the road, and you're pretty sure you just passed a roadkill-ed raccoon. This was surprising if only because you've never passed another car on this road, ever. The radio is playing Nat King Cole now, and you're tapping your fingers on the steering wheel rhythmically out of tune with the song. Bushes, signs, and densely-feathered birds whizz by, and it almost feels like a normal drive home from hunting. There's comforting music playing in the background, and the truck has warmed up to where your joints don't ache like the remnants of a month-old bruise. It's sort of nice. You sidelong at glance at the man, who also seems to be doing better now that he's out of the cold.
You drive on.
-----
Once you get into your little highway town you slow the car, turning off the music with a quiet click. The man, of whom you still don’t know the name, seems to twitch in attention as the white noise ceases. You use your free hand that you're not steering with to rub at your face, exhaustion setting in.
He begins to look around, metal hand clutching the blanket on his lap and a tense look to his brow. You turn down onto your street, the sun making you squint and adjust the car's visor. The man seems to have the same problem as you, throwing his flesh hand up and twitching his head away from the light like he's trying to wrestle out of its grip. He's unfortunately unsuccessful, and instead turns his head to look at you with a confused frown and a tilt to his head.
"This is my road, it'll only be a few more minutes, man."
The man looks at you skeptically.
You sigh, and pull into the driveway of your little cabin. You watch him. He watches you right back, eyes flickering over your face before glancing out the window.
"You got a name?" You kind of blurt, hesitant to shut off the car and uncomfortable with how skittish the man's become again. In the back of your head, you vaguely compare him to your old rescue dog. He was a black Basset Hound, a bit neurotic and grey, the usual. You can kind of see the resemblance. The corner of his mouth just twitches downward at the question. Fine, potential-killer, not a great question. Point taken.
The truck shudders off at the turn of your fingers on the key, "Scratch that, then- You gonna try an' run the second I take my eye off ya?" You raise an eyebrow. You crack open the door and a chilled breeze breaks the warm climate that you have fostered in the car. The man seems to huff, whipping his head away from you in an almost impudent manner. It's the most... anything he's given you since he first <em>admitted to murder</em>, so you take it as a sign of trust despite the harshness.
You step out of the truck and by the time you've grabbed your gear from the bed the man is already standing by the passenger door, warm blanket wrapped over his arm. You guess it's his now. See, this is the point of car blankets; they're there to get dirty, ripped, and stolen by mysterious bloody men from the woods.
He watches you quietly as you sling your rifle over your shoulder and proceed to glance down your street. It's thankfully barren, both from the weather and the inherent emptiness of your small town. Of course, you also don't trust it to stay that way for much longer if the potential criminal you're harboring keeps bleeding everywhere.
You are quick to usher him inside, keeping mindful to not try and force him anywhere (because that would not end well almost surely), but to shepherd him with facts, logic, and a healthy dose of desperation.
The second you both get inside the you shut the door behind the both of you, you begin on a small warpath of ripping of layers and making your way to the kitchen. Now that your guest is out of the potential sight line of your neighbors, you relax a smidge— or at the very least you become too wrapped up in your routine.
"You can uh- sit wherever," you call, but when you check behind you to throw off your jacket the man is still standing in the doorway looking awkward. He's fiddling with the blanket and shifting his weight from one foot to the other, and you're hit with the sudden revelation of guilty concern for the evidently traumatized man before you. He looks small, in your entryway, despite his bulky frame. Your innate draw towards the next steps in revitalizing yourself after going out stutters, but doesn’t calm.
"Or- uhm- don't. That's 'kay too."
He just blinks at you. You wince in agreement at your sorry attempt at creating a comforting space. "The livin' room's over there-" you point to the small arch on the opposite side of the small room.
The man scrunches his dark brows close together and follows your pointed finger to the archway. When he shuffles a bit in his boots and leans forward to look in, you designate it as good enough for now and continue your small whirlwind to the kettle and sink.
There is quite the long list of things you do when you get home, a running routine to get you as comfortable as possible in the colder months when your mutation makes you uncomfortable at best and utterly miserable at worst. You remove all your insulated outer layers, set the kettle on for hot cocoa, and wash your hands of the outside world.
Today, you tack on grabbing a first aid kit from your bathroom and an extra mug full of water for the kettle.
You tuck the first aid kit under your arm to balance the two porcelain mugs in each of your hands. One is decorated in rather ugly painted-on cats, and the other is labelled plainly in the name of a company your father used to work for. You're pretty sure the latter one is on its way to becoming heirloom with how unbreakable it's proven to be. Really, you've tried.
"You holdin' up a’ight?" You say as you enter the small living room of your house, most of the floor space being taken up by your indulgent purchase of a large U-shaped couch. The man is sitting stiffly near one of the corners with the blanket wrapped loosely over his shoulders, a blank look on his face as his eyes follow you. You meander your way around the couch and to his side, first opening your elbow to let the kit bounce gently onto the cushions, then setting both of your mugs down on the coffee table in the center of your little couch fortress.
you place the company branded mug closer to the man.
"It's cocoa, if ya want any."
The man opens his mouth as if to say something and you begin to raise your eyebrows. He clamps down onto his bottom lip and defers to fiddling with the scratchy tassels of the blanket with both hands instead. You sigh.
"Okay, bud. I ain't no professional but I wanna take a look at those wounds on yer legs, that fine?" You ask, taking a quick sip of your cocoa before setting it aside in favor of popping open your first aid kit and refreshing yourself on it's contents. You pull out some gauze and alcohol pads and lay them out on the coffee table before putting the rest of the stiff canvas case to the side. When you also get your sleeves nice and situated around your elbows, the man still hasn't said anything and is looking a little sick in the face from thinking so hard.
You tap his knee kindly, reminding him of your very present question and his very open wounds. He grits his teeth and nods, still contemplating something, though you have no idea what. You don’t exactly expect him to share anytime soon.
He thankfully helps you lift his left leg up onto the couch —and by association your lap— because otherwise your pretty sure you would need fucking pulleys or something. His legs feel like they're made of steel- prosthetic joke not intended.
you place a hand on his knee in hopes to calm him as you assess the damage. The black tactical pants he was wearing were thick but not insulated, and you could clearly see the shine of wet blood on the fabric soaking through. You concede in the chances of it still actively bleeding and begin to try and roll up his pant leg, eyes flicking up to his conflicted face. "You wanna brief me on what I'ma 'bout ta see or you just gonna keep starin' like that?" You query not unkindly, the pants getting caught on the wet, clunky, and now untied combat boots.
His face pinches like he ate a lemon and he whips his head away, hair swaying with the force. You huff a sound of amusement and loosen the round laces up a bit more with a few more gentle tugs. The leather is worn under your calloused fingers. Your hands run over the material to the heel of the boot. You pull it off with all of the kindred care of a nurse to a soldier, and the man sniffs from the corner of the couch, gripping at his blanket and raising his shoulders.
"It's... Bucky. I think." He mutters with that same growly, unused voice from earlier.
You stare.
He thinks?
You blink back at him, mouth gaping slightly as your brain tries to run and catch up with this new information. The boot goes onto the floor next to his other foot, and he crosses his arms uncomfortably.
You flutter your eyelashes rapidly and try to take your eyes away from his reserved face and tense posture. "Bucky? Well, can't say it doesn't fit you." you murmur at a loss for anything else to say. It’s a shock in itself that the ma- Bucky would even speak to you, taking into account the near-hour of silence the two of you have already shared. But his name? That he seems unsure of? Completely bewildering.
You roll up his pant leg properly this time, and you're met with something that would have made you queasy if it wasn’t for your long history of hunting for sport and food. You've seen blood like this on the regular since you were nine. It's fine. Your breath hitches in your throat but you're fine. You just... have to... fix it now. You've never done that before. patch skin up rather than mutilate it.
It's a bullet hole as well, which just gives you more questions about... Bucky. Fortunately, it's gone all the way through the back of his calf, ripping through the toned muscle with all the ease of, well, a hunk of metal at high speeds.
After getting an eyeful of Bucky's mangled skin you opt to pass over the alcohol pads and instead go for the full bottle of the stuff in your med kit. "This might hurt," you pop off the cap single handedly, your other hand going to his knee again to hold him more firmly. You wait to get a shaky nod from Bucky before pouring the contents onto his leg.
Distantly, you hope most of the excess lands on your pants rather than your couch.
He sucks in a breath when the alcohol meets his wound, but otherwise stays curiously still. Well, horrifyingly, actually, because you can't fathom how much the purifying of the bullet hole must burn. But, curious.
"Sorry." You say, mostly out of courtesy, as you click the top back onto the alcohol and reach for the unraveling gauze on the coffee table. The wound is by no means clean, and you would probably recommend a shower and a re-dressing of the wound if it was up to you- But it's disinfected, so the next short term step is to make sure it doesn’t bleed everywhere. You roll the gauze over his calf, being careful not to pull too tight and cut off his circulation.
Bucky is quiet. It’s no more than usual but after seeing such a gruesome wound on his body you get concerned. "Bud? Ya still with me?" You check, tilting your head up to stare at him. He stares right back.
You palm around the med kit for tape without breaking eye contact, "Bucky?"
"Mmm."
Okay, he responds to his name, then.
You consider this new information carefully while flickering your eyes down to make sure you don't botch the last step of this half-ass bandaging process. "Bucky, you doin' alright?" You rephrase, taping down the gauze and switching to merely smoothing out the dressings.
Bucky tilts his head from side to side, regarding you distantly, "Mmm," He hums again. You read it as a "so-so" and give him a small smile of encouragement.
"Well, it probably won't get infected fer now, which is what I was goin' for." You speak with a careful tone, trying to coax him out of whatever trauma-induced silence he's fallen into. The questions of how he got so far lost in the woods in such a strange get-up itches in your throat, but you swallow it down in turn of tapping at his knee again. "Now," You say, "If I remember right you got somethin' up with ya other leg too, right? Can I see?"
-----
Bucky ends up wedged between the toilet and the sink in his boxers and coat looking out of place in your warm-toned cabin. He looks like an assassin caught off guard in one of those old James Bond movies, you think.
You press an alcohol-damp washcloth harder into his thigh, trying to stop the sluggish bleeding that started up again on the walk down the hall. An audible wince of sympathy leaves your mouth when you watch Bucky’s posture twitch and stiffen.
“Sorry,” You murmur out halfheartedly, shuffling your legs on the sharp edge of your bathtub. Bucky huffs in response, shifting his attention away from your sink mirror and to the two cups of hot cocoa you insisted he help bring to the bathroom along with all the medical supplies. Your’s is significantly more empty than Bucky’s own untouched mug.
He picks up the mug, shifting the warmth between his hands. “Do-” Bucky starts, but his voice is rough and cracks after the first syllable. Your head jerks up in attention as he coughs politely, shifting the mug to his metal hand so he can rub at his throat with the other.
“Uh- Where are we?”
You look at him skeptically. Sure, Bucky was confused, hurt, and in the middle of the woods, but he’s got to at least know what state he’s in, right?
“Baileyville… Maine.” You frown at him, watching as he takes an experimental sip of the cocoa. Bucky doesn’t react immediately, so you carefully remove the washcloth to get another look at the cut. It’s pink and flayed, and you can see what looks like fat that had gotten sliced through. You swallow down the sickness in your throat.
“Maine? USA?” Bucky asks rigidly, yet he looks more uncomfortable than on the verge of tears from the gaping wound in his thigh. How did he even walk over here without sobbing?
You make an exasperated noise, folding the washcloth to a cleaner corner and wiping around the wound. “Yeah, of course USA Maine. Is there another one I don’t know ‘bout?” you ask, meaning for the question to be rhetorical as you set the cloth down and rummage around your med kit. Butterfly bandages would probably work for something like this. Key word: probably.
Bucky doesn’t seem to pick up on your tone, however, because he takes another warm sip of cocoa and mumbles, “There’s a river in France…” which has you raising your eyebrows as you work. The pack of bandages is peeled open and you begin pinching the wound as closed as you can get it. You bite your tongue at the wave of discomfort from seeing the skin move under your fingers like raw venison.
“How do ya figure that, Bucky?” You ask, placing one bandage over the cut and determining how many more you’ll need so they don’t slip the second he shifts his leg. “Ya don’t speak like yer French, but then again I’ve never been too good at that accent stuff.” The next bandage goes on as you keep your hand tense on the cut.
His brows scrunch together, and he gulps down the remains of his cocoa before putting the branded mug back on the sink counter. You put the next butterfly bandage on, waiting patiently for a response.
“I… Don’t know.” Bucky returns eventually, sounding uncertain of himself.
Of course he doesn't know, you think, why would he know?
The wound is almost able to hold itself closed so you apply one more bandage and go for the gauze next in case it starts bleeding when he moves again, and also because you have no idea what you're doing. You've never had to use anything in this kit before because of your mutation, it allows you to heal under… certain circumstances.
You cut off a roughly measured hunk of gauze and go to wrap it around Bucky's thigh, glancing up at him questioningly. "jus- just to be clear, not judgin', you don't know what country you're in, but you know there's a river in France called Maine?" You look up at him disbelievingly.
Bucky shifts nervously and stays quiet; you let him, for the sake of his jitters, move his thigh out of your hands as you try to tape the gauze down. He seems to have lost his taste for this particular line of conversation, you think, watching Bucky purse his lips and shift again where your fingers brush against the hair on his legs. You remove yourself from Bucky entirely, then, choosing instead to rummage through the med kit for proper bandages, and maybe something waterproof so you can convince the big guy to take a shower.
It would probably do you good to wrap his calf too: cover it with another layer of stretchier, tougher bandages to protect the gauze.
Two rolls of reusable waterproof bandages find their way into your palm and you curl your fingers around them. “‘Kay, Buddy, this is the last step- ‘n I wanna do it to yer calf as well,” You tell, and he huffs a noise out of his nose that probably would have been a complaint if it came out of his mouth. Still, he shifts one more time into a more balanced position and locks his knees in place.
Languidly, you begin unrolling the bandage around Bucky’s thigh, look up at him and catch his eyes lingering on your mug of cocoa. You don’t say anything
You pull the bandage tight, clipping it to itself carefully. "Uhm," you say in the silence, catching Bucky's eyes again to find him staring right back at you.
"Can I have your uh-" Bucky goes to shift from foot to foot once more, but your hands are still on his thigh and you firmly grip it to stop him from opening his wound further under the bandages.
"Sure," you interject when he stumbles, motioning for his calf and letting your grasp loosen from his leg. He swipes the mug off the sink counter, teetering his own precariously on the edge. You suddenly feel a small tide of nervousness pass over you, settling low in your gut. It's different from your nervousness a few hours ago, less sick with fear. You ignore that too.
He tilts his calf at an odd angle, settling it on the edge of the tub between your legs, knee jutting outward in the other direction. Bucky takes a sip of your cocoa, mouth twisting into a small frown. It's probably gone cold, you think, wrapping the bullet wound on his calf. It was obviously still bleeding a short while ago, but it seems to have slowed since you first wrapped it.
You clip down the cloth and wrap your palms around his calf in a gentle pressure as he finishes off your cocoa in one swift gulp.
A thought occurs to you as you watch him hastily drink down the liquid: When was the last time this guy has eaten? Your own stomach twists in hunger at the thought. Right, pork. You’re not sure how the slim portion you planned was going to work now that you were having company for dinner. Taking mental stock of your kitchen, your thumb draws small, thoughtless circles over the bandages.
The inklings of a dinner plan begin to form in your mind.