Dangerous Territory

The British Gun

Nope! Not gonna happen!

He slid out like molasses from a jar, and using his arms to take the full weight, he maneuvered his way down into Eren's room. His arms tensed as he climbed down the rope ladder.

This reminded him of military basic training.

He reached the bottom, but one problem: there was no way he could stand.

He crawled over to the bed and raised onto his knees. He reached forward and touched Eren's cheek. Eren did not even move, his mouth slightly open, breathing in an unnaturally slow pace.

"What did they do to you?" he whispered in anguish.

He looked over at the bedside, with many bottles of medicine lined up. At least the doctor had treated him. Leave it to the Germans to have superb health care.

Levi let Eren rest and decided he should treat his wounds now, as well as finally relieve his bladder. He crawled to the wardrobe, dug out Eren's medical kit, and dragged himself over to the bathroom. He had to remove his trousers, which were drenched and stained with blood. He gladly sat on the toilet, but then he worried. He would need to flush the toilet. Someone might hear that—heaven knows, they could hear every time the surrounding rooms flushed a toilet—and one of the soldiers could come in to check on Eren, thinking he was awake. Or they might come in the morning, realize he had been out all night, and yet see that someone had used the toilet.

Levi opted for the next best thing: peeing in the bathtub. He grabbed a drinking cup left on the sink, filled it with water from the toilet so he did not have to turn on any faucets, and brought it with him. He painfully moved over to the tub and sat down, with the medical supplies and cup of water ready, so they could rinse straight down the drain. The tub was cold on his bare ass, but he was half-frozen anyway from the rainstorm. He hardly even cared about whether it was improper or gross or smelled. He relieved himself, trying to be as quiet about it as possible. He then used the cup of water to wash down the mess.

That annoyance over with, he checked his legs. The gash on his shin had scabbed, but the skin around it had red inflammation streaking out.

Infection! He wanted to curse.

He soaked a cloth in the toilet bowl water and carefully cleaned away the flakes of blood. Then he opened a bottle that said Spiritus on the front. He recognized this bottle from when he had been whipped.

Ethanol alcohol. Oh, this was going to hurt!

He braced himself, clenched his jaw, and slowly poured the alcoholic disinfectant over the gash. He slapped a hand over his mouth as screams of sheer agony bubbled up, yet he had to stay totally quiet as he poured it on. Blood washed down the bathtub, and pinkish-red fluid twirled down the drain.

He needed a moment to calm his heart. Once he was sure he was not going to pass out, he pulled out a roll of bandages and wrapped it around the gash. Next up were his heels.

He pulled the left leg up and twisted the foot to see the bottom heel. The skin was torn, and he sneered as he saw some tiny rocks embedded into the skin. He dug through the medical kit and found tweezers. He steadied himself, then set about pulling debris out of his foot.

There were beads of sweat on his brow, and he flinched again and again.

Yiddisher mazel! First his ankle, now the heels of his feet. What next? Seriously, this was the worst fucking luck!

He poured the alcohol on his foot, flinching, but his body was getting used to pain again. Then he looked at the other foot.

There was no way he could twist that swollen ankle around.