The morning is cool, even for November. You wake to your blankets pulled high around your neck; your warmth trapped under the sheets. Sleep has wiped clean the tension in your shoulders, but had left something else behind.
Your dreams were vague, foggy recollections that faded the more you pursued them. But you recall enough: piercing blue-gray eyes and the white, unreadable mask. It left your heart racing, but it was no nightmare.
Had it really been so long since you'd received any sort of attention that your subconscious had latched onto the first person to... get aroused around you? The memory warmed you, left a tightness between your legs. It felt wrong to think of him like that- he'd trusted you to care for his injuries after he'd been attacked. Besides, you don't even know him...
But some part of him liked you, or at least liked the attention you gave him.
You lick your lips and blink drowsily to your clock. It has only just passed seven— injuries like those should keep him down for a while. He could take care of himself for a few more minutes. It wouldn't take long, not even your shame could deter you now. Your strange dreams already have you primed, your underwear damp as you slip under the hem. You close your eyes and imagine.
He was so fit, strong enough to survive all this- would he be rough? Or would he prefer gentle expertise? The pads of your fingers slip through your wetness, just barely starting to dip between with the thought of those piercing eyes. He could stare you down while he touched you. You open your eyes.
Your door is open. Muffled breathing fills your room. He's here. The scream that escapes from your mouth is short lived; you pull your hand free so fast the elastic waistband snaps sharply against your waist and you cover your face with both hands.
You curse loudly against your palms. Had he seen? You had a lot of blankets on... you peak through your fingers. He doesn't move, hasn't moved, since you realized he was standing at the foot of your bed, staring down at you through the empty eyes of his mask. His coveralls are too loose, you can't quite tell if he'd had any sort of reaction. You clear your throat, dare to meet the eyes of the mask. "You scared the fuck out of me. How long have you been there?"
That gets him to tilt his head, the slow turning that you hoped was curiosity or amusement. It's so endearing you almost forgive the absolute intrusion. You had invited him to get you if he needed anything.
"What is it? Did you need something?" You look to his hands- the padding over the stumps of his fingers had darkened in the night, but the hand with the knife wound seemed alright. He says nothing, as was becoming the usual, and leaves you wondering. You look over the rest of him, but find no new bloodstains on his already filthy coveralls. You grimace; those can't be good for healing.
You don't have any other clothes that would fit his exceptional frame.
"I'm gonna brush my teeth and get dressed if you don't need anything right now." The mask turns to follow you as you slide across your bed and towards the master bath. The way he looks at you... It's slow, intentional- makes the prey instinct in your head go haywire.
You ready your tooth brush and only feel a little guilty you don't have a spare for him. Footsteps. You look up, into the mirror and find the white mask hovering behind you, towering in the doorway to the bathroom. The chill that runs down your spine is unwarranted, you tell yourself. He's creepy, that's all. Not even that- he's traumatized! He can't even speak, he was probably just hungry or scared or lonely!
And you're the one who wanted to jerk off to him, pervert.
Fuck.
You lean over to spit and rinse- and watch in the mirror as his chin dips down, the empty black holes of his eyes following down the long line of your spine, settling at the pajama-covered curve of your rear.
You stand quickly, ignoring the warmth both in your cheeks and that rekindling between your legs. He's injured. you repeat to yourself and dab your face with a towel. He's injured and lonely, that's all. Don't make this weird.
You turn,
And see his huge body is still blocking the doorway. Pointedly not looking at his waist, you meet his mask. "Excuse me,"
He does not excuse you, does not even give you the courtesy of a head tilt or any other sign of acknowledgement. His breathing echoes in the tiled bathroom as you wait. You frown and again doubt if the man actually knew what was going on.
You try for bargaining, "I can make breakfast, but I need to get by you."
He still does not respond. It's unnerving, his silence. He's different than just quiet people, than introverts or shy people. It's... intentional, pointed. Measured. The mask accentuating his breathing does not help, bringing the volume up as though it alone was his voice. You struggle to keep your nerves in check.
"I need you to step back." You say again, and this time to step toward him, you neck arching painfully back to hold his invisible gaze. When he still refuses to move, you reach out- and boldly place your hands on his ribs. You're gentle, remembering the horrible purples and blues from before, but you push against him, urging him to back up.
There's a catch in his breath, and with hardly any pressure from your hands, he steps away.
"Thank you." It's barely enough room for you to slip by, but you manage to with only minimal brushing against his ragged coveralls. You try not to pay attention to what you do feel behind the fabric.
Since he doesn't seem to want to leave you be, you decide not to change; your pajamas are warm anyway. Bootsteps behind you tell you he follows you out into the hallways and then into the kitchen. The bloody bowl and rag are still in the sink, isolated spots having oxidized and browned. You'd really have to wash that towel.
"Is there anything you want in particular?" You don't bother looking to him, it wouldn't be helpful with the mask on. Instead you open the fridge and look through what remained since your last grocery run. There's not much. "I know you need protein to heal faster after surgery, so I was thinking eggs?"
Breathing. You were really starting to stop expecting a response. You look over the edge of the fridge door. He stands in the entryway, body deceptively neutral. He stares at you, does not look around your kitchen. "If you don't like something, you'll have to tell me. All you have to do is nod." You seek his eyes in the darkness of his mask and hope he feels talkative today. "Do you like scrambled eggs?"
Nothing. You start to sigh- before the latex along his neck creaks, and very slowly his chin dips in a single nod. Your smile is disgustingly fast to spread, but you think you keep most of it hidden behind the door. "Thank you."
He lingers as you gather items to cook; watching your hands so intently as you break an egg into a skillet, you wonder why. Maybe he just likes to be near people? He's a people-watcher? Or he's making sure you won't poison him? He'd already given you a nod today, which is as much as you got from him yesterday. You didn't want to push him too far and-
You startle and look to him. He'd looked away at some point, staring out the window over your sink, but he snaps back to you so fast the mask shifts on his face, a sudden stiffness to his shoulders. You look him over, his injured body obscured by the bloody coveralls. His hands are still bandaged and dirty. "You shouldn't be up!" You frown sharply, waving him towards the living room. He tilts his head. "You're injured! Go, sit down!"
Your eyes flit between your masked guest, apparently intent on standing there and making you look like a fool and the quickly fluffing eggs. You wave your free hand at him again, shooing him away while you stirred and, to your amazement, you heard one floorboard creak. Your smile returns, as much as you wish to shove it down- but shouldn't you be happy? It seemed you were at least building trust with the stranger in your home.
And as the last of the eggs begins to firm up, you slide them out onto two plates and stick forks in them. You pour a glass of water from the tap for both your drinks- if he was so unconcerned with his healing that he would stand and watch you rather than rest, the least you could do was try to lead him in the right direction.
Carefully balancing both plates and cups, you make your way out to the living room- and sigh. He is not sitting as you had hoped, but instead is staring through your half-pulled blinds out into the yard. Suddenly, your brow knits; was he looking out for his attackers? Did he know where he was? You set one plate down onto the coffee table in the center of the room, the ceramic of one plate clicking against the metal of the fork.
You open your mouth to ask if everything is alright- but he's already turning. You concerns shortened to a startled, "Oh," as he approaches. He does not walk. Long legs make him cross the room in hardly any time, each muscle moving with a focused purpose to stop right in front of you. You neck hurts, something pinching as you look up; the empty holes of his mask burn into you and he reaches forward-
The cold fear shoots over your skin and nearly has your plate shaking out of your hands, just in control enough to take two steps backwards. You blink away tears- though you can't name exactly why they had appeared- and he reaches forward.
You feel stupid.
He takes the plate in your hands. His big hands dwarf your little flatware, the plate uneasy in his three-fingered left hand. Nearly collapsing into a chair, your appetite has faded in your adrenaline rush. Instead you're hyperaware of his every more. The mask tilts as he looks to the plate, turns the metal fork in his hand- did he not like them? He stands for a long moment, just staring at the plate before-
You almost want to laugh for how odd it is, how definitely of place he looks- his knees bend mechanically and he lowers himself to your couch. He's so tall his lap is angled backwards, but he lets the plate slide and sit against his abdomen as he reaches up and- with as much surety as he could have- rolls up the bottom of the mask. Once more you see the gray stubble across his neck and chin, the angry red line of where the latex had melted onto him, and finally his hidden, pink mouth. From this side you can see the strange wound on his cheek that you'd mended with skin glue. Blood still rushes in your ears, you watch as he fumbles with the fork- so tiny in his hand.
His teeth click against the metal- you wince, but after a few bites he seems to get the hang of it. His arm control is better today, no longer flopping and twitching so uselessly, but it trembles the longer he eats. If he kept ignoring what his body needed, it would go right back to being so severely injured. The thought crosses your mind of feeding him; he'd been almost perfectly compliant yesterday, would he be so helpful if you tried it?
You don't have time to consider. He eats like he hasn't in days-- it occurs to you, he probably hasn't. If he was out there since Halloween, he would've been without food or clean water for nearly a week Despite his awkwardness with utensils, he piles the eggs on heavy and shovels them down, his tongue occasionally peeking out to catch what he'd missed.
You manage to eat a few bites, your stomach still tense from... whatever that was. A background part of your brain reminded you that you'd be hungry later if you didn't eat now, so despite you lack of desire, you manage about a third of your plate down. The man, however, has moved onto the glass of water. He drinks with a thirst you can't comprehend- and you can't understand why he didn't get water for himself in the night or before deciding to stand at the foot of your bed. But his Adam's apple bobs frantically, droplets gathering at the corners of his mouth as he tips the glass further and further back. The drops turn to streams as it pours over his chin, zigzagging through his stubble and down his throat, hiding somewhere behind the collar to his jumpsuit. It's animalistic, absolutely primal.
You mouth is dry; you realize you've left it open. You politely look away and gather yourself-- just in time to hear him finish his glass, leaving him panting to catch his breath. He's injured you repeat. He nearly died, this is all unintentional.
You look back to him, and find him staring at you- as much as you can assume, anyway, with the unreadable mask. You offer him your plate, but can't find the words to say so; you're too afraid of what noise would come out. His hand twitches at his thigh. He takes the plate and eats with the same fervor as before.
You stand and pick up his glass. He pauses in his eating, the mask lifting to look from his (your) plate to you, so you just point at the kitchen. He makes no sign to acknowledge you, just goes back to the quickly diminishing remains of his (your) breakfast. You barely make it back to the kitchen, scared and uncomfortable and so, so, unwantedly yearning for something more than the absolutely fucked up situation you were in.
You still don't even know his name.
You refill his glass and take several drinks for yourself, again having to calm yourself before returning to your new housemate. The bloody bowl mocks you in the sink. You'd touched him, he'd let you. Fuck. You take another drink, press the cold cup to your forehead, and wish it wasn't so early in the morning.
With a full glass, you return to him. He takes it with the same measured, powerful movements- not too hard as to spill the water, but faster than a casual exchange. He drinks it, and this time you watch the pink, soft edge of his tongue press against the rim of the glass. This was not happening.
You drink from your glass this time and search for the remote to your TV. He doesn't seem to notice compared to his need for water.
The TV flashes on and a reporter's voice cuts in mid-sentence. You hear the latex creak as he turns to look at the TV, set across the room from him on a stand, then to you.
"You should slow down on eating," you say, stupidly proud of how even your voice sounds. "Don't want you to be sick."
He seems to accept this quicker than anything else you've said. He gives you no head tilt or other sign of rejection. Not that it matters now, he's already demolished both plates of eggs- but at least he doesn't raid your fridge to find something else. You move on, "I get cable, but the connection is pretty poor out here. Or I could put on something on Netflix? Do you care?"
His attention moves back to the screen, his intense interest redirected onto a brown-haired woman sitting at the anchor's desk. Apparently this station was fine enough for him. It's a local channel; you feel like you should know her name as she pleads, "If you have information, please contact the state police. The suspect is considered armed and dangerous, call 9-1-1 if approached. The phone number for the state police..."
His attention is rapt, entirely locked in on a dreary news report. Was it his attackers they had just covered? They don't repeat what story it was, only the number for the police. You bite your lip again. You really needed to tell someone about him. This was so much more than you could handle alone.
You get your phone from where you'd left it on the floor yesterday and moved through your apps to the internet. Your fingers hesitate over the keyboard before you type into Google 'How to care for gunshot wounds' and click through several links. Each one made you more nervous than the last, talking about all the things you hadn't done when patching him up. You needed to check for infection. Should've looked closer at his shredded wounds. Should've just called the damn hospital, really.
A talk show follows the news segment, and he seems content enough to watch another set of women discussing something. Magical benefits of kale, today. You don't think he eats much kale.
Get the victim to the hospital as soon as possible one site reads. But that's a fresh bullet wound, right? His was already old enough to have stopped bleeding and be covered. Did that make a difference?
You're such a fool. You were killing this man with lack of care.
You stand up, but lose sight of whatever plan you had. His head turns slowly from the television to look up at you. For once, you're taller than him. Should you call the hospital anyway? Or just let him stay here? He could call emergency services on his own, or be demanding you do it for him. He'd stopped you from doing so before, but... You fidget with your phone still in your hands.
"I should really take you to the hospital." Your thumb hesitates over the phone icon, wanting so badly to just be able to dial it. Wanting more for his blessing. "You're really injured, they can do more for you than my first aid kit can."
He stands upright, his height filling your room once more. A heavy presence surrounds him, makes you wither under his gaze. He looks down at you with that same piercing purpose- and though you cannot see his eyes, you realizing something. About the way he moves, how intensely he focuses, the confidence of each motion; he's a craftsman. He sees something, knows he can change it into something else, he knows how. Like a carpenter with a lathe, only you're his new work.
You stumble back, "Please, please, let me call?" Your voice feels small and far away, the warmth of tears returning just from the pressure of his gaze. "You're hurt really bad, please,"
He pursues, two of your fumbled steps made one swift motion for him- and you keep fumbling away until your back meets the wall outside your kitchen. Back in the entryway where you'd tended him yesterday. He continues on, steps so close to you he blocks out all light behind him; his chest covers your line of vision. You have to tilt your head so far back to meet the eyeless mask that your neck hurts, the length exposed-
And one warm, rough hand curls around it. You feel where the bandage around his thumb is coming loose. The pad of his thumb presses against your pulse.
True fear shoots down your spine, each limb trembling as you touch his forearm- still careful to avoid the knife wound along his wrist.
He doesn't tighten his grip, his fingers- all five simply resting just under your jaw, keeping your chin lifted. His adjusts his grip until his thumb and forefinger meet at the nape of your neck, completing the ring of warmth and danger. You swallow, feel the tiny bones of your neck move against his palm.
It's barely more than a whisper. It's hard to move your jaw much with his hand pressed so close below. "Okay." His head tilts, watching as you blink rapidly, lick your lips. You try to stay focused and not get lost under a wave of fear and- "Okay, I won't."
His hand relaxes, sliding down your throat halfway, until his ring and pinky fingers rest over your clavicles. "But let me check your wounds again." He stills; his thumb twitches in what you fear is restraint. Against your will, one hot tear slips over your cheek. And as he holds you there, his left hand raises and touches the wetness as it beads at your chin. The mask slides the other way as he tips his head, looks at his now wet fingers.
He lingers, takes his time considering something inscrutable. Each rapid breath passes under his hands, your eyes still locked with the darkness as you wait.
He steps away, hands falling back to his sides. He gives you the same staccato nod, barely more than a dip of his chin. You wipe your cheek with your sleeve, then your eyes before more traitorous tears can fall. The man turns and goes back to the living room, unconcerned with your anxious weeping. With trembling hands you find your first aid kit again- still left on the floor by the front door- and count through your bandages, just to make sure you had enough to replace them all.
He's dangerous. The thought whispers in the back of your skull. You smother it. Overreacting. He's scared. He didn't hurt you. You couldn't have brought someone dangerous into your house. You're smarter than that. You glance to him, and find him sitting down on your couch again, watching the TV. Please, fuck, be smarter than that.
You set the kit down on the coffee table and look towards his zipper. He didn't lower it. His mask isn't off either. You hesitate. He'd nodded before, he was just... being obtuse again. You reach for the edge of his mask instead-
You gasp; his hand catches your wrist. It's the same firm grip he had the last time you'd cleaned his head wounds. Not painful, but demanding- he lowers your hand to the zipper at his throat. Guess you wouldn't be checking on his cheek any more today.
You steady yourself as much as you can, and take the cold metal between your fingers. You shake so hard the handle clicks against the zipper itself. You place a hand on his shoulder- careful to avoid the wounds there- and slowly lower the zipper, revealing the same scarred, bruised chest as before.
The mask's eyes do not leave your face even as you push the sleeves off his shoulders. The patches you put over the gunshot wound are slightly discolored at the center, and with careful fingers you pull away the bandage. It's only brown with blood, which from your meager internet searching, was the best possible color to have. The wound itself is still ugly and misshapen on the front. You carefully urge him to lean forward so you can reach his back- and find that bandage clean.
He's cooperative, or as cooperative as he's ever been. He lets you lift his arms as you inspect the wounds, sits quietly as you peel away each shoddy bandage, makes no comment or motion even as you undo the wrappings around the stumps of his two fingers- even as your stomach flips at the gory remains. They aren't pretty and the scars will be extensive, but if he's not dead by now, he might just be okay.
You reach for your first aid kit- and an idea comes to mind. You reach for your phone again- the man's gaze follows your hands as you type into Google again. You can feel the narrowing of his eyes. "I read," You voice shakes, so you swallow, exhale slowly as you try again. "That you should keep wounds like these clean, and I don't think your outfit is helping them." You look to the grimy, blue-gray coveralls. Through the mask he does not look impressed. You double check the web page. "And, according to the internet, you should be able to shower. I think that would help a lot."
His head tilts, one clump of synthetic hair falling away from the bunch to dangle freely.
"I can wash your coveralls pretty fast since it would just be them. And your socks, I guess." You thumb at the edge of your phone. You can't hold his gaze, flitting between the empty eye holes, his dark, scabbed wounds, and the splotched purples of his torso. A peculiar line of dark bruises has fully formed over his abdomen- long and horizontal. You wonder what caused it.
He doesn't move for a minute, you think he'll just ignore you and go back to watching the ladies talking-- onto something about energy saving tips now. But, instead, his head turns and he looks to his feet. He undoes the ties to his boots and peels off his socks. You're almost ecstatic. You get up to grab your laundry hamper from your room, not wanting to touch the bloody clothes longer than you had to. Since it was already half full, you end up dumping your dirty clothes onto your bed to be washed later and take the hamper to the living room out with you.
He's already nude except for his mask. He stands in the living room, stepped out of his coveralls. He makes no attempt to cover himself, absolutely shameless. You gasp and drop the hamper, your eyes looking too fast for your brain to stop. You pinch your eyes closed but despite all the heavy bruising, all the wounds you could've looked at instead, the image of his cock lingers behind your eyelids.
At least he's only half-hard this time.
"Um," Your mind stumbles over what to say. You look anywhere but at him and scoot the hamper out of the way. "H-here," You motion for him to follow, focusing hard on your floor.
His footsteps are so quiet you don't hear him behind you- having to take quick glances at the floor behind you to make sure his feet are still there. You lead him back through your bedroom and to your bathroom. The master bath had a better showerhead and water pressure than the one out there, and at least he was a little further away- maybe you'd have more time to prepare when he inevitably wandered out of the bathroom, wet and naked.
You point at the knobs to your shower, motioning as you go, "Turn it this way for hot water, and this way for cold. It can take a minute to warm up and it can be loud, the pipes are old. Um. Soaps are over here." You step back, and he obediently steps into the bathroom. His arms hang plainly at his sides, still not even bothering to cover his body-- you restrain yourself from peeking, despite the tingling in your belly.
The breathing through his mask is harder; you don't have to look to know he's probably thickened. "Uh, don't scrub at any of your wounds, especially the one on your cheek, it can unstick the glue. Point is to rinse, not reopen anything. I can, uh, rebandage you when you're done."
The mask turns slowly away from you and towards the shower. You're out and closing the door behind him before he can make this any more weird.
Separated by only some prefab door, you lean against the wall outside your bathroom and hold your face in your hands. Your cheeks burn, and the warmth has returned between your legs. Was this something that just happened to old men? Getting hard at weird, inopportune times? Seemed like the opposite of what you knew- this was like he was a teenage boy, getting hard at the slightest attention. And he wasn't ashamed of it either- he'd waited for you to come back and see.
You press the heels of your palms against your eyes and watch the phosphenes dance behind your eyelids. You breathe slowly. The water turns on and, after a moment, the shower turns on. He had waited for you.
You were so wrong, so absolutely fucked. You shouldn't be calling an ambulance, you should be calling the fucking police. You push yourself back up and drag yourself out of the room. You can at least go wash his clothes.
In the living room, you carefully pick up his uniform- avoiding the worst of the bloodstains- and drop it into the hamper. You'll have to clean your floor. Something occurs to you, something that brings that same cold fear rushing back through your veins. You pick up the coveralls again, turn them and look close. There's holes aligned with his injuries, a frayed hole over his shoulder, slashes on his arms, each soaked and stiff with oxidized blood, the fabric on his chest and back was thinned. The cuffs were both soaked in the rusty stains- from his wrist and hand injuries, you tell yourself.
But you can't explain the blood soaked into the chest, the spatter across the ankles, and one long, flat, stroke across a forearm. It's defined. It has a point to it. You know that kind of stain. You'd cooked enough; it's what happens when you wipe off a knife.
Possibilities roll in your head. They wiped the knife off on him after they attacked him. Maybe someone else was attacked too. It's a Halloween costume, maybe some of it's fake. A really, really good fake. Maybe the suit isn't even his.
Maybe you should really call the police.
An unnameable, swirling emotion drives you; you drop the coveralls back into the hamper and quietly collect his socks and even the rag you'd used to clean him from the sink. You cross the house, ignore the pounding water coming from your room, and dump the hamper into your washing machine. You feel about as hollow as the drum within. You use too much detergent, but you don't want to bleach his clothing or bother stain fighting when they'd already set in so hard. The dial turns under your fingers, the machine lighting up and dinging as you start it.
You lean over it, feel it begin to turn and weight the clothes, your mind empty and buzzing all at once, static in your ears. Who was this man? He hadn't hurt you, not really- he'd only been physical when you encroached on his boundaries-- of course, those boundaries included him having to reveal any sort of personal information. Involved mandatory police reports.
But you felt... it's not safe. Something else. Something... soft. He hadn't hurt you. He was creepy and weird and extremely inappropriate and you were so, so lonely and he was... handsome. In a strange, off-putting way. It was hard to differentiate between his mask and his face; the piercing blue-gray fading in your memory already. But his presence in your home was becoming somehow comforting; you weren't alone out here after all.
And yet, that makes you so much more afraid: you aren't alone out here.
You return to the kitchen and bleach the bowl you'd used to bathe him, then collect your dishes from earlier. You scrub them, focus on the soothing repetitive motions and the sound of water running. That's all you have right now, the comfort of simple movements and sounds and the soothing noise of the TV from the living room, an ad for a local barbeque place playing.
When you're done, you towel off the dishes and put them in the cabinets again, then you sit quietly in your chair in front of the television There's a stranger showering in your bathroom. You can hear the water from here, added to the static in the back of your head. You can hear him moving through it, the shape of the spray shifting, the sound changing with it.
You hoped- hah, despite all the terrors that now lurked in your mind, what a fool you are- that he's not agitating his wounds too much. Could he wash his hair? With his fingers damaged and the other shoulder having a hole in it... The idea of washing his short hair passes through your mind.
You couldn't have stayed. It would've been too much. You don't know what would've happened, but the thought alone of soaping up his hair is making your heart beat too fast, your mind just a little foggier. He would probably close his eyes and relax against you.
You get lost in whatever is on TV; you can't even follow what's happening, but you stare at the screen. After a while your washing machine dings. It shakes you from your complacency and you go to check on his clothes. They're clean, mostly- some of the staining is too deep-set to remove now, but at least they're no longer stiff and grimy from laying in the leaves for a few days.
You drop them into the dryer and start it, taking note of the time. You startle- had you given him a towel? Fuck. There aren't any hanging in the bathroom. You grab a spare towel from the laundry room- a dark one, just in case he's bloodied himself again- and go back to your bedroom.
Steam fogs the room, but you're quite happy he's enjoying your hot water. How long had it been since he'd showered? You cross the room- and your foot finds a cold, wet patch on the carpet. You recoil and look closer- and find a short set of footprints between your bathroom door and the corner of your bed, a small puddle soaked into the carpet around your bed. Like he'd been standing there for a moment before returning.
You look at your bed; there doesn't seem to be anything out of place. It's still messy from this morning and you've got your dirty clothes dropped onto it since you had the hamper out there to collect his bloodied clothes. Your brow furrows. What was he out here for? Did he forget something? Had he been looking for a towel? You frown- but can't find any meaningful answer. Just one more weird thing he's done.
You knock on the door twice to get his attention, the sound of the shower changes. You speak loudly over the roar of the water. "I'm leaving a towel for you outside the door!"
There's no answer from behind the door, so you return to the living room once more. The wetness of your carpet lingers in your head, but you can't think of anything. Maybe he'd stepped out to get your attention for something, but then changed his mind? You shake it from your thoughts. There's so much weirder stuff going on, the unexplained bloodstains on his coveralls, why he had walked partially into your room was of little importance comparatively.
You stomach grumbles. You'd barely eaten earlier- and a quick glance through the window confirmed it was already edging into the early afternoon. It would be dark soon. You'll have to remember to make more food next time. A sandwich should be easy enough on both your stomachs. But first you have to redress and rebandage your guest. What if his wounds had reopened?
The image of his ruined fingers surged to your mind.
A sandwich might be too much.
The water shuts off in your bathroom, the staticy noise ceases, overtaken entirely by the TV. A fake judicial show's theme plays and you get your phone. The last page- how to care for a gunshot wound - is still open, a white and gray text page telling you all the things you had done wrong. You hesitate, before closing the tab, your fingers tapping along the sides of your phone as you contemplate what to do.
You do not think of him toweling off, do not think about his pink lips and silver stubble, and how if he'd used any soap at all he might actually smell pleasant and not like rotting death itself.
There was a stranger in your house. He's terrifying and weird and wants you and you should've called for help a long time ago.
Your dryer startles you, a little melody playing to alert you that his clothes are done. The judge bangs her gavel and yells at someone. You head back down the hallway, the judge's rant lost on you. His clothes are warm as you pull them out and really get a look. The coveralls are in terrible shape over all; ripped and torn and threadbare, the blood has faded into odd, dark, but unidentifiable stains. Your thumb lingers over one of the slashes in the left arm, feeling the frayed ends of threads brushing the pad of your finger. Someone did that to him.
Maybe later you could patch them up for him. Would he like that? Does he even care?
You gather his coveralls and fish out both socks, leaving the rag for later.
If he liked you so much- hopefully for something other than exclusively sex- maybe he'd appreciate you mending his clothes. Hefting the clothes over onto one arm, you open the door to your bedroom.
He's standing in front of your dresser, inspecting the various items you have there. Facing away from you, the towel is bunched in one hand at his hip, fully exposing his ass. It's pale with strong dips on each side with a surprising and pleasing curve to it. And yet- his mask is back on already, the flaps separating softly over the nape of his neck. He turns away from a picture of your family to look at you, the towel sliding just so, so that finally, finally he covers himself.
You already know what it looks like. The memory returns unbidden.
"Here," You offer his clothes back without looking at him, which he takes. He holds them for a long moment, before dropping the towel unceremoniously onto your carpet. You stare carefully at his feet he begins to pull on the jumpsuit.
As he zips up, you take the moment to reassess his wounds. His shoulder stab and gunshot both looked good, his fingers were not bleeding obviously, no blood spilling from under the mask- you'd really hoped he'd let you get a look at his cheek again, though. The zipper stops at his navel, the top half hanging around his waist like a skirt. It's strange, his bare, shirtless chest- the bruises all lit up and dark, his numerous scars bright with unblemished pink skin- against the white matte of the mask.
You do not linger to look at him more than medically necessary.
He follows you back to the living room, where you'd left the first aid kit. Once more he is compliant- he takes his seat on the couch and he watches as the show cycles to another episode of the judge whoever, tipping his head as the theme plays. This time, you consult the internet before placing each bandage, taking the time to carefully center each one and smooth the edges down.
You do not let your fingers wander on his clean skin.
You brow knits sharply as you get to the knife wound along his right wrist, finding half the scabbing over his thumb gone with fresh, scarlet blood beading. It's your fault, you should've bathed him. Another fresh wrap seals that wound away. The bruising over his chest is darker after his shower, spreading across his shoulders and down his arms, sharp lines of impact across his forearms and hands, vying for attention with the inflamed burns. The line that runs horizontally across his abdomen is more defined now. You squint at it- and gasp. It looks... like the grill of a car.
You can't stop yourself before your fingers trace along one long line of bruising. You just wish you knew what had happened to him.
You find your tub of burn cream in the red bag and scoop some onto your fingers. "Tell me if this hurts." The mask turns to look at you as you raise his already bandaged right hand and, diligently avoiding the fresh bandages, you rub the cream onto his hands. He doesn't move, despite how much burns can hurt. He sits there, perfectly still, as you rub the cream onto his skin, making sure to coat each finger.
The left hand is still a mess, but as you had surmised earlier, the thick scabbing remained in place during his shower. This time, you cut a gauze pad into a circular shape- and then cut halfway through it. You pressed it over the top of the stump and taped down the edges, making the bandaging less intrusive. You do the same for his missing pinky, before picking up the burn salve again.
He watches, rapt, as you rub it into his skin, so delicate with how you hold his hands, avoiding the darkest bruises and the worst of the burns. You take your time to apply the salve over one long burn along his forearm that had already blistered and peeled. You linger to observe your work, turning his hand to make sure you'd covered all of it. You're doing it before you can stop yourself- your lips press against an untouched part of his wrist. It lasts only a second, and you retreat before you can make more of a fool of yourself.
Clearing your throat, you move on. With his torso done, you begin to put away your supplies.
His hand catches yours- slipping a quarter inch on your skin due to the slick cream on his palm. You think he's upset again- the twist of dread already settling in your stomach, but his movements are the same demanding yet measured, not angry as he brings your hand up to the edge of his mask. Your fingertip touches the burned skin there, he drags it along.
"You want me to put the burn cream on this?"
You hand is released; he nods. Your hand trembles, bringing the cool, minty off-white cream to his neck. It nearly matches the mask in color, and you lift the very bottom edge to be able to see the burn clearly. You smooth it over the front of his throat, pausing to feel the assertive force of his pulse. You work outwards, reaching around him blindly, following the burn by touch alone-
He shifts, the mask turning towards you. The light reflects off one blue-gray eye, his pupil blown wide under the latex. You still, the breath catches in your throat. He sees through you, passing through every part of you, searching for something. His head tilts off to the side in curiosity, and the light is gone. You know it's still in there, in the darkness- that piercing, unearthly gaze that demands more of you than you have to give.
You're trembling all over, but you work the cream into his neck. It only takes you a few tries to get the lid to the burn cream back on.
You leave the living room without a word; he's pulled them all out of you, left you with nothing on your tongue. You make sandwiches on autopilot, forming your favorite without asking what the masked stranger liked. Not that you had much to offer; tomorrow you needed to go into town and get more medical supplies and groceries.
His mask is already rolled up when you return, facing you as you leave the kitchen. Had he smelled you making food? It's not like you really cooked anything.
It doesn't matter. You keep your eyes on his hands, on his mouth as you give him his plate. Once more your appetite is quashed under the roiling adrenaline and fear- but you know you'll be famished if you don't eat.
A crime drama starts, you figure that's good enough. You watch, try to immerse yourself in the plot and characters and stuff down as much of your food as you can. So long as you can ignore the hungry gaze burning into you.
Your eyes get heavy soon after dark. You yawn, and give in- no use staying up late. "I'm going to bed." You tell your stranger. He had stopped trying to eat you with his eyes after the evening news. "Get me if you need anything."
You don't watch his mask follow you down the hallway; you feel it.
In your room again, you stretch, your muscles tight from the continuous anxiety gifted to you by your guest. You go to brush your teeth. Along the way you grab the used towel and bring it with you. The bathmat is still damp, puddly outlines of his feet pressed upon them. It's kind of cute. You hang the towel up over your shower- and notice something odd.
Had you... left something hanging before he showered? No... You stare at the scrap of fabric and know exactly what it is. The wet footsteps make sense now; he'd taken it from your bed, must've been in with your dirty laundry.
You cover your mouth with one hand, warm tears gathering at the corners of your eyes. It's soaking wet from his shower. You lift it, water dripping off- but not everything leaves; there's a peculiar shine along the hem.
Yesterday's underwear soaking in the shower.
You peel them open. It's pearlescent inside. Thinned in the water, but still clinging to the seat, it's unmistakable. They drop to the shower with a wet splat.