by W. A. R.
She was in a bed…in the bed that she had damn near destroyed a few nights before. Glass and wood splinters still littered the floor still, but the bed was made…well, for the most part. Her swords were still in their scabbard, their hilts leaning against the wall by the door, along with Miles’s holsters and guns. Her eyes continued looking around the room until they landed on a chair against the wall across from the foot of the bed. In it sat Miles, a hat pulled down low over his closed eyes, and his hands entwined at his waist as his elbows rested against the armrests. His feet were crossed and kicked out before him and his chest moved in a steady, even rhythm. She was reminded of her nightmare and she questioned whether her waking in his arms had been real or not. She shook her head. It had to be real…so, why was he in the chair? Better yet…how long had he been there? What time was it? She felt a chill skate over her body and she shivered, attempting to bring up her right arm before she hissed in pain. Her shoulder screamed at her and she felt tears sting her eyes. It was amazing that she had not felt any of these ailments before, but, she figured, she had continued to run on adrenaline until she couldn’t run on it anymore. Once her body had recuperated through sleep, she felt it all, every minute ailment that she had failed, or refused, to acknowledge. And for the first time, she regretted not sleeping. The chill ran over her once more and she looked down at herself, boots no longer on her feet. She felt her shoulder restrained more than previously and moved the shoulder of her shirt to look at the wound. On her shoulder was a new, slightly crimson bandage. Her knife lay on the night table to her right and she shifted slowly, using her left hand to reach for it. Someone must have tended to her wounds while she was asleep and she felt a heat crawl up her neck at the thought. Surely it was Michael that had done so. He knew she didn’t want anyone else seeing her wounds.
It took time, significant time, as she couldn’t use her right arm, her wounded shoulder making it damn near impossible to maneuver, but she accomplished her tasks without much noise and whenever her fingers brushed against the scars on her right side, on her hip she grimaced. She really didn’t want to wake Miles. He must have been exhausted, especially after coming after her the night before, which reminded her that she needed to have a discussion with Michael about what was and wasn’t okay. She stole another glance at Miles’s sleeping form before she eased to her feet. He had been through so much that he was just as exhausted as she had been, and she knew this. She felt guilt gnaw at her even as she understood that her sleeping wasn’t her fault, not entirely. He deserved the bed…not the chair and though she wanted to wake him and tell him as much, she didn’t. Instead, she took a step, or well, limped, to her swords and his guns and slowly, as best as she could, put them on after she donned her boots. She didn’t want to wake him from his slumber, especially considering that it appeared to be sometime in the afternoon judging by the sunlight coming in through the window. And so, slowly, she limped easily from the room and left him there, on a mission to determine what the next step for herself and for her family was. She had to keep him pushed away. She couldn’t have him hurt.
Chapter Twenty-One
Miles sat in the chair, unmoving as he watched Amber limp from the room. He wanted to help her, to ease her pain, but he understood that she needed to do it on her own. Besides, after how things had gone the night before, he knew she needed to think…hell, he did too. He remained motionless until the soft click of the door shutting behind her reached his ears and only then did he lift his head and shift his feet, reaching a hand up to adjust the hat on his head. He then groaned and leaned forward in the seat, elbows on his knees, and ran both hands across his face. The night before, after those bitter words had left his mouth and after she had left his presence he had followed as Riley left to show him to his room, which just so happened to be across the hall from Amber’s. If he were honest, he appreciated that small piece of thoughtfulness if nothing else because it was wracking his nerves to have her out of his sight. It was then he had spoken to Michael about it all, and Michael had volunteered to go get her, to check on her and urge her to take residence and sleep. Once the three young men were gone, and he had been certain of it, he had gone to her room, if only to see it. He knew he had gone in there to feel her presence, knowing that she had slept there the night before as well. In that moment, it was the only way that he could be close to her and he was going to take that chance. Once he entered however, his heart dropped into the pit of his stomach and the harsh realization slapped him across the face.
There was glass and shards of wood littered across the floor, a few drops of blood here and there and in a far corner a pillow was settled against the wall where he gathered she had slept…atop the mess. Many thoughts ran through his mind then, and he swallowed thickly, unable to step foot past the open door that had once separated him from the mess. She was there, obviously, had been in that room. As his eyes skimmed over the shattered illusion of peace and comfort he felt her anguish, the despair that had run her ragged as she destroyed anything that was once possibly beautiful. He felt her heartbreak as she tried to find the acceptance she needed to move past the loss of so much. He knew she had been hurting, had known before that she needed to talk and yet he had shoved his own anger towards her, had expressed his own bitterness for having lost her. Their understanding of one another, what had once been so complicated, was suddenly very clear and he was wounded and guilty for how he had so severely misunderstood it. As he stood there he realized that he had no other choice but to follow her, regardless of the decision that she made. He had come to this conclusion earlier in the night as he had watched her walk away from him; it was then he knew that he was going to be going with her. He needed to remind her of everything she was, everything he was and everything that they had left to fight for.
He had gone out to talk to her, had gone searching for her. It had taken him a bit to realize that she was waiting on him to come talk to her, but once the epiphany had come to him, he burst from the house and began his search. He recounted his steps around the town, the steps that he had taken earlier in the day when his emotions had become far too much. He was as tormented as he had ever been before, desperate really, as he called for her. He knew that they had to move past all of this, had to step back and come together in the effort of letting it go. It was going to be difficult, but it had to be done. And so, he called her name, his words and his presence slicing into the darkness. It wasn’t much longer that he heard her call, or rather mumble his name, in response. Her voice came from where she had stationed the crosses and oddly enough he felt a piercing, stabbing pain radiate throughout his chest. He grimaced and continued forward, his mind racing with the many questions that he wanted so desperately to ask her. He had found her slumped over against a building, Michael standing over her and concern and rage laced through his veins.
“What happened?” he had asked, his eyes shifting from his son’s remorseful yet determined face to Amber’s slumped body. He slowly stepped over to her, reaching up and brushing stray strands of short brown hair from her face.
Michael sighed. “She hasn’t had any sleep in days. She needs to rest. Rusty came up with this idea to dissolve some sleeping pills in her water. Amber still has a bullet wound on her shoulder, not to mention what other ailments she has been refusing to give attention to…” he trailed off and Miles lowered his head, shifting on his feet as a pain reverberated through him. She was exhausted…had to be; and with that he knelt forward and wrapped his arms under her back and her legs, lifting her and cradling her to his chest. She was limp and unresponsive. “Dad…you are tired and weak...Rusty and I can…” Miles looked at him sharply. It wasn’t a bad suggestion considering how his arms trembled and how his feet dragged the ground beneath him but he refused to let someone else care for her, to let someone else save her…after all…he was her hero, right?
“I’ve got her. You need to go get some rest yourself. It has been a long three weeks for us all.” He had stated simply before turning
and stepping slowly towards she overhanging darkness from the tree branches. He paused for a moment then, knowing that what had just happened needed to be addressed. “And I suggest there be no more lacing anything…for anyone.” And with that he and Michael both advanced towards the houses in silence. His breathing had become heavy and he could see that Michael was torn between wanting to assist him and abiding by what he had said previously.
The trek seemed long, but he hadn’t cared. He held her to him, reveling in the simple feel of her body against him. By the time he had made it to her room, he was drenched in sweat, despite the cool night air. Still, after Michael had opened the door for him, he held his composure until he had eased her onto the bed, the mattress sinking under their weight. Only when his arms were free from her did he stand and allow himself to sag against the wall. He could feel his weakness, his muscles twitching and quivering with protest. He glanced at the open door where Michael stood, this time with a wet rag, a bottle of clear bubbling liquid he assumed was an antiseptic, and some clean bandages. Miles had stepped forward and taken these items from his son and set them on the end table beside the bed before turning back to the young man that was…well, grown. Michael had stepped in the room, making it clear that he had no intention of leaving just yet. Miles saw it as an opportunity and he reached forward and pulled him to him, embracing him tightly as Michael wound his own arms around his father. They held one another as if nothing else in the world mattered then, and well, nothing did. They found peace in this acceptance and Miles couldn’t stop the small smile that came across his lips. He knew that there was a bigger destiny for all of them…how else could he explain his son being a member of Adrian’s society? If it wasn’t for that fact alone, for Michael and his friends being in that place of all places, they would all have been prisoners or even dead. So after a long moment of silence, Miles released him and stepped back, leveling his stare at his son, displaying all his intensity and sincerity.
“I am so proud of you…I thought I had lost you and to find you again…doing this…saving people…Michael…there are no words to express how happy I truly am.” And at Miles’s words, Michael’s eyes filled with tears and he quickly nodded before changing the subject and Miles knew it was because he didn’t want to cry, he didn’t want to express his own relief and satisfaction…he didn’t want to display his tears.
“There will be breakfast in the morning…but sleep as long as you both need to. We will discuss everything more in detail tomorrow whenever everyone has had a good night’s rest. I think sleep will open everyone’s minds…”
Miles chuckled in agreement and crossed his arms. “It will be a brand new day. We will start from there.” He laughed and Michael smiled warmly at him before a deep voice rumbled from downstairs and the front door shut. Footsteps were heard as someone made their way up the stairs. Miles looked at the open door, watching as Gary made his way to Amber’s room, eyes wide, a bag in hand. He looked from Miles to Michael.
“Duty calls.” Michael said, urging Gary to enter the room. Miles crossed his arms and watched as the man set his bag on the bed beside Amber. Michael, noting how Miles refused to leave, clapped a hand on his shoulder and looked at him apologetically. “I’m sorry but Doc needs to check her out. I need you to step out.” And for a moment he was in disbelief. He wanted to argue, to assert his place by her side. Still he listened to Michael, stepping obligingly out of the door, worried for her health, but not without a last word.
“I’ll be our here waiting.” He told him firmly, letting Michael know where he would be. Michael grinned at him warmly, one hand on the doorknob.
“I wouldn’t expect anything less.” Michael told him and with that he closed the door, letting Miles pace the floor as he waited. He furrowed his brow, wondering what warranted Doc’s midnight call. He questioned whether she was severely wounded from the gunshot, or if there was something more that he didn’t know about. Still, he didn’t question it when half an hour later the door swung open and Gary stepped out, an amazed smile on his face. He had bid father and son good night and left, his footsteps sounding lightly down the stairs. Michael then stepped out, allowing Miles in and immediately his eyes began surveying the room. There were two soiled bandages on the end table, but her weapons and her apparel was just as they had been before on her person. Miles turned back to Michael and sighed.
“Is she going to be alright?” he asked and he watched as a tired wonderment filled Michael’s eyes. He briefly wondered what that was about but again, he didn’t question it.
“She will be more than alright. She will be amazing.” He then glanced over Miles’s shoulder then, his eyes laced with concern and Miles grasped then with a brutal punch to the gut that Michael and Amber had developed some sort of emotional bond. They had gotten close, and the thought brought both an ache as well as a warmth to him. Michael never had a mother, or many friends for that matter and to witness him being so close to Amber was, well, comforting. He then brought his eyes back to Miles. “Take care of her.” he said softly, hesitantly.
Miles smiled warmly at his son. “Always…I’ve got it from here. Go get some rest.” He said easily and with that Michael turned to leave. Miles watched until he disappeared before he closed the door and stepped over to her, his boots crunching against glass. Slowly, moving her as little as possible, he removed her swords and his guns, her lips trembling slightly and a small whimper coming from the back of her throat as he moved her shoulder. He set them to the side, leaning them against the wall by the door before he moved to her boots. He undid the laces slowly, his heart in some sort of paradoxical turmoil. The actions were intimate, pleasant and though he knew he shouldn’t be taking joy in the fact that she was wounded or asleep under the influence of drugs, he couldn’t help but feel comforted in the fact that in that moment she was herself, open and peaceful. She was his in that moment, her comfort coming from him, her security, her safety, her unabashed relief all coming from him and he thrived in it because in all of his life, that was one thing he was certain he was put on this earth for.
After her boots were removed and placed alongside the weapons that had adorned her body, she shifted to lay on her right, limp and comfortable in the bed, her shirt having risen a little, baring her midriff. He watched her breathing deepen once again, and he eased to the side of the bed, studying her. He saw the scar Buddy had left on her from their fight, a reminder of their past. She then winced and whimpered shifting once again to rest on her left side. Once in position, she appeared relieved, no pressure on her pained shoulder; and slowly, as not to wake her, he lowered the shoulder of her shirt and shifted the bandage covering it. He wanted to see how bad it was, to see if he should be worried for her life. He grimaced at the sight of it. It was brutal, the redness of the hole in her shoulder, her flesh screaming out at him, reminding him what she had done in order to save them all…but it wasn’t infected…and that in itself was a relief to him. He then saw a wound on her arm, healing and he knew that it was yet another that Buddy had caused…George telling him what had happened. He sighed, unsure of how to handle this knowledge. He then caught a glimpse of her tattoo, one that he had explored so intimately before.
Swallowing thickly, he allowed his fingers to trail against her tattoo, against the creaminess of her skin, until there appeared to be a slight deformity in the design of the tattoo. He paused, glancing at the night table again at the two bandages. They were stained crimson and brown, dried blood caked inside the gauze of one and the other damn near clean. He turned back to her and gulped, unsure he wanted to see what lay beyond the hem of her shirt. Still, he had to know and so, with deft fingers he lifted the hem of her shirt and what he saw made his blood run cold. He allowed his trembling fingers to trace it all, his mind awakening to the possibilities. He understood what she was so afraid of then; why she was so desperately afraid of herself. That was why she had put the distance between them. Oddly enough, he never felt fear or disgust…instead he felt concern and fa
scination. She whimpered yet again and he quickly lowered her shirt, staring at her peacefully sleeping face. Once he finished he sat on the side of the bed, unsure of what to do, of how to feel. Everything was so very overwhelming. It took all of thirty seconds for him to decide what to do; he would continue doing what he always intended to do. He would get her back…after all, she was his and he simply couldn’t let her go.
Amber whimpered once again and he shifted to look at her. Tears escaped her eyes as she stretched out tensely against the bed, fighting the internal demons of her nightmares. He had acted without thinking then, stretching out along the bed beside her and wrapping his arms around her shaking shoulders and he whispered words of comfort to her, hoping they reached her in the darkness, reaching her subconscious. And all too suddenly she opened her eyes and he stilled, unsure of what her reaction would be, but whenever her face crumpled like fragile paper and she clung to him, crying into his chest, he could do nothing but hold her closer to him until the sobbing and the tears lulled her back to sleep. Only then did he allow himself to drift off into slumber, Amber in his arms and her warm breath on his neck and she didn’t even know it. They lay like this until movements outside the door caught his ears, waking him. He had squinted at the window, the afternoon sun beating in through the window. Amber was still in his arms, head on his shoulder. Slowly, so very slowly, he eased from her and stood, stretching his tense limbs. He felt renewed and refreshed and he knew that she would as well. His stomach rumbled loudly, reminding him that he had hardly eaten at all the day before due to his emotional instability. Still, he couldn’t, no wouldn’t leave Amber to get up alone. He had to be there, even just as a presence with no words to remind her that everything was alright, that she was alright and safe. That thought alone made him get up and sit in the chair across the way, watching her until she stirred an hour later.
