Archive of Our Own ^beta

A line of blood stains the rolling green grass of the roadside. It’s bright and vivid as it trickles down the edge like a ribbon—curling into the gutter.

You park your car behind one already on the curb and climb out to see where the red is coming from. Stepping around both vehicles, a booth comes into view. On one side, a person wields a bloody knife. On the other side stands the recipient of much affliction.

Your feet crunch into the dirt when you move. The one with the knife takes notice. Before you have a chance to process anything more, they’re gone. The cracking of tires on asphalt travels to your ears. A pitiful sound of the human tongue follows it, and something thuds to the ground.

Mind still catching up to you, you hurry to the booth. Roots of blood stain your eyes and lead up to the collapsed body of a man in a suit. His terrible state is too much to process. Kneeling beside him, you find what you’re looking for with two fingers to his neck—but it’s faint. The weak beat pulses with the blood pouring out his body.

“Can you move?” You try to see if he’s conscious. For a response, all you get is a gargle of noise. One bleary eye blinks open at you; a diamond surrounded by shining rubies. You make a quick decision. “Help me lift you up.”

Slinking a muscled arm over your shoulder, you help the man to his feet and aid in walking him to your car. The engine is still running. It takes two attempts to maneuver him into the passenger seat and buckle him in.

“The nearest hospital is over twenty minutes away,” you say once you’re on the road, touching your fuzzy dice for good luck and sparing a quick glance at him.. “I’ve got supplies at my place, if that’s okay. It’ll just take a few minutes to get there.”

The man only nods. It’s a drunken movement with his disheveled head lolled against the shoulder of the seat. That blood is going to be a pain to clean out. You brush the annoyance away.

The rest of the brief ride is silent—only punctuated by ragged breathing and the occasional groan. Each sharp sound has you wincing. You can only imagine how much pain he’s in. Thankfully, the sight of your residence pops up, and you pull off the main road. It’s less of a struggle this time to get him out of the car and into your place. He only gags up blood twice. The door has to be unlocked and opened with one hand, but you manage.

“What’s your name?” you huff in effort as you step into your living room. Shuffling over some carpet, you turn to lower him to your sofa.

“H-Harv—“ He cries out when his body drops to the cushions. “Harvey—“ he gasps, trying to swallow his pain back into his mouth. Apologetic, you help him adjust so he’s sitting correctly.

“Right—Harvey. I have a medical kit. I’ll be right back.”

He nods sluggishly. It’s only now you’re noticing that he’s missing his right eye.

Zipping to your closet and grabbing the red kit, you zip right back and spot your scarlet appearance in the hallway mirror. There’s blood on your jacket. You shrug the article off without a second thought and toss it onto a wooden chair. Next thing you do is scrub your hands clean in your kitchen sink.

Harvey looks up at you when you return to him. His hands are limp at his sides; completely empty. He looks lost without direction. Purposeless. You decide to be the guide to bring him back to health from whatever cruel incident fate planned for him earlier. Already, your mind is running through procedures of how to do that.

Feet in front of his, you sit on your coffee table; medical kit open at your side. Before you do anything, you examine his wounds visually. More accurately: you take in his appearance now that he’s not bleeding to death at the side of the road. It has you grimacing.

He’s so terribly out of place in your living room.

The pale green of the sofa beneath him resembles the grass stained with his blood—and now they match in that regard too. Around him, a haze of red aura creeps into the pastel yellows of your wallpaper. It’s a violent color, but instead of inducing danger, it carries the heaviest weight of silent suffering—only broken by the little groans that slip out of his lips.

More blood scrapes across his living corpse in a deranged artwork; paintbrushes of knives and matches echoing across his skin with the bright color they brought to life. He’s hanging by blue tinted threads, tilting unsteadily. His single eye is cold and empty, swallowing the emptiness of what had been, and what will forever be. When he stares, he stares right through you. Except he’s the ghost. Not you.

If you don’t do anything, he’ll die.

Knowing that his life is like an hourglass nearing its final grains, you examine his wounds with tentative hands. Harvey winces at every brush of fingertips against skin, at every graze of bare nerves and sensitive flesh.

“Sorry,” you whisper, hoping his fragile state isn’t as glass-like as it seems. The damage is so extensive. Whenever you look past one thing, you find something trailing from it, or underneath it. Deep cuts. Burns and bruises. Needle points of all things! More cuts.

Your huffing laugh was void of humor when you found remnants of a feather sticking to some drying blood. There may be more that you’re missing. Unfortunately, his shirt and jacket will get in the way of treating him, and taking them off will only hurt.

You find your trauma shears in your kit. The one positive is that his inflictions are from the waist up, and only from the front. “I need to remove your shirt and blazer,” you explain, showing him the specialized scissors and hoping he understands.

Harvey nods weakly. When he says “okay”, it’s a response that’s afraid to pierce the silence; like it might bring more suffering if he’s louder than a whisper. Whatever happened to him… it’s messed up his mind too. He’s probably lightheaded from blood loss. The symptom is the least of his worries, but he seems too caught up in his own head to notice anything. You’re just glad he trusts you, a complete stranger, to aid him.

Moving quick, you cut through the ruined fabric clinging to his body—the second layer, then the first—and drop it to the corner of the coffee table. Now, you can see every gash, burn and bruise. Only a few new welts catch your attention.

You’re going to have to purchase a whole new kit once you’re done.

Getting a white cloth, you go and run it under tap water before returning to clean Harvey’s wounds. It’s a gentle process—you don’t want to harm him more than he already has been. Most of the blood comes right up. It stains the cloth pink, then cherry. Another trip to the kitchen is required, but there’s already improvements. You started from the hands up, making sure the burns get extra attention from the cooling agent, and only a few spots you passed over continued dribbling new blood. Now his face needs cleaning. Unfortunately, it’s going to be the most sensitive.

You start around his missing eye. He winces. “Sorry,” you murmur, trying to be tender in every possible way. His next wince is lighter, and you wipe his uninjured cheek to spare him for a moment. The other side of his face has you biting the inside of your lip in concentration. The cut over the eye is shallow—that one’s easy. But when you get lower, the sight is grisly to say the least. He will need stitches. Many areas will need stitches.

Washing the cloth again—along with your hands—you complete this instance of cleaning to prepare your medical needle and thread. After disinfecting it, you pull the string through. Ever since having the blood on his face wiped off, Harvey remained silent. A shell of himself. However, once he sees the needle, that changes.

“What are you—“ His eye widens in realization. He freezes up, then starts quivering. “No…” he whimpers, turning into a cornered animal.

Thinking he won’t move, you set your palm against his face to still him as you bring the curved needle to his mouth. He jerks back with another whimper. “Please don’t…” He doesn’t push you away, but his reaction is clear.

“I’m sorry,” you say sincerely, hushed. Holding his face a little firmer, you murmur words of encouragement as you slip the pointed metal through the corner of his lip. Cutting your ears is the most heartbreaking yelp you’ve ever heard.

“Please stop—” Harvey turns his face away but doesn’t resist; only continues sobbing in tiny little gasps as tears start flowing down his cheeks.

It hurts so bad to see him like this—to know you’re the one causing this. But you can’t stop. “I’m so sorry Harvey,” you coo like a parent to calm him. The needle only has a few more stitches to make. “We’re almost done. Almost there.”

 The next few seconds are the tensest of his entire life. Then it’s over. He sags against the cushions and obtains a lungful of desperately needed air through his snotty nose while you tie off the thread. You instruct him not to move his mouth too much and to resist anything that stretches his jaw too wide. He mumbles pitifully in understanding. His shaking hasn’t stopped.

With a hand against his wrist, you see him flinch. You turn apologetic. “You need a few more stitches. Can you sit still for me while I sew them up?”

“Okay.” His voice remains hushed and high-pitched. He winces when the needle goes into his arm, but he does his best to stay motionless for you. Only a few tears roll down. One sniffle sneaks through. All the while, you continue your little encouragements and praises; wiping up blood and sewing up gashes as you do so. Each word eases at the stress plaguing him, becoming balm to soothe his aching skin. When you announce your completion, he heaves out an exhausted sigh of relief. Then, the dam breaks, and the rest of his anguish is let out through the unshed tears.

They roll down his face in thick rivulets—choking him with every inhale. Its noisy and messy. He’s sobbing uncontrollably, so you grab some tissues from the box behind you and begin wiping up the salt water. More continues to flow down, only to be met by your loving caresses as they sweep up to catch them in motion. The sadness gets caught in them too. Emptying his emotional well, Harvey’s cries lessen. You guide his chin in place to brush a new tissue under his eye. The other socket has some blood leaking out that also needs to be cleaned. He’s mostly dry now. With another tear threatening to spill, he looks at you and shifts your palm against his face, desperate to feel something loving.

“No more… no more pain please…” he begs, all vulnerable. The tear wobbles, then escapes. You catch it with your thumb and promptly pull away. It’s time to bandage him.

The medical needle falls to the carpet when you pick up your damp cloth. When reaching down where it lays at an angle, there’s a pinch on your skin. “Ouch—“ The needle gets returned to the coffee table. This time by the corner of clothes.

A crimson droplet forms when you examine your finger. Harvey is compelled to comment even in his emotionally distressed state. “You’re bleeding.” He makes sure to keep his mouth almost closed.

You brush him off, “It’s nothing,” and wrap your lips over your finger to suck the blood. It’s metallic. A strange, uncertain fascination swirls in Harvey’s eye as he watches you.

You tear open the packet of bandages. There are different kinds. The patches go to areas that have less movement; like the cut above his eye. Harvey angles his jaw up and you stick one to the side of his neck. He does such a good job at following your instructions. He barely flinches when you cover his missing eye. He keeps his breath steady when you seal the wound over his heart. Some cuts have already scabbed over, but there are pinprick punctures that haven’t. Those ones get tiny bandages. His face scrunches up when you fix a baby pink bandaid to his right cheek. It matches his hair. While you look at every injury, he looks like he can’t decide what to make of you. Harmful or healer. The two often go hand-in-hand.

The medical fabric is next. You unwind some to use.

There’s a thick gash on Harvey’s right hand that needs to be wrapped. You hold his wrist sideways. “C-careful,” he stammers, closing his eye in a wince. You go a little slower. It's a clean process. The white gauze loops round and round before being finished in a knot and snipped of its excess. A baby blue bandaid is added to his pinky finger.

Moving up, you wrap gauze around the muscle of his bicep, making sure not to cut off any circulation. With enough layers fitting snuggly against his skin, you tie and snip. There’s another cut in need, but it’s touching a burn that hasn’t been treated yet. You confirm your kit for burn cream. Yes, there it is.

Double checking that everything previously bleeding is accounted for, you lift the round container up. The contents are smooth and cool to the touch; easily gathering on two fingers. The patch in Harvey’s hairline catches your notice first. You go to apply the burn cream.

Harvey jumps at the contact. “Ah—that’s cold!"

You let out an easy-going chuckle. “That’s kind of the point.” Pushing past the interruption, you spread the white gel in circles, humming as you do. When your fingers catch over a particularly bad piece of skin, Harvey makes a pained response. You apologize softly and adjust your pressure to your voice. “These will take a while to heal.” You apply cream at the end of his arm, getting lost in the methodical process. “Most of it will, of course, but the attention they require is very demanding. Don’t worry: I’ll help you through it. You don’t have to go through a single second of this without me.” Harvey starts quivering again. You let him tremble as you soothe the last of his burns. “I just need you to trust me. Can you do that?”

Nodding, he lets his arm return to his side with your permission. With all his burns covered and cooling, he gives a happy sigh. “That’s much better…”

Having a little gel left, you reapply it to his hairline. He decides to be quippy.

“I hope that’s not bleach.” He averts his eye with the beginnings of a smile. “I just got my roots done last week.”

A surprise laugh slips out of you. After wiping your hands, you grab some new bandages to cover the burns. “I’m surprised you still have some humor left in you.”

“My humor’s all I have left,” he mutters, somewhat amused, almost bitter, and leaking blood over his lip. The pink floof of hair sitting on his head is an absolute mess—yet it’s the least messy part of him right now. A fleeting thought of your spare hairbrush passes through you. You grab some cotton gauze to slip into the gap of his missing tooth.

“Bite down,” you instruct. He does as you ask. Taking a mental step back, you look at your finished handiwork.

Harvey looks like he’s just emerged from the hospital after a horrible accident; which is half-true. But considering the situation, he couldn’t be better. It’s all taken care of for now. You’ll still need to check his wounds for infections and change his bandages, along with getting some more burn cream. That’s at least a week of work, and then there’s his eye, which is beyond your capabilities. Despite missing it, Harvey seems content. He isn’t quite smiling, but he no longer has one foot in the grave.

In another reality, he’d be off much worse.

You abruptly get to your feet. In and out of the kitchen, you come back to your spot on the coffee table with a glass of water. “I hope you don’t plan on drowning me with that—” Harvey tries to joke again, but is cut off by a cough that hacks at his lungs.

 “Here—" You wait for his breathing to level, take out the bloody gauze, and raise the glass to his lips. “You need to drink fluids to hydrate yourself.”

Looking up at you, then down at the cup and back again, he grabs it—you don’t let go—and slowly tips it to his lips. Immediately, he sputters the water out in a choke. It resurfaces tainted with red. A tissue calmly wipes his chin. “Easy,” you urge, trying again and tipping the glass to his mouth. He takes a small sip. Then another. Whenever he has to cough, you pull the water back and return when he’s ready. You both fall into a rhythm. The glass is refilled and set to the side for later. New gauze goes between his teeth.

“Thank you for the water…” He keeps his lips pressed and eye downcast to the side. Its avoidance, you think. A thumb brushing against his cheek to catch a stray droplet has him returning his attention. You grace him with a sweet smile.

“I don’t know about you—" you start picking up the bloody mess of bandages and clothes. “But all this has been making me hungry.” It’s a statement filled with sarcasm. Judging by the rough laugh, you weren't the only one who found it funny.

After wiping down the coffee table and laying a couple towels over your couch—you’d clean that later—you situate in the kitchen to mash something together. “Soup sound good?” You call back. Harvey needs something easy to down with his stitched cheek. The broth itself will be good for him.

“Yes, that would be lovely.”

You grin at his vocal inflections, then rummage around for kitchen supplies. The stove sparks to life. It doesn’t take long for a savory aroma to cloud out of the kitchen and into the living room. Harvey’s stomach growl can be heard from miles away. Once you’re able to leave the simmering soup for a spell, you dig through your medicine cabinet. Success only takes a few minutes.

Harvey’s right where you left him. He smiles at the sight of you, then winces when his mouth stretches too far. You sit next to him purposefully. “For the pain.” The pill presents itself in your palm. He hesitantly takes it and you pass him his water. “I’ll give you some more in four hours. Let me know if the pain gets worse before then.”

He nods; swallowing the pill like a lump in his throat. Some sweat dots his forehead, but he tries to act normal. “I’ll make sure to do that.” The physical trauma won’t just go away so soon. The pain will last even longer. Maybe a lifetime.

Nodding in affirmation, you return to your cooking. The spices swirl around in a tantalizing sort of way, and you can hardly wait before you’re turning the burner off and ladling soup into a bowl. The smell almost brings Harvey to his toes.

“Sit,” you chuckle, listening to your own order and sitting beside him. The towels underneath are for his sake, but they’ll also catch any food that falls. You dip the spoon into the bowl. The liquid follows the stirring motion.

Raising his hands, Harvey insists, “Don’t worry, I can do it.”

You eye the way they shake. He sighs and lowers them. With his cooperation, you spoon-feed him soup—but only a little with each sip. It’s a slow effort, and he quite literally eats up every second of it. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t enjoy it—the way the spoon disappears between his lips and returns with proof of him receiving delicious nutrition. He doesn’t sputter this time. Instead, he makes tiny noises of delight at the taste of your cooking.

“Is it really that good?” You pause for a moment, lowering the bowl to your lap. Harvey looks at you with his eye lidded; reacting like it was a five-star meal of the highest quality.

“‘Good’?” he echoes. His eye flickers to the bowl, then earnestly back to your face. “Darling, it’s divine.”

Heat creeps up your neck at the sudden pet-name. Excusing it for pain and medication, you raise the spoon back to his lips. He eagerly partakes. A satisfied hum tears through. “Ambrosia,” he insists, drawing closer to receive more. You both indulge. The happy aura in your living room matches your attitudes. The soft color of the sofa blends into the yellow wallpaper. It wafts out like pastel butterflies on a soft breeze, like the shore gently caressing sand. The two of you are happy and warm, having all that you need in each other's company.

“Make sure you eat something too, alright?” he says quietly, like you’re the injured one. Your eyes meet. A beat passes, along with something between you. Broth traces the corner of his mouth; highlighting the subtle concern. You dab it with a napkin without thinking.

Per his request, you go and retrieve a bowl of soup for yourself. The heat settles nicely in your belly. It eases the stress of the evening, and the taste makes everything better. It’s almost as nice as Harvey described. Almost.

You don’t even notice Harvey staring at you. He ends up wincing again from smiling too brightly, but he recovers. “It’s funny,” he chuckles, looking like he’s gazing at the moon. “I set out to make another stranger’s day better, but it seems you’ve taken on that role for me.” He looks at the empty bowl in his hands. “Though I can’t say this is exactly how I expected my day to turn out…” The comment is wry; Humor wrapped over hurt. He sighs. “At least I’ll have something positive to tell my gerbil about when I get home…”

Home.

It had never even occurred to you. You were so caught up in playing doctor. In playing healer. “Do you have someone at home who can help you?”

He perks up, being momentarily distracted. “Hm? No, don’t have anyone at home. Would be nice though.” When he speaks, he’s all bubbly. “It’s just me and my gerbil, Soups.”

“I like gerbils,” you say, though you’ve never had one. The cat you had growing up would have eaten it.

Hervey’s eye lights up like it’s Christmas. “Oh you’ll love him! I’ve had him for two years now—going for three. He has enough food to last him a few more days… though I hate to leave him alone and worry him.”

“I can drive you tomorrow,” you offer, trying not to sound insisting. He’s the patient here, not you.

Luckily, he likes the idea. “Sounds great!” His cheery demeanor is shocking compared to mere hours ago. You welcome the change. Then, his face falls in confusion. “Wait—tomorrow…“

You sigh with a smile and stand up, taking your empty bowls to the sink. “You can stay the night. You still need medical attention, so it’ll be better if you stay here. Of course, you need to go to the hospital for your eye, but the roads around here are dangerous at night. I’ll take you in the morning and we can go to your apartment. We can even bring Soups back?” You lean around the wall for his response. He heartily agrees with two thumbs-up.

Back in the kitchen, you start scrubbing dishes. Your heart thuds softly in your ears against the scrape of ceramic. It’s unfamiliar. Now that the worst of it was over, your mind has finally decided to let go of its apprehensions. The situation is scary—someone had attacked Harvey and nearly killed him—but there’s a brighter side to it. Today, you got to meet this wonderful man. Today, you got to save someone’s life. And now you get to save it tomorrow. You get to help him for however long he needs, in whatever ways he needs. When the day after that comes: who knows?

Maybe it’ll be something even better.

“And you just give it away? For free?”

Harvey laughs at your astonishment. The act has him leaning closer into the shared space of the sofa. “No no, not for free—you see, you have to poke me.” He punctuates with a prod against your arm. You both share giggles over the nature of his peculiar circumstances at a booth on the side of the road. Harvey had eagerly shared the details of helping out strangers—minus anything of the final incident. He’d danced over that particular subject, and you let it be. Instead, you focused on the fact that he was offering people money for what was essentially nothing.

Poking Harvey in the arm, you ask, “Where’s my money?” with seriousness. The joke is brief, a reappearing grin splits your face, and as you withdraw your hand, Harvey takes it to press against his chest.

“Well you can’t just take one measly dollar for your services, Doctor,” Harvey says, drunk on the nickname. Your heart jumps into your throat. You need to deflect.

“We’ll be taking you to a real doctor in the morning—” Harvey only smiles at you. “—and then we’ll…” He tips his chin down, looking up at you like he knows something you don’t. You revert to humor and jab him square between the ribs. “—poke you enough times to cover your medical bills.”

He throws his head back. “As long as you’re the one doing it!” he laughs. And then something snaps. His laugh—a sound once pure and blinding—cracks into desolation. It stretches out like a fraying rope as his face lowers to you in an utterly eerie expression. There’s no more humor, or joy. Just horror. His lips purse, and at last you see the puckering threads at the corner of his mouth.

Oh no.

“That’s not…” Harvey pauses when the threads shift. Layers of skin adjust with them when he speaks. “That’s not good, is it?…”

His worry is palpable, seeping through his shrinking iris that can’t see the damage no matter how hard he looks down his nose. Nostrils flaring, he grasps the knees of his pants. You hear his breathing pick up. “Harvey…” He shuts his eye in denial of what he knows is about to be said. “I need to redo the stitches.”

The whimper escaping him is so slight, you can’t be sure you heard it in the first place. It’s there and gone, like a whistle on the wind. Blood wells up in its place.

Not knowing what to say, you slip into “doctor” mode and prepare the required materials. A few speechless minutes pass.

Sitting again on the sofa, you find exactly what you fear. Harvey is completely closed off; angled away from you, keeping his face from your view like it might prevent this from happening, and devoid of all sound that would betray him like a prey animal.

He jumps when you place a hand on his arm. There’s no jab marks—no evidence of the merriment that just happened. It’s all gone.

“Harvey.” You exhale to exchange your nerves for professionalism. “Turn to face me.”

He does as you say. Neither of you take satisfaction in the instructions. “Keep your jaw still—“ He doesn’t do anything to warrant it in the first place, even when you remove the broken thread and wipe up the blood. That is, until an innocent, curved little needle gets too close for comfort. His whole body shudders, but he steels his muscles in place and only flinches when you start the first stitch.

“Good job.” His face scrunches up. You pull the needle through and he flinches again. “One done.” Few words can be said to make this easier; that’s just the reality of the situation. Upon starting the second stitch, a hand darts out to your knee, not to stop you, but to grip onto something. “It’ll be over soon.” You find yourself slipping into that soft voice. The one that treads lightly. It’s one of the few things capable of soothing him during this process.

Not much changes as you go. Needle, flinch, soothe, repeat. Compared to the initial act of stitching earlier, Harvey’s cheek is less malleable. He’s taking it better too, but you still hate to see how much it hurts him.

“Is it done yet?” he asks in a distressed whine. Sweat dots his forehead, and your knee is close to bruising. He doesn’t see the needle and thread set off to the side, or see you examining the parts of his face you never got to before.

“Yes.”

His eye flies open. Then, it crinkles with a tear. As relief washes through, it floods out the fear, only to leave an unfillable emptiness—a doll with its strings cut.

Lifeless.

“How are you feeling?” you ask Harvey, brushing away some hair that gets too close to his eye for your liking. Unlike before, it’s now the messiest part about him. His nest of hair is home to gnarly knots, and chances are some metaphorical rats dug their way inside as well. You compulsively want to fix it.

Harvey looks down at his hands. “Fine.” He’s quiet. No more laughter. His bubbly spirit diminished, turning into a solemnity you can’t cure. It fades into something barely present. A fog that renders him not-quite-there. Every previous ailment had a solution in your red medical kit, and your knowledge and skills met the demands, but now you’re facing an ailment without concrete answers, without a tool to fix it.

The best you can do is meet him where he’s at.

“I’ll go get you a shirt.” The statement passes over his ears. He nods once in absent acknowledgement, and you leave his ghost to rifle through your dresser. A tank top will make it easier—easier than a shirt with sleeves—to treat him without having him half-naked in your living room. It’s in both your interests, you reason. Harvey would surely prefer being clothed—though you could only assume such simple things from what little you know about him.

Finding a clean one that should be big enough to fit him, you help him slip it on, and feel guilty at the way his face subtly twists when he lifts his arms. While you’re active, you make sure to hide the needle. Even with it over, he’s still a hollow shell. His mouth is clamped shut, which is a good thing for the healing process, but a terrible indicator of his emotional state. If only communicating with him is as easy as dressing him in bandages.

Once he’s settled again, you dare to ask what’s been on your mind, hoping silence isn’t the answer.

“Can I brush your hair?”

Harvey’s eye widens. His lips part in surprise. Even a request as simple as yours is apparently out of the ordinary; enough to imbue a semblance of life into his frozen ghost. “Oh… yeah, sure. You can—you can brush my hair.” His voice sounds lovely, even when uncertain.

You spare him a kind smile, then go and find your unused hairbrush. Being apart from him for more than a minute leaves your thoughts running again. A leisurely pace turns to sprinting.

You hadn’t asked Harvey about the incident, despite how much mystery surrounded it from your perspective, since you knew how he’d feel about bringing it up. You may not know him well, but if his current condition conveys anything to you, it is that he won’t want to talk about it. And who can blame him? Some sadistic stranger—you’re assuming they were a stranger—pulled up at the side of the road and tortured him. He was, undeniably, tortured. His wounds are barely healing. He needs his mind to heal too—not have a closed wound open back up. Your stitches will barely hold it together, and the seams will thin if you aren’t careful. They’ll thin, and then they’ll snap.

So you’ll have to make sure they stay closed.

“What have I gotten myself into…” you mutter to yourself, not caring at all for the consequences. The warnings were chucked into the bin long ago. Now, all you have is what you’ve made of it. There’s some treasure to be found, if you do a little digging. What more can you make of it if you keep moving forward?

The hairbrush is mundanely boring when you find it. It’s strange to treat it like a medical instrument—like the needle or shears—but that’s essentially what it is. The weight is different in your hand. You imagine the unique relief it will bring, along with how safe it is, comparatively. Your intuition has yet to be wrong.

When you turn the handle to the door, a strange sound interrupts the success of your search. It’s mangled and grieving, commanding your attention. There’s no caution to be found in you when you seek it out. The door gets closed. The short hallway leads you on.

You come back to the living room and find Harvey crying on your sofa. In an instant, you’re there for him; the carpet muffling your steps. “Hey…” you say softly, wanting to hold his shoulder—but scared of how he might react to contact. He’s shaking and wiping up tears with his palms, but their flow doesn’t stop. Nothing can stop it. It’s an endless well that will keep pouring out of his mouth and eyes until he’s completely drowning in his sorrow. “Hey… what’s the matter?” You finally dare to touch his shoulder. He jerks forward and grasps the front of your shirt.

“I’m sorry,” he sobs into you. “I’m sorry—I’m just—“

The sight is heartbreaking. Shards of glass splinter off at each shake, each tug, each crystal trail. You prompt him closer by cupping the base of his head, and he follows. The wet seeps through your shirt. You let it happen as you rub the point of tension in his upper back. Anything to comfort him. Anything to ease the torment wracking his entire body like a demonic possession.

“I’m so weak—“ he continues. “I’m so weak and helpless. Pathetic.” His voice cracked more than once, reflecting his broken state. You slide your fingers into his scalp to gently scratch the skin there. When you do, his shoulders sag—the weight is heavy against you—and he buries his face deeper. “I can’t even—“ He doesn’t finish. The words get smothered in your tear-soaked shirt. He’s lost once more.

You spend the next few minutes as his anchor, his pillar of support. His ragged breathing is only soothed by each caring touch, like you’re the only one who knows how, but really, you’re just the one who cares enough to bring him back. Slowly, slowly he comes down from the emotional bout; enough for you to pull back and talk to him again. It isn’t easy, but no task is too difficult. He sniffles while you wipe his face with a tissue, his shaking turning into minimal shivering, and leaves the two of you in a satisfying conclusion. Cupping his cheek doesn’t reveal a fever, but anything is possible. “You don’t have to talk if you’re not ready.” You keep your tone light and instructive. “Just let me know what you need, and I’ll make sure it happens.”

He nods. His eye doesn’t quite meet yours. You can only guess the reasons for his ever-changing behavior. Maybe one day, be it tomorrow or a year, you can peek behind the curtain and understand what he’s feeling.

When his face is dry, you get a blanket from your linen closet. It’s soft and fluffy, but large enough for two people and then some. If you’re dealing with something unpleasant, you wrap it around yourself and binge TV and snacks until you feel better. It’s nice to think it’s the blanket fixing everything, but the truth is obviously more than that.

You wrap the yards upon yards of fabric around Harvey and take joy in the way he relaxes, sighs, and snuggles into it in the form of a mound-shape on the sofa, like a pink mole in a hill. “‘s nice…” he says, looking sleepy, every facial muscle easing. You watch his expression when you start brushing his hair. The bristles catch on a knot—he looks somewhat perturbed—and you stop. Following that is a yawn, and his head dips forward. “I feel lightheaded…”

You adjust to his needs.

 Without word, you kneel at his feet and slip off his shoes. The laces take a minute, but he waits patiently for you to finish. Afterwards, you direct him with words, or tell him what you’re doing, all while he listens to what you have to say without question. It’s an unwavering trust. The blindness of it snares something in your heart. You ignore the danger of the trap in favor of paying attention to the man injured to the highest degree.

Once Harvey’s laying on the sofa, you sit beside him and settle his head on your legs. He didn’t hesitate for a single moment, only doing as you asked. That dynamic is dangerous, but you can’t care less, because you have the pleasure and privilege of basking in him finding alleviation from your lap. One of his ears is smothered. The other is facing the ceiling. Neither of you can see the other’s features, but that’s okay. He’s as silent as you—like neither of you know how to address the situation, nor do you want to. You just want to help him feel better.

The silence is lovely when you start brushing his hair again. Trying to lessen the pain of the act, you begin at the lowest tips, where it’s least tangled. The changed position helps tremendously, and the newly untwined strands end up being much softer than you initially thought, like cotton candy on clouds. Under further care, they glide around the bristles like water; parting like riverside grass. You can’t get enough of the silken cascade, only raising your reach higher and higher. The brush unintentionally tugs at some roots, but you continue as gently as you can. Harvey hazily hums his approval. It’s enough to encourage you further until you arrive at the biggest issue.

“I’m sorry,” you tell him. “This is probably going to hurt.” It’s something you mentally ignored until it became all that’s left. The final boss, so to speak. Another hum responds.

With a combination of wooden hairbrush and meticulous fingers, you attempt to unfurl the swirl of hair on top of his head. At the front of the abuse, it had developed into one giant knot. This would be no easy task.

A whimper of pain has you slowing your effort and apologizing. Piece by piece, things shift, and eventually long locks of pink are tumbling over your knee like a bramble of thorns. You start at the spiky tips. The brush straightens them out with ease before struggling in the middle, and your ears pick up on the crunch of dry hair gel. Washing it out would certainly help the problem—if only that could be an option. Harvey didn’t suggest any other ideas, but that isn’t exactly his fault, and you relent to the fact that this is all there is to do. His hair would be untangled, one way or another.

When a bad knot gets audibly yanked by the brush, you grind your teeth in a wince. Harvey, however, shows little reaction. His limbs twitch, but he stills, sighs deeply, and further melts into your lap. Just like your childhood cat. The comparison does something to your psyche and entrances you under the back-and-forth rhythm of brushing.

At long last, you’re able to enjoy the privilege of combing your fingers through the fountain flowing from your knee to your cushion; completely caving to the way it slips between each digit, and going back for more. As you do so, the owner of it hardly reacts. He sighs in a deep exhale, then another, and on the third you realize what has happened. Soft, doting awe washes through you as you gaze over the form of a sleeping Harvey. The steady rise and fall of his chest betrays him. His vulnerability is a precious thing—one you can hold in your hands and cradle close to keep safe.

While he naps, you continue combing his hair, enjoying it all the while, and he eventually awakes with a slow, widening eye to find himself shifted to look up at you. Something passes through him at the view; lips parting in a breath. You smile and smooth some strands away from his forehead.  “You were napping.” Like some fairytale prince. You let your thumb brush against his flushed cheek. A few strands were stuck to it.

Hearing your statement helps solidify his disorientation, and Harvey squirms like a worm until one hand is free from the heavy blanket to rub his eye. “What time is it?…”

You glance to the clock on the wall. The change in visuals, unfortunately, alters the illusion. Keeping your voice level isn’t as easy as it should be. “Time enough that you can try and sleep for the rest of the night. Your body must be exhausted after—“ You retract. “You must be tired.”

“I’m actually a little hungry,” his dry voice spoke up, revealing parchedness. At some point, his hand had encased yours to put it back in his hair. You don’t think even Harvey was aware that he had done it. With a brief scratch to his scalp, you remove your touch and prepare to sit him up. He silently complies. New exhaustion makes its entrance after you stand and walk to the kitchen.

The sun is notably absent outside the windows. The lights inside the apartment aren’t very bright either, so it’s no mystery as to why the night feels so close. It’s a nonissue, but an issue that it does create is sleeping arrangements. Other than the kitchen, living room, and dining room, your apartment has a bedroom, and spare room turned into an office. Between all that, there’s one mattress, one cushioned chair, and a sofa; leaving two viable possibilities.

It only takes a spare second to decide what to do.

With the issue mentally taken care of, you open the fridge and ignore the leftover stew, instead grabbing a jug of milk. You pour the liquid into a clean glass and return to Harvey, who’s sitting as politely and patiently as you left him. His head dips forward, betraying his restored contentment, but it’s up again to meet the glass rim you’ve tipped forward for him. After a sluggish sip, he tries to take the drink, saying, “I can hold it,” and you let him. His hand shakes, but he manages. You sit and watch the glass tip further along with his face, and he eventually finishes the milk with nothing but a white mustache coating his upper lip. He doesn’t even notice, which is the icing on the cake. You hand him a tissue—he looks surprised—and you mime wiping your upper lip. Features calming, he mirrors you.

“I think it’s time to get you to bed,” you say, looking around the room and vaguely visioning things that will change. “You’ll need the sleep.”

Harvey only registers you until he stops using the tissue. His eyebrows furrow together. “”Bed’?” he repeats, looking around the apartment like you did.

You take the tissue from him to wipe the neglected corner of his mouth. “Yes. Don’t worry about the sheets; I changed them this morning.” They were patterned, so luckily, potential bloodstains would be more hidden. “I have some more I can lay on the sofa—pillows too. And a blanket, of course.”

The information passes into Harvey’s ears and swirls around his eye; his attention somewhere else. “Oh.” He has no other response. No more questions.

With one more trip to the kitchen, you retrieve pain medication and have him take it with water. Then, having him hold onto your arm, you lead him to the bathroom to use before bed. You open the door, flick on the light, and meet eyes with the mirror. It’s horrifically ominous in the sterile environment. You ask Harvey to wait for a moment and have him use the wall for support. With efficiency, the large towel hanging on the wall is repurposed to drape over the reflective surface, removing any risks.

“I’ll be right outside,” you tell him, “just let me know if you need anything,” and the door is closed. Things happen without a hitch, and a few minutes later, Harvey opens the door and takes your arm again. You peak inside to make sure the towel is where you left it. Nothing’s amiss.

“It’s just this way.” You start walking.

Harvey is strangely quiet. He’s been rather quiet, but he’d previously been prone to answering your questions and responding to your requests. In place of it, a muscle in his jaw twitches. The hand around your arm squeezes—seemingly subconsciously—every few seconds. His struggle to walk with coordination increases after entering the room and approaching your bed. When you pull back the sheets and help him lay down, he hesitates, and when you tuck the blanket to his chin, his mouth opens. You wait, ears open, but he closes it. His eye jumps back and forth from you and the shadows, then forcefully shuts. He stiffly turns away, wedging between you both a barrier you hate to witness. In the dimness, you might be able to make out trembling, but it’s likely an afterimage of all you saw today.

Lingering won’t help anything. “Goodnight Harvey,” you whisper, then leave. The door closes with a regretful click. The silence of your apartment is louder than any of the earlier quiet. It encases your ears and twists in your gut as you prepare for bed. The towels are still on your sofa when you toss the necessary sheets and pillows on it. You feel them as you crash onto the cushions and yank your comfort blanket over your shoulders. The lights of the apartment were turned off during the preparation—leaving a distant glow of the stovetop as your only illumination.

Heaviness settles into your bones. Despite that, you can’t close your eyes. You toss and turn, but all you can see are images of Harvey. His wounds. His pain. His tears.

You start to imagine things. You recall the person you’d seen just as you showed up at the side of the road. The bloody knife. Harvey at the other end of it.

Had you been taken out of the equation, another reality would have occurred. You picture that cruel piece of metal twisting into Harvey’s stomach; the image of his face twisting in turn and stabbing a fresh kind of pain in your chest. You shut your eyes tight to blind out the picture. It remains, and you have to remind yourself of the current Harvey, the real Harvey, just a room over—happy and sleeping and healing.

Clutching onto the image, you barely manage to fall asleep.

An uncertain amount of time later, a noise wakes you from a discomforting dream. It’s not loud enough to be alarming on its own, but repetitive sharp sounds of panic induce your own source of panic, drawing you to action nonetheless. Tearing off your blanket, you surge to your bedroom. The handle doesn’t turn fast enough. The door hits the wall.

Harvey’s thrashing around your bed. His hands scramble for nothing; head jerking around in evasion. Some form of invisible torture has overcome him, leaving him crying pleas of, “Stop—” and, “please—no—“ mixing together until all that remains is a writhing pit of torment. A nightmare of agony.

“Harvey—“ In an instant, you’re at his side. “Harvey, you’re safe.”

His eye snaps open. It shakes in delirium before fixing on you. You reach out for him, and with full force, he pulls you in an embrace.

“It’s not real—it’s not real,” he repeats to himself, over and over, while you rub his back. The mantra barely chases away the false reality. There are few things you can do, awkwardly leaning against your bed as Harvey’s fingers dig desperately into your ribs. You hope it helps, at the very least. You hope the familiar way you stroke his hair and whisper calming affirmations helps in any way they can. He’s hardly crying this time around, and as you go on, the trembling mess in your arms reduces to a quiver.

You hate seeing the red around his eye when he finally pulls away. He doesn’t move far—still keeping his hands around you—but it’s hard to tell how he presently feels. His wounds may have been irritated in the fit, and he isn’t looking at you. So much could be wrong. So, so much.

The bed sheets have Harvey’s attention, with him being intent on them instead of you. With nothing to say, you take the kicked-back blanket and pull it over his legs. Harvey reluctantly lays down, and you finish bringing it to his chest. Nothing has been spoken to you. He doesn’t seem to want to speak to you. You don’t know what else you can do. So, even though you’re averse to the very action, even though the very idea puts a new source of discomfort in your stomach, you turn to leave.

Something catches your wrist.

“Don’t leave me… please…” It’s weak and broken. It freezes you in your very spot. When you look back at Harvey, you find all his desperation, all his distress, imbued into the way he stares at you with such an intensity that it leaves you questioning everything you thought you knew.

The grip on your wrist weakens. Harvey visibly starts deflating. Second-guessing. Before he slips away, you take his hand and say, “I won’t leave you. I won’t.” It’s the truth. The pure truth. “I’ll stay by your side.”

The most beautiful relief washes through him. There’s no other way to describe the overwhelming emotion. You love the way the stress releases from every feature, the way the tension flees his form as he sags deeply into the mattress. His lidded eye is the brightest you’ve ever seen it; sparkling in nigh-disbelief at knowing you’ll be there for him. He can hardly believe it, but he’s so, so glad you care enough to stay. You will never find yourself feeling otherwise.

You take your time climbing under the blanket beside him. He’s immediately welcomed back into your arms, and you take great pleasure at the comfort he finds from the merest touch. He chases after it—pressing his rose-tinted face into your collarbone. In response, you hold him tighter to cage him, to protect him. Harvey sighs wearily, but contently. Nothing appears to hurt. Everything is as it should be. He hums lightly when you shift a hand to his hair to feel the locks that remain soft and silky from your care. It’s a tired paradise. You could stay like this for a long time, just the two of you, sharing body heat and heartbeats and pretending there’s nothing else in the world outside what’s underneath the blanket.

The smallest murmurs of gratitude travel from Harvey’s lips to your ears. Melting, you repay him with a ghost of a kiss to his hair. He shifts, but it’s slow. Contained yawns catch against the surface of your throat, and before long, the steady rise and fall of his chest returns. You squint through the darkness to commit the view to memory before closing your eyes to join him in sleep. It’s the last thing you see.

“Goodnight Harvey.”