“We have to stop meeting like this.” You say with a sad yet amused chuckle, eyes following Killer as he sits upon your examination table. His clothing was disheveled and dirty from the battle. “Must you always be so reckless? I see you in here more frequently than any of the other members of the crew.”
“Not my intention, doc…” He mutters from behind the mask, already working on unwrapping the ruined, red-soaked cloth around his lower forearm, long-sleeved polka dot shirt rolled up to his elbow. As it comes away, you see the angry red gash along his skin, freely bleeding.
“Hmm…a clean cut, at least. Better than the one you sustained last week.” You quirk a brow, inspecting it with your expert eyes. “Taking my advice and putting some distance in your close combat fights, then?”
He only gives a shrug, looking away in silence.
You tsk, grabbing your supplies. Washing your hands in the small sink you sit back down beside him a comfortable distance away and begin working on cleaning and closing his wound.
The infirmary is quiet as the two of you settle into your familiar and comfortable silence. Killer’s visits always went this way. If there was any conversation between you, it stemmed mainly from your own meandering, rambled thoughts that burst from your mouth whenever you felt the need to say something.
Every once in awhile, Killer would input his own opinion, but rarely would he say much more than a few words, or nodding in agreement to something you said. Punctuating the breaks in your sentences was the gentle background creaking of the ship as it sailed along the open sea.
Killer was your most frequent–and yet the most well-behaved–patient on the Victoria Punk. Compared to Kid’s constant, angry fidgeting every time you went near him with a needle, or Wire’s refusal to even come see you at all in most cases, the Massacre Soldier was a saint.
The Kid Pirates were a troublesome bunch, but at least one of them had the decent sense to get himself checked when he was injured and allowed you to actually do your job when it came down to it.
And truth be told, you enjoyed the times he came to see you. Other than when he was injured and sought you for medical attention, you rarely saw him. Even if it was just you, it was nice to be able to spend time together in a calmer environment than above deck with the rest of the incredibly loud and rambunctious crew.
Finishing the last stitch in his arm, you give it one last cleaning to get rid of any blood that was left over, before settling back and giving him a soft smile.
“That should do you for now. But, try to be more careful, alright? I’d rather have nothing to do than to see you all injured. You especially, Killer.” Curiously, his head tilted up when you said that. “You may be my favorite patient, but a body can only handle so many wounds.”
“I’ll…keep that in mind.”
“You’ll need those stitches in for 10 days. Come see me again after that and we’ll get them removed.” You say, standing from your chair and going over to wash your hands once more.
You hear him stand from the bed, lingering longer than usual, and when you look up to see what was the matter, his mask was still tilted in your direction. Upon your eyes meeting where his would be, he looked away, clearing his throat.
“Thanks doc.”
“Anytime, Killer.”
His fast and awkward steps took him out of your infirmary, and you wondered to yourself what just happened.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The next time you saw him, things were much worse.
It was the most severe injury he’d sustained in a long while. Even his protective helmet hadn’t completely shielded his head from being thrown quite brutally into a building’s brick wall. One side of it was cracked heavily.
He came to you, blood dripping down from underneath the edge of his mask, streaming down his neck in a terrifying sight. And while your professionalism meant you didn’t outwardly panic so as not to make things worse for your patient, you were incredibly worried about Killer.
He didn’t even protest as you sat him on your examination table, hurrying around your little infirmary for all the things you thought you’d need.
You slowly, gently lift his helmet from his head, afraid of what you might find underneath. It comes away to reveal his face, eyes looking a little glazed, foggy, and exhausted. You wonder if the fight had been that physically demanding on him, or if it was simply the blow to his head causing a concussion. Most likely the latter.
Setting the helmet on the bed beside him, you reach up and probe at the blood-matted hair where his head had been smashed against the bricks.
“Good god, Killer, you’re lucky you’re not dead. Just look at your helmet.” You mutter, frowning with thought as you assess the damage. “At the very least you have a concussion, but I’m hoping the cut isn’t too bad…”
His long hair gets in the way, but with a bit of lifting and shifting aside the blonde strands, you get a look at the bleeding gash across his temple. You turn and grab a cloth, wetting it in the nearby sink before returning to him.
You turn back, and notice that his bleary gaze is now solely directed on you. But instead of the confusion and pain you saw in his expression before, all he portrayed was an…admiration? Adoration? Or simply just awe, as he looked up to you. It was so incredibly soft.
You ignore the coil of attraction in your chest, pushing aside personal feelings so you can treat him as quickly as possible. It wouldn’t do to have him bleed out because you sat there basking in his confused, rapt attention.
You dab away at the spot where the gash was, eyes focused squarely on his head and not his eyes, because you can literally feel them staring at you with that same adoration in his expression. Hell, one glance over and you’d no doubt become a flustered mess.
But he had other ideas. You feel his hand rise up and grasp at your wrist, forcing your eyes to meet with his own. “You always take care of me.”
Letting a tiny smile settle on your lips, you nod. “That’s my job, you know. And unfortunately, you keep me a little busier than I’d prefer.”
He paused, listening to what you’d said, no doubt struggling to process the words since he was heavily concussed after all. And yet still, his awestruck gaze didn’t waver.
“I think I love you.”
The silence stretched. You could have heard a needle drop. Had you heard that right? You blink back at him, movements stilling entirely. You were entirely caught off guard, never having expected to hear those words–wonderful words, might you add–coming out of his mouth. Was this a dream? Were you awake?
“Killer-”
“Just so kind and…always take care of me.” He continued to mutter. “Beautiful…”
Another pang to your heart, and it takes several seconds for you to shake your head away the imaginative scenarios his confession had spawned.
“You’re concussed and confused. You don’t know what you’re saying.” You conclude aloud, both for his sake and yours. You swallow past the stirring that was rising in your chest, heart pounding funny rhythms against your rib cage. With luck, your face wasn’t too deep a shade of red. “Just try to relax, ok?”
Killer narrowed his eyes, as if trying to understand why your response wasn’t what he had expected, or maybe because he himself didn’t know why he’d said those things. That was your worst fear, that the words coming from his mouth now were born of confusion and disorientation, and that they weren’t to be taken as truth.
You manage to concentrate as you wait for the bleeding to stop, and then begin weaving the stitches into his head. You worked carefully, knowing that Killer’s hair was something he took great pride in. Why else would be keep it so long and healthy?
The rest of your time together is spent in silence as you work to get him stitched. You managed to regain your professionalism once again. You could fantasize and feel glum about the cruel reality of this awkward moment later, in the privacy of your quarters.
Once finished with his medical care, you take off your gloves and throw them into the wastebasket with a sigh.
“It’ll be tender for a long time, so don’t put weight on that side of your head for awhile. And I would recommend going without your helmet for a day or two.” A glance over at the thing confirms that it’s in worse shape than you realized. “You might want to have Captain look into repairing it. There may be hidden shrapnel in there that could worsen your wound.”
He stands from the bed, but all he does it look at you with that same, heart-wrenchingly awestruck expression. Oh, you were a goner, surely.
You gesture for the door, wondering if he was confused where he was. “Try to take it easy for awhile, ok? You won’t be combat-ready again for at least a week. And I’ll make sure Kid knows that so he can step in and stop you if you try.”
“Y/N.”
“Hmm?”
“I think I love you.” He says again, eyes roving over your face.
You wince, knowing it was probably just the concussion talking yet again, and that it was a common symptom for people to repeat themselves in their confusion. This wasn’t him trying to convince you. No. Stop getting your hopes up…
But you didn’t have the heart to outright reject him, either. You’d already done it once and that had hurt enough, seeing his confusion mount.
“Tell me when you’re not heavily concussed, and I might just believe you.” You reach out to his shoulder and give a reassuring squeeze. “Until then, go and get something to eat and drink. I’m sure Wire will be in the kitchen by now. He can fix you up something.”
In silence, he leaves your infirmary, thankfully not having trouble walking. You bury your head in your hands the moment he disappears from sight. Breathing deeply, you tell yourself to stop looking forward to the next time he showed up in your infirmary.
ns 15.158.61.20da2
