all battered and bruised. She’d already seen it all, as she’d been the one to take his muddied and torn clothes off in the first place.
But that was just the logical part of things. The part he controlled. What was suddenly out of his control, was his almost hyperawareness that he was sporting a whole lot of bare skin that would be available to her direct touch, if she were to so much as consider helping him get up and take even a single step. And his body’s reaction to that notion was also, apparently, well beyond his control. It was crazy, and he could chalk up that heightened sensitivity to everything from the aftereffects of being so heavily drugged, to the damage to his body, to the very difficult situation he’d landed them both in.
But why start lying to himself now?
“I need something to help me balance myself,” he told her, fighting to maintain a level voice. The frustration of his limitations was only compounded by his frustration with his lack of control over himself, but he didn’t need her to know any of that. “You wouldn’t happen to have kept your crutches along with your sling, would you? Just one would do.”
“And you need to balance yourself upright because why?”
He opted for directness. He tried not to snap the words, despite his rapid loss of patience. It wasn’t her he was impatient with. “Because I need to use your bathroom.”
Rather than give him a hard time, or, thank God, suggest an alternate solution that involved a bed pan of any kind, there was a silent pause, then she simply said, “Okay. I’ll be right back. Stay put.”
“Not a problem,” he muttered, but he could already hear her moving down the hall.
She returned a moment later. He felt her presence rather than saw it, as she paused in the bedroom doorway before entering. He tried to shift his weight to look over his shoulder, but that was asking a bit too much of his ribs at the moment. “What’s wrong?” he asked instead.
“Nothing,” she said, and came into the room and around his side of the bed. She was carrying a beautifully carved oak walking stick. The handle was a large, gnarled knot of wood, plenty big enough for his wide hand, and the stick itself was thick and sturdy.
He looked from the stick to her. She had no expression whatsoever on her face. Which told him far more than she likely thought it did.
“It’s beautiful,” he told her, quite sincerely. “More like a piece of art. You sure you want me handling it?”
“It’s the walking stick, or me.”
He reached out his good hand. “Thank you,” he said simply.
“You’re welcome,” she said just as simply, handing him the cane, which clearly was hers, and from the burnished shine on the head of the stick, it had been palmed often by her own hand. “Do you need any help levering yourself up?”
She was handling this about as well as anyone who couldn’t read his mind. Quite probably because she’d been faced with similar indignities in the past. And it was the quiet, simple dignity she was offering him that forced him to get past his own stupid issues with his renegade body parts and accept her offer. “I just need to get my weight over my knees, and I’ll be fine.”
“Okay.” She moved immediately, without needing to ask what to do, and sat next to him on his right side. “I don’t want to hurt your ribs, but I need to wedge my shoulder under your arm. You need to lean forward, as best you can, with your palm firmly wrapped around the cane. Use your thighs to push to a stand, staying bent at the waist as best as you can until you have your weight centered. Then slowly—slowly—straighten upright. I know it’s going to be hard with your ribs, but—”
“I can handle it,” he said, cutting off her string of instructions. Not because they were annoying or unnecessary. She was definitely the voice of authority here. No, he cut her off for quite the opposite reason. “Let’s give it a shot.”
“Wait,” she said, and got up again. She moved the stuffed chair until it was angled right in front of him. “If you lose your balance, I won’t be able to keep you upright.” She sat next to him again. “If you can, drop back to the bed, but if you over-project, shift your weight and soft land in the chair.”
He turned his head and looked at her. “Pretty good foresight.”
She smiled a little then, and there was no sharpness to her wry tone this time. “It’s possible I might know a little something about being stubborn and insisting on moving around and taking care of myself somewhat earlier than might have been strictly recommended.”
“You don’t say.”
Her smile widened and reached her eyes for the first time. “I think I just did.” Then she turned face front and leaned in to wedge her shoulder into his armpit. “On three.”
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