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When he woke it wasn’t to the familiar stretch of his ceiling, or the yellow canvas of a tent, or even the open blue sky above the treetops; no, when Marcus woke it was to a furious Abby.
Of course, he didn’t know she was furious. He didn’t know anything except that she had her back to him, and Jackson was speaking soft words to her that Marcus couldn’t discern.
Marcus shifted and pain lanced up his side and across his chest. He grunted with the force of it; the sound jarred the blank spaces in his mind. The memories came rushing back: a sable blur on four legs leaping off the cliff face above them, snarling and aimed directly at Abby; a frantic shout of her name as Marcus dove for her; the slice of jagged claws hooking into him near the hip as he shoved Abby out of the way.
A cougar with two faces that spit saliva at him from the broken juncture of its second, unhinged jaw.
The grunt had drawn Abby’s attention. She spun on him, furious and rigid as she approached, and Marcus tried to pull himself into a more upright position.
“What the hell are you doing?” Abby demanded. “Hold still.”
Her hand on his shoulder was gentle despite the sharpness of her tone.
“Are you all right?” Marcus answered.
She scoffed at him. “That thing nearly tore you open from navel to nose and you’re asking if I’m okay?”
Abby was practically vibrating she was so angry, but Marcus paid it no mind. “Are you?”
“I’m fine, Marcus. You’ve bled through your bandage.”
That was the first time he realized that his coat and shirt had been taken - ruined, probably - and that half of his torso was covered with thick bandages that did indeed sport a large red stain.
Abby retrieved new bandages and some antiseptic and antibiotic. She set the supplies on one of the small mobile tables reserved for just such a purpose and pulled it over to him.
“That was a stupid thing to do,” she informed him.
Marcus sucked in a breath when she tugged gently at the edges of the bandage. “Saving your life?”
“Trying to get yourself killed,” she corrected.
“That animal was going for you, Abby.”
“Well, you should’ve …”
“Don’t.” His voice was sharp as it rang out and reverberated off the walls.
Abby stared at him in surprise. Marcus sighed and raised the arm that lay between them to curl his hand around her hip and tug her forward. She hesitated for a second and then gave in, settling herself partway on the bed next to him.
“You better not have been about to suggest that I stand by and let that thing jump you.”
“I was going to say you should’ve shot it.” Abby’s tone was dry.
Marcus offered her a lopsided grin. “Good. I will never apologize for saving your life, Abby, even if it costs me my own. But I am sorry if I worried you.”
“What worries me is your pathological need to sacrifice yourself.”
He laughed and then immediately hissed in pain as the contraction of his muscles pulled at his wounds.
“I do not have a ‘pathological need to sacrifice myself’.”
“You do. There’s a camp betting pool, Marcus.”
“No, there - what do people even have to bet?”
“Everything from shots of moonshine to duty shifts.”
“Well. What seems to be the favored method for the end of me, then?” He was playing with her now, and the wry quirk of her lips told him that she knew it.
“The exact method varies, but the key component never changes.”
“And that is?”
“In protection of your wife and/or people.”
Marcus did his best not to laugh as Abby glared at him. He squeezed her hip reassuringly. “Is there an option for ‘at the hands of his wife’?”
This time when Abby grinned at him it was devious. “I have an entire still of moonshine and a month of extra duty on that one.”