Chapter Text
I’m about twenty minutes into my lunch break when I shoot off what I’ve deemed to be the last email of the hour.
Being over half way through my allotted 35 minutes, I don’t have quite enough time to deal with some of the lengthier stuff, and the shorter ones are a particular kind of tedious I like to save for when I’m in a better mood. My underlings have little understanding of basic things like grammar, punctuation, or the word ‘please’, and, save for a select overly polite few, cannot discern any meaningful difference between a text message and electronic mail.
I begin to ponder, idly, what exactly has lead me here to my position of benevolent overlord over a couple hundred twelve year olds, give or take some older tweens in the sixth period. This seems to be a rather short and mostly depressing reminiscence, so I’ve already skimmed through the most recent message in my inbox (for lack of anything better to do) when the connecting door swings open.
“Do kids just think ‘sent from my iPhone’ is an automated sign-off? Because this kid actually followed it with a comma and— holy shit Charles you’re bleeding,” I spout uselessly, upon finally looking up from a stupid goddamn email, of all things, to see the neighboring teacher clutching his left arm by the wrist as blood pours from his hand.
“Yeah, I know,” he snaps. He squeezes his eyes shut quickly, then opens them just as fast.
“You got the first aid kit?” He huffs, his gaze hard.
“Um,” I stand so quickly the shitty swivel chair whose wheels are so busted that their function is more decorative actually shoots out from beneath me a bumps into the wall.
“Yeah, yes,” I spout, opening drawers aimlessly. Truth be told, I can’t actually recall if the kit was left in my room at the moment, but Charles wouldn’t be here if it was in his or the connecting space as it should’ve been.
Looking back up at him, seeing him so tense as apposed to the usually lax way he holds himself, it hits me.
“Shit, I never put it back after that kid with the peanut allergy who forgot her epi,” I mutter, scorning myself as I grab for the white box on the opposite side of the room.
I make my way back over to Charles as quickly as I can while going through the contents of the box— there’s a roll of bandages and some medical tape I can use once we get the peroxide on there, and insofar as stopping the bleeding I’ve just gotten several bulk packages of paper towels donated from peanut allergy’s mom, actually— I don’t need to be bribed to do my job, but I’m not one to turn down essentials— especially when they’re needed in times like this.
I’m standing in front of Charles now, kit in hand.
“Alright, it seems like there’s everything we need in here to patch you up,” I start, and I reach for his injured hand just as he reaches for the kit.
“Woah, man, what do you think you’re doing?”
He eyes me warily.
“Taking the first aid kit,” he says slowly, like I’m an actual idiot. Seems like the snark is back.
“Yeah, I know that Charles, I meant why,” I say slower, apparently not one to reel back the bullshit for an injured man.
“To perform first aid on myself,” he says with a bit more urgency this time, then looks down.
“Before I bleed all over your carpet,” he adds plainly, and when I follow his eyes he is in fact about to get blood on my carpet. He (likely reflexively—he fucking hates the carpet in this school) catches it in his other hand before it can hit the ground.
It takes some pointed effort to drag my eyes away from the blood now pooling in his other palm and also keep my eye from twitching, because Jesus, this guy.
At least it’ll keep him from getting the kit.
“Oh my god, forget about the carpet, cmon,” I huff, but it comes out a little softer when I reach for Charles’ shoulder and find it taught enough to snap. I move my hand across it back and forth in what I hope is a soothing gesture as I heard him to the connector room.
He moves with little reluctance, his usually boundless antagonism somehow diffused, and when I ask him to sit on the counter he complies, curling in on himself slightly.
He just looks somewhat…defeated. The desire to take care of him nearly overwhelms me.
I take his injured hand in mine gingerly, wordlessly, complying with the silence that has descended and try to get to work.
I’ve had the forethought to seat my patient next to the little sink whose handles groan excessively with minute use, but will more than due for the purpose of rinsing off the excess blood.
After washing my own for a little longer than the obligatory 20 seconds, I take Charles’ right hand—the uninjured one— and run it under the water while his other sits limply in his lap.
I belatedly pump some soap into my palm and rub and rinse, following the lines in his palm, between his fingers, and a bit of his wrist. I have half a mind to rub the tips of his fingers against my hand, the way I was taught to get a bit of grime out from under your nails, but from the way I notice Charles now looking at me, I’m realizing that’s probably a bit excessive.
“Sorry,” I laugh a little awkwardly, reaching over him to grab two paper towels (it’s usually best to double up on the ones here at school). I start to dry his hand for him before I realize that’s probably also overbearing.
“For what?” He asks, shocking me a bit when he meets my eyes from under his lashes.
I curl his hand around the paper towels, a motion meant to encourage him to dry his hand himself, but I’ve already dried it pretty well and I’m second guessing myself halfway through the action.
“I uh, know you probably just wanted to take care of this yourself,” I smile in a weird self deprecating, awkwardly nervous moment.
I commit to leaving the paper towels to Charles, and give his hand something between a caress and a pat to commemorate this before moving to scoop up the cut hand. My knuckles are somewhat sensitive to the fabric of his jeans and I think I may swallow a bit strangely.
His arms and chest rise and fall noticeably as Charles sighs.
“Not really,” he admits, his head knocking lightly against the cabinets and it falls back to rest against them.
I’ve begun running the water again but I do a double take, my head practically swiveling to face him again.
“Fuck, that’s hot,” he hisses, hand jerking back in my grip.
I snap out of it.
“Shit, sorry, wrong knob,” I rush, bringing his hand all the way out of the stream before switching knobs. I run my own hand beneath the spray before Charles’ this time.
“Your honesty was… disarming,” I feel the need to explain, quickly turning the water off as soon as I can see the cut so as not to prolong the bleeding.
“I’ll make sure to avoid that from now on,” Charles says. I almost miss the excessive seriousness in his tone that indicates banter trying to figure out where I left the peroxide.
“I thought you’d prefer me disarmed,” I reply easily, spotting the brown bottle behind a nearby stack of textbooks.
He hums noncommittally, almost agreeably, and I try deliberately this time not to be surprised, focusing in on Charles’ injury.
“This might hurt a bit,” I say, not hesitating to dribble the disinfectant slowly but steadily over the wound.
“Fuck,” he grunts, leaning forward exponentially.
I put down the bottle immediately and don’t bother to screw the cap on. Charles’ eyes are screwed shut as he breathes once, twice, heavily in and out through his nose.
I put a hand on his shoulder. Our foreheads are nearly touching.
“Okay?”
He nods, eyes relaxing, breath steadying. A lock of his hair brushes my face, tickling slightly.
“Okay,” I swallow. I move slightly too quickly for the bandages and nearly knock over the hydrogen peroxide. I silently curse myself, screwing the cap on tightly before moving back to Charles’ hand with a lighter touch.
“G-“ I meant to ask him a question about the bandages, but I’m momentarily struck by his gaze, like it’s pinning me there.
He’s not as close as before— I made an effort to put a reasonable distance back between us— but something about his eyes, the shade of them, must be different.
It must be the timers on the lights.
“Gauze or band-aids?” I recover quickly from the strange distractible moment artists are sometimes prone to when faced with a potential subject, holding up the two types in one hand for Charles to choose from.
A beat of silence.
“Whatever the doctor thinks is best,” he responds with odd softness, as if he were trying not to wake some invisible sleeping person in the room.
I opt for the gauze for mobility’s sake, since I know it’s unlikely, even in his strangely compliant mood, that Charles will ever heed any advice in the realm of ‘take it easy’.
As I wind it around his palm once, I have the strange urge to apologize again for intruding, and the second time the firm idea that Charles must be alerted of the disarming effects of his honesty refuses to be ignored, the third imploring me to ask him which bandage he would prefer. I go over the events of our interaction today as I wind.
I feel like I’m missing something.
“There,” I snip and tape the bandage reluctantly. I begin loading items back into the kit.
“You’ll have to ease upon the craft scissor based activities for a bit,” I shut the kit with a click and look back up.
“And for the love of God please don’t go doing whatever the hell it was you were doing to slice your hand open like that agai-“
Charles, readopting his contrary attitude, does not allow me to finish my warning before kissing me full on the lips. I pull back.
“Charles, hello, are you even listening to me? Don’t go cutting your damn hand open like that again, okay?”
Charles is flushed a remarkable shade of red and looking positively mortified.
I’m beginning to feel similarly.
“I me-“
“Y-“
We both start.
My teeth click with how quickly I shut my damn mouth.
I watch, wide eyed, as Charles’ Adam’s apple bobs, and after a long awkward moment he gathers enough courage to speak.
“Okay,” he breathes.
I can’t for the life of me remember what we were talking about until he continues, almost unnecessarily.
“I won’t, uh, go cutting my damn hand open again.” He twitches a little.
“Liar,” I squint at him.
Charles’ eyes go wide as he arches a brow by approximately thirty degrees.
“You twitch like that when you lie,” I try to reason. It seems the intrigue is outweighing the confusion in Charles’ face, so I try to continue. What am I missing?
“You… like the attention,” I piece together. He shifts his gaze.
“You like my attention,” I amend.
A pause.
“I thought that was obvious,” he says, deliberately flippant. And when his eyes finally meet mine again, heat tugs my stomach. His eyes are a different shade, as I suspected, but all of the lights are still on. His pupils are dilated.
“Forgive me, I must not have gotten that memo,” I breathe absently. He likes my attention. It’s a bit heady.
But Charles scoffs and moves to push himself off the counter and make his escape.
“Woah, hey,” I push him back by the waist with little force.
“I’m oblivious, not stupid,” I add quickly.
Charles, although still seemingly uncomfortable, manages a deeply unamused look.
I remember the kiss fiasco of a few minutes ago with some immediacy.
“Alright, well, just listen-“
Quite suddenly, a gaggle of small, medium, and startlingly tall children tumble gracelessly through the doors to our respective classrooms, heralded by the sound of my nightmares.
“Saved by the bell,” he smiles dryly, successfully heaving himself up off of the counter and out of my reach.
“Thanks for the help,” he mutters, far away.
The door clicks and he’s gone.
I’m left standing there, the plastic handle of the first aid kit biting into one hand and the memory of Charles’ shirt lingering over the other. Stock still.
“Teacher, Jeremy’s trying to pierce his ears with paper clips again!”
And then I’m in the classroom, kit forgotten.
“Jeremy, I swear to God, you little Hot Topic wannabe-“