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“You shouldn’t have done that.”
Collie Parker gives a hard exhale, pinching the bridge of his nose. Really? This was the hill that Barkovitch wanted to die on?
“Fine, next time I’ll let the fucker shoot you.” Collie says.
“I can take care of myself.” Barkovitch snarls. All teeth, as per usual.
His grip tightens on Collie’s arm, holding it steady for treatment. Collie hisses when antiseptic is pressed to the wound.
The hiss makes Barkovitch loosen his grip. Gentle, tentative hands return to wrap Collie’s arm.
“You could have died.” No more teeth. Barkovitch’s voice is barely above a whisper. Collie’s gaze softens.
“I didn’t though. I’m still here,” Collie murmurs. His words are meant to be a comfort. To take the sting out of the close call they just had. For a while, Barkovitch says nothing.
“Just be more careful next time,” he finally says. It’s not a love confession, but Collie can see the words for what they are. Barkovitch’s warmth lingers as he smooths down the bandages.
“We’ll both be more careful,” Collie says. Barkovitch nods. His thumb rubs small circles in Collie’s open palm. Dark, hooded eyes meet Collie’s own.
“Let’s go home,” Barkovitch says.