Page 78 of Ladybirds

Miles hums skeptically, shouldering his duffle bag and closing the door behind him. “Mmm…that long, huh?”

“Keep it down,” she shushes, “he’s sleeping.”

He steps through the threshold, his smile falling as he notices her foot. “What the hell happened?”

“It’s just a sprain.”

“And you didn’t think to mention it to your friend, who's a doctor?”

“I told you, it’s been a really long day.”

He only looks more concerned. “Right… you going to explain that whole moose bit?”

Sara closes the door, locking the deadbolt. “I was taking pictures. There was a moose.”

“Please,” Miles deadpans, eyes lingering on the scrape on her chin. Sara wonders how bad the bruising is now. She hadn’t checked since leaving the clinic. “Don’t bore me with the details.”

Sara can’t even summon the energy to retort, the day weighs on her almost as heavily as the anxiety. Instead, she leads him into the living room—thankful for the wall that blocks Seth from sight until the moment they’ve turned the corner.

Miles freezes. “That’s a shotgun wound.” Then, his eyes flit over the rest of the injuries—cataloging every bruise, every scrape—before grabbing her arm and pulling her back around the corner. “Sara, what the hell is going on?”

“I—“

“No.” He cuts her off, finger in her face. “No lies. You suck at them. Why the hell does your boyfriend look like he just came out of a leading role in BBC Fight Club?!” His eyes search hers, more serious than she’s ever seen him. “What have you gotten yourself into?!”

She swats his hand away. “It’s not like that, ok?” she hisses. “And keep your voice down or you’ll wake him!”

Seth’s voice materializes from the living room, tinged with sleep. “Too late for that, I’m afraid.” He stumbles around the corner, leaning against the wall. Sara notes that his short nap doesn’t seem to have done him any favors... if anything he looks paler. The bruises under his eyes deeper. “Hello, lovely to meet you. Now, will you please tell her I’m not going to die in my sleep so we can all tuck in and call it a night?”

The muscle in Miles’ jaw jumps. “When we talked on the phone, you didn’t think to mention you’ve been shot?”

Seth gives a slow blink. “No, not particularly.” When the other man’s expression darkens, Seth sighs, hand gesturing lazily to the wound. “It’s merely tissue damage. You’re more than welcome to verify it for yourself.”

Miles’ seems less than impressed—shoulders tense and hands fisted—but he nods stiffly. “Fine. You want to lay on the bed?”

“And risk getting blood on the sheets? Don’t be absurd. There is a lovely couch around the corner.”

“There’s a hospital around the corner, where you wouldn’t have to worry about getting blood anywhere.”

“Why does everyone keep saying that as if it isn’t already common knowledge?” Seth grumbles, already making his way back to the living room.

Miles pins her with a look, his voice a harsh whisper. “Don’t even think we’re done talking about this.”

Sara glares back, unmoved. “It’s not what you think.”

How could it be?

His jaw works silently, but he doesn’t push the conversation further. He stomps into the living room, instead. Sara follows, flinching when his medical bag—his old army duffle he keeps jam packed with supplies—hits the ground.

From the couch, Seth raises an eyebrow. “Very dramatic, bravo doctor.”

Mile’s doesn’t look up as he unzips the bag, pulling out some supplies and lining them up on the floor—antiseptic, a bag of gauze, and a box of gloves. Ansel sniffs at the last before Sara picks him up, holding him against her chest where he’ll stay out of the way. “You going to tell me how this happened?”

“There was a gun and I was shot,” Seth quips, tone dry. “I thought that to be fairly obvious.”

Miles’ mouth tightens, snapping on his gloves. “Was there a reason why?”

“If memory serves, it was because he believed me to be the devil.” Seth frowns, hissing as latex hands prod the wound. “I’m not. For the record.”

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