Page 18 of Butterfly

One of the curtains opened, and Pichard stepped out. “No need to shout, I’ve got a sleeping inmate I’d rather not have woken.”

He wore white scrubs over a blue shirt and had his name badge pinned beneath his left breast pocket. His blond hair had streaks of grey, particularly at his temples, and his blue eyes seemed tired, lined with wrinkles, but not unkind when they fell onto Ollie.

Ollie knew Pichard had been the one to stitch up Rory’s side when he’d got stabbed after only a week on the wing.

“You weren’t sleeping in there, were you?” Seinfeld asked.

“No,” Pichard answered. “I was resting my eyes. It’s been a long day.”

Seinfeld knocked his shoulder into Ollie’s. “This one decided to headbutt a gate.”

Ollie rolled his eyes.

“Likely story.” Pichard sighed.

“No, he really did. I watched him do it.”

Seinfeld grinned, but Pichard’s expression turned serious. He came closer, peering into Ollie’s eyes.

“I didn’t see it,” Ollie said. “I was heading for the door to go outside and didn’t see the gate was shut.”

Seinfeld shook his head, chuckling. “Idiot.”

Pichard looked over to him. “I swear it was you a few weeks ago who couldn’t find his glasses when they were right on top of your head.”

Seinfeld stopped laughing.

“Let’s see if it’s broken, shall we?”

Pichard guided Ollie behind the curtain and patted the bed. Ollie obediently perched, taking his hand away from his nose for the first time since he’d collided with the gate.

Pichard snapped on a pair of gloves.

“Do you need me or…” Seinfeld pulled an awkward face. “I’m desperate for a slash.”

“You know you should see someone about that overactive bladder of yours…”

“Hilarious. Can I go piss or what?”

“I guess so,” Pichard replied, turning his back to him.

His hands were cold as he cupped Ollie’s face and pressed tenderly at his nose. The gate clunked, signalling Seinfeld’s leaving. Ollie winced as Pichard inspected him, then pulled back to sneeze blood onto the tissue he clutched in his hand. It hurt. Ollie would’ve described it as the most painful sneeze he’d ever done if Pichard had asked him.

Pichard didn’t ask.

“Sorry,” Ollie mumbled.

Pichard shook his head. “No need.”

Ollie thought more blood might flood out of him after his sneeze, but it didn’t.

“Aren’t there any officers in here?” Ollie asked.

“There’s one just outside the gate.” Pichard frowned. “Or there should be.”

Ollie hadn’t seen anyone when they’d come down the corridor.

“And there’s a few on the wing.” Pichard tipped his head to one side. “Just through there. They’ll hear if I yell.” He leaned away. “Why? Not planning anything, are you?”

---