Page 4 of The Sharpest Edges

Dean narrows his eyes, his mouth forming a thin line. “Can’t get no rest if you don’t quit yapping.”

He thinks the other man might say something else about Ava because there’s a hint of a smile forming like he knows Dean met her and wants to talk about it, but he seems to have a moment of common sense and hefts himself back over the top of the bunk again, leaving Dean alone in blessed silence.

He has the rest of the night to try to sleep off the headache that won’t go away. Ignore his broken toe and broken body and not think about what the fuck he’ll say, or if he’ll even say anything at all when he’s taken to the infirmary tomorrow.

* * *

It’s noon the following day when Nick shows up to escort him to the infirmary with a scowl that Dean assumes is his usual expression.

The cuffs bite into his wrists, tighter than he thinks they should be, but he doesn’t question it. He’s not willing to get on the bad side of a guard, not so soon. Not ever. The walk down the hall feels longer than it did the other day, every step on his sore foot making him see stars until they pass through the door and he’s allowed to lower himself onto the hospital-style bed. The one with a pillow at the end that he looks longingly at. He’d pay actual money for a nap with that pillow if it was on offer.

He’s shackled to the railing of the bed again, precaution for the woman standing across from him with a warm smile on her face and a chart in her hand. In case he was to lose his fucking mind and try to attack her, and it’s a damn good thing they do this because while he has no desire to hurt her, he can only imagine what some of the others might do if given halfthe chance.

For the first time, he wonders why she took this job. She seems competent and compassionate, but there are other, safer places to be a nurse instead of this depressing disaster zone.

“You have quite the list of injuries, Mr. Dawson. How are you feeling today?” Her tone is pleasant and her expression sincere, two things that are entirely out of place here.

Nick snorts in the corner before he heads off with a comment about having to take a leak and then they’re alone, which seems like a stupid practice to him, but here they are.

“Dean. Not mister anything.”

He wants to tell her that Mr. Dawson reminds him of his piece of shit father, but that’s more information than she probably cares to know and more than he usually wants to share, so he doesn’t. He hopes she’ll take the hint that it bothers him and call him anything else.

“Okay. How’s your head, Dean? Can I take a look?” She flips through his chart one last time before setting it down and zeroing in on the throbbing gash on his head.

He grunts out his consent even though she doesn’t need it. Looks anywhere but at her face when she steps in close to peel away the bandage and inspects the wound. He’s proud of himself for not flinching even once while her fingers ghost over his battered skin. It’s an accomplishment since that’s all he did the last time he met her. “Still hurts, but it’s better. Mostly my damn toe and ribs that feel like they’re gonna explode.”

She hums out a soft sound of agreement while replacing the bandage, leaning in close enough that he’s eye level with her collarbone, the scent of vanilla and honey wafting sweetly up his nose.

He’s not a jerk, doesn’t get off on looking down a woman’s shirt without her permission, but she’s right there and there’s something else on her skin that catches his eye, something that stands out against all those pale, barely there freckles. A deep gash, long since healed, peeks out a few inches down and to the right of the gap in her v-neck shirt.

He can’t help but stare at it. Wonders if someone cut her or if she did it herself in an accident. Maybe she earned it here, a battle scar for surviving this job. His nerves tingle at the idea of one of these assholes, people that she comes here to help, being the cause of that mark she wears now. No good deed goes unpunished, after all.

Ava is silent for a few moments, no longer touching his wound, and that’s when he realizes he’s been caught. His face burns red and he mumbles out a quick apology while feeling like the world’s biggest creep.

“It’s okay.” She tugs her shirt up a little higher to cover the scar. Her expression is more subdued now than it was before and he knows he fucked up, even if she won’t call him on it.

He has no idea what else to say. Anything that comes out of his mouth now would sound like an excuse, anyway. He could say he’s sorry again, that he wasn’t actually trying to sneak a peek at her breasts beneath her shirt, but the cards are stacked against him so he shuts the hell up.

“Stitches still look good, makes sense that your other injuries would be hurting more. They got the brunt of the damage. I won’t bother them right now. We should give it a few days before I check the splint on your toe…and your broken ribs…well, there’s not much to be done for those except time.”

He nods, watching her rifle through the cabinets for two pills and then fill a paper cup with water.

“Your chart says you have a mild concussion. Part of the reason for the frequent visits here. If you start feeling dizzy or vomit at all, be sure to let me or one of the guards know.”

He can pop the pills into his mouth but can’t hold the glass and lift it to take a sip, not with his hands secured to the bed and his inability to bend over enough. They both stand there in limbo, with Ava holding the glass out and him doing a decent T-rex impression.

She seems to kick start then, producing a straw that she holds up to his mouth. “I forget sometimes that you’re glued to the rail. These should hold you over until tomorrow, then you can ask for some Advil from the staff on the floor until our next visit. I’m sure you’d rather stick with these full time until you’re healed, but Tylenol with codeine isn’t allowed anywhere near the pods.”

The third day is always the hardest. He knows that from experience with a multitude of injuries. Tomorrow will be even worse when he doesn’t have codeine to take the edge off. “It’s alright. I’ll survive.”

It feels like the end of his visit. Meds have been given and bandages changed, but Nick isn’t back yet to take him to his pod, so here he sits. The room is awkwardly silent until Ava speaks up, leaning back against the countertop across from him with a tilt of her head, attempting to fill the void until his keeper returns.

“How long do you have?”

He looks down at his feet instead of her. “Six months.”

Her expression softens. “That’s not too bad. You’ll be out of here before you know it. Some of them…the others, they have years, decades.”

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