Chapter Text
It was odd really, how many people told you that living in a cabin in the woods was scary.
Aren’t you ever afraid of being out there all alone in the dark?
What happens if you get hurt?
What would you do if there was a bear?
It’s like they didn’t think about the fact that you have a town about 30 minutes from you. It even had a full-service grocery store. Shocker!
Or the fact that, yes, cell signal was basically non-existent…but you had a satellite phone for emergencies, a back-up generator and a satellite dish for some TV and internet.
And yes, bears did stop by here and there, but seeing one or two a season was the norm. It wasn’t like the things ran in herds or something. Jeesh.
So, it was you, your dog and your truck. Your 2 bedroom home was perfect size for you. You had converted one bedroom to an office to do your work out of. As an IT web developer, it didn’t matter where you worked as long as you had a computer.
Hugo, or Boss, as you called him, barked from somewhere just inside the tree line. The stocky pit bull had wandered onto your front porch one day, scrapes and wounds littering his skinny body. You fattened him up and got all the proper vet care, and now he kept you company.
“Boss!” you called, asking him to return. But the fast footsteps of those 4 paws did not follow. “Boss? Come on, buddy!”
Still nothing. Concern shot through you. He had just barked. He was fine, right? You ducked back into the house and grabbed your rifle, just in case that today was the day dog met bear. God, you really hoped not.
Trudging through the thick undergrowth, you made your way into the woods. You heard another bark from your dog, further away this time and headed immediately in that direction, calling once more.
You were headed for a service road. A defunct service road. The county had decommissioned it years ago, as the area it served had been abandoned and grown wild over the last decade. No people that direction meant no need for a road.
Another bark, this one louder. You were getting closer. You popped out into the road and froze.
A large black truck was parked in the middle of the road. You glanced around, looking for the owner, but didn’t spot anyone quite yet. Checking your rifle and you raised it as you moved around to the other side of the truck.
You saw the wagging tail first. When Boss saw you, he came bounding over, thrilled with the game.
But he hadn’t left a bear. Oh no. Boss had run to you after leaving the lap of a man.
You kept the rifle up and aimed at the man. You glanced around, then moved in a slow circle, the gun pointing the way, but saw no one.
The guy sat up against the tire of his truck, slumped over, his chin on his chest. His arms sagged loosely on his lap, his hands bloody and open, palms up.
Blood, fresh and dried, ran down his head from a cut along his temple. Multiple small lacerations peppered the bit of face that was visible. He was wearing a dark canvas style jacket that was even darker along his arm and shoulder, as well as his lower hip. Most likely more blood. A holster sat on the opposite hip, a handgun tucked inside.
You stepped forward, nudging the man with your boot. He didn’t move. Boss danced happily amongst his feet, blissfully unaware of the man’s current condition.
“Hey! Wake up! Sir?” You shouted, but he didn’t respond. “Fuck…” you hissed. You slung your rifle over your shoulder, draping it across your back as you crouched down and pressed your fingers to the pulse point on his neck. You blew out a breath when you felt a slow, but steady, pulse.
“Okay, alright. Jesus…” you looked around, wondering how in hell you were going to get this man anywhere. He outweighed you by around 75 pounds, most likely. The truck bed would be too high for you to lift him in. You leaned closer and grasped both sides of his face, tilting his head up gently to look at him. “Hey, come on now, you need to wake up,” you pleaded softly.
You rubbed your thumbs along his cheekbones in a soothing manner. You held your breath when his eyelids flickered slightly and his eyes cracked open.
Blown pupils landed on your face and he jerked when he realized there was someone in front of him. His hand fumbled along his side, searching for something. It took you a moment to realize he was grabbing for his gun.
“No,” you said softly, grasping that wrist. His other arm hung limp at his side. “No, it’s alright. I’m not going to hurt you. You’re safe, okay?”
His eyes searched your face, then darted around the area surrounding you, searching for any threat to himself.
You still held his face in your hands, “I need to get you in your truck so I can get you back to my cabin, okay? I can patch you up there. Can you stand and help me?”
He still stared silently, but his eyes didn’t stray from yours anymore. The bit of brown you could see of his irises was a warm chocolate, his lashes flicking gently with each blink.
To ease his mind, you told him your name. “I live a little ways through the woods here. What’s your name?”
“Pete,” he rasped. He swallowed slowly and looked around again.
“Okay, Pete. Where are your keys?”
“In the truck,” he grunted when he shifted slightly.
“Okay. Let’s try and get in the passenger side. Nice and slow.” You got a hand under his good arm and braced it behind his elbow. Your other hand grabbed the belt on the other side of his waist. “On three…one, two…three!”
He grabbed your arm and got his legs underneath him. You were able to pull him to a standing position and you shifted him quickly to yank the truck door open. He sagged against the door, using all his energy to stay upright.
“Okay, lift yourself up. I’ll help from this side.” He did as you asked, but he kept a wary eye on you the whole time. He was able to situate himself in the seat and you smiled. “Good job, Pete.” He leaned his head back against the seat, breaths coming in quick gasps.
You shut his door softly and then called out to Boss as you walked to the driver’s side. Opening the door to the back, you placed your rifle on the floorboard and helped your dog in, “Good boy, Bossman. Good job!” You jumped into the driver’s seat and cranked the ignition.
Boss hustled over to the middle console and stood in the center. He leaned over to the right and started to kiss Pete.
“Boss, no! Leave it, buddy!” You cringed as he bathed the man and his injuries.
Pete turned his head to look at you, “He’s alright. I like dogs.” His voice was like brushing against sandpaper. Not quite that tone of a smoker, but deep and guttural, like each word was dragged up from somewhere deep.
You smiled softly, ignoring the warmth spreading in your chest and backed the truck down the narrow lane. Every large bump and pothole made your passenger wince or grunt, but there was no other way around.
“I’m sorry. We’ll be there soon.”
He didn’t answer, just rested against the seat, his working arm wrapped around his middle and his eyes closed.
As you finally made your way to the public dirt road, you glanced at him, “Want to tell me what happened?”
His eyes opened and he looked at you, but then turned away.
“Okay. Is there someone I can call for you?”
He sighed, “Look, I appreciate you helping me out, but we can’t be friends lady, alright?”
The sentence left him breathing hard, like stringing that many words together took a bundle of effort.
“There has to be someone,” you started.
“No! No one that I’m willing to risk.”
You thought that was quite an odd statement as you finally reached the start of your long drive. Turning, you drove a few minutes until you reached your cabin. You threw the truck into park and hesitated.
“Think you can make it inside?” you turned to look at him, hand resting over the wheel.
He stared at the cabin, “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll make it.”
You got out, let out Boss, grabbed your gun and then hurried to his side, where he had already swung open the door. He slid carefully out of the seat, wincing as he went. As soon as his feet touched the ground, you propped him up, an arm around his waist while his went over your shoulder, and helped him limp inside.
You steered him straight to the twin bed you had in the corner of your office. He fell onto it with little grace, breathing heavily from the exertion.
You bent to a knee at his feet and he reeled back, “What’re you doing?”
You smiled, grabbing a boot, “Taking your boots off. You know it and I know it…you need to get these bloody clothes off so I can tend to the injuries.”
He watched you with confusion, anger and yet, thankfulness all crossing his face. He was battle hardened, used to bleeding and caring for himself. You could sense that immediately. You guessed he was military, or at least had been. He carried himself upright, even when in pain. He was stoic, centered, and wary.
This man had been to war. Hell, there was a good chance he was still fighting one. War didn't always mean bombs and guns. Sometimes it was silent, tearing into the parts of the mind that make you who you are.
You got his boots off and then stood, raising an eyebrow.
He looked up at you, brow furrowed. Then, his face went hard, “No.”
You tilted your head, your smile dropping, “Yes.”
“I’ve stitched myself up hundreds of times. I don’t need your help,” he growled.
You placed your hands on your hips and waited, “And yet, here we are.”
He grumbled, but started unbuckling his belt. He hesitated for a minute, and then grabbed his gun from it’s holster and placed it on the table next to the bed. He was able to undo the belt and unbuttoned his jeans, but then stopped. He sat there, hands braced on the bed.
“Pete?”
“You like this, don’t you?”
You frowned, “Like this? You, hurt? No. I don’t particularly like seeing people hurt.”
He looked up at you, “Like knowing I need your help. Gives you purpose…something to care for.”
You felt a surge of anger, “Look, asshole…I have something to care for. He’s 70 pounds, farts in his sleep and is named Hugo Boss. I’d much rather be spending time with him in my peace and quiet instead of trying to help your ungrateful ass. So, either strip or get the fuck out and see what happens. You weren’t even conscious when my dog found you, so I doubt you’ll get very far.”
Your heart was beating wildly, your hands starting to shake. This always happened when you got angry. The tightness in your chest would grip you and throw your anxiety and emotions into overdrive.
He raised a hand, “OK. Alright,” he shushed you. “Shh, shh, shh, shh. I apologize…that was out of line.”
He stood and pushed his jeans to the floor, carefully stepping out of them. He sat gingerly on the bed again, “I think we’ll have to cut the shirt off. My shoulder is shit.”
You nodded your agreement and retrieved some scissors from your junk drawer. You carefully pulled the wet shirt away from his skin and started to cut.
When enough cuts were made to remove it without needing Pete to raise his arms, you peeled the destroyed garment away and sat back.
Pete was a scarred man. There was a scar that ran along the left side of his neck, maybe 2-3 inches long. Another down the top of his left forearm, straight and raised. There were lines and puckers all over his chest and back, and a gruesome, large scar on the top of his left foot. Aside from the scars though, he was a beautifully built man.
“Jesus, Pete,” you whispered.
“Yeah, God stopped answering any of my prayers a long time ago.” He looked away.
“Seems some got through, because you’re still alive after all of…this,” you traced a hand over some of his larger scars.
He flinched at your touch, then scoffed, “These? These are luck and some highly trained medical professionals. No prayers involved.”
“Well, let’s add a few more to the collection, shall we?” You ask, grabbing your first aid kit and pulling it closer. “Let’s start with the head and then the shoulder. Those ones are still bleeding badly.”
“You do what you gotta do,” he said softly.
You got to work cleaning away the blood from his face and temple. The gouge was pretty deep and you asked him what could have caused it.
“Got in the way of a bullet,” he told you.
You couldn’t believe he said it so matter-of-factly. Like this was an every day occurrence for him. Then again, looking at his map of scars, it very well could be.
You stopped asking questions and cleaned the wound, then informed him you would be stitching it. Your work wouldn't be pretty, but living somewhat off the grid taught you the basics of advanced first aid.
“I don’t have anything for pain,” you apologized.
“It’s fine. Just do what you gotta do,” he repeated.
You winced every time you pierced his skin with the needle and slid through the thread. You’d catch the twitch of his eye or clench of his jaw when you’d poke, sometimes a slight grimace when it pulled too much.
Finally, you cut the thread and sat back. “Okay, one done.” You smoothed a hand down the back of his head and neck. “Sorry if that hurt.”
He looked at you from his spot on the bed. Not turning his head or body, just moving his eyes. There was confusion there, like the comforting touch was completely foreign. But there was gratitude, pain and resilience too. He wanted the comfort, but he acted like he didn’t deserve it.
You didn’t say anything as you started on his shoulder. He stayed still and stoic, barely moving a muscle as you worked.
That one took much longer. There were fragments of a bullet left in the wound, not just one bullet piece. He directed you on the best way to remove said pieces and how to ensure no more were left behind. You rinsed it out the best you could and gasped when he grabbed the bottle of alcohol you had and poured it over the hole, cussing a blue streak when he did.
You sewed up that one as well.
After tending to another gash on his side, you finally finished with the major cuts. You went and grabbed a clean wash cloth and started cleaning him up. His face, back, chest, legs…he got more tense as you worked, but it had to be done.
You were on your knees in front of him when he grabbed your wrist and said, “That’s enough.”
You nodded and retreated to the bathroom. Rinsing the cloth, you then popped into the attached closet and grabbed one of your cousin’s old t-shirts he had left over the years. There were some sweatpants the guys had left there too, the promise of wild nights mudding through country roads always prompting a wardrobe change. You avoided the box in the corner, the memories from that one still too raw.
You walked out, clothes in hand and found Pete stretched out on the bed. He had one arm thrown over his head, his eyes closed and breathing slow, but steady.
He was finally asleep.
Taking the blanket at the foot of the bed, you placed it gently over his hips. You left the change of clothes on the desk and then slowly crept from the room.