Something Borrowed, Something Blue

Time Taken

saturday. with the girl what's homesick.

The journey down the mountain is a tad slower going than the ride up it, and the outlaws pause for a break a few miles down. You can spy trees again: forests thicker than wool, brimming with lush evergreens that reach desperately for the clouds, and at the base of the mountains stretches a wide silver lake, the face of which lies like a mirror beneath the azure sky. A quiet, serene and cool, lies over the world, and the sun smiles at the earth—grins just wide enough that a bit of that pleasant heat slips like a kiss against your brow. You breathe, and your lungs fill like they never have before, but it's the exhale you lean into; it's a soft thing, a pause so familiar you nearly forget yourself, and you sit up a little straighter because you'd nearly fallen back into Elijah's chest.

Cyrus and Elijah both dismount, and the latter reaches up to help you down. Nobody speaks, but Cyrus settles onto a chunk of rock with a grunt and a small wince, and once your feet are on the ground, you pad over to him. Gravel and bits of rock dig through the wool socks Elijah gave you and chew like teeth at the soles of your feet, but having socks alone is a blessing in itself, and you reach Cyrus's side without complaint and place a gentle hand upon his arm.

"I'd like to have a look at your wound," you murmur, but a whisper's almost too loud—too sharp and sudden for this bit of peace you've happened upon.

Cyrus looks up at you, and he's hunched over some so his forearms can rest against his thighs, but now he starts leaning back, and he takes off his hat, runs a hand through his hair, and nods his head. "Be my guest."

You bend over and start undoing his bandages, and Cyrus stretches out his leg and watches you work. His attention is a tad heavy, but you busy yourself working, so, eventually, Cyrus clears his throat, shifts in the seat he's made atop his chunk of rock, and then asks, in a voice what's low and rough but light in tone, "How long you, uh, been a nurse for?"

His wound's still good and clean. No sign of infection, and the stitches are holding together quite nicely.

"Oh, I don't know." You frown. The bandages should be changed, or at the very least washed, and his pants will need some serious stitching. You could all do with a good bath, hot or cold. "Four years?" You purse your lips and pause, but the thoughts are slow coming. Spent too long packing them away—sealing them up good and tight, because Addison is a man of class, and his wife should be well and cared for. "I started working at the hospital when I was about thirteen, but I just talked to patients, and made sure they got their meals." You sigh, and as the air leaves your chest, your arms fall. The memories are kind, even those embittered by people what forgot at times that you were their nurse, not their maid. "When I was about sixteen, that's when I was really put in charge of caring for patients. So... four years. Yes, I'd say that's about right."

You finish wrapping Cyrus back up, and then you stand, inhale deep through your nose, and set your hands on your hips and continue, lightly, "Your wound's healing quite nicely. Just keep it clean." You incline your head. "You should be able to take your stitches out come Friday.

"How are you feeling?" you inquire, and you set a hand on his shoulder and lean toward him, but though the concern what knits your brow is fairly light, Cyrus pauses a moment before answering.

He scratches the back of his head, and then he swats lightly at his leg with his hat, like he's trying to dust something off. "S'a lil' tender, but I've uh, I've had worse."

"Worse?" You arch an inquiring eyebrow, and then you glance over at his brother, who's stepped out onto a little outcropping and is peering firm at the placid lake what sits all serene and silver down at the mountain's foot. "You've been shot at before?"