Brannock slept solid for the next 18 hours, dreaming primarily of his companion Thistle. Some of the dreams seemed realistic-the two of them walking a dog, feeding ducks, etc. Stuff that was pleasant, and "normal". Other dreams also included Thistle, but these involved things like them fighting stuff together, her rescuing him from the clutches of some creature, and so on. Then of course, the nightmares would come where she was ripped literally from his arms and dragged away. Normally these would have woken him up, distraught. But his body was repairing itself, as it did, so he stayed pretty much out of it. He vaguely remembered several of his peers coming to check on him, trying to ask him questions about the 117 and talking to Thistle. Maybe he answered, he didn't know. But he sure didn't have much to offer, since he hadn't really seen much. Not many people who had gotten within a foot of a 117 had gotten away to tell about it though.
Thistle was by his side constantly as far as he was aware. He knew she left to go to work once, and remembered her feeding him some soup another time.
Finally, he woke up in an afternoon. It was overcast out, and his body ached but he did feel better. He swung his legs around off the bed to stand up, and grimaced when he put his right foot on the floor, the one with the injured ankle. It was tender, but he could stand on it without major difficulty. Thank God for the fast metabolism and all, he thought. Still had a ways to go, but at least he was mobile and could function. He limped into the bathroom, splashed water on his face, and could barely believe that the mirror's reflection was his.
Both eyes were puffy but not swollen shut, the lip didn't look too bad, but the rest of his face looked like someone had dropped a cat on him in his sleep. Hell, I guess a cat was actually thrown at me, he mused. Scratches all over seemed to be healing but his mug was a mess. His scalp had two small bald patches where apparently hair had been ripped out..
He noticed Thistle's reflection in the mirror behind his-it startled him, but that quickly gave way to relief.
"I am so glad to see you", Brannock said, "and thanks for trying to take care of me. If they had hired Mrs. Evans to do it, I'd be six feet under". Thistle laughed, a really uplifting laugh that always caught hold of his heart. Mrs. Evans was a nurse downstairs who had been forced to resign under a cloud of suspicion that she had been poisoning patients in a state hospital. No proof was ever found, but he preferred not to be the corpse who busted the case wide open for the authorities.
She threw her arms around his neck from behind, which actually hurt his shoulder-but he was not about to complain. She rested her chin on his (bad) shoulder as well, but he could smell her-her hair, just the smell of her body. He felt her breasts pressed up against his back, which would not have mattered except she was not still--she was teasing him, and swayed her hips against his backside as he started to lean back into her. He basically just could not-and would not-resist her.
Unlike most guys, Brannock DID love the cuddle time and that close intimacy. Thistle though was generally the wild one. She loved the closeness too, but, she had taught him things he didn't think possible or had never even considered. They'd had sex on the fire escape more than in the bed, and probably in the elevator a close third. He had tied her up, and she him. And more. Right now, she had already reached around him and pulled down his pajama bottoms and grabbed him. She pivoted him around to face her and slowly lowered herself onto her knees. Every time with Thistle was like his first time all over again. It defied explanation, for sure.
The following morning he was stiff because of the previous evening's activities. Thistle had spared him no mercy due to his injuries. They had even bent part of the cage in the old freight elevator. But it did make him feel better, the endorphin rush from multiple orgasms seemed to have sped up the healing process.
