✓ Wrong Moves and Knife Wounds /h.s./

[11] weak body and mending veins

kitchen

Harry is licking his lips with his blood-stained tongue and Penelope is smiling at him like he's the most prettiest piece of art she's ever seen.

Harry's hands move faster than his mind can register. He's alone in the kitchen he hasn't been in for months now because his boss said he needed time. Time to heal, to do him.

The cops are at his doorstep and she's blasting music behind him. There are bruises on his chest where she hit him (over and over and over again) and now they're interrogating him on his own doorstep, trying to tell him something's not right. Like he doesn't already know that.

He's always been a great cook. And he's dicing carrots and salad all at once. It should help keep him distracted but it doesn't. Everything is coming to him in spurts of white in his eyes. They blind and they bleed.

And he's letting her squeeze his broken hand even after she's broken it. She's scared but she won't admit it. Why would she?

Somebody walks in and Harry doesn't see the blood until there are hands on his shoulders. They're shaking. Or maybe he's shaking, he's not quite sure. There's something about the knife that he's holding that just numbs him.

He's back to bleeding and she's just staring at him. Harry feels weak but Pen looks weaker. His foot is fractured this time and the cops are still knocking on his door but they won't be getting an answer because she won't allow it. She wears heels a lot so when she drives her feet onto his on days when she's worse than normal, her heels break bones.

The blood is so fresh and the hands on him are so clean. They grab at him and then multiply. There's a pair that slides the knife away from his torn hand and then another pair that tries to stop the bleeding. "Stop," he mumbles. It's quiet but it's there, falling into the thick air and just mocking him. Of course they don't stop. Nobody ever stops when they're told.

'Fractured' is a word all too familiar for him. He excels at being fractured (thanks Penelope) and now the skin around his collarbone is discolored and angled incorrectly because the bone under it is fractured. Pen isn't allowed to see him right now, but the moment she is she'll be there waiting for him. She always is, always finding a way around the law. Never mind the fact that she's tearing him apart or that the police have so many records on him now. They all read victim of domestic violence.

"Liam, I'm fine. It's a small cut, you get them all the time. Tell- tell Nina to let go of me. Stop, let go." His hands are shaking. The ground is vibrating and the hands are still on him. The faces blur but he knows who they are. He's had years and years to remember their names and their birthdays and the get well letters they sent to the hospital he always ended up in. Harry thinks he's weak. Too sensitive. His skin breaks so easily and so freely. "Let go of me."

"Let us help," Nina is saying. She's got her yellow-painted nails all over him. The color is a huge contrast to her dark skin but Harry only vaguely acknowledges that. He wants her off of him. "We'll call your doctor and you can get help."

Help. Help, help. The word reverberates off of every bone in his body that's ever been broken by his dead girlfriend and it sinks into ever pore of his skin that she ever left bruises on. Her fingers were dainty and Harry's are so large but they were never taught how to fight back so he never did. Doesn't think he would fight back even if he could. His hands are large but they never left a bruise on anybody but himself. "Please don't call him. Please don't do that, I'll fix myself. I know how to stitch, let me go."

They want him to put up a restraining order against Pen now and he's shaking. He knows that they only want to help but no no no all he wants to do is help her instead. He comes last. Always. Always broken before her. Fractured. Pen taught him that.

He staggers back. The edges of his sight are obscured. Like a filter of black is swallowing it up. "Guys-"

"You've got more than one cut, Harry. You nearly chopped your fingers off, stop moving."

There are hands grabbing him and tugging at his skin. They're pulling hip up and he's pushing them down. He's stubborn and wants to be alone right now.

"Don't call, please." Harry is begging. "Liam, please don't call him."

And now there's Rory and she's guiding him through the debris in his head. She's got him blindfolded so he doesn't get too attached to the burned and dead things there. And she's here to help him.

Liam's got his hands off of him. They're bloody and holding a phone to his ear.

"Please don't call him. He'll think I did this on purpose."

Rory is leaving him and there's nothing he can do about it.

"But didn't you?"

He closes his eyes and welcomes the darkness.

•                    •                    •

Harry is waking and fighting the light in the ceiling. They're almost blinding. When he blinks enough to adjust to it, he sees his doctor sitting on the opposite side of the room in one of the largest chairs.

He's got bags under his eyes but he's still so awake.

"Care to explain what happened?"

Harry feels heavy. An indication he's got something in his system. "It was an accident. Honest cooking accident."

"We thought you'd be fine, but I and Mister Payne have come to the conclusion that you need more time."

"Time for what? It was a mistake and it won't happen again."

"He said you seemed out of it since the moment you stepped into uniform."

He looks down and realizes he's not wearing it anymore. "I just wasn't looking while I was chopping." His voice is slow and almost pleading. He wants to be trusted.

"The tone you're using," Mr. Grimshaw's finger is waving in the air. He clears his throat and then says, "it's the same one you used to use when you came in here when Miss Steer would hurt you."

Harry fights the urge to leave. "She didn't hurt me." He says. Realizes even he knows it's a lie. "Not intentionally."

"You can go back to work in two weeks. And even then, you won't be allowed to deal with the knives. You'll deal with sauces or preparation, or serving. Maybe you'll be on utensils for customers for a while, but no knives. Not even washing them." Grimshaw's eyes are hard as he leans in toward Harry. "Am I understood?"

"Yes," he says quietly.

"Great, because I have something else to bring up before I go."

He hums a response. Just wants to go home and take off the bandage on his hand so it hurts just a little more. Then again everything feels kind of light in his bones and body so maybe he's on a heavy dosage of painkillers.

"Who is Rory?"

Harry lifts his eyes and starts to twiddle his fingers uncomfortably. "Who?"

"You kept saying the name while you were being sedated. You kept saying it over and over again."

Harry pulls at his long sleeves. "She's an acquaintance," he lies.

Grimshaw is trained to catch it and not interrogate him. "I'm just curious, is all. Hopefully you bring her by in the future."

He stands.
Closes his eyes and sees blood.
His blood, her blood, and it makes too much sense. "I won't."