TRAIN [FIRST DRAFT]

Chapter 4: Safe

The chopper was steady, which was obviously a good thing, considering neither of them were wearing seatbelts at the time. Gavin slid the doors closed on both sides of the helicopter and opened one of the cubicles.

"Does it hurt?" he looked at Aimee.

She nodded, tried to move her hand off the wound, but quickly glued it back to her side. Gavin neared her slowly and bent down on one knee. He slid his forearms under her back and thighs and carried her into the crammed cubicle. It was horribly uncomfortable at first, but when Gavin pressed his back against a certain point on the wall it retracted along with the shelves, joining the two cubicles together.

"Wish you would've taught me that before," croaked Aimee.

She smiled, but her face did not read a cheery teenage girl. Gavin noticed how unhealthy she looked, like she had been starved until weak, but he returned a smile, to save her from worry. He spread her out on the floor carefully, and then he removed his light grey jacket and jade green top. He rarely wore his RDA uniform to begin with, and now he was just peeling it off; Aimee was trying so hard to look away.

Of course he has a six pack, she thought, as though it was her kryptonite.

Gavin lifted her blouse reverentially, to just above her wound, and used his shirt to douse the blood. It was not like she was bleeding a river, but it was messy.

"Better?" he asked, applying a little pressure.

"Yes," she said. "Thanks, Gavin."

He smiled at her, but it faded briefly as he made a pained face at her wound. "What if I try to remove the bullet?" he queried. "I can see it."

A smile returned to his face, but this one was a convincing, I-promise-it-will-be-painless smile. At first, Aimee only ogled him, but quickly agreed that it was the right thing to do. Either way, Gavin would do it. He put his shirt on the ground and examined the wound, the gold that shined through the red blood. Was it real gold? That was irrelevant, but it might have been – the AIM organisation was filthy rich. The piece of the bullet that faced Gavin was its side, which was an awkward position for a bullet to be in, but that meant it would be easy to remove. Gavin pressed his middle finger and index finger on Aimee's skin, on each side of the bullet. He used some necessary force to squeeze it between his fingers and push it out, and he then successfully grasped it with his thumb and index finger. Aimee bit her lip once or twice, but her bleeding slowed.

Suddenly, she became aware of Gavin, and how he had glanced at her every now and again. His enigmatic eyes, like galleries filled with canvasses, paintings that were sometimes sad, sometimes joyful, and sometimes emanated emptiness. Aimee pondered what he was thinking; he was so difficult to read. Was he sad? He had no reason to be, but he did not seem as optimistic as she was about her bullet being unattached from her side. She was staring at him, and he realised.

"What?" he chuckled.

"Nothing," she removed her eyes from him. "I was –"

A beep interrupted her. It was loud enough to obtain Gavin's focus. He glanced in the direction of the helicopter's dashboard, and then back at Aimee.

"That's Buckley," he somewhat explained. "Will you be okay here?" he asked in a gentle whisper.

She replied with a nod, and he stood up and headed to the control panel. Aimee waited for him to reach it, before she attempted to ease herself up. But her wound, though relatively small, was stinging. She yanked Gavin's shirt from the floor and pressed it against her wound, it hurt less that way. She sat upright, her back to the wall, before gaining the courage to stand up. At that moment, her ears zoned in on the talking at the head of the plane – Gavin's voice and Buckley's voice. Gavin was expounding to him how he had rescued her, and he was vigilant not to mention anything about her accident.