Pointed Gun

The Big bad Showman

Syncear

"How is your ankle feeling? Still aching?" Ryder was gentle enough as he placed a solid brick disguised as an ice pack to my right ankle in an attempt to coat the swelling. I flinched, caused by the pressure but the cooling temperature of the ice soothed the soreness and throbbing a great deal. His eyes kept steady on the area that swept passed the crucial medical attention meter with nurturing eyes.

"That was quite the tumble you guys took last night." It would be funny to say a hint of a laugh accompanied his words. No smile. Just less seriousness.

"Don't remind me." I could laugh, but, something more serious kept me from doing such a thing genuinely.

For the past five or so hours away from Boston somewhere off in recovery, Ryder occupied my side throughout it all. He fed me. Made sure I was comfortable. And even offered to stay until I finally calmed down just enough to fall victim to a good night's rest. I couldn't sleep. Not until I made sure Boston was alright. Or at least breathing.

"How about your nose? Need more ice?" He didn't have to look up to know that I was poking at the swollen blob on my face with a childish like curiosity to test my pain tolerance and the gush radius.

Taking a knuckle sandwich to the face was slowly bringing itself to be the worse thing to happen to me in thirty days. Aside from all the other bullshit, I'd rather not get into a moment sooner.

"No thanks. Better swollen than broken." I laughed a sigh, completely directing that last part to myself. He still had no idea who the hell did this to me. Quite frankly, I'm not ready to tell. And sadly enough, I wasn't so sure his emotional stability was strong enough to hear the truth from me or anyone else.

Hey, it's just me looking out for him.

Watching closely as Ryder wrapped the equally irritated area of my foot in protective gaze, I couldn't help but feel my thoughts were doing the same in my head. Wrapping themselves around until I was tangled in a mess up there. Unable to think straight when his gaze met mine while I sat and thought about somebody else. There were no ties that made things wrong, or awkward. I only made them that way because everything was wrong. So very wrong it didn't make much sense to become right.

Warmly, Ryder smiled at me. But I couldn't tell whether it was there only to rid my weird staring or because he thought of me too. Or, thought about so much that he couldn't tell what the hell was going on up there to make much sense of it either.

"You must have some type of experience with this stuff." I commented something along the lines of needing an external distraction from what was occurring internally.

Did it work?

He smiled again. An innocent chuckle would make me believe he was all along. "Is it cool that I wanted to be a doctor as a kid?"

"Just cool? That's awesome! Why didn't you?"

Glad to know I can still sound excited about something.

"I don't know. I think that dream died with my childhood." He told me truthfully matched with a mindless shoulder shrug. "Plus, I don't think I would ever fit in with the white lab coats and bad handwriting. I prefer black and my gifted hand deserves better."

He laughed at his own jokes, but I felt the denial hidden behind every word. What he failed to learn about me was that I observed people's words for a living to get the best possible answer for the question.