" last night "

Chapter 26

     The next morning for Windham was practically godsend. Everything occurred in perfect succession, exactly how he wanted and how he planned.
That, of course, was sarcasm.
The first happening was actually what caused him to wake up in the first place. Somehow or another, something frightened his hound and caused her to begin barking wildly and erratically, tail between her legs. Eventually she jumped up onto Windham's bunk and practically clawed his arm to shreds, biting his undershirt and pulling him to the floor. As soon as his already sore shoulder hit the stone flooring, he was wide awake. As if the clawing hadn't awoken him enough in the first place.
     Do not mistake Windham, he loved his hound as if she were a real member of his bloodily abridged family. However, that love was not on his mind right now. The only thing on his mind was the phrase, "That stung like a mean son of a bitch!" and, lovingly, "What the hell is wrong with you, dog?".
Once he'd realized that Temperance was not going to let him go back to sleep, and that he'd have to disinfect the gouges on his arm either way, Windham pushed himself up off the ground and carefully stood up. As soon as he was on his feet, Temperance took off in the opposite direction towards the warehouse door, pawing at it and barking at Windham from across the pathway. She even went as far as jumping up on the door and biting at the doorknob.
That's around the time that Windham realizes something was a bit off.
Shaking any grogginess left in his system, he sprinted across the bunkhouse, outside, and to the warehouse entrance. Thankfully, whatever fool had come through earlier forgot to lock it— there was a persistent problem of younger overseers, and occasionally civilians under a guise of devotion, sneaking in and making off with several books of importance, bone charms, crossbows, or other items not meant for the untrained hand.
Temperance nipped at Windham's heel to guide his attention across the warehouse, but he was already by Overholt's side with several quick strides. A crossbow laid on the ground to his right, while a broken and slightly bloody crossbow bolt was on the left. He refused to meet Windham's gaze, even as his bloody arm was painstakingly pried away from his chest.
"By the Outsider, what did you do to yourself?" Windham muttered, wincing at both the long, bloody graze on the lateral side of his right arm and the pained hiss it drew from him.
All the younger overseer did was stare at the ground, as if it were the most interesting item in existence at the time. Needless to say, Overholt offered no answer to Windham's question.
"Overholt."
No answer.
Windham sighed and knelt down to match the child's height a bit more. "Cameron. Pull the sleeve up, will you?" he asked, less commanding and intrusive than his previous attempt at questioning the boy.
Hesitantly, Overholt obliged and peeled away more of the torn sleeve away from his arm. For such a shallow wound, it certainly bled a hearty amount. The entire sleeve had been thoroughly soaked with blood— then again, that might have been the result of Overholt trying to act the part of a medic for himself.
"C'mon, I know where Declan keeps his supplies. He won't be thrilled, but that old bastard can kiss my ass if he thinks I'm letting that get infected." Windham was relieved to see Overholt crack a smile at his jab— if the boy was smiling, then it wasn't too serious of a wound.
Windham guided him toward the infirmary with Temperance in tow, rummaging through a few storage lockers while he shed the bloodied shirt. Even if they could scrub the blood out, the tear was too tattered to sew back properly. If it came down to it, Overholt would just have to deal with growing into one of Windham's old button downs.
     With an anxious drum of his fingers, Overholt sat down cross-legged on one of the cots, waiting for Windham to finish looking through Declan's medical supplies. Either he had something very specific in mind to retrieve, or he had no idea what he should be looking for. In any other situation, the former was more likely.
     For a while, Windham served beneath Declan as an apprentice because there was a shortage of willing medic volunteers. However, he soon realized that had he pursued the path of becoming a medically-inclined overseer, he would have even less of a chance of leaving the Order. So, after a little less than a year of training, he fell back into the generalized militant status.
     Considering his abrupt awakening, though, and the overall lack of coherency from the situation thanks to Overholt, Windham was likely stressed enough that focus was not an availability.
     Several moments of rummaging later and Windham produced a bottle of rubbing alcohol and some clean white bandages. He tried to find the peroxide so that the burning wouldn't be as prevalent, but Outsider forbid any battle-hardened overseer sustain a minor wound that needed disinfecting and would burn ever-so-slightly with rubbing alcohol. It's not like the peroxide was saved for the younger trainees that were less used to pain, not at all.
Overholt groaned when Windham turned around and uncapped the alcohol.
"I know, I know, you just have to get it over with. Go to the sink and run some water over your arm."
The trainee did as he was told, gently rinsing some of the blood away from his forearm. The bleeding had halted a bit, which was a good sign.
Striding over to him, Windham turned Overholt's arm over and slowly poured the alcohol onto the graze. Judging from how the younger of the pair held Windham's wrist in an iron grip, it was safe to say that it stung quite a bit.
Once the burning had subsided, Windham handed Overholt a small jar of some strong-smelling salve. Hesitantly, the kid applied some to the wound; surprisingly, it didn't hurt at all.
"What is this stuff?"
"Hell if I know. Declan made me use it on some of Darion's minor burns, and they healed rather well, so let's hope for the best," he replied as he began to wrap Overholt's arm with gauze. "Now, would you mind telling me how you screwed up your arm?"
Overholt grumbled under his breath, "I snuck out to shoot one of the crossbows, and...I guess one of the bolts ricocheted off the metal bar on the bottom of the training dummy?" His eyebrows furrowed slightly. "I didn't see exactly what happened, I just heard a clank. My arm started hurting really bad, and the bolt was tangled in my shirtsleeve."
With a sigh, Windham pulled the gauze taut and tied it off. "From your recount, that's exactly what happened. Why were you messing with the crossbow in the first place, especially after I told you to not touch it?" he inquired, cleaning his own dog scratches.
"...I don't know. I wanted to impress you when I finally was able to use one, I guess."
Of all the reasons Overholt could have taken up training with more weapons, impressing him was not what Windham was expecting, at all. Sure, he knew the kid looked up to him, but not to this extent. Albeit the crossbow incident wasn't entirely planned, Overholt still did get up in the middle of the night (morning? Windham had no idea what time it was) to practice shooting.
All Windham could think of is how much his actions mattered now, and how to clean up his act, so to speak. There wasn't exactly much to clean up as much as there was to sweep under the rug until Overholt was older. If Overholt was going to try to model himself even the smallest amount after his mentor, then Windham would certainly make sure that would be something to be proud of.
Hell, the kid made Windham want to be a better person. Dunwall, especially in its current state, had no kindness to orphans, and Windham knew that all too well. But not nearly to the extent Overholt has had to experience. He once asked what his earliest memory was, and all Overholt said was, "I dunno. Playing outside the orphanage, I guess."
If there was one thing Windham wanted to be proud of in his life, it was going to be the fact that he made sure Overholt was safe.
After blinking several times in shock, Windham raised an eyebrow and cocked his head to the side slightly. A slight smile pulled at the edge of his lips. "C'mon, kid, you know better than to try and impress me. It's all too easy."
Overholt snorted, rolling his bloodied shirt into a ball. "I'll keep that in mind next time I wanna shoot somethin'."
"With this little stunt you pulled, that won't be for a while."
His only response was an annoyed groan and a dejected, "You're no fun, old man."
Windham rolled his eyes and ruffled the kid's hair before ushering him out of the infirmary and back into the bunkhouse. Before Overholt clambered back onto the top bunk, a clean, slightly worn down button down shirt was thrown at him.
"Windham—"
"Just wear the damn shirt, I don't want to be in charge of you if you get thick lung from the cold."
"Outsider's eye's, geez, I'll wear it..." He slipped it on over his head; it was big enough that he had no need to unbutton it. The sleeves went about two and a half inches past his fingertips, but it would do until he managed to request one of the other overseers to commission a seamstress.
Overholt held in his laughter at the audible thud from below, followed by Windham's sigh at finally being back in bed. Temperance tried hopping onto the bunk with him, and surprisingly, she succeeded. Windham was way too tired to push her off, so she slept at the edge of the mattress, partially laying on top of his legs.
It was silent for a few seconds. Then: "Thanks, old man. 'Night."
Windham smiled warmly into the pillow. He faintly remembered a saying one of the eldest overseers used to say, usually in response to questions about his family (he had been widowed, and his children grown before he joined the Order). There's nothing quite like a father's pride in his son.
"Good night. Get some sleep, son."