A/N: As the title suggests: this chapter contains description of suturing"
"YOU face is as white as a sheet of paper." She noticed.
"Maybe it's because this is the first time I've done something like this. You know, it never occurred to me I'd be in a situation like this with an assassin." Looking at his own image in the mirror, Maxin allowed himself to speak.
"Careful with your words... And don't worry, you'll get used to it soon enough. This isn't a first. It's happened before, and I already told you I'm going to do the hard part. All you have to do is hold my arm."
"You can't take out a bullet, but you can sew?"
"Shut up and do what I say." Cutting his boldness short, Nox shot him a scowl and gave instructions.
Maxin opened the red bag and pulled out a needle and a small spool of thread. It didn't look surgical, but it had some resistance. He passed the thread through the needle and, after measuring out a decent length, tied a knot. Nox pulled a square, silver-colored lighter from her pocket and lit it. The fire burned the tip of the needle, and both of them watched the scene with very different expressions. Nox, as mentioned, was used to it—she didn't care about the flame reflecting in her dark eyes, while Maxin found himself drawn to the fire the same way Icarus was hypnotized by the sun.
The hot needle was picked up by Nox's fingertips, causing a slight burn on the thick skin of her hand. Maxin held her arm to keep her from making any sudden movements. In their thoughts, both of them braced themselves—Nox to begin stitching her skin, and Maxin to endure watching the needle sewing her up. He hated needles. Always had. He never understood how people could work by poking others. It seemed kind of sadistic, sticking an extremely sharp tool into someone and watching the blood flow.
Back in reality, Maxin saw her hand tremble and then touch the edge of the wound with the needle before pushing it in with the thread.
The agonizing sensation of the needle piercing flesh with nothing to numb the area was even more unbearable than the burning pain of getting shot.
As she stitched, she bit her tongue so hard that the metallic taste of blood filled her mouth, and it was hard to keep a distant expression. Nox's brows were deeply furrowed, and her face flushed red from the strain. Maxin, beside her, didn't look calm either. He was supposed to be just an observer, holding her wrist. However, it looked like he was the one being stitched. He clenched his fist so tightly that his knuckles turned white and shut his eyes with such force that his lashes trembled.
The simple stitch suture was finally done, and the two of them saw their reflections in the mirror, both breathing heavily. Maxin let go of the woman's wrist to cut the thread and silently wished for her wound to heal quickly, since everything had been done in a rush and in the most difficult way possible. With the knot tied and the thread cut, Maxin resumed his nurse role and grabbed some cotton and alcohol to clean the wound one last time. He dried it and wrapped gauze around the arm. He finished and stepped back slowly, his eyes shining with a thin layer of tears. He was always being pushed to the edge because of the woman in front of him.
"We're done," he whispered.
"Hmm." Nox cleared her throat. "You can go, Maxin."
"Yeah..." Dazed, he left the bathroom.
The door closed behind him with a muffled thud, and Maxin sat on the bed, his face pale, trying to ignore what had just happened less than twenty minutes ago.
Nox came out after a while, wearing a black tank top and gray pants. Her hair had already been dried, and her shoulder was still bandaged. She walked to the dresser and placed the black bag on top of it. One of her hands opened the second drawer and found a bath towel. Her movements were followed by Maxin, who watched as she opened the bag and looked for another pair of pants and a long-sleeved shirt.
"Shower." She said and tossed the clothes in his direction.
Maxin caught them and went to the bathroom. Locking the door, he looked around the narrow room, now completely clean, as if a minor surgery hadn't just taken place there. He shook his head and turned on the shower. The warm water hit his body, softening his bones and almost melting him from the relaxation it brought. He rested his forehead on the tile and breathed slowly, enjoying the most normal moment since Nox entered his life.
He came out some time later wearing clothes that were a bit too big on him and smelling like liquid soap. His appearance was clean, fresh, and shy as he dragged his feet toward the bed. Nox was sitting in one of the chairs, setting her watch for two a.m. to wake up at sunrise. She didn't want to sleep, but her body was beginning to feel the effects of the injury.
She stood up and grabbed a pair of wrist restraints from the bag, then walked over to the boy sitting on the bed.
"Give me your hands," she said.
"What?" Maxin didn't understand, and without receiving any answer, he felt her fingers touch his wrists—a simple touch, almost like a light caress. His face turned red and his lips parted slightly.
There was a sharp intake of breath, and then he felt the restraint being fastened around his wrists. Nox's eyes were fixed on the thinner, softer hands than her own, unsure of what to think.
"Oh, come on..." Maxin muttered, and that made Nox raise her eyes to him.
"Protocol, Maxin. I know you might try to run because I'm not in any shape to fight. What kind of hunter would I be if I let my prey escape?" she mused, stepping back.
"The worst kind." He replied, and Nox understood that he wasn't just talking about hunter and prey. Her index finger curled, then flicked his forehead. "Ow!"
"Go to sleep, kid."
The boy, wearing an unjust expression, pouted his rosy lips and crawled across the bed to the side near the wall. He turned his back to Nox and wrapped himself up.
The assassin watched him with a discreet smile, tilting her head slightly. She turned off the light, cocked her gun, and placed it under her pillow.
Maxin, pretending to sleep, felt the right side of the mattress sink under her weight. She stretched out her legs and arms, careful mostly with the stitched one. There was a soft exhale, and he realized the assassin had fallen asleep.
The room was very cold, and her body temperature had risen considerably. There wasn't much he could do with his hands bound, so he made an effort just to pull the sheet over her. The fabric covered her, and as he moved back to his corner, the woman's uninjured arm wrapped around his waist.
"So soft," she whispered deliriously as she pulled him closer.
His head rested, hesitant, against her chest, feeling the warmth and steady rhythm of her heart—so different from his, still beating like a war drum.
It didn't take long for the target's body to relax as well. Maxin's eyes grew heavy, and the last thing he heard was her slightly hoarse voice whispering his name:
"Maxin..."