#concurrent if

You hiss as Coda presses the needle into your skin. The pinprick sensation isn't what hurts - the angry flesh around it is.

"Hold still," Coda murmurs, voice a soft caress against your cheek. "It'll only be a couple of seconds."

You feel them adjust the location, dispense some lidocaine, and then adjust it again. Soon, you can't feel the needle, can't feel the scorched and scored skin around it.

They give you three more strategically placed injections of the stuff - more liberal than they'd usually be with their off-the-clock stock.

They must be worried.

They must be working themself up to saying something you don't want to hear. Making it so you can't drown their concern with the distraction of pain.

"Who was with you?" they ask when they finish numbing you. They take swabs and begin to gently clean your mangled shoulder. You can't feel it, but that means you have to answer.

"Heather. She was getting photos."

"She alright?"

"I would have brought her here if she weren't."

Coda makes a noise of understanding before grabbing a pair of sterilized, long tweezers and adjusting the gooseneck of their light closer to your skin.

You don't even feel the pressure as Coda picks small pieces of metal from your flesh, depositing them unceremoniously into a cereal bowl. Your blood looks crass against the sunny yellow plastic.

"Cop?" they ask.

"National Guard," you snort - it isn't amused or angry. It just is. "Remember when they were the restrained ones?"

Coda grunts, tossing the tweezers into a baggie to clean later. "Well, at least they're still using less lethal weapons, or I'd be doing this at the morgue."

"If they aimed two inches to the left, I would have been in the morgue anyway," you try to chuckle, using your free hand to tap at the hollow of your throat. Imagining the pellets hitting there. Imagining yourself hitting the ground but not getting back up.

Coda flicks your hand away, their mouth pulling into a sharp grimace. They don't say anything, though. They don't chide you for being blasé. They don't fret over your insistence on going into the streets every day, of being right there between desperate protestors and trigger-happy jackboots.

They just sit quietly, their breath warm on your jaw, put closure strips on the areas they can, and burn cream on the spots of heat impact.

"You're not going to yell at me?" you ask, their silence making your skin itch.

"I'm too tired, Graves," they say. The dark circles beneath their bloodshot eyes are purpleish bruises on their ashen face.

"I'll pencil in the lecture for tomorrow, then?" you try to tease and lighten the mood.

They don't say anything. They finish wrapping your wounds in pristine white bandages, tying them off with medical tape.

And then they're on their feet, carrying the dirtied supplies into the kitchen for cleaning and disposal.

"Coda," you try, but you have no idea what you can say. How you can make them understand.

"You can use my bed," Coda says, not turning to look at you. "Don't want you crossing town at this time of night."

You want to argue that your place isn't that far away. Want to pretend that there isn't a tiny piece of you terrified of returning to the streets right now.

"Where will you sleep?" you say instead.

Coda turns on the kitchen sink - the trickle of water makes a tinkling noise in the basin. "I'm on call tonight."

They mean that they'll be on the couch. They never sleep in their bed if there's a chance their sleep will be interrupted. Given tensions in the city, they're usually on call.

"Coda, you need a break."

That does get their attention. They turn on you, mouth pulling into a vicious smile. "Don't start this game with me, Graves. In a pissing contest between our work-life balance, you're losing."

You don't know if that's true, but you also don't know if you want to take the risk.

You glance toward Coda's bedroom door. The room beyond is barely larger than a closet, but it's dark and comfortable. Better than your sterile, empty room. "Are you sure I can stay here?"

"Yes. I can keep an eye on you better if you're close."

You smile a little. Coda pretends they don't care as much as they do. Pretends to be withdrawn, distant. But they do care. They've always cared.