#splinters

"Dammit."

You turn at the sound of his pained hiss. He's sitting on the bed, lanky legs splayed to help him keep his balance, and frowning at his palms.

"What's wrong?"

"Ah - nothing to concern yourself with, my dear, I er - seem to have brought some of the rigging back inside with me - nothing a rogue scoundrel like myself can't take -"

You take his perpetually cold hands in yours, hearing him sputter into a series of blushing mumbles as you look them over. Without his gloves or any callouses built up underneath, his hands had no protection against the rough ropes. They're full of fibrous splinters and wracked with rope burn.

"Julian -"

"It's nothing."

"Let me take care of you."

You've only been together for a few months now, but the way his grey eyes widen and his frame sags against yours speaks of a decades-deep yearning he's carried for this kind of love. "O-okay."

The task at hand is fairly straightforward (if time consuming). You spend the next forty five minutes with his hands open in your lap, held as close to the lantern as possible so you can see what you're doing. The longer you work, the more he's confronted with the situation, and the fewer apologies or distractions he has to deflect the meaning of the moment. By the time you've moved from his palms to his fingers, he looks like he's on the verge of tears.

"What's wrong, Julian?"

"Nothing," he mumbles hoarsely, "I didn't think - er, that is - I'd stopped hoping I could have something like this."

"Like what?"

You have to pause your work because his gaze at this point is too intense to look away from. He talks like he has to force his words past a lump in his throat. "Something real. Permanent. Something - ah - loving. Truly loving."

You turn back to his hands, carefully plucking another fiber from the soft skin in the crooks of his fingers. "I'm glad I get to love you like this, too."

He gives an awkward, wet chuckle as you fumble with a difficult spot. "Even full of splinters, aye?"

----

Warm water trickles slowly over Shae. The human man turns the faerie's tiny body carefully in his large hands and cleans the dust and grime from him with a washcloth. It hurts to be handled, even so gently, but Shae has a glimmer of hope that his...captor, or rescuer, he isn't sure anymore...will treat his many wounds, as he has before.

Shae feels so stupid. Whatever the human's plans for him, Shae was safe here, fed and warm and cared for. Every time he tried to escape it only ended badly for him. He's so tired of hurting, and so he gives himself over to the man's care...and resigns himself to whatever comes after.

Once he's clean, the man wraps Shae in a towel and settles the bundle on the kitchen counter. He unfolds the towel to get a closer look at the damage.

"You're gonna be okay," he mutters. "I bet it hurts...but nothing we can't fix, alright?"

Shae nods. He tries to take a deep breath, but it sets off a violent coughing fit that makes him curl onto his side. Stabbing pains shoot across his splintered back, but he's coughing too hard to react to anything. His vision starts to darken.

Something presses up against his lips. Instinctively, Shae opens his mouth and lets water flow in. He drinks desperately, parched from his time spent in that dry, dusty space. The human lets him drink his fill, only removing the dropper when Shae stops.

Another dropper is offered to him, and again, Shae accepts it. This time it's a dark, syrupy liquid with an awful taste, but it quickly soothes his raw throat and he finally manages to stop coughing. Shae sinks back against the human's palm and catches his breath.

A third dropper contains the familiar, bitter taste of crushed up medicine mixed into water. That one he welcomes, willing to do just about anything to make the pain stop.

Between the medicine and his weariness, Shae starts to doze. But he can't quite fall asleep, not while the human plucks splinters from his skin with a pair of tweezers. Each sharp pain makes him whimper. The man keeps apologizing, even more so when he sprays something onto Shae's back that stings fiercely. He wails and squeezes the towel in his fists, trembling. He comes close to blacking out again as the man cleans the blood away and tapes a piece of gauze to his back. But then a calloused thumb wipes his tears and pets his hair and he feels just a little better.

His scraped little feet are next, cleaned and sprayed and bandaged. That isn't so bad. The man turns Shae carefully onto his back and to Shae's surprise, it barely hurts.

But there is still the burn on his stomach, which hurts as badly as when he first got it, and all the walking around he did hasn't helped. The skin is blistered, pink and swollen and hot to the touch. Shae's eyes fill with tears. "Ow..."

Even the human flinches at the sight. "Oh, man, that looks like it hurts...but hey, don't worry. I get tons of burns from my work."

He holds Shae in his open palm and returns to the sink, this time running a trickle of cool water just over his belly for several minutes. The pain gradually eases. Shae remains still, taking shaky breaths while looking up at the man. Hope stirs in him again. Maybe this human really doesn't want to own, sell, or harm him. Maybe for once Shae was found by one of the good ones.

It hurts again when the man applies an ointment to the burn with the tip of his finger. Shae tries to keep quiet, to be strong, but even the lightest touch is too much for the tender skin. He feebly groans, and for a third time feels close to passing out. All the fear and pain, hunger and thirst, have worn him down to a raw nerve, sore and heavy-limbed. He can't take much more.

Somehow, the man must know. He's quick to bandage up the burn and give Shae more water and medicine. Then, something new - something warm and sweet. Tea. He savors each sip, the scent of chamomile and taste of honey soothing his body and mind. It's so good he could cry...then realizes he already is.

Shae doesn't notice he is being lifted until his cheek presses against soft fabric that smells of oak and pine. Beneath it Shae can just make out a steady heartbeat. Tears soak the spot where he hides his face and sobs.

When he finally lifts his head, hiccupping softly, they're in the living room. The man is lying on the couch, the wounded faerie cupped in his hands and curled up on his slowly rising and falling chest. The room is dark except for the glow of the TV. One of the man's fingertips idly pets his hair.