#woventhreds

“It’s fine.”  Tate laid his hand flat against the portion of his upper arm where Doctor Thredson had firmly secured some medical gauze around.  “Stings a little bit but I have a pretty high tolerance for pain. Not a big deal.”  For a moment, the teen simply stared down into the sink that was still running on full blast, the blood that had dripped into it washed away down the drain; He would have to wipe down around the surface too, just to be safe. He was feeling a strange mix of both that numbing dissociation he often fell victim to and discomfort, as the haunt stood watch over him. Tate didn’t interact much with Oliver but he knew of him.  “Not that I’m not thankful,”  he started, grabbing up his sweater from the bathroom floor and tugging it back on.  “But what’s your angle? Why are you acting like you care?”