"I need your help. I'm not here about earlier, I just need you to..."
"Come on." I open the door to let him in. The doctor part in me takes over, which is the part of me I know best and trust most. "My office, now." I unlock the connecting door and push it open, before heading to an exam room to turn on the lights. "Up on the table."
He climbs up. He's moving well enough, weight-bearing, which is good. His skin is pale, but his eyes are clear and focused.
"Those jeans are coming off," I say, pulling on gloves. "Take them off or I'll cut them."
"I'll take them off. Otherwise, I'm riding home in my boxers."
"That’s your problem, not mine." I turn to get the equipment I need and when I turn back he's worked the jeans down. I make a point of looking at the wound and only the wound. Entry point, left outer thigh, just above the knee. Bleeding has slowed. The bullet is in there.
"What happened?" I ask, setting up the tray. I already know I'm not getting the full answer.
"I should have left two minutes earlier than I did." He watches me work. "Let's just say that what happened to EJ won't be happening to anyone else anytime soon."
I look at him over the tray. "That's not an answer."
"I know. It's club business."
I hold his eyes for a second. "Okay." I go back to the wound. "I'm going to clean this and then I need to take the bullet out andstitch you up. You need an x-ray to confirm there's no internal damage. I can't check that here."
"I'll be fine."
He points to a mark on his chest, visible above the neckline of his t-shirt. "I've had worse. That was a through and through and I didn't need an x-ray for that one."
I look at the scar. Then I look away. "That's not a good argument."
He almost smiles.
I give him the local anesthetic around the wound and wait for it to take hold. He doesn't react to the needle, and I note this about him. He doesn't perform pain for me, and he doesn't perform stoicism either. He just sits there, watching me work, and I find it easier to concentrate because of it.
I sit down when the area is numb and lean in with the forceps. He's watching the ceiling now. I work carefully, slowly, tracking the angle of entry. The bullet is lodged in the muscle, no bone involvement that I can feel. Good. I get the tip of the forceps around it and start to ease it out.
I’m a professional. I keep my eyes exactly where they need to be. But I’m also not unaware that I’m sitting with my face at approximately his thigh height while he’s wearing only his boxers, and his boxers are doing very little to conceal the fact that his body has developed a strong opinion about this proximity.
"Austin." I don't look up from the forceps.
"I know." His voice is completely level. "I'm sorry. You're just... you're right there and your hands are..."
"I'm doing surgery."
"I know. I'm still aware it's you doing it."
"Think about something else."
"I've been trying. It isn't working."
I look up at him briefly. He looks genuinely apologetic and faintly amused. I look back at the wound and say nothing because if I open my mouth right now something will come out that I'll regret or not regret. Either way it's not going to be helpful.
I refocus. I find the bullet. I ease.
It comes free with a small pull and I see Austin's jaw tighten.
"Almost done," I say, and then I look at the bullet in the forceps, and something moves through me that I don't have a clinical name for. A cold rush. My hands tremble, just once, just for a second, before I get them back under control and drop the bullet into the tray.
I turn away to get the suture kit.
"Sav."