Chapter 5
Laughter. Deep, warm, joyful laughter. There were other sounds, but none that were of any interest to him as that laugh washed over him. He smiled and reached a hand out towards it. The laugh was a deep rumble, and nearly as warm as the person, he knew, and he wanted very badly to hold that person right now. Be enveloped in his strong arms, have his ear and cheek tickled by his breath, his body teased into desire by the large hands.
Silly kid, you know we can't do that.
Sure we can, he wanted to say. But his throat was too dry and his tongue a heavy, numb thing glued to the roof of his mouth.
The laughter again, but with a tinge of sadness to it now. He frowned, his hand flailing for something he couldn't quite reach. No, don't leave yet. I thought we could…
You should wake up now, kid. No time to laze around.
"Come on, that's it." Voodoo heard another voice, just as familiar and warm but nowhere near as wanted. "Hey, Martin. Time to wake up, you lazy-ass."
He grunted something he hoped was interpreted as rude and squeezed his eyes shut against the glare of a lamp. It wouldn't dim any despite him waving a hand at it.
"You've been out for too long already, Martin. Mo was getting mighty worried."
As if he cared. As if he ever wanted them to bring him back anyway.
Nichole sighed and he just knew her face was marred by a frown, he knew that type of sigh damn well. This wasn't the first time she'd been keeping vigil at his bedside. "I just can't understand why you do this to yourself," she murmured.
He didn't want to answer that, it wasn't like she would understand anyway, so he just turned his head sideways on the pillow, even though his neck hurt, and kept his eyes shut. After a moment he heard her stand, the chair scraping against the floor.
"I'll go get you something to drink. Don't go anywhere!" That last came out with forced cheer, like so many times before.
Voodoo couldn't understand why she did this to herself, coming here again and again, to watch him unconscious and helpless. Maybe she felt something for him. What that would be he had no idea, what with her Perfect Boyfriend that was as good as glued to her side, protective like hell, and handsome like a Greek god.
Voodoo clenched his teeth together and fisted his left hand in the sheets. And that hurt. He hissed in a breath and his eyes flew open. Panting, cold sweat running down his forehead, he tried to ignore the pain until it receded, and only after a few tense minutes could he muster the energy and courage to take stock of the rest of his body.
There were bandages all over, it felt like. Soreness and hurts in joints and muscles, like he'd had a really bad fever, which he probably now felt only the aftereffects of. His right thigh was wrapped in one of the doc's special wraps, some kind of oil making it all feel warm and slick. He must have torn something because his leg wouldn't quite move when he willed it to. Great, so he'd be hobbling around on crutches for the next few weeks.
His back was sore too, fire trailing down his skin when he shifted. Quick flashes of an instinctive struggle to get away, a grinning face, and his own fist lashing out to no avail. Voodoo shut his eyes tight and took a deep breath that he held until his chest started to burn. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck!
Lifting his head to bang it back against the pillow was not such a good idea either, it turned out. There was something constricting around his throat and for a moment he couldn't even breathe. His hands darted up to tear at it in panic, even though bolts of pain shot through his left wrist and something pinched both insides of his elbows. But even as adrenaline flowed in his veins, his mind calmly told him it was only another bandage. Nothing to worry about, clam the fuck down.
Forcing a moment of stillness on himself, he let his hands linger at his throat, fingertips tickling against the skin above the edge of the gauze and surgical tape. So he'd been bitten. But he was still here. He tried to process this contradiction, already shaking his head in denial. How could he have screwed it up again! Why was it so bloody hard!
Tears were leaking from behind his lashes, pain tears, he firmly told himself; he was hurting all over, and it got worse the more he tensed up. A headache was building behind his eyes, at his temples, and his hands were shaking. So. Fucking. Pathetic.
"Hey! Martin!" Someone, Nichole, came dashing into the room. She grabbed his hands, bringing them back down to his sides with more strength than he thought her capable of – or maybe he was just that weak. And at the same time there was gentleness in her touch. So sweet it made his heart ache. He wondered if this was what she was like in bed, if Jason got this firm-gentle treatment.
"Hey, now," she murmured from somewhere close to his face. She stroked her fingers down his cheeks and he realized he was still crying.
Not fucking crying! he sternly told himself. It's just the fucking drugs and pain.
"You have to leave the bandages alone, you know," Nichole was saying, but her hands were gone now. "You need to let it all heal, or Mo will have a fit."
Voodoo snorted, his abdomen complaining at the movement. "You know I suck at being injured."
She laughed. Oh, how that sound made him feel! "I know, alright. I've had to sit on you for that reason before."
He dared slit his eyes open, the lamp was still glaring, but she had turned it sideways so it wasn't as bad now. It cast her face in sharp-edged shadows, her cheekbones standing out and her lips even fuller for it. There were so many lines he could have said in answer to that, but he knew none of them were welcome. So he kept his mouth shut, like so many times before, pretending like she wanted them to, that they were brother and sister. He could play her game. At least until he slipped up again. Her scorn was not something he cherished.
"Mo was here?" he asked instead.
"Yeah. I had to yell at him and stomp my foot until he gave in and went to bed." Like she had done when they were little, it still worked on the old Father. Nichole pulled up the chair again and indicated a glass of water on the bedside table. Voodoo shook his head; he didn't think he'd be able to take her helping him.
"He was here all night when you first came in. Jill said he went to take a nap in the morning, but then he came back and refused to leave again." She looked down at her hands in her lap, fiddling with something. "He was kinda upset when I came by a few hours ago. Didn't tell my why, though. I thought you had gotten worse." She glanced up, not quite looking at him, more like past his chin.
"Have I? Can this get worse?" He wondered if she even noted the sarcasm, or if she chose to ignore it. Her smile couldn't really tell him which. She was pretty good at faking it sometimes, and he blamed it on the drugs that he couldn't read her right now.
But her smile vanished again. "You were pretty bad when they found you, apparently. Mo said he was glad I wasn't here."
But certainly she could tell by the bandages and the smell of sickness and medication. She wasn't stupid. She glanced at his neck but didn't say anything. Voodoo figured she either didn't want to yell at a sick man, or that she needed to work herself up to yet another rant.
Either way he didn't find out. Sister Jill walked into the room, her usual brisk stride taking her to his bed in moments within appearing at the door. She ignored them both, checking the IV-drips and monitors, taking his pulse. She had done this so many times in her fifty-three year long life she could probably do it blindfolded. She'd had Voodoo here six times already, though this was bound to be the worst of them. He absently wondered if that was some kind of record. Absurd thought when all it took was one time. Or that's how it usually went; he seemed to be the exception to the rule.
Jill must have given Nichole a look or something, because she stood and patted his shoulder. "I should leave. You need to rest, Martin."
He snorted. "As if I could sleep," he muttered.
"Oh, don't worry about that, young man," Jill said at his other side, her words clipped. He looked over and saw her injecting something into his IV.
"Fucking…"
"Manners!" Jill snapped. Apparently she'd had it with him taking up space in her sick-ward. "You will sleep now, and when you wake up you will eat something and then you will sleep some more. Understood?" She didn't wait for him to answer, but stalked out as briskly as she had entered, busy with other things than his stupid ass.
"She's the one who should learn some fucking manners," he ground out, already slurring a little.
Nichole snorted and looked down at him from along her nose. She'd learned that haughty look from Jason. "She's right, you know. You're much too impolite. She and the doc saved your life. Show some gratitude!" And then she was gone too.
But that was the core of the whole problem, wasn't it? They had saved his life. Again. If they stopped bothering he wouldn't be here to take up space or be a nuisance to them. He'd gladly save them the trouble.
********
It was hard to keep warm, that's what he noticed first after firmly ignoring the pain that seemed to be a constant companion. Because of the blood loss and the slight infection he'd gotten with the bite, the doc said. He was ordered to rest and eat healthy food, drink lots of fluids and only go for slow, leisurely walks. Voodoo ignored all the good advice, bit his teeth together and went back to the dojo below the church as soon as he could. He had some damn harsh frustrations and deep, dark anger to work off.
It was nearly three weeks after the fight with the lowblood, and still he wasn't anywhere near as fit as he wanted to be, as he demanded of himself. His body just refused to listen and get better. His muscles ached, his joints were sore, and he shivered almost constantly when he wasn't in motion of some kind where he could keep his blood warm.
His fist connected with the punching bag and it barely even swayed, taunting his efforts. Voodoo cursed under his breath, what breath he had to spare, and swung his left arm in a half circle meant to land the edge of his hand on the top of the bag. But damn if the whole universe wasn't against him right now, he must have twisted his wrist that bit too much, for when his hand connected it was at the wrong angle, and fire lanced up his arm, knotting every muscle in points of agony. He cried out, a strangled, hoarse sound, and used the pain to propel his other fist back into the side of the bag. It still only swayed.
"God fucking damnit!" he panted, out of breath from more than physical exertion, and wrapped both sweat-covered arms around the bag. His legs were about to give way, both the good as well as the bad one. The thigh muscle was healing, but slowly.
The sweat on his chest and arms didn't help, he slid slowly down to the floor, his tentative, trembling grip around the bag the only thing that kept him from falling flat on his face. The doc had scolded him the other day for overdoing it, that he would never recover if he kept punishing himself like this. But what else could he do? He really, truly sucked at being ill, and injuries were just another obstacle to overcome. Besides, he had a vengeance to exact.
"Yeah, work yourself to death, why don't you," Nichole said as she entered the dojo area. She looked none too happy about finding him here. "I thought Mo told you to take it easy? You're not well yet, you know."
Voodoo snorted and gave her a sidelong glance. She wore causal jeans and a sweater, but looked damn fine anyway. She ignored his not so articulate response, grabbed his hand towel on the way over, and stopped standing in front of him to stare him down. He glared then; he was no dog to best, nor a child to be scolded for doing what he wanted to do. He was a fucking adult.
Nichole shook her head and handed him the towel. He took it with a hand that trembled even though he tried to hide it, and gave his face a cursory wipe. The shower would take care of the rest. He tried to stand but had to accept more than a hand from her to gain his feet. Nichole frowned at his wobbly stance, putting her own shoulder under his for support and wrapping a slender, strong arm around his waist.
He liked it. His lips twisted ruefully, it had been long since she'd afforded him any closeness; she was still pissed at him for getting hurt. But she couldn't keep away for long; she needed him in some strange way. Not in the way he felt he needed her, though.
When they grew up under the care of the priests and the church they had always been close, closer to each other than to Jason or any of the other young boys and girls in the dorm. Like brother and sister, and Jason had at the time only been a good friend who was sometimes allowed to share in their fun.
Later on they had shared a bed too, messing around a bit like teenagers did, and they got even closer in their relationship. But that had all changed when Jason had grown into his gangly legs and big feet, and realized his own strength and power of will. Nichole had turned from Voodoo to Jason like a bee leaving a wilted flower for a new sprung one. She even shared Jason's bed and her body in a way she never had with Voodoo, found a comfort in Jason's tall, broad body that she hadn't in his.
He had sought comfort for his broken heart elsewhere, and had found something she had never been able to achieve. Something he now refused to contemplate, or hardly ever even remember.
But it had been so long and Jason had been gone for nearly a month. Voodoo still felt frustrated and thwarted, like he had lost something that was just out of reach, and if he just stretched far enough then maybe… Perhaps… He leaned a bit closer, parting his lips as they neared hers.
Nichole leaned away from him. "What are you doing?" she asked with a half-laugh.
He blinked once and caught her eyes with his. She let go of him altogether then and stepped away, he stood swaying for a moment before he caught his balance. "I can't, Martin. You know I can't. Jason…"
"Why not?" he wondered, hearing the frustration seeping into his voice now. "Jason isn't here."
"Still. I can't."
"Why not?" he demanded again. "You seemed happy enough with me before."
"Because I don't love you that way," she said.
It hit him like a red hot knife in the gut. He pulled a hissing breath and stared at her until she turned her eyes away, a slight blush to her cheeks, and she started nibbling on her lower lip like she did when she was nervous.
He finally found his voice. "But then... Why? Why did you sleep with me in the first place?" his voice rose from a breathy whisper to a near shout on the last word.
She shot him a hesitant glance, shrugged. "Because we were friends, and I guess I was curious. And you… you made me feel good, in a way," she ended kind of feebly.
He frowned. The sweat on his bare chest was beginning to make him cold. "Feel good..?" he said darkly. Strange how anger was his response to hurt.
Nichole let out an exasperated breath and looked up at him. "Yes. Good! Because I knew you loved me."
"And Jason? Why him?" Why not me?!
"Because he makes me feel like a woman."
He started, jerked his head up and stared at her. She had her chin lifted and looked at him through narrow eyes. "And I don't?!" he asked incredulous.
"Not in the same way."
"What the fuck is it Jason does differently that makes you feel like a woman? From where I'm standing there aren't that many places to stick it," he said with disdain in his voice.
A second later his cheek was burning and his ear was ringing from the vicious slap she had given him.
"Fuck you!" she snarled.
He bit his teeth together around a retort that would have made things even worse. He had deserved that, he knew he did. But it hurt, he spoke to her like this because she had hurt him – if even unwillingly – and he was defending himself from more hurt by hurting her back.
"Sometimes I wonder why I even bother with you," she snapped at him. "Work yourself to death for all I care. Seems you don't even appreciate us worrying about you anyway." And with that she stalked out of the gym, slamming the door shut behind her so that the glass rattled in its panes.
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