#steel strapping tools

[gateway-packaging-australia]

To properly and safely strap items with steel, specialised tools are required. Gateway Packaging offers a variety of steel strapping tools to meet the needs of various industries, enabling you to tension, seal, and cut steel strapping to secure your shipments. For example, our Steel Strapping Combination Tool is a cost-effective and efficient solution for high-volume operations, as it can both tension and seal the strapping simultaneously. We also offer options for different types of seals, including snap-on metal seals and pusher seals. Business Website - https://www.gatewaypackaging.com.au/ Business Email - sales@gatewaypackaging.com.au Phone Number - 1800 003 310

[heartbeetz]

Rolling over and baring my stomach like a dog for a minute. One time I saw fanart of Anton where op put a couple little clip-on tool pouches on his belt and in my head I was like "woah 😳 might as well be in lingerie, goddamn." And since then I've understood what people mean when they say gun holsters are like lingerie. Put little pouches on a tough guy and it becomes sexual I guess. Don't fuckin know what's up with that but it's true.

[wwwquickpakinccom]

Steel vs. Plastic Strapping Tools

You have heard debates about steel vs. plastic strapping for your packaging needs. There are arguments both for and against either material. Some people will point out that steel can be used for even the heaviest of loads, while others argue that it tends to corrode if it is left outside. Plastics are strong and flexible, but they might not be the right choice for every load.

One thing you have thought less about are the key differences between steel and plastic strapping tools. While everyone’s busy debating which material is best to use, less attention has been paid to the tools you need to use for either type.

You know that you cannot simply switch out one material for another. Both plastic and steel strapping require their own tools, and the differences between them highlight why.

Steel strapping tools and plastic strapping tools also known as banding tools come in various strap widths and thickness, designed to handle the specific demands of their respective industry applications. However, many plants still use manual hand tools.

What is the difference?

Steel hand tools:

1. Steel can be sealed using clips or notches.

2. Clips are applied using manual tensioners and sealers.

3. Notches can be applied using a manual all-in-one tool or air-driven pneumatic tools.

Plastic hand tools:

1. Plastic can be sealed using clips, buckles, or welds.

2. Clips are applied using manual tensioners and sealers.

3. Buckles can be used with no tools but are only used for light-duty polypropylene.

4. Welds must use either a pneumatic or battery-powered tool. Battery tools offer mobility, while air tools are used at fixed locations.

When it comes to handheld strapping equipment, the options for steel strapping are limited. There are two types of hand tools designed for steel strapping: manual and pneumatic.

Manual tools for steel strapping include tensioners, sealers, and shears—three separate pieces of equipment for one task. However, all-in-one tools, which notch the strap without requiring seals, are popular as they combine all steps into one. Despite their convenience, these tools are often heavy, difficult to use, and more dangerous, requiring proper training to avoid injury.

Pneumatic tools tend to be easier to use. They are air operated, but they are not very mobile, and you must provide good-quality, clean, moisture-free air for these tools to work without issue. Although they are safer than manual tools, using steel strapping can still be difficult. You must be sure to use quality strapping to help your team avoid injuries.

Tools for plastic strapping are safer.  You can still use manual tools for plastic strapping. These tools are often small and more affordable. They are also quite similar to what you may have been using for steel strapping, so your workers are already familiar with them to an extent. However, manual tools for plastic strapping must use clips as the plastic cannot be notched as it can be with steel.

Battery tools for plastic are the key difference maker between steel and plastic strapping. Battery tools offer the mobility you simply cannot achieve with steel using power-driven tools. They also reduce the number of tools you need. They are easier to use, with your team merely moving the tool into place over the strap, adjusting the tension, and sealing the strap.

Plastic strapping is safer than steel strapping, and using pneumatic tools makes the process much easier and safer.

As mentioned, plastic strapping is often safer than steel strapping. In many cases, it is the right choice for what you are packaging. Plastic strapping is often just as strong and even more flexible. Steel should only be used in certain cases, such as when you are packing extremely heavy loads.

The material itself and the plastic strapping tools you will use with it are often more cost-effective solutions as well. If you’re wondering what’s right for your plant, get in touch with the experts at 813 242 6995 or reach out to sales@quickpakinc.com

[toolssuppliersinuaedubaiuae]

Torque Wrench Supplier in Dubai UAE

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[globalpackindia]

The ZP 93/97 is a smart, battery powered PP/PET strapping tool pre-programmed strapping tool that comes with a user-friendly digital touch interface panel.

[wrappingmachinemanufacturers]

Transform your packaging process with our cutting-edge Wrapping Machine Manufacturers in Coimbatore, efficiency and precision redefined. Kindly contact us www.wrappingmachinemanufacturers.com

Mobile Number : +91 9843332104

Website : wrappingmachinemanufacturers.com

Address : No.62 Tankstreet C V Patty Ashok Nagar, SNS Rajalakshmi College Of Arts And Science, Saravanampatti, Coimbatore-641006

[wpsupplies]

Uses of Steel strapping

To prevent an object from moving, steel strapping involves fastening a metal strap to a box, building, or other object.Steel The most popular strap material is stainless steel, which is available in diameters ranging from three-fourths of an inch by 0.30 to three-eights of an inch by 0.015.

It is the most tensile and oldest type of strap. Because it won't stretch, steel can be utilised to hold objects that are incredibly difficult. The main drawback of utilising a steel strap is that when it does break, which needs a lot of strain, the steel strap will just stop working instead of bending. Usage Other metals, pavers, bricks, bailing wire, roll end binding, and strong steel coils are a few of the things that steel strapping is most frequently used for.

Membership Procedure Once you've decided what you're going to secure and what kind of strap you're going to use, you'll need to tighten the strap as much as you can before sealing it to the object. You may be able to seal the strap to itself using a hammer, depending on how thin the strap is (a thinner steel strap would be preferable for larger, heavier, and more difficult equipment and jobs). The sealing procedure can be carried out using a seal and crimp, joint notch, or welding, but, if the strap is a little thicker.

[idliketobeatree]

dead boy detectives characters as art objects and sculptures; extended ---

hello, i remembered i made some subjective explanations and notes on few of my choices for this post, and i thought some folks might enjoy it. soo let's get into it.

1.

monty finch

author: anders krisár

pretty self-explanatory; it's a moulded male torso with visible inprints on its skin.

anders krisár’ artistry explores the themes of loss, separation, and the condition of the psyche through the lens of a human body in duality: perfectionism meets unsettlement, skin meets marble and bronze and polyester, to create sculptures spanning geological time far beyond the living's capabilities.

monty's creation by esther was already stripped of any human agency. "he was made a boy, not a person", small, almost doll-sized, with a singular purpose: to seduce and entice the chosen dead boy into their doom. the naked skin and specifically the position of its arms are mildly erotic, but in a way that makes your skin crawl. the imprints are intimate, placed possesive; notice the thumbs digging close to especially sensitive areas like nipples and the belly button.

the latter seems to connect the "creator" to the subject, the navel here as a symbol of cruel, invasive motherhood. the fact that the torso is cut off in the middle and at the neck furthers the uncanny valley feeling of a young male body, but then again. this is a realistic portrayal. so was it ever a person? what does it have inside to make dents so profound? how deep you can press until it breaks?

--- i'm leaving out crystal and edwin (for now?), but @nicheoverhere brilliantly noticed that it was the same author for both. that was intentional! because glen martin taylor is all about taking kintsugi, which is a beautiful art form of repairing fine china and generally delicate things with veins of precious metals, but with materials like— nails. scissors. barbed wire. all ugly. the repair after a great shattering is seldom pretty after all, they really are similar in this regard. ---

2.

charles rowland

author: robert hudson

okay, strap in. this funky dreamy world belongs to robert hudson, and i picked it for charles rowland because it's all first impressions. the colours? the composition? they give you the 80s vibes, almost; like something a kid would design if you asked them what a time machine would look like. it could probably move in several ways. the pieces seem mismatched, but hold themselves together surprisingly well. or maybe you underestimate it?

it's neither big nor small. you can't tell its size at all. it's a bit overwhelming to look at, at first, and at second, and after a while, but it carries that comfortable familiarity and nostalgia for— well, nothing in particular, because the longer you look, the sadder its past seems. the bold pops of contrasting colour are fighting for your attention. they want you to like it! and yet, the major material seems to be just. rusted steel. made from tools.

and look at that botched up sphere, it wants so badly to be a perfect sphere and it knows it'll never be one. fine!! perhaps it could be a football ball instead! or maybe a head. if you close your eyes, that is. and this facing-up horseshoe? a lucky charm, made to collect good luck and keep it from falling out cause god, it needs it.

---

3.

niko sasaki

author: justin cloud

---

niko sasaki, now how do i describe her? let's start by saying— she's cleary a her. this one is a she. and there's something to be said about blooming, and femininity, and delicacy, because pink is a hopeful girly colour and a surprise and a delight.

what are you doing in a gallery, little flower, shouldn't you be at home? in a field? look how pretty you are! mind you, of course there's something wrong with her as well, but you're not sure if that is because someone messed it up, or because of a different entity alltogether. was it always half-electric? its elegance seems purposeful— the iridescent metal fits all too well with the white-pink petals— but also uncanny. and oh suddenly you can't stop looking at the stigma from which a pollen should release aaany time now.

when i look at her, at her black artificial stem and the small leaves imitating the real ones, i wonder if she doesn't want to lure me into a trap. is it her fault?

the beautiful petals seem like the only thing left real of the flower. whichever way she turns, it will probably mean— death. and flowers are ephemeral. what is a flower mounted to a wall, fortified with steel, connected with cables and enfused with electrical energy, then?

i think she's a self-preserving survivor. ---

4.

the night nurse

author: elizabeth turk

---

now. the night nurse.

of course it's the only piece in the collection where the background needed to be dark. no one here is older than her. there is no inoffensive, fading-into-background white for this absolute pillar of truth. or maybe something like a totem, quite protective in nature. and it's terrifying, 'cause you're immediately hit with the feeling that you're looking at something out of this realm, something you're not supposed to witness. the perspective is all wrong. is it downwards or upwards? why does it seem unstable when the pieces are so perfectly centered and seemingly well-balanced? child, you should calm down, it's not like you will destroy it with a stronger puff of air. will you?

this sculpture is called "tipping point — echoes of extinction", and it's actually a mix of technology and sculpture and sound, with elegant visualizations of the lost voices of birds and sea mammals. the author said it "was conceived in reverence to the astounding lives the species which envelop humans have lived and the mysterious ways they have contributed to our well-being. the shadows of their memory, whether a shape or a sound, have inspired this project." so the piece deals with death. moreover, it deals with murder. it records the harsh reality and makes sure the ones that suffered horribly at the hands of humans are, in a way, celebrated. but also— categorised. like epitaphs. the birdsong, once a living sign, is only visually represented by the lines of varying lenghts in 3D, and you can do nothing about it anymore, right, you can't bring back the dead, you can't help the innocent dying in any way other than— stacking them on top of each other and moving on.

---

so that's for now, i might someday write more if anyone's curious. :")

[reiderwriter]

Online Shopping

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Female Reader

Summary: When you come across a new toy online that piques your interest, you try to convince your boyfriend that maybe he'd like to submit for a change.

Warnings: BDSM themes, Sub! Spencer, mommy kink, pegging, sex toys (dildo, butt plug etc.), Oral (M receiving), overstimulation, Spencer is messy, pet names.

A/N: Welcome to day 10 of Kinktober! This is the last of the sub Spencer fics this time around, so from here on out we only have perv Spencer or Dom Spencer. As always, the rest of the weeks fics will be posted exclusively on AO3, so check out the complete series there, or on my kinktober masterlist if you're interested!! ❤️

He was a moaning mess beneath you and you were on cloud nine. When you first started dating Spencer, you were surprised by how controlling he was in bed, and after a year of calling him sir, and having his hands around your neck, you suddenly wanted to explore just how far you could push him. 

When the toy first showed up in an ad on one of your shopping sites, you almost scrolled past it. But you thought about how much he enjoyed your tongue wandering down during your messier blow jobs, and you found yourself clicking add to basket as if in a trance, the order placed before you ever realised what it was you’d just committed to. 

A six inch long strap-on, not too thick, with a grinding pad. Perfect for first-timers, the listing said. The package came with some plugs too, prep tools for the real fun. You almost wanted to cancel the order, but it shipped so fast, you were still deliberating it before you could take it back. 

It was just unfortunate that Spencer picked up the package before you did. You were always pretty open with your packages, especially the ones you bought together on this site, so he opened it for you. When you got home, he was looking down at it, his brows knitted adorably as he tried to figure out what you could want with this. 

“Y/N, I thought you didn’t want to try this stuff?” He asked, not clocking that the dildo was actually a strap, trying to figure out what the harness was for, turning it this way and that to see if he could find an answer. 

“It’s…. Actually, it’s not for me. I was thinking we could try it all on you?” You had your answer when his dick physically twitched in his sweats, already hard from opening the package. 

You spent the next month working up to it, cleaning him up, getting him stretched out. He’d had a plug in everytime he’d cum in you for the last month, and you’d tried out some more dominating positions while you got him used to submitting, fucking yourself on his cock rather than letting him do more of the work. He’d gotten a lot of blow-jobs as you worked him up with your fingers, your tongue. He was so desperate for you, he’d practically beg for it every night. 

And now, he’d been such a good boy and finally gotten brave enough to take it. 

“Ahh, feels so good, don’t stop,” he moaned, his face pressed into the sheets as you knelt above him, gently thrusting into him. The sight was beautiful and you were so turned on. 

“Good boy, you’re behaving so well. Go ahead and touch yourself, but don’t cum, baby, don’t cum.” He moaned a response and grabbed his steel cock in his hands beginning to stroke in time to your thrusts. 

“Look at you, so perfect for me, so perfect for your mommy, right?” He let out a loud groan at the pet name, clenching his hand around himself tightly as he struggled to not cum right then and there.  

“Need to cum, mommy,” he gasped out, stroking himself again as he tried not to push over the edge. 

“Not yet, hold on just a few more minutes, you can do that, right baby?” He moaned under you, so you trailed your hand down and pulled his hand away, pulling it up and behind his back so he wouldn’t be tempted to release in his fist. You wanted him messy, after all. 

“Such a good boy, taking my girldick like this. You wanted this so badly, right? So desperate to cum on mommy’s girldick?” 

“Yes, mommy, yes, yes, yes.” He shuddered underneath you, his balls tightening as he finally let go, cumming all over the sheets below him, pulling his head up to watch it go everywhere. 

You pulled out of him gently, letting him collapse down onto the jizz stained sheets as he caught his breath. Stroking his hair, you wiped up some of the lube coating his ass, massaging it into his skin as he twitched under you, overwhelmed from his very first prostate orgasm.  “You did so good, baby, but I didn’t say you could cum yet, did I?” 

He moaned an apology, whining as you pushed him back onto his back. Discarding the strap behind you so you could get close into his dick, you pulled your hair up behind you and let your tongue fall down to the mess on his stomach. He’d fallen straight into his cum, and now he was sticky. He needed cleaning up, and it was your job as his mommy to make sure he was always nice and neat. 

You let your tongue trace his slit, his whole body shuddering under your touch as his sensitive cock was sent into overdrive. He let out a hiss and clutched at the sheets, his eyes scrunched shut. 

“Just going to clean you up, baby, you can stay still for that right?” But he couldn’t, squirming and twitching and shifting on the bed until you’d licked up the final drop of his cum. You finally let him rest, going to the bathroom to grab a wet cloth to wipe up the rest of the mess already dried into his skin. 

When you returned, he’d regained some of his composure and was sat up on the bed, grimacing down at the mess.  

“I told you to hold it in,” you laughed at him, looking at the stained sheets you’d now have to wash and change before climbing back in.  You pressed a kiss to his lips, intending it to be chaste and sweet, but he held you there by the back of your head, deepening it slightly, before pulling back and moving his lips up to your ears. 

“You’re not the only one who did some online shopping. You better be ready for the next delivery. Courier’s out now.” 

[hanrequest]

test subject in restraints type whump...

honestly lab whump is one of my absolute FAVORITE whump tropes, especially involving test subjects being restrained against their will...

imagine:

whumpee having restraints bound to each of their limbs, wrapped too tightly around their wrists and ankles so that it stings painfully every time they twitch or move. their arms ache from being held in a single position for hours on end, they can't feel their legs anymore, their entire body thrums with unrelenting pain....

whumpee having cords attached all over their body-- on their chest, their forehead, their ribs, stomach, thighs. they have no idea what the purpose of these cords and cables are, all they know is that the metal tips at the end feel too cold against their exposed skin, they feel so vulnerable, and all they can do is wait fearfully for whumper to arrive and carry out whatever sick experiment they have planned this time.

whumpee being strapped down to an operating table too tight-- whumper tightens the strap across their abdomen, causing whumpee to choke and gasp from the pressure of it up against their lungs, instinctively thrashing about under their bonds. all they can do is scream or sob or curse, eyes blown wide in terror as they watch whumper prepare all the tools needed for the experiment; steel and metal glinting menacingly under harsh white lights, rows and rows of neatly-lined scalpels, scissors, needles...

yeah. i need more of this!!!!

[gateway-packaging-australia]

If you choose steel as your strapping material, you must use the necessary steel strapping tools to ensure safety.

Gateway provides an extensive selection of steel strapping tools for a variety of commercial and industrial applications.

Consider our Steel Strapping Combination Tool as an economical alternative to sealers; it simultaneously tightens and seals steel strapping. This tool not only saves money, but also time, making it appropriate for high-volume procedures.

Business Website - https://www.gatewaypackaging.com.au/ Business Email - sales@gatewaypackaging.com.au Phone Number - 1800 003 310

[thewordkeep-ffxiv]

MACHINIST

Deft fingers, stained with the daily courses of nature, sifted through the trimmed leather, tightly woven cotton, embroidered silk, and crafted steel adorning the body claimed by the Wood, this intruder now a gift to the moss, leaves, and vines of a beautiful, savage world. Outwardly, the deceased Garlean soldier had nothing in common with the forest dweller of frayed hemp wrappings around calloused hands, roughened leather encasing a lean, scarred body, and battle-beaten metal that protected head, limbs, and heart.

Nothing went to waste under the laws of nature as the Child of the Wood took the offerings of fabric to be used for cleaning, of leather to be fashioned for tools, and of armor to be re-purposed to shelter or to hold sustenance. The remaining body would be given to the Wood, to nourish it, life reclaimed by the mystery and majesty of the Green Word.

But the gun would be left behind, untouched, an abomination to nature's harmony, ceruleum devilry forever locked in its prison of metal piping, never to be used again.

The Viera yanked his arrow from the body, a well of congealing blood spilling over the wound where a heart once beat. He would use everything else, but never the gun.

~~

Those same deft fingers, stained with the daily living of lower-rung society, creased tightly woven fabric against his skin, adjusted embroidered silk around his neck, shifted the finely cured leather that protected and adorned his lean, scarred body. He stood in a world of metal now, and beyond this room was a forest of stone, of glass, of steel, and life hard won by grit and perseverance, an existence that demanded a sacrifice of the soul. He adjusted the harness strap holding his rifle, ceruleum devilry trapped in metal piping that would honor his intention. He no longer thrived in a cycle of rebirth but existed in a path of survival, vengeance soothing the ache of where his heart beat.

This Child of the Wood had become lost, but by fire or by vine he would be found again.

[m1d-45]

a temple to the seas

summary: as dottore's assistant, you run into a variety of creatures. however, this one seems a little too human for your taste...

word count: ~3.4k

-> warnings: major dehumanizing language and behavior (towards character, temporarily by reader), minor mention of a (presumed to be) dead body, mentions + minor depiction of blood, titles of two harbingers not shown in game (written pre-natlan), some sort of weird power dynamic going on but neither of them are winning

-> gn reader (you/yours)

tag list: @samarill || @thenyxsky || @valeriele3 || @shizunxie || @boba-is-a-soup || @yuus3n || @esthelily || @turningfrogsgay || @cupandtea24 || @genshin-impacts-me || @chaoticfivesworld || @raaawwwr || @ryuryuryuyurboat || @undrxtxd || @rainswept || @wanderersqt || @rozz-eokkk

< masterlist >

dottore worked with a myriad of strange and wondrous creatures, both with and without natural origin. on the tamer side of things, you’ve been called in to inspect slimes with weak or nonexistent elemental charge, a crystalfly with six wings, and a strangely docile lawachurl. on the other end, you had to tear apart ancient ruin machinery, pistons firing to grind moss-covered gears against each other. you’ve even fixed up your fair share of segments, one of the few entrusted with their delicate circuitry. hubristically, you thought you’d seen it all, because what could surprise you more than the blue heart of an abyss lector placed in your hands?

you flash your keycard in front of the reader beside a thick steel door, the hallway light creeping along the floor as it slides open. the room is dark, with a large cloth covering the back half. it’s roughly taped up, with dark… mystery liquid bleeding out from the bottom. it’s surprisingly empty, with neither person nor furniture to keep you company. you’re left with a covered cart, the tools strapped to your sides, and the paper in your hands. your target is behind the curtain, it seems.

you don’t think too hard about it, instead pulling the cloth off the cart and messily pushing it through the handle on one side to keep it off the floor. the door shuts and plunges the room into darkness, so you take a small penlight from your pocket and tuck it behind your ear, reading the paper on the board.

you’re to study a specimen from the sea, strangely. the doctor usually kept his study to terrestrial creatures, an observation already noted on the page. a fishing party had reported something strange in the water, which had only turned into a concern once it had attacked one of the fatui’s ships. commoners were able to sail through the area fine, even in small fishing dinghies, but it chose to specifically attack the ship sent for negotiations with mondstadt. il capitano had expended several dozen squads retrieving both the mora lost and the beast itself, which was wounded by the ship’s anchor and made for a fierce capture, blah blah blah. you couldn’t care less about the details. instead, you skip to your short list of duties at the bottom: repair the enclosure, determine the intelligence of whatever you’ve caught, and establish a line of communication if sufficiently advanced.

you’re not sure why they think you’ll be able to talk with whatever’s in there, but that’s a problem for later. you take stock of what you were left, searching in the thin beam of your penlight and squinting through the light reflected off the steel cart. the lights haven’t turned on yet, so they must have either been manually set to off or damaged when the subject was brought in. not including your pen, the only light is from the card reader behind you and what slips through between the cloth and the walls, both a pale blue that do little to illuminate the room at large. you give up on the cart and scan the walls for the light switch, finding it closer to the door than normal. thankfully, it was just set to off, but the lights flicker when you turn them on. you click off your penlight, looking up at them oddly. why would they be flickering?

having apparently given its answer to your unspoken question, the cloth trembles with a dull thud. the liquid at the bottom spreads out a bit further, looking clear now that the lights are on. your instinct says it’s water, but it could just as easily be alcohol or gasoline. the cloth itself is already dark, so it’s hard to tell how much of it is soaked.

then again, it is a supposed sea monster, right? it makes sense that it would be held in a tank, but the water spilling doesn’t reflect the loudness of the thud. if it had rammed the glass, then the water splashing over would have been visible as it hit the cloth. on the other hand, you were told to repair the enclosure, so-

another thud, louder, the water spreading out in another surge. you quickly discard your train of thought, tucking away your pen and checking over the cart with much more ease. there’s a first-aid kit, silicone sealant, and a roll of thick, clear tape that you grab. it’s a temporary fix, but you need to get a grasp on the situation before you can decide on a proper course of action. you push the tape into the large pocket of your lab coat, freeing both of your hands to grab the cloth over the mystery tank. you pull, quickly yanking it off and letting it drop. it doesn’t feel soaked yet, so it can hopefully absorb some of the water on the floor.

the tank itself is… boring. the water is murky, a tumultuous mess of air bubbles and thick black strings of something. chains? no, then it wouldn’t have been able to hit the glass. you wouldn’t be surprised if it had broken the chains, however, as the cracks spiderwebbed through the glass are alarmingly thick. you unspool some of the tape, sticking strips over the sections where the cracks intersect. water still drips through, but at a far slower pace. it’ll do for now.

as you patch up the glass, the water slowly begins to settle. sediment falls to the bottom, and you can’t tell if the shine is natural or because it’s reflecting the light streaming through from the ceiling. the tank is still dark, though, a deep fog covering the back half. there should be lights all the way to the far wall, so they’re likely damaged.

as if it heard your thoughts—were you superstitious, you’d be worried by now—one of the lights on the near side breaks with a shatter, glass and sparks falling into the tank below. you step away, moving well out of range of the puddle on the floor despite the minuscule charge. the other light breaks in a similar fashion, though this time you catch something small and dark being flung at it. you bring out your penlight again, crouching beside the glass to catch a glimpse of whatever it is. you’re expecting a link of the chain-like structure you saw before, maybe a rock or shell, so of course it’s none of those things. there, at the bottom of the tank, is a single coin of mora. it shines as innocently as the glass slowly sinking around it, oblivious to the gears turning in your mind.

you can’t believe that a sea creature would have want for terrestrial money, but you can believe that it’s attracted to the glimmer. it’s smart enough to use one of the smaller coins, though you’re not sure if that’s to make it harder to see as it flies or if it knows its value. you don’t hold your breath about it. if squid can open jars and slimes can plan ambushes for their prey, you don’t expect anything impressive from whatever this thing is.

the glass and mora are still there, so it didn’t care about either enough to actually grab it. it’s either waiting for you to back off, dislikes the light, or both. you stand, making your way back to the cart. you trade your tape for the proper sealant, scribbling a small note about your findings on the second, blank page on the clipboard. you reread the original file, this time catching that a non-insignificant amount of mora was missing from the wreckage. it was packed in sealed bags, so it wasn’t as if it was carried away by the tide. your mystery friend was in possession of ten thousand mora, give or take, a fact you tuck away for later. there’s plenty of scrap metal to be found around the lab, which can potentially be used as bribes if your theory proves correct.

the tank thuds again, and you turn quickly. you’re only able to catch a glimpse of black retreating into the fog, though, the flash of scales a microscopic indication of what you’re dealing with. plenty of sea creatures have scales, though this eliminates most of the ones with tentacles. scales, with enough force to crack the glass of its tank. what are the chances it’s just a particularly aggressive shark?

none, of course—capitano’s squadron’s could likely take down a shark one-handed and half-blind—but it’s fun to play pretend.

you approach the tank, pulling the tape from the bigger leaks and put it over the thinner cracks instead. silicone is scraped over the main breaks, the excess smeared to the edge of the tape. you peer into the tank as best as you can, but it’s too dark to see anything. even with the broken lighting, what does get through isn’t diffusing naturally. the darkness seems to swirl, collecting the dirt off the floor-…

the mora’s gone. so is the glass. you stare at the place they used to be, briefly lost in the sight of the concrete flooring. you hadn’t noticed any movement, so it was either masked by fog or a sufficiently slow creep. both? the ‘mist’ inside seems to ripple and flutter with invisible currents, never parting to let anything through.

another coin of mora shoots through the veil, hitting a weak spot dead-on and pushing the cracks higher through the glass. you’re starting to suspect the thing can read your thoughts… or it can just use whatever brain is left to know that you’re watching. what’s gotten into you?

you shake it off, pushing sealant into the new fracture. some of them spread too high for you to reach without a stool, though they’re fairly thin. you’ve been pretty lucky, not having to put yourself in a vulnerable position yet—unless, if you step back, it was intentional? you’re only halfway across the tank, but you take a break to do just that, actually taking in the patterns of the rifts instead of logging them as another problem to be solved.

the room is fairly tall, though the tank doesn’t stretch all the way to the top. you can only reach about three quarters of the way to the top of the glass, and there’s a sizable space of air above the tank. instead of focusing at the top and trying to widen that opening, the damage is nearly entirely in the bottom third. everything that reaches higher are hairline, not intended to spread that high. whatever it is, it wants to flood the room, enough that it’s prioritizing that over escape.

definitely smarter than a squid.

you approach your cart to make note of your realization, using your penlight to write. you angle yourself so you can barely see the tank out of the corner of your eye, sketching a rough diagram of the room and marking where the major breaks are. like last time, the water begins to twist, the mist receding from the glass. you draw random shapes on the side of your paper to stall, interspersed with writing-like loops in case it’s somehow able to understand the difference. the sides of the mist curl in, forming a bubble in the middle. it swells, rushing forward, and you quickly flick on your light and point it toward the tank.

your light is weak, obviously. it’s a pen, a focused beam meant to fit in tight spaces and illuminate them efficiently. it’s dispersed somewhat by the distance, glass, and water, but you know what you see no matter how unclear. a large, glittering tail lashes forward, wrapped in heavy gray chain and dense fog. it’s yanked back as quick as it came, but you’re no fool. the weight of the ship’s anchor hitting the glass makes another low thud, barely-there crackles heralding new fissures. it was softer this time, likely thrown off from your light.

smart enough to use tools. scaled. deep-dwelling, or otherwise nocturnal. you don’t know much about the sea, but that doesn’t seem to add up into anything remotely normal. sea lions don’t have scales, neither do dolphins, whales, or squid, and none of fontaine’s aberrants could survive either the cold or the salt. snowstriders are large, but they’re naturally a bright white. whatever you have, it’s an anomaly.

you shouldn’t be so surprised. since when did the doctor deal in the mundane?

you leave the rest of the tank’s cracks as is, instead picking through the lower level of the cart. there’s a small slate and marker, a larger light, some gloves, and a bunch of other stuff you don’t bother with. you tuck the slate under your arm and put the marker with your pen, pulling off the large light and a battery pack. it’s heavy, but you manage. the water agitates when you set it by the tank, as close as you can without risking water damage. it should be water resistant, but you’re not about to test that theory and get yourself in trouble.

the thing must have an idea of what you’re doing. it also must not be native to too deep waters, or else it’d be blind. but if it was in the shallows, how did it manage to grow so large without ever being seen?

you insert the battery, hovering your hand over the knob. there’s no telling if it’ll get aggressive in the light, so you prime yourself to run just in case. you look up into the dark fog of the tank, twisting the light to full power.

your first, horrific thought is that it’s somehow brought a corpse into the lab. sure, the fatui aren’t exactly known for their top care of fallen soldiers, but surely it would have been separated from one before being put in its tank. the body is half-hidden behind a mass of scales, a deep violet that shines despite the fog—which itself isn’t fog. you’re not sure how or why, but it’s shifted from black to brown, clearly just dirt constantly kept in motion. your light cuts through it easily as it begins to settle, the tail shifting to hide the body. you can’t see a head yet, is it an eel of some kind?

and then you understand. the body’s shoulder moves, led by a black hand. dark ink stretches up their forearm like an infection, leaving behind claws instead of nails. it reaches down, behind the wrap of scales, and flicks another coin at the glass with far too much strength to be puppetted.

that’s its body*.* you physically recoil from the realization, hand tightening on the light and dimming it a little more in the process. black scales shine purple as it approaches, ripped and jagged fins twitching and sweeping the dirt away from impossibly far off. still likely an elemental, you think dully, watching as it approaches. another coin of mora flashes between two long claws and flicks towards you quick enough to leave a small trail of vacuum bubbles behind it. it hits the glass with a sharp click, right over the light.

you know what it wants. you’re still reeling from the idea that something can look so human when deep beneath the sea, struggling to fit its silhouette together in your mind, but you can still think properly. the dirt continues to sink, revealing more paper-thin fins shredded by the anchor’s chain. the floor is marred from thousands of claw marks, though you can’t see the full extent of the damage. its curled up over the well, wrapped tightly in its tail. all you can see are purple scales and lavender fins, waving gently in the water. if you’d seen a picture of it like this, you’d only assume it was a strangely large eel that had been unlucky enough to wander into the wrong side of a harbor.

but you knew better. the scales shift and a dark claw sticks out, another mora flung towards you. it hits with more force than last time.

you don’t know what to do. it’s hurt, obviously; dark blood seeps from between every scale, whether because of the anchor or the torn fins or something else you can’t see. you’re surprised it was able to whip the anchor as fast as it did. with how dark and blurry everything is, you can’t help but wonder if blood was a substantial part of the mist you saw before. not many morals last long under the doctor’s instruction, but you don’t like seeing it recoil from the light. maybe it’s another hallucination, maybe it’s pulling on your neurons to make you do what it wants, but the end result is the same.

against your better judgement, you lower the light just slightly, keeping your hand on it in case things turn south. the monster’s tail slowly unwinds, revealing more of the body within. their skin is bluish, with dark streaks across the ribs. you watch in a daze as it crawls forward, finally coming face to face with the monster in the tank.

it looks painfully human. bright yellow eyes, the same color as the mora it not-so-discreetly swipes off the floor, surrounded by a cloud of black hair. you could almost fool yourself into thinking its a free diver, a particularly foolish one who left his wetsuit on the shore and was slowly succumbing to hypothermia. blackish gills flutter along his neck and ribs, your hand unthinkingly turning off the light when its scales press against the glass. he seems perfectly human from the waist up.

and then it hisses at you. his lips pull back over layers of shark-like fangs, your hand alarmingly twisting forward instead of back with the rest of your body. the knob clicks under your fingers, the light entirely turning off, and the thing has the gall to look proud.

right. dangerous sea-thing that risked its life to try and flood the lab. you’re usually better under pressure than this, but to be fair you usually don’t deal with subjects that can maybe-probably read your mind.

you pull yourself together, pulling the cap off your marker and writing a simple question across the slate in your neatest handwriting. your hand is strangely shaky. when you’re done, you turn it towards the glass.

‘can you read common?’

his eyes flick first to the slate, and then to yours, his hair shifting in an invisible current. it parts enough that you can see his ears have elongated into spiny ruffs, each flared out wide. you don’t know what that means. you go to write as such on the board, and a sharp click draws your attention. he waves at the slate, then nods.

what was his previous reaction, then? if he understood that nodding was an agreement, then why not do that to begin with? if you mapped the movement of his ears onto another animal, would it be a stretch to interpret it as annoyance? could he be offended you thought he couldn’t read?

another coin shoots toward your face, the click startling you out of your thoughts. you blink, and he waves to your board again, with more emphasis. was he used to this style of questioning, then? you’ll have to ask the segment who was in charge of him prior about what they did.

‘what’s 2 + 2?’

how many times have you been shot at since you’ve come in here? you should start a tally.

you continue with basic questions, slowly increasing their difficulty. he looks almost bored through all of them, laying over his tail. you can never see further than his waist, irritatingly, and he keeps summoning more mist when you aren’t looking to further fog the transition. you’re tempted to go get your clipboard, but figure that’ll break whatever rapport you’ve built up. he’s not aggressive anymore, so you’ll settle for sneaking glances at the patterns of his fins.

‘do you know the name snezhnaya?’

he’s rather fond of giving you looks you’d dare to call condescending, your only answer coming in irritated ruffles of his spines until he gets tired of waiting and nods again. you somewhat wish you could give him a slate to write on himself, but he could easily break it into dangerous shards. not that it would matter much, considering his claws…

he clicks two fingers together in an unmistakable snap, and though the snap is lost in the water you know you’ve been caught. you quickly write down some random question about the capital to distract him, but it doesn’t work. his teeth flash in the light, though it seems to be more of a smile than a jeer. his shoulders bob, unnatural fangs gleam beneath a sharp cupid’s bow, and you’re not sure when he stopped being an eel and started becoming a person.

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[oftenwantedafton]

Revival - Steve Raglan/William Afton x Female Nurse Reader

Rating - Explicit

Warnings - none for this chapter

Also available on AO3

The pain is excruciating.

William Afton has endured this before, under very different circumstances. A springlock failure, an experiment gone awry, but how else was he to know if they worked properly or not, no risk without reward, and his business partner, his friend, had been so convincing of their probable success. Probable being the key operative word.

He’s sitting now in a collapsed heap he’s been unceremoniously dragged and dropped to, tossed like a bag of garbage, left to rot. Every breath is agony. Each constricted slight attempt at movement torture. His fingers flex weakly within their steel confines of the mascot suit. Reaching for salvation he feels will never come. He has just enough energy to remove the headpiece. His skin is the color of parchment, saturated with perspiration. Graying hair clings in wet tendrils to his face. His lips are pale, bloodless. His body is already shutting off supplies to his extremities in an effort to keep the core alive a little while longer. He feels the slow trickle of the blood weeping out of him. The very jagged edges leaking his lifeforce also partially holding it in place. Extending the torment. New wounds ripping open old scars. He cannot hear the ghost children any longer, the final sound a bellowing roar as the spirit within had finally realized the truth of his deception. The ceiling has collapsed in places, the tiles now littering the floor, the fluorescent lighting dangling like grim party streamers.

He’s dying, alone, in the darkness.

In an ironic twist of fate, William Afton is saved by the very people he’s been trying so hard to keep out of his pizzeria. Vagrants. Thieves. Urban explorers. One of these has chosen this night to intrude. Lured inward by whatever motivating factors drive them there. Curiosity. Desperation. Shelter. Wealth. The trespassers find him. For a split second the man in the yellow rabbit suit thinks they will flee, thinking him a ghost. Afraid of being blamed for the ruination of the abandoned restaurant, implicated in his harm and imminent death. But one lingers, hesitating when his voice croaks out a plea. The last bit of air he’s been hoarding. Vocal chords straining. An anonymous 911 call made from an office phone that miraculously still functions.

It’s enough.

***

The man in the ravaged mascot suit lying on a stretcher is wheeled into the ER a little before dawn.

The hospital staff sees a fair amount of action, considering the location is not a busy city institution. An occasional gunshot wound, usually from a child gaining access to a parent’s unsecured firearm. Sometimes a gas station convenience store robbery gone wrong. Car accident victims. Overdoses. Someone who’s been sober for years falling off the wagon, now violent, cursing out staff as they struggle. A variety of situations, but all manageable.

This case though. There is nothing normal or routine about this. It does not take much of an assessment to realize this is beyond the capabilities of the local hospital, and time is not on their side. An immediate transfer up north. The man’s vital signs are weak. High flow supplemental oxygen fed through the mask strapped to his face. Metal glove removed, intravenous line started. The costume takes up so much space in an already cramped area. The helicopter lands. They’ve arrived.

The extrication process is delicate work. His body repositioned multiple times. Traditional tools are insufficient. Laser metal cutting finally frees the injured man. The victim has lost consciousness. A failure of the springlocks to release properly has somehow left many vital organs free of puncture. A failure of a failure. The man might have chuckled bitterly over that if he was still alert. The suit was getting older. Damaged with so much activity. The fight with the Schmidt boy. The electrical discharges. The gunshot from his daughter. It’s a wonder it had any structural integrity left.

He’s not out of the woods yet. The remains of the springlocks, damaged as they are, are unforgiving. They do not pierce through his flesh cleanly. The edges are jagged. Pincers that dig into his body. An Iron Maiden, a second set of ribs, these alloys that curl in a vice grip. Trying to merge and meld with him. An unforgiving embrace.

Blood transfusions. Strong intravenous antibiotics. The suit is not clean. The restaurant hadn’t been either. The risk of infection is extremely high. Tainted metal and foreign bodies. His lungs are the most damaged part of him. Touch and go. Cardiac arrest. Defibrillated, brought back. In the aftermath, the man survives.

There is still a long road of recovery ahead of him.

***

The man who’d been trapped in the mascot suit is transferred from the ICU to a medical surgical floor. Stable. Awake again. And somehow, miraculously, still absolved of any guilt.

The pizzeria had been searched. The most recent casualties found. He himself an assumed victim in a string of unexplained disappearances. The baby sitter and her brother, the former decapitated and the latter shoved inside of an animatronic suit. Their two accomplices, their bodies mangled. All of them found in the service workroom. Now this social worker, who, when he’s recovered enough to speak, insists he was going there on a site visit to check on the new hire. Whatever Mike tells them seems to fall on deaf ears and he doesn’t press the matter, perhaps just grateful he and his sister are safe. The man’s own daughter is still in a coma. He knows she’ll keep silent, going along with whatever story he concocts, covering for him. She always does.

So his real identity is still concealed. Steve Raglan remains a trusted alias. There are cards and flowers from his coworkers. A news story marveling over his recovery. How brave he was to confront this killer, the owner, William Afton. The man behind the slaughter.

If they only knew.

***

You flip through the patient’s chart in front of you. So many notes. Physician orders. What a journey this patient has had. One that began in spring. Now it’s fall.

Your patient load is light this evening. There isn’t much for you to do for the man at this stage. He’ll be discharged soon. He’ll still need more rehabilitation to regain his strength and recover from the deconditioning his body has undergone due to his long hospital stay.

You sling your stethoscope around your neck and knock before entering the room.

It’s the last one at the end of the hallway. The illuminated landing pad for the medi flight helicopter is visible from here, the blinds open and raised over the bottom third of the windows. Television off. The wall light on the lowest setting. The man’s eyes are closed. His breathing is regular. Sometimes his lungs struggle a bit and he requires a bronchodilator, either a nebulizer or an inhaler. Probably something he’ll require for the rest of his life. He has a likely susceptibility to respiratory illnesses as well now. The damage had been severe, his exposure to contaminants unforgiving.

His graying hair and beard have grown out, making him look rather unkempt. You can see he’s long overdue for a trim. You gently set your stethoscope on his chest to listen to his heart and lungs. His eyes open. Pale. Intense. You freeze.

“Sorry to disturb you, I’m just doing my assessments.” You hate having to wake people up so late at night. “I’ll be fast, I promise.”

“It’s alright, I’m used to it. Do what you have to do.” His voice is coarse but pleasant. You find yourself staring at his features and become distracted from listening to his apical pulse and respirations. Early fifties his chart had said. Skin in good shape. Light crows feet at the corners of those wide set piercing eyes. The untidy hair makes your fingers itch to try to tame it.

Without any guidance he withdraws his arm from beneath the sheet draped over him. Cuing you to take his blood pressure, startling you from your reverie. Your cheeks flush. You notice the scars on his arms immediately. Such strange markings. Rings and slashes. You can’t even imagine how frightening that must have been. Shoved inside an animatronic by some maniac serial killer. Amazing he had survived. You press your fingers against his wrist, your eyes on the clock on the wall as you calculate his pulse. His skin is very warm.

The manual cuff fits easily over the bearded man’s upper arm. He’s lost weight since he’s been in the hospital, but you think he was probably lean to begin with. “This is going to get tight. Still better than the machines. And more accurate.” You’re old school. You prefer obtaining vital signs manually yourself. The aides have enough work to do. You press the stethoscope to the antecubital space, tucking it slightly underneath the cuff, fingers curling around his elbow to help hold it in place. You tighten the grooved metal air release valve and begin squeezing the bulb. Your eyes lock on the gauge. You’ve done this long enough now that you can see the changes as the systolic and diastolic readings register, the audible portion just confirmation of what you’re visualizing when the needle beats along in accompaniment before being reduced to a smooth sweep. The velcro parts with a harsh rasp of sound as you remove the cuff, replacing it into the storage bin behind the bed.

“Okay, good. Temperature next.” You slide the probe cover on and his lips part so you can tuck the thermometer under his tongue. A very prominent tongue. Agile. Curling. You know you’re blushing again and you stare hard at the digital display. Afebrile. You withdraw the probe and depress the button to drop the cover in the small wastebin beside the bed. Pulse oximetry next. Saturation in the low 90s. Not ideal, but decent all things considered. He’s got lovely hands. Long, slender fingers. “Any trouble breathing?”

“I still cough when I take a deep breath sometimes but otherwise okay. And no, not coughing up anything. Nonproductive.”

“You have been here awhile, huh? We could probably put you to work. Train the new grads.” The turnover rate at the hospital is high. A lot of temporary agency staff. Recent graduates that put in six months or a year for a reference and then move on to whatever specialty they decide on. You like med surge. You enjoy the reward of seeing people get better and go home. “You must be dying to get out of here. Where are you from again? Hurricane, was it?”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t have time to go through your whole chart and it’s obviously more than can be given in any detail on report, but. Yeah. You’ve clearly been through a lot. I’m sure your family will be glad to have you back.”

“I don’t know about that. My daughter and I have…our differences.”

“Does she live with you?”

“No, she’s grown. Long out of the nest. I live alone now.”

“Oh.” You return your stethoscope to its drape over the nape of your neck. “Well, glad to be out of here, in any case. I need to check your chest. From what I got on report everything is healing well. Any pain?”

“I’m alright.” He shifts, lifting the blue diamond patterned hospital gown.

You almost gasp, managing to stifle it at the last moment. Keep it professional.

The damage is so, so much worse here. So many deep scars. Nothing like the fainter ones marring his upper extremities. Puckered gouges. Taut, shiny dark red lines bordered by dots where the surgical staples that had held his wounds closed had been. More irregular patterns you cannot discern the origin of. What had been inside that suit?

“On a scale of one to ten, ten being the worst—”

“Zero. I’m fine, honestly.”

You sense he’s not being entirely truthful despite his reassurances. You notice the slight wince when he moves. Still tender.

“If you need something—”

“—I don’t need pain medication.”

You blink, slowly removing your stethoscope again. Stubborn. Well, you’ll leave it for now. “I’m going to check your abdomen. I’m sorry, my hands are always cold.” You listen, then percuss and press in each quadrant. The faintest silver stretch marks on his belly near the umbilicus. He was much heavier, once. You note a faint happy trail that disappears into navy blue boxer briefs and quickly shove that from your thoughts. “Any tenderness?”

“No.” His eyes have not left your face since you’ve begun examining him.

“Okay. Would you mind sitting up for me so I can listen to your lungs and check your skin?”

He complies. There is a knot at the top of the johnny. The rest is open. You don’t even have to instruct him to breathe deeply. He really is familiar with the routine. The scars are not as pronounced here. The majority of the damage looks like it was on the front of his torso.

You flip the sheet back to check his lower extremities once he’s settled again. No edema. Color good. Well perfused. The same light patterns as on his upper extremities. His legs are so long. He’s well over six feet, you think. His feet have to rest on either side of the footboard with the bed adjustment controls.

You readjust the sheet so it’s draped neatly over your patient’s frame once more. “Okay, we’re all set. Everything looks good.” You tap on the call button hung over the side rail. “You call me if you need anything, okay? I’ll check on you later, Mr. Raglan.”

“Steve, please.” He smiles. Such even white teeth. Dimples. The creases at the corners of his eyes deepening. Butterflies in your stomach. He really is quite attractive. He’s also your patient. Be professional.

“Goodnight, Steve.” You hear him pull the string to switch the light off as you leave the room.

He does not call for assistance. When you peek in later, the room is dimly lit by the nightlight set in the wall. He seems to be sleeping. Your shift ends.

***

Steve’s back on your assignment two nights later.

“Have you always worked third shift?”

“Since I became a nurse, yes. I’m a night owl. I don’t know how you do it. Getting up early five days a week. I’d rather stay up then get up. I didn’t last long in the hairdresser business.”

“You get used to it.”

“I guess. Open, please.” You slip the thermometer under his tongue. No fever, but he still feels impossibly warm. You realize that’s just his baseline.

“Since you mentioned it, I wonder if I might ask a favor of you. If your assignment isn’t too heavy. The day shift aides seem very occupied and the nurses much the same.”

“We actually discharged four people earlier tonight. I only have you and one other patient. Nursing home. Sweet lady. So yes, I’ll have down time. What’s up?”

“How would you feel about cutting my hair? This mess is absolutely driving me mad.” He rakes a hand through his graying locks.

“Oh, sure, I can do that, provided I find some decent scissors. If you trust me over someone in the salon. I think they’re short on help, like every other department. How short do you want it?”

“I trust your judgment and I’m tired of waiting. Would my driver’s license picture help?”

“Oh, yeah, good idea.”

“Top drawer of the bedside table.”

You find a weathered looking leather billfold inside. Deep creases. You remove the card from the vinyl window sleeve so you can see his picture more clearly. Side part. Layered. Facial hair much more neatly trimmed. And gold framed aviators. “You wear glasses?”

“Sometimes. Mainly for driving. I’m near sighted.”

“Oh. Well, I can manage this, no problem.” You tuck the license back inside the slot and fold the wallet, setting it back in the drawer. “You can lock this drawer, you know. I mean, I think all of our staff is trustworthy, but you never know.”

“There’s really nothing valuable left. In there.”

A definite pause. You wonder what’s buried in those words. Your eyes fall on the pile of greeting cards from well wishers. “Have you heard from your daughter?” You’d heard she’d been stabbed and had been in a coma for quite some time. Recovered now. A police officer.

“No, and I don’t expect to. We’re accustomed to long pauses without speaking.”

You see the man tense up and decide to shelve the topic. “It’ll be easier to cut your hair if it’s wet.”

“I’ll take a shower.”

“I’ll bring you some towels.”

He’s out of bed, standing beside it when you return. Very tall, as you’d predicted. “I put them in the bathroom. Just let me know when you’re ready.”

“I will.”

You close the door softly behind you.

***

“You’re in luck. The security guard I’m friendly with is on tonight. I invaded the hair salon.”

“Friendly, hmm?” He settles into the hardbacked chair you’ve pulled out from against the wall and you tuck a towel around his neck.

“Well, not that friendly.” You comb your fingers through the damp tresses, trying to decide where to begin.

“That feels nice.”

You let your hands scrape his scalp a little and he hums appreciatively. You’re so accustomed to quick in and outs, doing your assessments, administering medication, moving on to the next patient, repeating the process until it’s time for documentation. It’s nice to be doing something more leisurely for a change. Meeting other needs.

“You have really nice hair.” The texture of it. The coloring. You like the mixture of shades. Combing with an actual plastic tool now. Dragging everything even. Fingers marking off a swathe. You begin.

Muscle memory. You’d done enough trims in your previous profession. Men are so much easier to style than women. Pieces fall to the floor, catch on the towel. He needs a lot of layering. The soft sound of the shears snipping, a whisk of metal blades. Working near his ears. At his neck now. A thick neck, something else you’d noticed right away during your assessment. His eyes on you when you move to stand in front of him. Pressing close. The furniture seems so absurdly small. His knee bumping into you. Pajama pants on. Still the hospital gown on top. This one’s tie at the neck is ripped, instead fastened mid spine. Some of the buttons on the sleeves not snapped. Your fingers touch his face, adjusting his head so you can view his hairstyle from different angles. The scent of the baby shampoo the hospital supplies. Antibacterial soap.

“Not too shabby if I do say so myself. Maybe go have a look in the bathroom mirror?” You carefully gather the towel to minimize the mess and he rises. So tall. You keep forgetting. Looming beside you. Older tree and young sapling.

Departs. Returns. “It’s perfect.”

“I’m glad you like it. Want me to do your beard too?”

“If you wouldn’t mind.”

You don’t. It seems silly not to. Like leaving a job unfinished. The beard trimming feels more intimate. His eyes always on you. You finish. A near replica of how he’d looked previously, disregarding the weight loss.

“What do you miss the most, being in here for so long?” As if he is confined in a prison. It is a sort of holding cell, in a way. Trapped until the physician determines he’s able to return home. Or insurance runs out. Or unless he leaves AMA.

He hums thoughtfully. “I would kill for a cheeseburger and a cold beer. And a cigarette,” he adds with a heavy sigh of longing.

You blink in surprise. “You smoke?” You’re fairly certain it had said he was a non smoker in his chart.

“Not for years. Longer than you’ve been alive.”

You blush at this reminder of your age gap. “You want me to smuggle in some contraband?”

“Would you?”

“Yes. Tomorrow night. Tell me what you want specifically, brands and such, and I’ll try my best to get it for you.”

“How kind of you. Yet devious.” He grins again.

You’re starting to enjoy this dark smile of his.

***

You lead Steve up the stairs onto the hospital roof.

Clear autumn sky. Harvest moon. Air brisk. He’s wearing a gray sweatshirt and blue flannel pajama pants and slippers that don’t look like they quite fit right. You’ve got a cardigan on over your scrubs. Your companion sounds a little winded. Still adjusting to exercise. Therapy said he’d been progressing well. They’d done a home visit to assess what he’d have to manage physically independently. His discharge paperwork was now underway.

“If I thought we could get away with smoking in your room, I’d have just cracked the window, but there’s no way the alarm wouldn’t go off.” You hand him the pack and a lighter you’d tucked into your pocket. “You shouldn’t make a habit of this, though. I’m worried about your breathing.”

“I’ll be alright.” A flame illuminates his features. “It’ll take more than one cigarette to do me in.” He inhales shallowly, testing that theory. A sighed exhale. A little cough at the end that he’s trying to stifle.

“Steve,” you say warningly.

He waves the hand holding the cigarette. “I’m fine. I appreciate all of your efforts, really. The cheeseburger was divine. The beer the same. This is exactly what I needed.” He takes another drag. No coughing this time.

You fold your arms across your chest, leaning back against the small brick structure that houses the roof access.

“Do you ever treat yourself to something you enjoy? I imagine being a caregiver is rather draining.”

“I enjoy my days off. It’s a good schedule. I can’t really complain.”

“When’s the last time you went on vacation?”

You frown. “I have no idea. It’s been years.”

“Maybe it’s time you took one.”

“I don’t even know where I’d go.”

Raglan flicks the end of the cigarette. “You could visit Hurricane.” So casually said. Your breath hitches.

“You mean visit you?”

“I would hope you’d stop by if you were in the area.” He blows a stream of smoke.

“I would.”

“You would or you will?” Another drag, followed by a cough. Longer this time.

You move closer, touching his sleeve. “You should stop, Steve. I’m really worried.”

The man sighs, letting the cigarette drop from his fingers and grinding it beneath the sole of his shoe. “Maybe you’re right.” He tucks the lighter and the pack back into the pocket of your cardigan. “Will you?”

“Will I what?”

“Will you come to me, in Hurricane?” The wind lifts a stray strand of your hair and he tucks it back behind your ear. The casual touch lingers, evolving, his thumb now stroking deliberately along your jaw. You have just enough time to answer affirmatively before his lips dust across yours.