Don't. [ He warns her, and he means to sound firm but his voice breaks. He knows. He knows he can't fix her. Royce knows intimately what death looks like, knows the smell of copper and the wet feeling of blood on his hands is the sign that she's too far gone. He knows it, but he doesn't want to, and he's stubborn about it, wincing as she cries out. The noise drags tears forcefully up and into his eyes, and he swallows hard, trying desperately to get bandages or - or something...
But it won't do any good. The bandages slip out of his hands anyway, stained red as they roll away, and Royce just lets them go. Forgets about it as he pulls her into his lap, as gently as he can, smoothing her hair back out of her face. He's covered in her blood. It's all over the sweater she found him. It's on his hands that she held the night before, in his hair, the hair she swept her fingers through affectionately as they left the first house of the day. ]
Don't. [ He says again, and this time it sounds like broken pleading. ] Please, don't.
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But it won't do any good. The bandages slip out of his hands anyway, stained red as they roll away, and Royce just lets them go. Forgets about it as he pulls her into his lap, as gently as he can, smoothing her hair back out of her face. He's covered in her blood. It's all over the sweater she found him. It's on his hands that she held the night before, in his hair, the hair she swept her fingers through affectionately as they left the first house of the day. ]
Don't. [ He says again, and this time it sounds like broken pleading. ] Please, don't.