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"It's like you're TRYING to get yourself hurt!" You scold quietly, stitching up a laceration on your companion's side.
Shedletsky monumentally whiffed a stun on Jason earlier that evening, and recieved a punishing gash from said killer's machete. He listens to you lecture him on how he shouldn't be stunning unless its absolutely necessary, how resource intensive caring for wounds is, the likes. He absolutely would not say it to your face, but as much as you scold him and maybe even handle him a little harshly, he finds your worrying cute. One could say he DOES get hurt on purpose, just so you can patch him up.
A sharp poke into his side rips him out of his admiration of you with a yelp, a quickly mumbles apology falling instinctively from your lips as you close the stitch. Then it's on to gauze and the likes, making sure the stitches are stable before wrapping him up.
He honestly hates getting wounded like this. It's seriously humiliating! Even then, the closeness of being cared for... the intimacy of this, even, is enough for him to not really care. You rolling up his shirt, hands on his chest, carefully nursing the wounds that bring him to you– It's intoxicating, and he develops addictions easily.
Hell, you look hot when you're mad, too.
By the time you had finished wrapping him up and making sure the bandages were secure, Shedletsky had come to several jarring realizations about himself, not noticing your silence. You tap lightly on his shoulder, bringing him out of his head.
"You're all done. I keep telling you to be careful." You say, pointedly.
Shedletsky rubs the back of his neck thoughtlessly, "I'm sorry. It'll probably happen again."
You sigh, turning to leave the room when he grabs your wrist. The act startles you so badly that you turn to punch him, barely managing to stop your fist from meeting his jaw. He flinches, giving you an apologetic smile and beckoning you to come sit on the bed with him. You frown.
"Elliot still needs to be patched up. Later"
"But—"
"I promise we'll talk after, okay? I'll be back. Hang tight." You say, heading out the door quickly with your medkit.
Shedletsky stares as the empty doorframe where you left, a strange coldness calcifying in his chest. He knows it has to be done, but so much of him selfishly wants to have you alone. You're always so busy bouncing between the other survivors, making sure their wounds are properly addressed and treated, it's only natural. That selfish part of him aches for a private moment that isn't just a medical visit, Another part yearning to feel your hands against his body in a way meant only for him.
He swallows down his desperation to feel any part of you at all. It sits heavy in his stomach with the jealousy he feels when he hears you laugh in the other room.
Winded by his own thoughts, he leans back on the bed beneath him, staring at the ceiling as though it were the most interesting thing in the universe.