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Maxwell shook his head and then pressed his cheek instead of his forehead against Garrett’s chest to speak more clearly. “It’s not your fault.”
Garrett moved one of his hands to the back of Maxwell’s head and carded his fingers through his hair.
Maxwell closed his eyes and leaned into the feeling. He could remember exactly the last time he’d felt the comfort of fingers in his hair. It had been years ago, and the fingers had been Kurt’s.
They hadn’t been comforting for long.
Maxwell gripped Garrett’s shirt and pulled the man closer to him. Garrett wasn’t Kurt. Garrett wasn’t at all like Kurt, but then again, Maxwell hadn’t realized what Kurt was like until too late. And in the end, it was all Maxwell’s own damn fault for letting him in.
His own damn fault for trading real security for the false sense of security that strong arms gave him.
Maxwell swallowed and released his death grip on Garrett’s shirt. He numbly stepped back and out of Garrett’s arms, and Garrett let him go without a fuss. Kurt had always fussed—Maxwell shook the thought away.
When Maxwell met Garrett’s eyes again, he saw a look that wasn’t suspicious exactly but was…careful. “Who is he, Maxwell?”
“Kurt Buck.” The name stuck in Maxwell’s mouth, and he swallowed it down. “He used to fight for the Resistance.”
Garrett’s brow creased. A frown appeared on his face, and Maxwell watched as he managed to clear it away to keep his eyes as kind as ever. “That’s not what I meant.”
“We’re from the same small town.” Maxwell turned away and walked across the room to retrieve the bar of soap he’d hurled in his fit of fury. More than that, Garrett could probably guess at, given Kurt’s greeting, but more than that, Maxwell couldn’t bring himself to explain.
Garrett didn’t press him for more, and when Maxwell came back to return the bar of soap to its rightful place, Garrett’s expression had become more careful. Guarded, calculating, analyzing. People tended to underestimate Garrett’s astuteness because of his size and his joviality. But he knew people. He always expected the worst from them, sure, but he knew them. He’d pick up on whatever Maxwell didn’t tell him, and a small—rogue—part of Maxwell hoped that he would pick up on everything, know everything.
A ping from Garrett’s data tablet saved Maxwell from coming up with another deflection, and he took the opening to retreat to the closet and rearrange a few boxes of bandages that didn’t actually need rearranging.
“Sebastian says they’re on their way,” Garrett called to him in a neutral tone.
Maxwell swallowed down the lump in his throat and nodded. He chose a box at random, pulled it out of the closet, and brought it to his desk. “Good. Some of them looked like they needed at least one dose of antibiotics.”
“Kurt’s on his way too.” Garrett approached the desk with footsteps as mindful as his tone.
Of course Sebastian would point that out specifically. Maxwell let out a delirious little scoff. Maybe he should be thankful Sebastian and Garrett were finally managing to work together.
“Maxwell?”
“Yes, I’m sure he is.” Maxwell waved away Garrett’s concerned voice. He didn’t have any more time to be pitiful. He couldn’t be a good doctor, survive Kurt’s presence, and collapse into Garrett all at the same time. “I could use the extra pair of hands if you want to stick around, but I understand if you have other things you need to do.”
Garrett growled low in his chest in a way Maxwell had never heard before. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Maxwell looked up at him and, for just a moment, allowed himself to indulge the part of him that wanted to sink into Garrett’s support. Strong, steady Garrett, who was always there. “Thank you.”
“Of course.” Garrett nodded solemnly, and a frightening bit of adoration spiked in Maxwell’s chest.
Maxwell turned away quickly and pointed at the far end of the room. “Can you look for the antibiotics, please? I’m going to find the saw to cut off poor Tyler’s cast.”
He had just pulled out the saw buried in the back of a cabinet when he heard the door swing open and footsteps parade in. His adrenaline spiked when he looked over his shoulder to see the Kaston prisoners, the old grizzled group, and some more prisoners that must have been from the ship he didn’t watch unload, but then he realized Kurt Buck wasn’t among them.
That bit of good fortune didn’t seem likely to last, but Maxwell straightened his back and lifted his chin anyway. This was his clinic, and he was in charge.
“Welcome! Find a seat, and I’ll get to you all as fast as I can.” Maxwell strode toward them and then called to Garrett. “Garrett, can you start taking temperatures, please?”
It didn’t take long for the frantic buzz of a busy clinic to soothe Maxwell’s mind. Temperature checks, physical examinations, disinfectants, stitches, antibiotics, and prescriptions for a few weeks of hot meals. Nothing that anyone presented to him was beyond his ability to help with.
After an hour or so, Maxwell even started to think the night wouldn’t be so bad, after all, when the door clanged shut, and he looked up to see Kurt Buck across the room smiling his winning smile at him. Maxwell ducked his head again to focus on pulling stitches out of a former Kaston prisoner’s arm.
He was fine. He’d known Kurt was coming. This didn’t change anything.
As he got down to the last couple of stitches, Maxwell saw Garrett approach Kurt, and his adrenaline peaked again. Surely Garrett wouldn’t start a fight? The man wasn’t a thug and had no right to go around picking fights over Maxwell’s dignity. Besides, Kurt could be nasty when he was pushed, and Maxwell would be the one to pay the price—Maxwell started to stand from the stool he sat on when he saw Kurt smile up at Garrett.
