Page 100 of The Code of You

Neo lay beneath paving stones. One shoulder was twisted, his jacket torn. I crawled to him and reached under the shattered planking. His T-shirt was ripped at the chest, his skin split open. Beneath it, light shimmered. Structures that looked like charred veins.

"Neo?” My voice was a rasp.

"I am . . . functional,” he forced out, trying to free himself.

"You’re bleeding.” The word came automatically, even though it wasn’t blood seeping from his side. It was something oily.

"Don’t help me,” he hissed. "I don’t need your help.”

"Shut up.” I grabbed his arm and ignored his hiss.

He pushed against the stones. One by one they fell away. With a groan he stood, still shaking. I pulled his arm over my shoulders. His body was heavier than expected. We made our way back to the apartment, his damaged body heavy against mine, the unnatural hum of his systems vibrating through my shoulder where he leaned on me.

The three flights of stairs were hell. He flinched with every step. More of the oily fluid dripped onto the floor. On the third landing, I fumbled the key into the lock with shaking fingers, pushed the door open with my hip, and maneuvered us both through. It fell shut behind us.

I helped him onto the sofa and pulled off his jacket. The tear across his chest was deep enough to make me dizzy.

"Tell me what to do.”

"The cupboard. Second drawer.”

I ran, found a metal box with instruments I didn’t recognize, bandages, gloves.

"Sealing gel. The clear tube.”

I found it, pulled off the cap. His skin was open and beneath it lay a delicate web of light and circuitry. The exposed structures twitched when I touched them.

"You feel that.”

"Yes.”

"Does it hurt?”

"It’s . . . a stimulus. The way humans describe pain.”

When I applied the gel, he clenched his teeth, his gaze flickering. When I was finished, I bandaged the wound layer by layer, breathing shallowly, the heat of his body reaching me even through the smell of burnt metal, and when I was done, I stayed on my knees.

"What happens now?” I gestured at the bandage. "Does it stay like this?”

"The gel seals the wound and supports self-repair.” He grimaced. "In a few hours, the tissue will begin restructuring. In two days, the tear will be closed.”

"And until then?”

"I am . . . limited.” The word came reluctantly, as if admitting weakness caused him physical pain.

"You could have died.”

"I know.”

"And you saved me anyway.”

"Because you belong to me,” he murmured. "No one else is allowed to damage you. That’s mine to do.”

I closed my eyes. Even injured, even shaking, he didn’t relinquish his claim on me. I wanted to stand up, pull back, but he reached for my wrist. His grip was weaker than usual, but still too tight.

"The bartender.”

"What?”