Viral Love

Valentine’s sudden capitulation worried me. I washed up again, snapped on a pair of gloves and slid a stool over to his table with my foot. Those pretty red eyes watched me dully, disinterested. He needed a psychiatrist. Too bad Shin-Ra didn’t offer psychiatric health care.

I dug the first bullet out easily, but the second proved a chore. His flesh had already closed over, making the sterilizer I’d poured all over him effectively useless there. I had to cut him to get inside. As I worked, I occasionally made eye contact to check his status. No good. He’d checked out. I doubted he could even speak now.

The way he’d looked up at me when I prepared to cut his shirt off, still stung. He’d fully expected the worst from me. He thought I’d hurt him the moment he looked away. Of course we had no love lost between us, but I’d never harmed him unprovoked. And, he’d practically begged me to eliminate him so many years ago. You don’t fuck another man’s wife and expect him to ignore it, do you?

But Lucrecia would never come back to either of us. I had no motive to just torture Vincent Valentine, no reason to cut him up and use him for play. I had plenty of people for that. Even he had to realize I only had so much energy for a bit of fun.

I lowered his pants far enough to work, seeing the reason for his earlier nervousness. He went commando. He had a cock as large as mine, and the combination of drugs in his system caused a half-mast. I draped a sheet over him and began removing the last bullet. At least I knew now Lucrecia hadn’t been trading up. I’d wondered about that off and on for years.

He had an excellent body. I remembered him being thinner, more wiry and less muscular. He probably had women falling all over him, if they could get past his hygiene. He never changed out of these clothes, obviously, even if or when he did bathe. I recognized his lack of attention to sanitation as a symptom of depression. I had it myself. It’s terribly depressing to be me.

I had to sew this wound; it seemed resistant to his accelerated healing. Once finished, I changed gloves and brought a pan of warm water over. Carefully, I removed his dirty headband and threw it in the sink. He blinked at me, barely comprehending.

Slowly, gently, I washed his face and cleaned the blood from him. He stirred a little as I washed his chest with more fresh water. I tried not to ogle him, but it proved nearly impossible not to appreciate the firm, smooth body under my hands. I removed his pants completely, letting him keep the sheet, and wiped him of the blood on his leg. I then gathered up all his clothing. I’d have these dry cleaned before allowing him to put them on again, fearing he’d keep dirt against himself and cause an infection.

“Hojo,” he groaned. I turned back to him, seeing him try to wet his lips with his tongue. He had a very attractive mouth. Factually, he was a quite gorgeous man altogether.

He looked thirsty. I ran cold water into a clean beaker, stuck a specimen pipette down in it for a straw, and made the offer. To my surprise he drank all of the water. I got him more and he drank it, too.

When he turned his head I knew he’d finished. I went into the supply annex, got a gown and stood over him with it. “Your clothing must be cleaned before I give it back,” I informed. “In the meantime, you can wear one of these.”

Life returned to his eyes. He curled his lip at the flimsy cover. I thought perhaps I could find something else that didn’t upset him, so I went back into the supply room. After a ten minute search I discovered a cache of drawstring scrubs. Selecting the longest pair, I came back. “Are these more acceptable?”

Valentine looked at the black cotton pants. He nodded, but seemed reluctant. I released his arm restraints and put the scrub bottoms on his chest. “I’m finished. Go ahead and put those on and I’ll take you to your friends.” I walked away and gave him my back, but I watched him in the reflection of a stainless steel tray set up on a drying rack. I couldn’t take my eyes off him, not with his apparent need to smash my skull.

“Do you need the bathroom before we go?” I asked.

“No.”

His dark, husky rasp sent a shiver down my spine. I fully understood why my late ex-wife had wanted to hear that voice in a bed. I bundled his clothing and tied it all up in the vetoed gown, turning back to him. “Wheelchair, stretcher, or your own legs?”

Valentine attempted to get to his feet. He staggered and immediately sat down again, frustration and fury settling onto his fine features. “I can’t walk,” he admitted, and I knew the confession deeply hurt his pride.

I gave him his gauntlet, which caused a momentary distraction from his wounded independence. “The drugs will wear off in several hours. Your strength should return then, don’t worry.”

“Why am I here?” he demanded, his tone impatient and worried.

“You and your friends are going to help me cure X2Geostigma.” I unfolded a wheelchair and brought it to him. He fought my putting him in it, jerking his arm out of my grip so fast it unbalanced us both. I almost fell on him, and he nearly pitched backward off the operating table. I lost my patience. “Get in the wheelchair yourself, then,” I ordered, “but, get in it. You need to rest. By the look of you, you haven’t slept in a long time.”

“Your filthy cocktail of drugs is what makes me…” Valentine’s eyes rolled back into his head. He fell forward, not unconscious but close.

I put him in the wheelchair, dropped his clothing bundle in his lap, and put my lab coat back on. “Easy to handle,” I finished for him, perhaps not using the words he would like. “I’m not inclined to deal with you at full power and awareness. You’d tear my head off and spit down my neck.”

So saying, I began wheeling him toward the door. On the way, I grabbed a clean sheet and draped it over him entirely. “This will spare your dignity. No one will know who you are except the people who brought you here, and they don’t talk to the rest of the zolom in this company. So, loosen up and enjoy the chauffeured trip, Turk.”