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okaywolfSometimes The Mountain Buries You is a queer novella about the monster that threatens your attempt at a much-needed quiet life. Check out the about page here.
Sheppard comes to town next with a gash across his hand. It’s deep enough that you’re suturing muscle muscle together—and subsequently picking out spines—before you can close the skin. You joke about the relatively tame injury, as though it were intentional just for an excuse to see you. He mocks offense, "I am of the opinion river rocks shouldn't be so sharp." You know the river rocks he's referring to are the shards and chunks of broken mountainside accompanying near vertical streams of snowmelt with little erosion to wear their sharper edges.
Sheppard waits with his hand held out and wide open while you see to Corky bringing his dog in for vaccinations.
When you return he hasn't moved at all. You wonder what words could be pulled from his head just then. He smiles.
"So," you cut through the somewhat loaded silence when you near cutting the sterilized Sheppard hair you're using to sew Sheppard's hand together. "You said you're open to some testing."
"In-house."
"Of course." You set down the scissors and inspect Sheppard's reconstituted palm in the light. He's watching you, but if that ever made you any sort of nervous then you wouldn't have lasted as this town's veterinarian for long. You don't know how you'd go about finding the right person to train in your stead.
The buffet of testing materials you spread across two trays introduces some hesitation. "And this is all for...?"
"Yes." You know that Sheppard has no interest in being a medical marvel. It's another reason he sought out medical care from not a human doctor, trail medic, or any of the medical professionals at the nearest distant medical institutions. "I have preferences which, willing," he nods, "I'd like to indulge and would like to know what measures I might need to take for my personal safety."
Sheppard is grinning when he says, "Like biting?"
"Like biting."
He opens his mouth for the cheek swab and you resist studying his mouth for a too long, physically uncomfortable stretch of time, for now. "I'm," he runs his tongue over where you swabbed, "—I'm pretty sure biting would... would be o... kay..."
The stool under you groans with how quickly you wheel around to Sheppard. "Did you bite someone?"
He leans back defensively and puts his hands up, stitches and all. "It was a bar fight." The "bar" in town is the back porch of the gas station general store that has a liquor license. That or an event at the town hall. It's hard to imagine finding Sheppard at either.
"You were in a bar fight?"
"The guy was fine! ...He had to go to the hospital, but they sorted him out."
"Sheppard, the hospital is an hour away from town." And therein two and a half hours from Sheppard's cabin if you're on foot from town, which continues to be your primary vector. You can't imagine Sheppard coming in to town without a medical emergency, and even the less dire emergencies like this one aren't desirable conditions for hooking up. And parking your four wheel drive hatchback anywhere suspiciously near enough Sheppard's cabin is next to knowing where Sheppard's cabin is and bringing someone to Sheppard's cabin on the not supposed to list. "What did they think happened?"
"Some kind of infection. Said maybe that was why he was in such a mood to start the bar fight."
You wonder if they administered antivenom. You wonder if it was the right time of the year for them to consider administering antivenom. You make a mental note to review the differential symptoms of neurotoxins, cytotoxins, hemotoxins, and proteolytic venom. "Fucking hell Sheppard." You get through taking a skin sample, working in your head back towards your actual goals. "Do I have to be on antibiotics just to be near you?"
Sheppard shrugs. "I don't know, you're the doctor." He's relaxed again, compliant to all forms of testing.
You are going to order the thickest nitrile dental dams you can find.
"Good idea." You smack his shoulder reflexively. He tries not to smile wide enough to earn another smack.
"Here I was, worried about diligent toy sterilizing." When he raises his eyebrows and looks over your shoulder you admonish his presumption, "I'm not going to use the office's autoclave for that, come on." You collect a saliva sample and study his teeth for openings. You give him a container to bite into either way. "Would it work like that?" he says, around the container. You hum, unsure.
"What if—" you gesture for him to remove the container, "—thanks—if it's only when I'm threatened."
"Like in a bar fight?" You're dubious at how threatened he could be in a bar fight, given the injuries he gets from what he's usually apparently fighting. It's near the end of winter but with the fresh hand injury and knowing the interior of his cabin, you briefly wonder if he has enough firewood. Like the probable root cellar, does he similarly stash firewood near enough by? Does he even actually need the warmth?
You're lost in thought for some while, labelling the tests you've collected so far. When you look at him again, he's the calm content you so appreciate his capacity for. "Bloodwork?"
"You're welcome to try."
Sheppard is as dry as ever. Finding blood in him is like searching for silverfish with a flashlight—or at least red blood cells, or solid components. You don't know if what manages to make it into the vial is pure plasma or contains white blood cells and platelets, but tests will determine as much. One of the first pages in the notebook reads, 'his blood retracts from open air?'
Sheppard uselessly holds the little cotton ball against his elbow. "You up to anything after this?"
You are working, he knows this. You serve him a flat look. "Are you?"
He shrugs. "It could wait."
"And you?"
"I could wait."
Sheppard comes to town next with a gash across his hand. It’s deep enough that you’re suturing muscle muscle together—and subsequently picking out spines—before you can close the skin. You joke about the relatively tame injury, as though it were intentional just for an excuse to see you. He mocks offense, "I am of the opinion river rocks shouldn't be so sharp." You know the river rocks he's referring to are the shards and chunks of broken mountainside accompanying near vertical streams of snowmelt with little erosion to wear their sharper edges.
Sheppard waits with his hand held out and wide open while you see to Corky bringing his dog in for vaccinations.
When you return he hasn't moved at all. You wonder what words could be pulled from his head just then. He smiles.
"So," you cut through the somewhat loaded silence when you near cutting the sterilized Sheppard hair you're using to sew Sheppard's hand together. "You said you're open to some testing."
"In-house."
"Of course." You set down the scissors and inspect Sheppard's reconstituted palm in the light. He's watching you, but if that ever made you any sort of nervous then you wouldn't have lasted as this town's veterinarian for long. You don't know how you'd go about finding the right person to train in your stead.
The buffet of testing materials you spread across two trays introduces some hesitation. "And this is all for...?"
"Yes." You know that Sheppard has no interest in being a medical marvel. It's another reason he sought out medical care from not a human doctor, trail medic, or any of the medical professionals at the nearest distant medical institutions. "I have preferences which, willing," he nods, "I'd like to indulge and would like to know what measures I might need to take for my personal safety."
Sheppard is grinning when he says, "Like biting?"
"Like biting."
He opens his mouth for the cheek swab and you resist studying his mouth for a too long, physically uncomfortable stretch of time, for now. "I'm," he runs his tongue over where you swabbed, "—I'm pretty sure biting would... would be o... kay..."
The stool under you groans with how quickly you wheel around to Sheppard. "Did you bite someone?"
He leans back defensively and puts his hands up, stitches and all. "It was a bar fight." The "bar" in town is the back porch of the gas station general store that has a liquor license. That or an event at the town hall. It's hard to imagine finding Sheppard at either.
"You were in a bar fight?"
"The guy was fine! ...He had to go to the hospital, but they sorted him out."
"Sheppard, the hospital is an hour away from town." And therein two and a half hours from Sheppard's cabin if you're on foot from town, which continues to be your primary vector. You can't imagine Sheppard coming in to town without a medical emergency, and even the less dire emergencies like this one aren't desirable conditions for hooking up. And parking your four wheel drive hatchback anywhere suspiciously near enough Sheppard's cabin is next to knowing where Sheppard's cabin is and bringing someone to Sheppard's cabin on the not supposed to list. "What did they think happened?"
"Some kind of infection. Said maybe that was why he was in such a mood to start the bar fight."
You wonder if they administered antivenom. You wonder if it was the right time of the year for them to consider administering antivenom. You make a mental note to review the differential symptoms of neurotoxins, cytotoxins, hemotoxins, and proteolytic venom. "Fucking hell Sheppard." You get through taking a skin sample, working in your head back towards your actual goals. "Do I have to be on antibiotics just to be near you?"
Sheppard shrugs. "I don't know, you're the doctor." He's relaxed again, compliant to all forms of testing.
You are going to order the thickest nitrile dental dams you can find.
"Good idea." You smack his shoulder reflexively. He tries not to smile wide enough to earn another smack.
"Here I was, worried about diligent toy sterilizing." When he raises his eyebrows and looks over your shoulder you admonish his presumption, "I'm not going to use the office's autoclave for that, come on." You collect a saliva sample and study his teeth for openings. You give him a container to bite into either way. "Would it work like that?" he says, around the container. You hum, unsure.
"What if—" you gesture for him to remove the container, "—thanks—if it's only when I'm threatened."
"Like in a bar fight?" You're dubious at how threatened he could be in a bar fight, given the injuries he gets from what he's usually apparently fighting. It's near the end of winter but with the fresh hand injury and knowing the interior of his cabin, you briefly wonder if he has enough firewood. Like the probable root cellar, does he similarly stash firewood near enough by? Does he even actually need the warmth?
You're lost in thought for some while, labelling the tests you've collected so far. When you look at him again, he's the calm content you so appreciate his capacity for. "Bloodwork?"
"You're welcome to try."
Sheppard is as dry as ever. Finding blood in him is like searching for silverfish with a flashlight—or at least red blood cells, or solid components. You don't know if what manages to make it into the vial is pure plasma or contains white blood cells and platelets, but tests will determine as much. One of the first pages in the notebook reads, 'his blood retracts from open air?'
Sheppard uselessly holds the little cotton ball against his elbow. "You up to anything after this?"
You are working, he knows this. You serve him a flat look. "Are you?"
He shrugs. "It could wait."
"And you?"
"I could wait."
