"You’re not my keeper." I scowl at him.
"But I am responsible for your safety."
"You can barely take care of yourself, let alone—" I squeak as he flips me over and braces himself over me.
"Oh, wow," I blink rapidly, "you’ve certainly made a lot of progress in the past few days."
He leans his weight on his arms. His biceps tremble and he scowls. "Maybe not as much as I thought I had, apparently."
Sweat breaks out on his forehead, and he finally lowers himself onto the bed next to me. "Damnit," he growls, "I really need to speed up my recovery."
I laugh, "Seriously, you have made tons of progress. You’re not a superhero, you know."
"Aren’t I?" he grumbles.
"Oh, my god." I turn and take in his features which have lost some of that healthy flush I’d noticed earlier. "Do you seriously think that you can be back on your feet so quickly after getting hit by a bullet."
"I do." He juts out his chin.
I burst out laughing. "You sound so confident, I almost believe you."
"Everything is in your mind." He taps his temple, the unhurt side, "If you believe in it, then it will happen."
"Is that your motto?" I ask. "Is that what makes you tick? This belief that you can do anything you want?"
"You don’t believe me?"
I raise my shoulder, "I’ve had to fight hard for everything I want, so I am not sure what to believe."
"What if I tell you that I can walk to the sofa?" He gestures to where a settee is pushed up against one wall of the bedroom, “and back.”
"Then I am sure you can."
"Want me to prove it to you?" He repositions his sweats around his waist, rolls over to the side, then pushes up to sitting position.
"No, really, I don’t. Besides, I don’t think it’s safe for you to exert—"
He swings his legs over the side of the bed, then draws in a deep breath. "Here goes." He pushes up to his feet, sways. I reach for him, but he rights himself. He takes a step forward and his legs tremble, but he stays standing. He takes another step, and another. His confidence seems to grow with each step he takes. He keeps his pace steady until he reaches the sofa, then sinks down onto it. He rolls his shoulders, his breathing heavy. He straightens his spine, raises his chin, and looks at me, "Well, what do you think?"
"I think," I shake my head, "I think you are pushing yourself too hard."
"Fuck that." He rises to his feet. "I am going to walk back to you."
"No, Axel, seriously, don’t—" But he’s already taking a step forward, then another. A third step and his body sways.
"Fuck," he swears. His body trembles and he stumbles a little.
"Oh, hell." I jump off the bed and walk over to him.
I reach for him, but he holds up his hand, "I can do this."
"Let me help—"
"On my own," he says through gritted teeth as he glares at the bed. "I am fine. I can walk without any one’s help."
He chants it like it’s a mantra. It’s as if he believes if he says the words enough, they’ll become true. He takes another step, sways again from side to side. Sweat beads on his forehead, trickles down his temple. He takes another step and almost stumbles. I move toward him when he growls, "Fuck this."
He pushes forward, placing one foot in front of the other quickly, until he reaches the bed, then collapses onto it face down. "Fuck," he growls, the sound muffled against the mattress, "fuck, fuck, fuck."