Damn it. Why can't I just ask??

Foster has been really busy with school. He leaves early in the morning and by the time he gets back it's too late to do anything. Leaving me dying for the tiniest amount of contact.

"Another one? Let me see." Foster took my offered wrist and rolled up my shirt sleeve. There was a thin two inch long slice diagonally across my forearm, just above the wrist. It looked like a huge paper cut. I had been turning up with a lot of little injuries lately (all accidents of course...). They'd reached a critical mass, tipping the scale of probability for the level of accident-prone-ness that Foster would expect for someone of my care in personal conduct. "What happened?"

"I was using a screwdriver. It slipped."

"I'd think a screwdriver would have made a deeper gash." Doubt flavored Foster's voice as he looked at the cut and tried to imagine where my hands would have had to be to do that. It was possible, he supposed. But he had seen enough scars on cutters to know the back of the forearm wasn't an uncommon spot. It didn't feature any important veins, arteries or tendons and could be hidden with a long-sleeved shirt. The upper arm was even better, but a little harder to get to. Plus, forearm injuries were easier to explain – like, say, that you were using a screwdriver and slipped.

"There must have been a burr on it. It's not a big deal. If you don't care-" I started to pull my arm away, but Foster's fingers tightened around my wrist and I immediately desisted. Foster looked up at me, really intent, really trying to get into my head. In the last few weeks, I'd palpated more than my share of bruises, he had doctored scrapes, investigated bumps and in some cases just discussed ailments. He could tell there was something going on here. His hand around my forearm tingled warmly and Foster knew this was a staged injury. He also knew that I wanted his attention so desperately that it ached.

Foster swallowed and looked back down, trying to act casual. "No. You never know what might get infected. It's just that, you know, you might want to consider a safer occupation. Come on. I'll get my kit, but really, all you need is a band-aid." I'm hurting myself...to get his attention. To get a few minutes of him touching me, looking at me and...looking after me.

"Sure. Of course," I said cheerily, following Foster enthusiastically. My happiness confirmed his suspicions. We'd settled into a routine for these matters, I realized as we walked into the rec room where he'd taken to keeping the medical kit. It had quickly become inconvenient to go to his bedroom for it.

I knew my part to play as did Foster. We sat together on the couch so close our thighs and shoulders touched. I was relaxed, pleased and warm towards him, my face open and receptive as I offered my cut up for treatment. Foster cleaned the insignificant wound thoroughly before bandaging it, going through all the usual motions as he considered his realization about what I was really trying to get from him. There was a ritual to the process and now that Foster thought about it, there was an awful lot of unnecessary closeness going on here – unnecessary from a medical standpoint, that is. Foster suspected it might not be so unnecessary from where I was sitting.

Foster couldn't deny his own feelings about it, either. He got to take care of someone, or at least pretend to, and he liked that. It made him feel important, useful and worthwhile. He wasn't sure what to do about me hurting myself, but ignoring me would make the injuries I inflicted that much worse – things he couldn't ignore with any good conscience. Right now it wasn't a big deal though. He was half-holding my hand with one of his while the other smoothed down the bandage. "There," he said, smiling. "All better." He looked over my face again, taking in features he'd more than once thought were handsome. The current expression on my face was one of his favorites.

"Thank you," I said softly, making no effort to remove myself from contact with him. I looked back in response to Foster's inspection, my lips moving slightly, I wanted to ask, but I couldn't quite bring myself to do it.

"No problem," Foster replied in a similar gentle tone. What I wanted was so very human – it was basic. Foster gave my hand a slight squeeze.


Gabriel.

I'm trying to get into Foster's head about these matters...it worked for the most part.