Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
HUDSON
“Get your shit together!" Kowalski barked the next morning.
In practical terms, that meant scrub down the barracks, clean your weapons, and get injuries checked out before the next phase started.
Hudson had no injuries worth mentioning, but apparently everyone had to get cleared anyway. He grabbed his gear and headed toward medical with a handful of other guys, hoping this wouldn't take long.
The waiting area was already crowded when he got there—metal chairs bolted to the floor, the smell of antiseptic cutting through everything. Three chairs down, one of the guys had his boot off, foot bound in a way that didn’t look promising.
Hudson dropped into a chair and stretched his legs, ignoring the full-body bruise throbbing beneath his skin.
Beside him, Reed balanced an ice pack on his shoulder, misery etched into his pale features.
"You okay, man?" Hudson asked.
"Yeah, all good. Nothing a little ice can't fix," Reed assured him.
Hudson’s shoulders relaxed. He really didn't want to see Reed get derailed by some bullshit injury this close to the end.
A nurse called Reed in, and Hudson stayed back with a few other guys. He leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes, trying to will his body into something resembling relaxation.
"Hale."
Hudson's eyes snapped open.
Shaw stood in the doorway, hand wrapped in a makeshift bandage. His expression seemed neutral, but Hudson caught the tension in his body.
"Shaw," Hudson sat up straighter. "Hand still bugging you?"
"It's fine."
"Yeah. Looks fine."
Shaw ignored him and chose a seat across the room. He gazed ahead, spine straight as a rod, that controlled stillness dialed up to eleven. His good hand gripped the armrest, like sitting in the medical room hurt worse than everything else they'd been through this week.
"You know if it's broken they're going to bench you, right?"
Shaw glanced at him. "It's not broken."
"You sure about that? Looks pretty fucked."
"I'm sure."
Hudson bit back a grin. "You're real chatty today."
"Fuck off, Hale."
There it was. The bite. Hudson relaxed a fraction, glad they were back to this—back to the easy rhythm of needling each other instead of whatever the hell had happened in the locker room the other night.
Nurse Mitchell appeared in the doorway. Middle-aged, salt and pepper hair pulled back in a tight bun, no-nonsense.
"Shaw," she called.
Shaw rose and followed her through the door without looking back.
Resuming his laid-back position, Hudson almost dozed off. Ten minutes later, the door opened.
"You." Mitchell pointed a finger at him. "Come here."
Hudson blinked. "Me? I'm okay.”
"I don't care. I need an extra set of hands."
"For what?"
Her expression said his questions were both unwelcome and irrelevant. "Now."
Hudson sighed and got up, following her through the door.
The exam room pressed in around them, all bright lights and the bite of chemicals. Shaw sat on the exam cot, hand laid out flat in front of him on a little side table. The makeshift bandage had disappeared, leaving swelling across his knuckles and dark bruises blooming purple.
Hudson had noticed Shaw's hands a lot lately. Which was normal. Totally normal to notice that your training partner had good hands—strong, capable, the kind of hands that didn't fumble with gear or hesitate on a trigger.
Except Hudson had also noticed how Shaw's fingers moved when he turned pages in a book. The way his knuckles flexed when he gripped a rifle. How he drummed them against his thigh during briefs when something bored him.
Seeing them bruised and swollen felt wrong, and he wasn't touching that thought with a ten-foot pole.
Shaw wore a white shirt, sleeves pushed up, revealing tattoos covering both forearms. Dark ink flowed from wrists to elbows.
A mix of styles—traditional Japanese waves on his right forearm, abstract geometric patterns wrapping around his left.
Smaller pieces scattered between—dates, symbols, details too small to read.
The canvas underneath was all lean muscle and pale skin, more defined than Hudson had any business noticing.
He stopped so abruptly he nearly tripped over his own feet.
Shaw had tattoos. Lots of guys had tattoos.
Hudson had tattoos—his mother’s name on his left arm and a stupid cartoon on his right butt cheek.
But Shaw’s were different, intricate and deliberate, like he'd actually thought about what went on his body instead of just walking into whatever shop was closest and picking something off the wall.
The ink made his forearms look—fuck, Hudson didn't know. Good? Distracting? He wanted to touch them, which was a weird thought to have about another guy's arms.
Shaw’s eyes snapped up, widening a fraction before his expression smoothed out again. "What's he doing here?"
"Helping." She gestured to Hudson. "Come. Stand behind him."
Hudson didn't move. "Why?"
"Because I need to manipulate the joint and he needs to stay still." She said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Now get over here before I decide you both need tetanus shots."
Hudson’s eyes cut to Shaw. Shaw ignored him, face blank, eyes fixed on the wall across from him like he could will himself somewhere else through sheer force of focus.
This was going to be weird.
Hudson moved behind the cot, acutely aware of how small the room felt. Shaw didn't say anything. Didn't move. Just sat there radiating tension like a live wire.
"Hold his arm," Mitchell instructed. "Keep it steady. He's going to want to pull away."
"I'm not going to pull away.”
"Everyone says that,” Mitchell said matter-of-factly.
Hudson reached out and gripped Shaw's forearm below the elbow. Heat seared through his palm, smooth skin over solid muscle.
"Get in closer," Mitchell said. "He's stronger than he looks."
Hudson stepped forward, chest to Shaw’s defined back. His heart rate kicked up. His throat went dry.
He’d touched plenty of guys during training—grappling, sparring, hauling someone’s ass out of the mud—but this felt different. His upper body pressed into Shaw’s, fingers wrapping around his forearm. Shaw’s pulse beat rapidly under Hudson’s grip, even though his face showed nothing.
Mitchell took Shaw's hand in both of hers, fingers probing carefully along the bones. "This is going to hurt."
"It’s okay,” Shaw said flatly.
She pressed down.
Shaw inhaled through his nose, every muscle in his arm going rigid under Hudson's touch.
"Breathe," Hudson said before he could stop himself.
Shaw glanced at him over his shoulder. "I am breathing."
"Could've fooled me."
Mitchell manipulated something and Shaw's entire body went taut. Hudson tightened his grip, anchoring him.
"Almost done," she assured him.
Hudson didn’t know which of them she was trying to calm.
He suddenly didn't give a shit about the hand. Not when Shaw’s spine aligned with his chest. When he was noticing a birthmark below Shaw’s hairline. His pulse beating visibly at the base of his throat—revealing his discomfort.
Hudson’s exhale stirred the short hairs at Shaw’s nape.
It all hit him at once. The forced proximity and the messed up state of Shaw’s hand. Swollen and bloody. His stomach turned and the room tilted.
Oh fuck.
He swayed a little.
"You good?" Shaw asked, voice strained but somehow still managing to sound amused.
"Fine."
Nurse Mitchell did something else—something that involved a crack Hudson felt more than heard—and Shaw went rigid again. Hudson's vision swam.
"Hale," Shaw said, more serious now. "You look terrible."
"I'm all right."
"You're about to pass out."
"I'm not—"
The room tilted further. His grip on Shaw's arm loosened and he took a step back, trying to find balance that had apparently decided to abandon him entirely.
"Sit down." Mitchell didn’t even look up. "Head between your knees. Now."
Hudson sat. Or fell. It was hard to tell which. The chair caught him and he dropped his head forward, blood rushing in his ears.
"Thought you were military," Shaw said, amusement lacing his voice.
"Shut up," Hudson muttered into his knees.
"Can't handle a little medical procedure?"
"I can handle it fine."
"If you say so."
Mitchell finished whatever she was doing and stepped back. "Ice it. Twenty minutes on, twenty off. If it's not better in two days, come back."
Shaw flexed his hand, testing the range of motion. "Thank you.”
She focused on Hudson, still folded over in the chair. "Besides the sudden dizziness, is there anything else you need checked out?”
“Nope. All good.”
“All right. I’ll clear you. Try not to faint in the hallway."
Hudson straightened slowly, waiting for the room to stop spinning. Shaw jumped off the exam cot, cradling his hand against his chest. His gaze went to Hudson’s face immediately, checking.
"You okay?”
"Yeah,” Hudson croaked. “Just stood up too fast."
Shaw’s mouth twitched. "Sure."
They walked out together, Hudson still feeling vaguely light-headed and Shaw clearly trying not to laugh.
"Not a word," Hudson said as they reached the hallway.
"You almost face-planted in a medical exam room because of a little hand injury."
"I did not almost face-plant." Hudson scoffed.
"You went gray."
Hudson stopped walking and turned to face him. "You're really enjoying this, aren't you?"
Shaw smiled. Actually smiled. Not a smirk or a half-formed thing—a real smile that made Hudson’s stomach do a stupid, complicated flip.
"Yes. I really am."
Hudson shook his head. "You're an asshole."
"So I've been told." Shaw flexed his wrapped hand again. "Try not to pass out on your way back, Hale."
"Screw you."
Shaw walked away, still smiling, leaving Hudson standing in the hallway like an idiot.
That evening, Hudson found himself in the rec room. It was worn down, consisting of a few beaten-up couches, a table with mismatched chairs, and some ancient magazines no one read.
He was simply looking for somewhere quiet to decompress. The fact that Shaw was in the corner reading—the only one here—had nothing to do with it.