Christmas at the Cabin | ONC 2023 (Complete)

Six | Tell Me What to Do

I wake with a start, shoulder pulsing in pain.

Something's wrong.

My eyes slip open and it's too dark. Too cold.

"Damien," I shout. "Where are you?"

"I'm..." his voice wafts in from the other room. "I was trying not to wake you."

He rounds the corner in his winter gear, hands blackened from the charcoal he must be trying to reignite in the darkness.

"Are you trying to tell me you're secretly very kind under that tough candy coating?"

"Haven't you had enough with the food metaphors yet?" he grumps. "I can't even start a fire and let the injured guide sleep. I have to wake her up for that, too."

"You aren't incompetent." I curl further under my covers. "You know that right?"

"I'm not competent either." I think he shrugs, but it's too dark to see much more than his outline which makes reading him very difficult.

I'm not sure he can see me smiling, but I hope he can hear the truth. "You just need time to learn."

"Time to learn?"

"Yeah, you know this concept of getting better at something over time? Not all of us are born good at everything so sometimes we have to let other people guide us or show us what to do in order to figure out how to become competent ourselves. It's really cool. You should try it sometime."

He sighs, and a long moment passes between us, the wind still whistling through the trees.

"Amelia?" he asks. "Will you help me build the fire?"

"Why, Damien, I thought you'd never ask. But I'm freezing and do not want to leave my bed. Except I must because my shoulder hurts just enough that I don't think I'll be able to sleep without more painkillers."

"Direct me," he says, voice low and gravelly.

"Direct you to what?" Maybe I'm too tired to understand what's going on but I'm really not understanding what he's asking me to do. "What am I supposed to do?"

"What do you want?" he asks.

"I don't know, to be warm?" I ask like it's a question and not a response.

"Do you want me to get your coat? Bring you some medicine? Turn on a lamp? Light a fire? Pick you up?"

"Wouldn't mind that last one," I giggle despite myself.

"Do try to be serious," he sighs, and I can make out the vague outline of him resting his hands on his hips.

"I am being serious," I reply. "I really wouldn't mind you picking me up."

"Are you coming on to me?"

"The medicine must be making me loopy," I say, giving us both an out from this growing awkwardness, but he won't let it go.

"Ibuprofen doesn't make you loopy, Amelia. Be serious. What do you want?"

"You," I answer, serious but testing the waters. I wait a breath and he doesn't say anything, so neither do I.

"You really are delirious," he replies. "There's no way in your right mind you'd be this forward. Help me figure out how to relight the fire, please."

"Bring me my coat," I sigh, scooting over to the edge of the sofa bed. "I'll help."

"You shouldn't be up, feeling this poorly."

"I don't feel poorly at all, asshole. You're the only one making excuses tonight. Now get me my damn coat and I'll fix the fire."