It's like Déjà vu all over again.

I clench my teeth as a scream threatens to escape from my throat.

The needle pierces through my skin as I pull the thread closed and repeat the action. The jagged slash on my abdomen slowly mending together one stitch at a time.

The once white towel is resting on my lap as I sit on the vanity of my bathroom, my first aid supplies resting next to me. The towel catches more blood as the last stitch is made and I breathe a small sigh of relief.

"You should learn how to stitch, it'll come in handy if you're ever stabbed again." She says as she ties the last stitch. I grimace back at her.

"Why? When I have you."

"Who the fucks going to stitch me then?!"

"Better you die than I."

She sticks her tongue out at me as she packs away her equipment.

"Whatever loser."

She grabs her knife, flinging it up and down in her hand as she walks away from me.

She barely grabs the hilt before throwing it up again. The gleaming blade glinting as it descends again. It nicks Lilac but she ignores it and continues to throw. Knowing it will just be added to the numerous other scars.

"What are you doing?" I jump off the banister and grasp the knife in mid-air.

Lilac scoffs, her mouth opening in incredulity.

"You could get hurt." I snap as I throw the knife at the farthest wall.

"You just told me it's better I die than you." She points out as she walks over and pulls the knife free.

"I still stand by that. If you die, you die. If you're hurt, I have listen to you complain." I grin mockingly as I dart by her. The whiz of the knife accompanying me as she throws it at me, her laughter echoing off the walls.

My fingers are slightly numb, but I ignore it as I push the blood-stained towel against my stomach. Letting it soak up the rest of my blood.

Grabbing my first aid box, I dig through it, my fingers grasping the small items in my hand. Tearing the first one open I dab at the long cut.

It turns red instantly. I grab another and tear it open; it follows the other into the sink as it stains red as well.

Groaning, I hang my head and hop off the counter. Grabbing a random black shirt, I pull it on over myself and exit my room.

Walking down the stairs towards the kitchen and making my way to the far end cupboard, I open it and peer inside.

I know it is in here somewhere.

My eyes scan the array of bottles lined up in front of me. The clear and amber liquids winking back at me, grabbing the one I'm looking for. I shut the door and go back to my room. Thankful no-one is around to interrogate me.

I once again place myself on the vanity, slip the shirt off my body and fling it towards a random corner of my bathroom.

Twisting the cap off the vodka, I tilt the alcohol to my lips. I take a swig and then another once the first finishes it's scorching trail down my throat.

Closing my eyes tightly, I huff in resignation before opening them. Barely glancing at myself in the mirror, I proceed to pour the clear liquid along my stomach.

The diluted red rivulets washing from my stomach and down the sink.

Once done I take another swig before screwing the cap back on and placing the lid back on the vodka bottle. Placing said bottle on the other side of my vanity.

It'll come in handy later.

I bring the first aid box closer to my side and look for a piece of gauze big enough to cover the wound. Not finding one I grab two and the medical tape hidden in the kit.

I place the gauze against my stomach and tape it there. Knowing it won't be enough, I walk out and grab a tight singlet. Slipping it over my head and down my body.

It clings to my waist, holding the gauze in place. I slip on the loose black shirt over the top.

Slipping into the bed, I sigh and slowly lean back. Trying not to irritate the injury.

Sleep arrives fast and I welcome her with open arms.

• • •

The morning light spills into the training room as sweat drips down my back. Causing my white top to stick to my skin uncomfortably.

My stomach screams in protest as I twist and punch the bag in front of me. I clench my teeth in pain, hand flinching to the spot before I catch myself and relax. Focusing on the bag once more.

"What's that?"

The bag sways to the side as I throw a kick it's way.

"Ellie?"

Sweat drips down my face and I breathe heavily as a shadow moves in front of me. My eyes flick up to notice the strawberry blonde boy standing in front of me, face stricken in worry.

"What?" I huff out in exasperation.

"What happened?" He says, his finger pointing towards my abdomen. I glance down.

"Shit." I swear quietly to myself, but he hears it.

"What going on?" Cleo's voice joins the conversation as she trots over. The smile once gracing her face falling at the blood coating my white shirt.

"What the hell happened?" She gasps.

"Shut up." I hiss at them both as they stand still in front of me, my gaze going to where the other two men spar.

"But you have blood-" Liam's sentence cuts short as a voice interrupts.

"Why aren't we training?"

I tense at the sound of the footsteps walking towards us.

The blood continues to seep through my shirt, I ignore it hoping they would too.

No such luck.

"What the fuck happened?" Archer's voice bellows out as he comes to stand directly in front of me, my brown eyes clashing with his hazel ones.

He moves forward and I duck under the punching bag and walk towards my water bottle. My stomach screaming in pain at the action.

"Eleven?"

"What?"

"What the fuck happened?"

"Nothing." I snap back, bringing my water to my lips.

"Doesn't look like fucking nothing."

"Well then stop looking."

Archer sighs angrily through his nose as he advances towards me. His glaring hazel eyes rendering me immobile.

His warm fingers grasp the hem of my shirt, and he lifts it slightly, his eyes not leaving my own.

I throw my fist out. His fingers leave the hem of my shirt, and he grips my fist in his palm, forcing it down to his side.

"What aren't you telling us?"

"Nothing. I'm fine."

He glances behind me and before I can turn around my hands are pulled back behind me. I didn't even notice Clay move.

Archers' fingers grasp my shirt again and he yanks it up. His face paling as he takes in the blood-soaked gauze on my stomach.

His eyes meet mine as his fingers approach and he slowly peels them back.

His eyes widen when he sees the rough and angry red tear in my skin, half-heartedly stitched together.

I glance away as his fingers skim the outer side of my wound and force myself not to flinch from the contact.

A huff is heard but I don't pay attention to who made it. But I can guess.

Clay lets go of my arms and comes to stand beside me. His ever-impassive face breaking slightly to show the shock shining in his green eyes.

"What the fuck?" Clay hisses lowly, his voice sounding unbelieving. His eyes flick up to mine and I glance away, not wanting to stare into those eyes right now.

"What happened?" Archer asks again, this time softer.

"Noth—"

"Don't you dare say nothing."

"It's. Nothing." I grind out, watching his hazel eyes flash with anger.

A finger is pushed dangerously close to the injury, and I hiss out a swear, indirectly directed at Archer.

"Now. Tell me. What happened?"

"Shrapnel." I reply shortly, my eyes not meeting his but instead looking over his shoulder.

"When the boat blew up?"

I nod my head once.

"A day? You've been injured for a fucking day and didn't care to tell us?" he spits.

"I didn't want to worry you."

"Bloody hell, worry me? You're fucking trouble, Sarge"

I see Liam flinch before he and the others are making a hasty escape.

Leave me to deal with him. Assholes.

"Well stop worrying about me." I hiss quietly, yanking myself away from him.

"I can't. Now stop fiddling and let me look at it." He demands.

I take a hasty step back away from him as his hands comes up to clutch my shirt again.

"It's fine." I spit through clenched teeth as he ignores my step back and continues to come closer.

"Sarge." His hazel eyes glare into mine and I stare back, not showing anything but contempt for the man in front of me.

"Archer."

Our eyes stay locked on each other as we stare the other down. Neither one of us backing down.

Archer sighs and his eyes land on my blood-stained shirt.

"Please."

I don't say anything for a while, refusing to show weakness in front of him.

"It doesn't nee-"

"Humour me."

My shoulders slump and I stare away. Wordlessly giving him permission to lift the shirt and examine the wound.

I ignore the way his warm fingers glide gently against my skin and the goose bumps that threaten to appear.

Glancing back at my face, he hesitates before lifting my shirt and using his other hand to hover over my stomach. Not touching but the heat radiating from his hand burns, and I try not to flinch.

"Tell me."

I glance down into his eyes, taking a deep breath in, I flinch.

Worry flashes in his hazel depths. He straightens up, grasping my wrist in his as he drags me behind him and out the door.

"C'mon." He pulls me up the stairs behind him and into the bedroom.

He slows as he gets to my door, looking at me before pushing it open and proceeding inside. I follow and shut the door behind me.

Turning around I come face to face with Archer once again, I look away and walk past him, towards my bathroom.

He stops as I cross the threshold and lean against the counter, facing him.

I cross my arms over my chest and wait, one eyebrow raised.

"Take your shirt off."

The door closes and Archer walks deeper into the bathroom.

I grab the hem of my shirt and start to pull it up and over my head but my stomach screams in protest and I stop. My makeshift stitches burning.

I clench my eyes shut at the pain and a hiss escapes from between my ground teeth.

I will admit I'm not the best Doctor around. I'm more the reason people need assistance and saving than the reason they survive.

Hands grab my own and slowly unwind my fingers from the fabric. Warms hands trail up the sides of my stomach and I push one of my arms through the hole in my shirt as I stare at Archer.

He stares back unblinking, and his hands help me to get my other arm through the other hole. He lifts the ruined shirt over my head.

The blood-stained fabric falls to the floor, leaving me in a sports bra.

"Get up." He instructs as he leans around me to grab the first aid kit that still sits on the counter. His shoulder brushing mine before he straightens with the kit in his hands.

I lift myself up and settle on the counter, my hands clenched into a fist on my lap.

"We need to remove the stitches and redo them. Who taught you to stitch?" He says shortly, but the curiosity in his eyes outweighs his tone.

I look away from him. "Self-taught."

"Well, that explains it."

"I think I did an okay job."

"Yes, if okay means you want a hideous scar, pink tissue everywhere and an infection, then yes you did an okay job." He mutters. "Now let's fix it."

I hum at the back of my throat and clench my teeth.

I grab the half full bottle of vodka I left on the counter last night and take a shot of it. Trying to memorise the scorching heat as I swallow.

Archer grabs the bottle from my hands and takes a swig as well before placing it back in my hands.

"You need a clear head if you're going to be stitching me up."

"And I need alcohol if I'm going to be forced to be this close to you, it's called a compromise."

I roll my eyes and take another swig.

Before I know it, Archer is situated in front of me, an unreadable expression on his face as he examines my abdomen. His hazel eyes flicker up to my face for a brief moment and I feel his warm fingertips on my stomach. My muscles contract at the touch.

They trail down to my thighs and push them open. Standing between them he swipes the bottle from my fingers and downs some more of it, his eyes never leaving my own.

I force my eyes away from his and lean back, putting some much-needed space between our faces.

He steps back and rummages through the kit. Removing some medical scissors, forceps, gauze, and new thread and needle.

I watch as he sets each instrument down on the counter before he bends down and open the cabinet door. Retrieving a small glass and filling it with the vodka. He puts the scissors and forceps in there before removing the scissors and shaking them off. He bends at the waist and gets to work on my stomach. Cutting and removing the previous stitches.

Blood pours from the wound as each stitch is removed and I feel lightheaded from the loss.

Or that could be the vodka.

I lean my head against the cool glass and close my eyes.

His movements stop.

"You okay?"

"Mhm."

"You sure?"

"Yes. Just keep going."

He doesn't respond but his hands continue to go to work. After what feels like hours, I open my eyes to the touch of something against my lips.

"Drink it. It'll help."

I don't bother telling him I already figured that out last night.

I take the bottle and take a few big gulps of the clear liquid. Resisting the urge to splutter and cough as it flows down my throat like molten lava.

Archer takes it from my hands and takes another sip before he pours a little over my stomach and pats it dry with a towel. He starts to redo the stitches and dabs the towel along the wound a little more when blood starts to run.

I can feel the needle as it pierces my skin over and over, the searing pain from the wound making it that much worse.

I'm hoping it ends soon.