Your eyes flutter open and closed and open once again. You recognize that you're in a hospital, which is fortunate given that the last thing you remember is bellowing "Shit!" just prior to a fiery explosion cracking your head open on the pavement behind your head.

Now there were nurses and doctors flittering in and out of the room, which kind of bothered you. Having other people see you like this was enough to hurt your ego, though, these days, it was rough enough in your life without allowing pride to take hold of everything you did.

Your head kills like some kind of sick hangover shit you haven't felt since you were in grade school, and you know it's your own damn fault. You had a bad feeling about that van the moment you opened the driver's side door, but in spite of your gut feeling, you continued to do your job. It was almost as if you didn't want any of your brothers to find failure in anything you did. You were, after all, the odd one out. The Scot. The IRA reject. The pushover.

Your eyes adjust and you can finally see a face in the room, just one face. The expression belongs to a woman, one you've never seen before. She's in a nurse's scrubs, so she must be your attending. You can make out her features and suddenly you're on your knees at God's feet thanking him for the gift of sight. This woman is lovely.

With chestnut and auburn-colored hair wound in a series of natural curls and waves, you can see the Irish blood swimming beneath her skin. She's got freckles peppering across her arms but none to see immediately on her face. Her eyes are wide and are a shade of hazel you swear belonged to an angel before they gifted this nurse with them. Long eyelashes shade over her eyelids and you know that she's reading about your medical history by the change in her eyes over the clipboard she has in her hands. She is slightly taller than average, but you like that. Broad shoulders are hiding underneath her scrubs and you just know that there is a lovely body beneath that material.

Shite, man. Quit thinkin' about her tits and ask her a goddamn question.

"How'm I lookin', miss?" you ask, chiding yourself because you know you sound groggy as all hell.

She smiles over at you, and you can feel the warmth of her genuine attitude. "You look really well for a man who has survived a car explosion and a head injury," she answers, the sweetness of her voice surprising you with a tender British accent that makes you want to know her all the more. "You're doing much better today. Can you see alright out of both eyes?"

You nod. "I can see you just fine, if that's what you mean."

She chuckles, and you feel your skin sing. "That is part of it, of course. Are other parts of the room visible? Anything blurry?"

You shake your head. "Nothing is blurry."

She nods, her expression conveying that she is impressed. "That's definitely a good sign, Mr. Telford."

"Nah. It's Chibs."

"Done, Chibs."

You grin a bit and shift in your bed, your eyes watching as she puts your clipboard back onto the slot at the end of the bed. "You're from the UK, yeah?"

She nods, a kind of fond but sad smile stretching her lips. "Aye. Hampshire, actually."

"Brit."

"Indeed."

"How'd ye get here?"

"I could ask you the same question."

Touche. This woman's smart. "True. You'll be around, yeah?"

She seems to understand what your meaning is. "I'm not exactly your assigned nurse. I'm just the surgical tech who was present during your procedure."

You are disappointed to hear this. You want this nurse around every time you open your eyes. You silently vow to yourself to do what you can to keep her around in spite of her not being your assigned nurse. If you have anything to do with it, she will be assigned to you.

"You are doing well. Keep it up." She taps your leg lightly, a few of the waves you find attractive bouncing around the line of her face as she does so. "I'll see you around...Chibs." She gives you a smile and she starts out the door before you realize something.

"You got a name, miss?" you ask, a kind of cocky tone to your voice.

She doesn't turn back around to look at you. "Yes." With that, she disappears out the door and you're left in the silence of her departure, wondering who the hell this woman is and how you'll get to see her again.

::::

How dare she come here! Why the hell did she deem this okay?!

Fiona's presence has you rattled. Old feelings come back ever so slightly, but you would never go down that road again. That ship sailed the moment that Jimmy O took her and your daughter from you. In stealing your family, he stole your affection for your wife. Still, she is lovely and you have no doubt that Kerrianne is the same, but your love for her is gone and you don't want it back.

Her very presence is a threat to you and to the Club itself. You know this. You can't let her around you - not again.

When Tara comes in to check on you, you are more than grateful for her assignment to you.

"You're looking great - vitals are good, pressure on the brain is significantly lower," she comments, flipping over your clipboard.

"Got a question for ye," you manage, knowing that she will continue with her vocal treatment when you really need to get to the gritty part of what you require to heal fully.

"Sure," she says, sitting down on the bed beside your legs.

"The nurse who was here before - ginger Brit - why isn't she checkin' on me?"

Tara shrugs. "She's a surgical technician, not really a daily RN. She's an RN, sure, but she was reassigned to another patient after their surgery finished."

"I want her reassigned to me."

Tara seems confused. "The other nurses are more than capable of looking after you."

"It ain't about capability."

"Then what is it?"

"Trust." Again, she appears lost, so you enlighten her. "Fiona, my ex-wife was here, and then she wasn't. Ginger-Brit was still my nurse when Fiona stopped visitin', so I know she's the only who kept my ex away."

"You want a specific nurse around to ease your conscience and keep you from having to see your ex-wife?"

You nod slightly, knowing that that was the gist of it, but you can't quite claim that there are other things at play here. Not to Tara. She wouldn't understand.

"What's going on, Chibs? Why do you want Bea around?"

Bea. Her name is Bea. The ginger-Brit has a name, and that name is Bea. What a gorgeous name.

You keep your swimming thoughts about the name-drop of that lovely lady to yourself. The way you see it, it's none of Tara's business. It's none of anyone's business.

"Whatever you can do, Doc, please do," is all that you request of her and, as she leaves your room, you shut your eyes and know that she has given you her word in her silence.