He was sore. In the dim light from the woefully inadequate overhead lamp, he peered down his chest at the bruise forming. It stood out, stark and angry burgundy against an olive canvas. But it only hurts when you breathe. Work on that, kid. He rubbed his eyes and tried to find a comfortable position. Willing his eyes to stay shut, he tried to sleep.
Hospitals and his own heartbeat conspired against him. While the monitor's incessant beep assured him that he was alive, it kept him from sleep that would help him heal. The odor of sickness and disinfectant assailed his nostrils, and every muscle (including muscles that were only now making themselves known), hurt. The IV pecked at his hand, the blankets made him itch.
His brain wasn't any help, either. It kept the events of the day in constant rotation, and if he could have found a remote, he'd have changed the channel. Forcing his eyes shut gave him a headache and sapped any strength he had left. If I don't have anything left, why am I playing the insomniac like I was born to it?
He let his eyes spring open. From his position, he could memorize the honeycomb pattern of the net that bordered the curtain top. He examined the metal hooks with care, noted how they swayed gently when the air conditioning kicked on. The cough to his left caught his attention, but the patient was hidden from his view. He sighed in frustration and immediately regretted it. What did we say, kid? Stop this breathing crap. As he got his breathing under control, he noted another sound.
Someone was humming, perhaps singing very softly. He concentrated on that noise, straining to identify the tune. Even as it grew louder, the singer drawing closer, he didn't recognize the tune. Soon, he could make out footsteps accompanying the noise. Deciding to feign sleep, he forced his eyes shut once more.
The curtain was drawn gently aside and a young woman entered his semi-private area. She hummed something gentle, soothing as she carefully (and quietly) set out her supplies on the bedside table. He felt the IV tubing move along his arm as she changed the bag. A fresh burst of cool liquid entered his veins. He'd never particularly cared for the sensation.
She walked to the end of the bed and retrieved his chart.
"Would you like something for the pain Mister, excuse me, Agent Eppes?" she asked softly. When he failed to answer, she came to his left side and set the chart on the table with the expended IV bag. "I know that you're awake," she confided in a whisper. "Your breathing is not regular and deep, and your orbicularis occuli are about to give out on you. If you don't open your eyes voluntarily, I'll be forced to touch you with a very cold stethoscope."
Don admitted defeat and opened his eyes. She rewarded him with a smile.
"My name is Maggie. Where does it hurt?"
"All over. But it's just soreness. I don't need any drugs." She checked the time on her watch and completed her charting.
"Maybe something to help you sleep, then," she suggested.
"No, Maggie," he replied vehemently. She sighed.
"It's important that you sleep. Your body needs the time to rest and rebuild." He put a hand up as if to defend himself.
"You're preaching to the choir. I'd love to get some shuteye. I just- just can't. And I hate the way drugs make me feel," he added as an afterthought. She considered this and checked her watch.
"May I suggest an alternative?" Don nodded.
"Can I touch you?" He looked at her strangely, but once again nodded his assent.
"Close your eyes." She began rubbing her hands together briskly as he forced his eyes closed once more. Suddenly, he felt her hands in his hair, gently stroking in all directions. She began working her way slowly down his head to his face, always keeping contact with at least one hand. The gentle strokes across his forehead relieved some of the stress of keeping his eyes closed, and he began to relax.
"What is this, Maggie?" he asked.
"It's called effleurage. It's a massage stroke that induces relaxation in the muscles while slowing the heart rate." She continued her ministrations down the sides of his neck.
"Effective," he mumbled. Thanks, Maggie.
"Shhh." In time to her strokes, she began to sing softly, her voice assuming the lilting quality of the Irish:
I wish I was in Carrickfergus
Only for nights in Ballygrand
I would swim over the deepest ocean
Only for nights in Ballygrand.
But the sea is wide
And I cannot swim over
And neither have I the wings to fly
If I could find me a handy boatman
To ferry me over, my love and I
She continued to the end of the tune. The agent's strong features had relaxed into an expressionless mask, and his breathing was deep and even. Smiling, she picked up the chart and flipped back to her notes. She replaced the chart and left silently.