Done as a challenge on FB.

Usual disclaimers apply...don't own 'em, wish I did, make no money, lyrics property of the artist, blah blah blah.

Found in the Rubble

I dreamed that the world was crumbling down
We sat on my back porch and watched it
I dreamed that the buildings all fell down
We sat on my back porch and watched it-Matchbox 20, Busted

"So you probably got a concussion, yo. And they're kinda worried 'bout that neck thing. I feel fine but man I had to take a leak like a racing cbocobo by the time they all got done with poking and prodding. That's some shit, yo."

Rude lay on the gurney and wondered if his partner would ever run out of oxygen, or if maybe he had gills.

"So, Tseng has some stitches and Laney took a hit on that leg. No word from the WRO. Reeve was driving shit up to his lab in Kalm since ours is fubar at the mo..."

Rude turned a little, as much as he could around a cervical collar and a pressure bandage. All precautions; there was no reason to actually believe his injuries were that serious. There was nothing like some amateur trying to bomb the building when he and Reno were trying to sneak out for the latter's smoke break. Terrorists could be so damned inconsiderate.

Of course, had they been professionals, they could have taken out the whole building, or a good portion of it, and killed hundreds of people, not just a few floors on one side and part of a stairwell.

And why couldn't Reno catch a cinder block to the head? It would shut him up.

Maybe. There was no telling. Gods knew, there was no shutting him up now. "So first they're gonna do an MRI and a CAT scan on ya. You claustophobic? 'Cause I can talk to you through those little speaker thing."

"No." Shit, that wasn't too emphatic, was it?

"Then they wanna do a spinal to look for blood in the brain fluid. Takes hours, man. Don't worry. I'll be here to keep you company." Reno slurped loudly on his iced mocha and Rude prayed for death.

Reno was just way too damn cheerful. Was there an extra brick to toss at him? How long did it take to check for a closed head injury? And why had no one ever looked inside Reno's head?

Most likely, as Rude's mother had often speculated, there was nothing in there but bats.

A cute little nurse pranced in and took off the collar. "All right sir, the scans will take about fifteen minutes each. I'm sorry we can't give you anything for the pain until later with the concussion. But after that your partner promised to sit with you for the whole lumbar puncture!"

The planet fucking hated him.

Wheeled out of radiology, the first thing he noticed was silence.

Endless, blessed silence.

Had Reno been thrown out? Was he getting a mocha refill? Had he finally succumbed to verbally induced hypoxia? Was he in jail?

Rude was briefly concerned. Reno drove him to the brink but he didn't harm on him.

Most of the time.

But the next things that filtered through his senses were the smells of leather, coffee, musk shampoo. The last smell was so fresh, so dominant, it was obvious that the gunman had gone home to shower after his own morning of picking through the rubble for Reeve.

"I relieved Reno."

"Thank you." Rude forced himself to stop sniffing like a teenage girl with a crush.

"Here. The coffee will help with the headache. It only gets worse with the puncture." Vincent smiled dryly. "Experience."

Rude sipped. It was lethally strong.

"I took the liberty of having an espresso shot added so you'd have to drink less." Rude gave a baffled look. "Get up less," he clarified.

"Never had one of these."

Vincent gave a soft snort. "Every year. With an MRI and six vials of blood. Standard Hojo package with neurological upgrade; they just want to see how badly off I am."

Rude tried to not fidget. The immobility and the pinch of the needle in his back were insanity. "Call me next time."

"You don't mind?"

Typical Valentine. He'd drop everything to be at the bedside of a friend, but couldn't comprehend why someone would do the same for him.

"What are friends for?"