AN: The first of many neglected fics in my sentbox. Trying to get all out of the way so I can quit with relatively few regrets.
There's a churning in Scotty's gut even before he opens his eyes to painful brightness. Hospital, he registers before all logic is drowned out by sickening panic. Kelly. A horrible vision of a ruined, mangled body rises up before him, and he struggles up awkwardly on the gurney. "Kel—" His breath catches, and he coughs.
A Spanish lady doctor is instantly standing over him, holding him down by the arms. "Senor, senor…"
He can't blink the horrible vision away, adrenaline blowing away the fog of his unconsciousness. "Kelly," he blurts, then says in Spanish, "My friend, my—the man who came in with me? How is he? Please," he adds belatedly.
"Alive." The woman's frown does nothing to reassure him, but her words are encouraging. "He will be well."
He will be well, she says. So why does Scotty feel like someone just poured acid down his gullet?
"What's wrong with him?"
"Tomorrow, when you are well, I shall…"
"No tomorrow. Now. Please." He's still dizzy, but there's the bed to hold him up, so he can channel all his effort into persistence. No way this isn't a Department hospital, no way the ER doctor doesn't know what happened to them… "Nothing you could tell me'd be worse than what I've seen."
Her professionally smooth expression falters. She nods. "They are serious, but he should make a full recovery," she begins, then starts counting off; he can almost see the chart before her face. "Skull fracture," she says, "linear… Oh, sorry, that means…"
"I know what it means. Go on."
She blinks, then continues. "You know it's not life-threatening, then. " She pauses, scrutinizing Scotty's face. "Are you sure, Senor?"
"Go on."
"His back…" She falters. "I assume you know what was done to him?"
"I can take a guess."
"He was—whipped, the signs are unmistakable. But who would do that to a human…"
"Doctor, go on, please."
"Th…there's some avulsion, some areas where the flesh is completely exposed – we've stitched what we can and bandaged the rest. That will have to heal naturally. Then there's the—his joints… you know…?"
"No, I don't."
"It seems – it sounds absurd, but it seems he was subjected to a trauma where the joints were forcibly pulled out of their sockets. The closest I have seen to it is in the history books, in accounts of the medieval rack."
Scotty finds himself frowning incredulously, remembering those horribly ballooned joints he glimpsed so briefly in the ambulance.
"Those are a problem. It appears to have been halted before he could be permanently crippled, but it will… Senor, are you all right?"
Scotty swallows against the dizziness that's assailed him. "Yeah. I…"
The doctor says something in Spanish, and a nurse appears, cranking up the head of his gurney and holding a cup of something to his lips. He drinks obediently, and the carousel slows, then stops. "As I said," she continues gently, "pressure bandages and the new advancements in vitamin therapy make it quite probable that he will heal completely, but it may take months, and he will have a hard time ahead of him."
"When has he not," Scotty mutters. "Ah, sorry, Doctor, go on."
"Almost done. Various bruises and abrasions, on the limbs particularly, nothing serious, except the bruised kidneys. But those should heal. We've catheterized him to be on the safe side."
"Bruised kidneys?" The world starts spinning again.
"From the… whipping." The doctor looks apologetic, and pats Scotty's shoulder as he clutches the gurney against another attack of vertigo.
"Can I… I just want to see him, for a minute…" He swallows, wishing the room would stop doing acrobatics.
"Senor, you have a concussion, and your hands—"
"I won't be any trouble—"
"Doctor," says the nurse, who he realizes has been standing by the doctor.
"Si, Juanita?"
The nurse whispers to his doctor – he hasn't even asked her name – who listens, then turns to him with a little smile, and bends to raise the head of the gurney.
"If you promise to be still, I shall push you in to see him," she says. "He is asking for you, too."
Kelly is lying on his stomach surrounded by IVs, wrapped in so many bandages that Scotty swallows hard. His head and face are barely visible; his arms are wrapped, bulky pressure wraps around his shoulders and elbows, his torso covered in white bandages with a bloodstain starting to soak through. His lower half is draped with a sheet, but it doesn't hide the catheter bag that trails off the side of the bed, filled with what looks like tomato juice.
Scotty feels a strange sensation, as though the world is falling away.
The movement stops, and Scotty feels the doctor come close. "Take a breath," she advises, and Scotty does, blinking slowly.
"Okay," he finally says, and the gurney moves again. The nurse lowers his gurney so he can more easily meet Kelly's eyes, and the doctor instructs her and she moves it again, bringing him close to Kelly, close enough to turn his head and look at him, close enough to touch. But he hesitates to move, to speak, staring at his partner's still, ashen face.
"You can touch his hand," says the doctor. "It will not hurt him."
He reaches out and takes Kelly's curled fingers gingerly in his, shocked at how cold the are. "Cold," he says involuntarily to the doctor.
"It should warm up when the transfusion makes its way into him," she says reassuringly.
He's been unforgivably rude, he thinks. "Gracias, Doctore."
"De nada," she replies. "Now you are sure the big bad doctors have not murdered him in his sleep, I will give you a few moments with him and then you must rest, too."
Her dress rustles as she leaves the room, and Scotty squeezes Kelly's hand. "Hey, Hoby," he whispers. "We made it."
He didn't expect a response, but Kelly's eyes blink open.
Scotty wishes they hadn't.
There's nothing there, no spirit, no life, the spark in them extinguished. They're Kelly's eyes, but Kelly is nowhere to be found.
"Kel," Scotty says desperately, patting the cold hand, wishing he could move better. "Hey, Herman, we made it out, see? See where we are?"
The blank eyes stare, unfocused, but then the hand in Scotty's twitches.
Kelly's eyes widen in terror, and he gasps, his breath making a high-pitched noise.
It chills Scotty's blood to see Kelly like this, but he reacts quickly. "Hey! Hey," he calls. "Hey, Kelly! Look where we are! Hospital! Snap out of it, man!"
There's a slow blink, then another. Kelly's eyes focus, and he exhales heavily, the air shuddering out of him as he takes in his surroundings. His eyes finally fix on Scotty and the gurney; when he speaks, his voice is hoarse from screaming. "Got y'self… set of wheels… I see…"
It is so wonderful to hear Kelly's voice that he doesn't even scold him for wasting his breath and tiring himself out. Still no light in his eyes, though… "Always wanted a four-on-the-floor," Scotty says gently.
"You… 'kay, man?"
"I'm fine." Scotty smiles encouragingly. "It is yourself we gotta worry about."
Kelly's face tightens. "Stanley's dead."
"I know."
"Killed… saw 'm… on the rack…"
So there was a rack. Scotty can't find anything to say, so he just holds onto the cold hand, rubbing his thumb over the rough knuckles. Unhappiness floods the hazel eyes, even that a welcome change from the deadness of before. "Don't…" Kelly mutters, voice a rasp of breath.
"Don't what, man?" Scotty murmurs.
"Be good to me. Don't deserve…"
"Aw, I can't believe … We are both too sick for this, Dopey."
"Why should I live when… brilliant scientist… if they'd taken me first…"
"Kelly, I swear I… will have someone come in and sedate you," Scotty says, feeling himself starting to shake. "I don't have the energy to deal with this right now."
Kelly blinks at him. "You 'kay? Hit you over th'…"
"Yes, I am fine. I have a concussion, which is," Scotty has to stop and gasp for breath, "getting worse because somebody is giving me a headache."
"Sorry." Even the guilt in Kelly's eyes fades, leaving him staring dully ahead.
"Ah, for Pete's… Kelly, please… I swear, I am too tired for this…"
There's no response.
The dead, flat eyes scare Scotty, and he grips Kelly's hand harder. "Kelly, don't fade out on me."
Nothing, just that vacant gaze, like Kelly's body's alive, but the rest of him isn't. It's terrifying. "Kelly!" Scotty calls, starting to panic. But there's still no response, and unthinkingly, Scotty gives the cold hand a little shake. "Kel, come on."
"Ah—" Kelly winces hard, crying out as the movement jars his wounds.
Scotty drops Kelly's hand as if burned and bolts up onto one elbow, leaning towards Kelly, ignoring his own dizziness. "Oh damn, what'd I—" He rails inwardly against himself as he looks at his partner's contorted face, clearly biting the inside of his lip. "I shook you, didn't I?" There's no answer, only that tight, heartrending grimace. Scotty could kick himself. He gentles his tone and tries again. "That hurt you bad, I'll bet. Where'd—where's the pain worst? Huh, Kel?"
"'Don'… I… 'right," Kelly gasps, breathing hard to control the pain. He opens his eyes, and it's clear he's in agony, but he's back – back to what? To pain and torture? Why was I in such an all-fired hurry to bring him back? Maybe he needed to go away for a while – and Scotty doesn't know whether to thank God or curse himself. The bloodstain on Kelly's bandaged back is spreading, and the man's trembling.
"Settle down, please," comes the doctor's voice from behind them. How long has she been there? "Mr. Scott, you can't be exciting him like this."
"I didn't… I think I hurt him," Scotty says miserably, unable to tear his eyes from Kelly's suffering face.
"I doubt that you could hurt him much in your condition," she says reassuringly, fussing around Kelly busily. "He's just hypersensitive to touch, as you can imagine, and the heavy-duty pain meds haven't kicked in completely yet."
"But his back…"
"Would be bleeding regardless of whatever you did or didn't do, and will continue to do so for a few hours yet. It's nothing to be concerned about."
"And…" He looks at the tomato-juice catheter bag, miserable. "His kidneys…"
"It looks bad, but they will heal. In a way, the drainage is good. His urine should run clear within the week." She gentles her voice. "You and your partner will need your psychological strength – I think they'll be assigning you some psychiatric help to assist you in coping – so don't waste energy blaming yourself."
Kelly's eyes have opened, and he's looking at the doctor, pain mingled with bleary understanding. "That goes for you both, Mr. Robinson," she says briskly as she injects something into his IV tube. "This should help you sleep."
"I'm okay, man… just need th'… fluff cycle," Kelly grates out, face unguarded. Then he reaches for Scotty's hand again.
The earnest, suffering eyes looking up at him, the bandaged hand outstretched, trailing IV tubes, make Scotty's chest tighten suddenly, and any hesitation he might have had about touching the injured man abates as he reaches out and very, very gently takes Kelly's hand in his. A tiny sigh escapes Kelly, and his tension eases as he closes his fingers around Scotty's. "Sorry, Hoby. Didn't mean to hurt ya," Scotty repeats.
Almost immediately, Kelly's breathing evens out; clearly, the combination of the pain, the meds and the sleeping-stuff have given him a Rams-linebacker tackle straight down into dreamland. Scotty rubs a thumb over the back of Kelly's hand, and almost jumps when the doctor addresses him – he'd all but forgotten she was in the room.
"Mr. Scott? We're about ready to move you upstairs for some rest. I'm going to put you in a shared room, if you have no objection."
Scotty babbles some kind of thanks; whatever she's seen, he's glad of it. He'll rest better next to Kelly. But this is bad, really bad, and as he holds onto Kelly's hand, he just hopes that their combined efforts will be enough to get over this. Whatever 'this' is. He's not sure he fully understands, yet. But one thing he does understand is this: that anyone who wants to hurt Kelly again will have to go through him.
With that thought, he follows Kelly into dreamland, holding fast to his hand like a promise.