The first thing Alicia hears when her eyes opened is murmured voices in the corridor outside. She half wants to scream at the unfamiliarity, the blatant rudeness of people almost certainly discussing her, but the tube protruding from her mouth would muffle a cry for help. Her only option is to settle with the blanket of silence — albeit even that being disrupted by the foreign bleeps of machinery. Day in, day out, she works with the monitors and interpreted the information so she can treat and mend sick people. This is different. Being the patient induces a certain sicky feeling that surpasses nausea: dread. Bubbling away in the pit of her bruised stomach, threatening to boil over like a saucepan filled to the brim. The last time she was this terrified dates back to her irrational childhood fear of dentist checkups. Again, never destined to be the sick. Always the do-er. Stars aligned and made her the fixer. But she cannot possibly stick a plaster over this.

Two minutes pass slowly and, patience never coming naturally, she decides to disconnect the tubes and heave herself up from the painstakingly neat trolley bed. Her muscles will cooperate if she just believes they can. Embarrassment washes over her as soon as she stumbles, catching her left foot clumsily on the bed post and cursing as pain ripples through her entire lower leg. She doesn't dare to look. It feels bulky and bandaged and odd. Firefighters that extracted them did say something about further blood loss, and someone removed one of her trainers at the scene.

Clinging to the IV stand is a safer option and will allow her to retain the blissful ignorance that is starting to slip through her fingers. Someone didn't secure it to the wall properly. An accident waiting to happen — she's watched so many patients mistakenly believe they were sturdy and then take a topple. Shit. Extending her arm without thought, she attempts to catch herself on the glass window. The resulting loud thud is probably enough to rouse the entire department, sleeping porters and all. An alarm starts to blare. But she hadn't meant to, for God's sake. If only her flailing arm made use of the mustered-up strength.

'Alicia?'

Like a rabbit in the headlights, he bursts into the room and almost flings himself into an urgent crouching pose. Amateur-dramatic and rather unnecessary. All it serves to do is anguish her further.

'What are you doing out of bed?' Ethan demands, tugging back the thin sheet slightly too hard. 'Common sense dictates you stay when you come round on ventilation and with an arm strapped up.'

She shoots him a scathing look from the floor. His attempt at understanding the situation, her, and everything else is woefully poor. Concern is etched into his expression but it is coming across wrong. On principle, she isn't duly listening to him until he listens to her. And that's long overdue.

'Mother of all scowls, thanks,' he chides. 'Up you get.'

'Don't touch me!'

He jerks away reflexively, a pang of hurt flitting from eye to eye as he appraises her. He doesn't have to say "I'm not him" for the message to be fully communicated; Alicia recognises the betrayal on his face like the emotion is an old friend. Footsteps squeak outside and fade almost as quickly.

'Three units of AB were transferred via air ambulance tonight from over sixty miles away. Elle brushed past, mint green Crocs squeaking even more annoyingly than usual, paramedics helping you stayed at the scene long after you'd been extracted and sent on your way here in the next unit. You were wheeled in unconscious and whiter than a sheet. Like some Halloween costume gone wrong, or very strong face paint. You were admitted and I sat by your side on one of those God awful orange chairs and cried for us both. 40 minutes of agonising wait that I wasn't sure I'd last. I didn't want to believe it or imagine another loss, any more darkness in this ridiculous world we live in.'

Her own lip wobbles. 'And the blood came?'

'The rest was a blur. I went to be sick and to change my blood-decorated scrubs. Someone read out your notes whilst the transfusion was happening, told all the staff in the room what had happened. I didn't even flinch because I had a hunch all along—'

'You get it, don't you?'

'Not really,' he exhales noisily. 'However, the thought that this could have been avoided if I'd acted differently that night will haunt me for a very, very long time.'

She manages to rise and stagger to the bed, levering herself in and collapsing against the pillow with exhaustion. Tears spring to her eyes as his words start to ramble, sounding chalky through his low and tired tone. No justification for events is needed, nor blame. Anxious, pale, sweet Ethan is certainly not in the wrong. Her own torment is inflicting secondary suffering on him.

'You're no superhero,' sighs Alicia lightly. 'Though I know you try your hardest.'

'There is no excuse for my blatant ignorance. You were my fr— you were there and I just let you get on with it. I didn't persist. I should have gone home with you that night, we should have had pizza. Failing that, I should have been your rock in the aftermath. I should have stayed with you so that he couldn't just turn up unannounced—'

'Enough now, please. This isn't your fault and dwelling isn't a successful pastime.'

Suddenly she finds it strangely easy to be the moral one, to put him in his place, to rationalise things. And if the costly price of helping the police see reason came in the form of injuries, then so it did. She would heal and come back stronger than ever. Frustratingly, Ethan is still looking weak and worried. He is meant to be encouraging her, not scaring her further. It is easier to think like this and direct angers towards him rather than succumb to the fact something might be seriously wrong. She wishes more than anything he wouldn't torture himself with hypotheticals and just bloody move on. Worrying is an innate (and stupid) quality of his. Normally he would fill the silence though, or at least do something to reassure her and ease her mind, because above all he is thoughtful like that. The situation is bereft of a "knock knock" joke. Or a chicken crossing the road.

'What is it?'

He frowns. 'Are you in pain? Do you need any more drugs? Would the oxygen help?'

'I'm fine,' she snaps. 'I want to know what the matter with you is.'

'Nothing now that you're safe,' Ethan replies, taking her hand and stroking her thumb.

'Tell me.'

Just try to rest,' he whispers, forehead creasing. 'Things will be clearer after some shuteye. I'm not moving.'

'Please tell me first,' she mumbles and locks eyes with him.

He nods apologetically, understanding her slurred speech perfectly as if her enunciation of each syllable had been crystal clear. Only he can do that. Either he now sees reason, has been moved by the crack in her voice or is too overwhelmed himself to keep the horrible news in.

'It's Sam.'