It was frustrating for everyone. Mike was sick. He was sick of being stuck, of being in the hospital, of the nurses visits in the middle of the night and the light in his eyes and having to rate him pain on a scale. It was pain, pain was pain and it wasn't going to change. He dreamed longingly of the couch in front of the tv, how it felt when you sank in and it morphed into your body. A soft blanket tipped over his legs, a blonde head resting on his lap, watching the tv together. He wanted family, he wanted comfort. But he got visitors and General Hospital and the scratchy bed he was on. He was itching to break out which put strain on the other members of the team.
Briggs knocked on the door, waking Mike up from a nap. he had bags under his eyes and wrinkles in his forehead. His cast stuck out from under the thick black blanket and his hair was wild. He looked like a junkie. It's your fault the whisper in his mind went. The whisper that had always been there. Telling him his mistakes. His faults, his downfalls. His guilt and his burdens to carry. Mike's pain was just another weight upon the boulder on his shoulders. He was wilting under it but there wasn't much to clear it. He was Paul Briggs, he was Odin Rossi, he was an Agent's killer. He was a liar and a cheat and he was so good but he wasn't pure, he was ruined. But that couldn't get in the way of him and his care and all he did for graceland. So he shook his head and cleared his throat.
"How're feeling?" He asked, his eyes darting around the room, anything to catch his eye other than the stitches above Mike's brow and the cast wrapped around his knee, a foot dangling out.
"Better." Mike answered, as always. He was always better, getting strength. He got better and better and more bored as the days went on.
Mike flickered his gaze to the window, shutting his eyes and imaging the sea salt wind on his face, the breeze moving his hair as if he was cruising down the highway. He sighed. This was his hell.
Briggs bobbed his head and opened the window, watching Mike close his eyes. he averted his own, swallowing thickly and dropping his book down on the bedside table. He shrugged off his jacket, fingering the small scars up and down his arms. He scratched the back of his head, meeting Mike's reopened eyes. He'd opened them three weeks ago, bold and wild with life.
"I need to tell you something," Miek spoke, clearing his throat and turning his head to peer at Briggs. He gathered up his courage and put on his 'DC voice', "I'm getting out of here. Tonight. You can help drive me home or I'll spend hours on crutches. But I just can't spend another day in here."
Briggs grunted, biting his lip and fingering his necklace as he thought. Let him free Briggs, you put him in his virtual prison. "Let me get a doctor," Briggs stated and disappeared, the seat where he'd been felt ghostly.
The door swung open and Mike stepped in, avoiding the pond he'd stepped in after a familiar feeling day with a familiar feeling reaction. His life was a bottle of Déjà vu. He spotted the heavenly couch, ditching the crutches to hop and worm his way through the room. Briggs had his arm in a vice grip, his knuckles white from clutching Mike.
"You know that you really do need the crutches right?" Paul questioned, counting the seconds in his head that Mike didn't fall and trying to push the memory of him toppling down the stairs out of his head.
Mike just laughed, continuing on his way, slow hops towards his goal.
"Mike!" Paige shouted, sprinting towards him. she hugged him, burying her face in his neck and breathing in. She frowned at the missing scent of him. Replaced by antiseptic. "You're back," there was a softness in her eyes.
Mike smiled, "I am."
There will be another chapter, mostly with Briggs dealing with his guilt and the rest of the crew making sure that Mike doesn't push himself. Thank you all for the feedback and reviews on the last chapter!
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