DAY TWO...
Trapper didn't feel so hot. But he was damned if he was going to let on.
Hawkeye had stayed home, like he'd promised, and now they were sat watching some awful daytime light entertainment crap by way of a distraction. It was supposed to make Trapper feel better. It didn't.
Thumping the mattress, Trapper changed position, sitting upright against his pillows with his legs pulled tightly against his abdomen, trying to ease the cramps that were spasming through his gut. "This is dumb!"
"I know, but it's the only channel we can get without the picture going all crappy."
"I ain't talkin' about the TV!"
Hawkeye swallowed. "I know that." Bristling, he pushed his chair back and retrieved the sandwich he'd made for Trapper almost an hour ago. "I know you don't want me here, and I know why."
Trapper gave a derisive snort of a laugh. "I'm not about to sneak out an' have a drink! I don't need a babysitter! I'm fine!" His lunch was placed on the nightstand for the third time, and Trapper eyed it distastefully, turning to stare angrily at the TV and tucking his hands under his knees to hide the shaking.
Hawkeye regarded his demeanour with a weary sigh. He had expected this to be tough. He had expected Trapper to be surly and bad-tempered and resistant to the process. He just hadn't expected to care so damned much! He'd thought separating from Trapper would give him the distance he needed to be objective about this!
Apparently not.
Sitting on his bed and wiping a hand over his face, Hawkeye tried to keep his mind clear and his thoughts focused. "Look, Trapper," he began haltingly, his throat feeling tight.
"Turn the damned TV off."
"Can I just–?"
"I said TURN IT OFF!"
Hawkeye had to try very, very hard not to walk away. Trapper's raised voice, despite the knowledge that it was the result of his detox, was taking him back to a place he didn't want to go. "Okay, okay…" He stood, crossed the room in a few strides, and hit the button on the TV. "There. It's off."
Trapper didn't say anything. He was just sitting there with his eyes closed and his head down.
Trying again, Hawkeye sat beside him, praying his patience would go the distance. "Trapper," he tried again as gently as he could. "I'm not saying this to insult you – I'm stating a medical fact. You're an addict and you're detoxing! Of course you're getting cravings, you don't have to hide that. I'm not here for you to impress – I'm here so I can stop you sabotaging yourself when things get bad." He paused for a moment, taking in Trapper's clammy skin and trembling hands. "I'm also here to keep an eye on you in case you get the DT's and have to take a trip to the emergency room. So, whether you like it or not, I'm staying. Understand? Are we good?"
There was no reply. Trapper sat, frozen in place, save for the shivering.
"Trapper?"
He reached out and placed a hand on Trapper's shaking arm. At last, Trapper raised his head. His eyes were narrowed, his teeth worrying at his lower lip. He was repeating something under his breath, a whispered litany that Hawkeye couldn't make out.
"Trapper, what is it?"
His breathing laboured, Trapper raised a hand, pointing at the empty space above the TV. His voice started to crack as he stated, in a hushed, panicked whisper: "There's something in the walls."
