Once the adrenaline wore off, Brian found it difficult to focus his gaze onto the street and keep the car straight. He just hoped that no police patrol spotted him and he was lucky with that.
When he got out of his car and slammed the door shut, he leaned on it heavily for a few seconds until he felt like he could walk up the two flights of stairs to his flat. Still, he had to pause several times on his way.
He managed to lock his door safely behind him and made his way over to the bathroom. His forearm was bleeding severely and he pressed the first towel he could get his hands on to it. He rummaged through the contents of the first-aid kit one-handed and found a bandage that he wrapped tightly around the small towel and his arm before securing it in place with some tape. When he was done, he just felt incredibly tired. He barely made it to his bed over in the corner and fell onto it, quite possibly passed out before he even hit the mattress.
When he woke up, he felt the sun shining through the window over his head. He sat up cautiously and felt a wave of nausea overcome him. He stumbled into the bathroom, retching over the toilet but his stomach was empty, as he hadn´t eaten anything since lunch the day before.
He was quite sure then that he had a concussion, the constant dizziness he felt another distinct sign for it. Besides, his whole body felt like a single bruise and now that he moved more consciously, he felt his ribs protesting at every turn. Just great.
Once he could stand up again, he took off his sweater and then tried to get rid of the T-shirt underneath but the blood had dried and it was stuck to the cut on his back. He kept tugging, feeling a sharp pain coming from between his shoulder blades. When he tried bringing his arms up, they felt heavy as lead and he gave up, instead walking over to a cupboard near the stove and grabbing a pair of scissors. He cut the right sleeve and side of his shirt with his left hand, since he could hardly move his right arm, let alone lift it.
The front of the garment came off, now dangling from his left shoulder where it was still held in place. Taking a deep breath, he then jerked on the hem in the back, flinching as the material got loose tearing the wound on his back open again in the process. He shrugged it down his left arm and it glided to the ground.
He went back to the bathroom and had a look in the mirror. It wasn't very encouraging. His torso was laced with blue, red and deep purple bruises and the hands of the guys holding him down had left nice marks on his upper arms, too. He didn´t think they broke any ribs, though, which was good, although they still hurt as hell with every move he made.
Turning, he saw blood running down his spine from a rather shallow cut that would be annoying when he moved his shoulders, but wasn´t something to worry about too much. The sweater had probably made it difficult for Gibbs to see how deep he´d cut and so there was less damage.
His face looked reasonably well, although there was a bruise on his cheekbone and a slight graze as well as a small cut on his forehead which would be invisible if he pushed his hair down a bit. The blood on the side of his head had dried and when he felt it up it didn´t seem to be an open wound anymore which was good enough.
His right forearm was by far the worst. He had removed the bandage and towel with some difficulty, because it stuck to the wound just like the shirt. The cut ran from his elbow almost all the way down to his wrist and was definitely deep enough to need stitches. Brian also registered that the towel was deep red, which meant he had lost a lot of blood and should probably get to the hospital immediately. The problem was, he couldn´t. They would ask him questions and probably call the cops, if they recognised the bruises on his upper arms as the handprints they were. And just when had he become that much of a criminal that he feared the interference of the police enough to not seek out medical treatment for a serious injury? Brian didn't dare to dwell on that subject any further.
Ultimately, he ended up putting several pads on his forearm and wrapping it tightly and fuck, that hurt. He then popped some painkiller and gulped it down with a glass of water, although the nausea hadn´t quite left him yet.
It was then that his phone went off and he almost jumped feeling it vibrate in his pocket. Chestner was calling him. He contemplated for a second whether he should just ignore him, but that wouldn´t make explaining any easier, so he took the call.
"Yeah?" he said, trying to sound indifferent.
"O'Conner!" Brian almost winced at the loudness and held the phone further away from his ear.
"I've been trying to get a hold of you for hours!" Oh, had he? Well, that concussion must have had Brian sleeping like a log if he hadn´t noticed it.
"Sorry, I accidentally left my phone in the car last night." Brian didn´t want to have to explain everything that had happened, so he decided to make up some lies.
"Last night?! Oh right, and you didn't notice until now, huh?"
"Well, it was just a few hours, so calm down." Brian was getting more annoyed by the second. Having Chestner shouting at him was not what he needed right now. Not that there was a time when he would need it, but right now was really bad timing.
"A few hours? I texted you some twenty hours ago! What's wrong with you, O'Conner?"
Wait, twenty hours? Brian cast a glance at his watch for the first time since he'd woken up and noticed that it was already three p.m. Oh shit. He'd been out for twelve hours.
"Look, I'm sorry, things didn't go as I expected, okay?" Brian didn't see the point in lying there. He was quite sure that Jordan Gibbs would have double-checked his car by now and found that Brian had messed with the engine. So, he wouldn't lose tonight, at least not for certain.
"What happened?" Chestner seemed to have calmed down a bit, although he still sounded pissed off.
Brian quickly explained that Jordan had caught him red-handed and that he'd managed to get away before they could ask him any questions. He deliberately left out everything in between, not wanting to provide Chestner with the amusing image of him getting beaten up.
The cop was angry, of course, but he knew it wasn't Brian's fault. It was bad luck that Jordan had decided to boast about his car in front of his friends in the middle of the night.
When Brian got off the phone, his headache was worse despite the painkiller. He knew he should grab something to eat and just lie down, but he had promised his boss to pick up some parts for a customer today, that weren't easy to get a hold of – which was probably why his boss had bought them on the black market and safely stored them away at a friend's garage where Brian was supposed to get them today.
So, not really keen on showering with the cuts on his body, Brian quickly dug his head under the tap instead – and ow, his ribs didn't really appreciate that movement – and washed the dried blood out of his hair, before putting on a black sweater with a zipper – which was easier than pulling a shirt over his head. He even found some make-up he had sometimes used to cover up bruises before, when working undercover, and applied it generously to his face.
Going down the stairs and making his way over to his car had his vision blurring again at the edges. Damn concussion.