Sure enough, within the hour, Martin had made a noise as he moved his bandaged head. However, he wasn't talking quite coherently. "Ow," he moaned. "Where am I? Where's the dragon?

The hour seemed to creep by. At first Bradley tried to read a National Geographic magazine that was near his bed, but he quickly got bored with that. Then he switched on the television and after watching two episodes of Mr. Bean, he turned the television off and started to crack his knuckles.

He had only been doing that for two minutes when he heard the moan coming from the other bed. Glancing over he watched Marty start to move around. "Take it easy, you are in the hospital, and as far as I know there are no dragons here unless some doctor has a bad temper," Bradley said. He watched Marty closely, his hand poised over the red button, ready to call a nurse if Marty started to go crazy.

Marty's brow furrowed at the comment. "What happened," he said. His voice was low. His words were slightly slurred and it took him awhile to talk. Martin shook his head. "No doctor's like that." He was so confused. Martin swore he had been talking to a dragon. It had been wrecking chaos on some castle and he'd banished it. It must've been a dream, he rationalized or tried to.

The young man looked over at his roommate. "Oh great," he moaned. "You." He squinted his eyes shut and then opened them. A slight pout made his lips turn down into a frown. "Dang, I thought if I did that then you'd disappear…Oh well, can you take your finger off that buzzer? I'm not going anywhere, even though I want to see my bike. I'm too tired to move and I hurt."

At first Bradley hesitated but after a moment he moved his hand away from the call button "Yeah...nice to see you too." he shot back. Then the rambling started and it was enough to make Bradley wish he had earplugs.

Marty grunted. As he did, he rolled his eyes the best that he could, which wasn't very well – his eyes were puffy from black eyes. "So sincere," remarked the bruised and battered man. It was clear he was being sarcastic. It seemed that his brain was hardwired for disdainful remarks. After all, he was saying them after only a few hours out of surgery.

It took everything Bradley had to keep a straight face when Marty said 'so sincere,' because the moment he said that Bradley pictured Gollum from The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King saying 'so polite' in the exact tone of voice. Bradley had found that funny then and he found it funny now, but thankfully he didn't laugh or even smile.

"Your bike is fine Marty. It's over at impound under lock and key. It's not going anywhere. Is that why you left the hospital in the first place, to check on your bike?" Bradley asked.

After wiggling his fingers, he attempted to wiggle his toes. They also moved. That was a plus. Now, he would just have to see how his legs actually worked. If those were mobile then he'd be all set! He sure didn't want to be stuck in this room or any room for very long.

For a moment, his eyes brightened at hearing his motorcycle was fine, but then his eyes darkened when asked why he'd left the hospital. "Is it really any of your business why I left? Huh? Maybe I decided I wanted to go for a little walk and then give myself a worse injury," he snapped back.

Martin would've crossed his arms over his chest if they hadn't felt so heavy and he had been more lucid. "But, yes, that's why I left the hospital. I was only supposed to be gone a half an hour and then I was going to come right back here. I just wanted to make sure it was all right," he explained. "Do you blame me? It was my dad's all right? It's the only thing of his I own. It all got taken after his death. Besides, it doesn't hurt me like everyone else is hell-bent on doing. Sure, the falls might hurt, but not the bike."

He grew quiet and sullen after that. He stared at the footboard in front of him. Marty wanted water, but the dark-haired man didn't ask. Marty sighed. "You okay," asked the man with chipped, black fingernail polish. He pressed his lips together.

Marty tried to wiggle his fingers. They did. "Good, they work. They're numb, but they work," he rambled. "My head feels weird. Not as bad as at impact though. Did I scream?"

He watched Marty wiggle his fingers and for a moment Bradley thought the lad was ignoring him. "No you didn't scream. I think you hit the ground too hard to scream. I guess I do owe you a debt of thanks for saving my life. Right about now I imagine you are regretting doing it. One less cop to worry about, right?" Bradley said. He paused for a moment before saying, "I guess what I am trying to say is that it won't be forgotten."

He shrugged when mentioning debts and cops. "I was at the right place at the right time. I don't care if I have to worry about the cops or not. I'm just going to mess up, slip, and all's forgotten. To you, while I did save your life, I am still trouble and there's no helping me. Once trouble, always trouble – that's what they say. Everyone thinks that. I don't care. I really don't," Marty remarked. He looked away and it was clear he did care, if only a little bit.

"You're a bad liar, did you know that? I screamed. My throat tells me so. I kind of remember begging to make it stop. The pain was the worst thing I had ever felt. I don't think you could even imagine. It was like someone exploded dynamite in my brain," Marty said.

"I would have done the same thing if I was in your shoes. If all I had a bike to remember my father by, I certainly wouldn't rest until I knew for sure that it was okay. And, you didn't scream. You yelled but you didn't scream. Screaming and yelling are two different things and...you yelled," Bradley said.

He paused for a moment before continuing on. "I remember pain. I remember it being so bad sometimes that I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy." He thought back to the last few years on the force. He remembered a hostage standoff that led to the deaths of seven officers and he himself becoming severely injured. He remembered being inside a building, trying to rescue a little girl when the building blew up.

"I am not trying to make light of your pain, I am just saying that I know what it feels like," Bradley paused again while he listened to Marty's last remark. He definitely saw some truth to that. Most cops he knew were exactly like that, 'once trouble always trouble' attitude indeed!

He shook his head, but regretted it. The movement sent little spikes of pain burrowing through his scalp and into his poor, damaged brain. "I'm not so sure about that. I think a whisper would've been the same as a scream right then. Having my foot cut off by a rusty axe would've felt much better than cracking my head," Martin retorted. "I dub it the worst pain ever."

"Everyone makes mistakes; it's a part of what makes us human. No one can promise that they would never do it again because realistically it is impossible to do so. You have had it rough Marty; losing your only means of support, happiness…and love. I can't imagine how you can even cope with that day after day. I know I couldn't. When my mom died, I suppose I was lucky in that I was just a baby when she did, so I don't remember her and it's easier for me not to feel loss. But you...you at least got to know your father; you were very lucky."

"You may be thinking that you are alone and you will always be alone but that's not true. You don't have to be alone. I know it may be hard for you to understand let alone trust me but I want to help you, I want to be your friend if you would let me. I know that I am a cop and in the past I have been everything but kind to you. I realize that and I can't and won't offer any excuses for my behavior besides the fact that we are probably more alike than you would think. I know you have no reason to believe any of this but I do want to help you," Bradley said.

"I don't really think you do. I've lost everyone who mattered to me – my dad, my best friend, my girlfriend. My mother, at best, treats me like I don't exist, and at worst, treats me like I belong in the bowels of who knows where. To her I'm nothing but a piece of garbage that long went bad," Marty said. His voice rose a little bit as he spoke. "And uncle could really care less what I do or don't do with my life. As long as I don't bother him, he doesn't care. You know…he didn't even go to his own brother's funeral and he wasn't there to see him bleed out. I was!"

He stopped talking, a little confused at himself. Did he really just try to give Martin a pep talk? He had never given anyone a pep talk before; hell he had never treated anyone like a real human being before; except Lance, Lee and a few kids. Funny, he never knew he even had it in him.

Marty tried to shift, but he couldn't seem to get his body to move. Did that surgeon of his fill all of his orifices with lead? He needed to stretch - to turn. He wasn't used to lying on his back; Marty was a side-sleeper. He liked to feel his knees pressed against his sternum so that they were more or less digging into his skin. It created a sense of safety and comfort where he otherwise would have had none.

"That bike represents more than memories. It's family. It's the only thing on this planet I own, besides a few pencils, a drawing pad, and drumsticks," Marty explained. "When I ride it, I feel his presences because I knew his hands and feet sat where I was sitting. Speeding around the back roads and cutting corners short it's like flying. It's exhilarating. It almost feels like we're one – the bike's an extension of me and I'm the bike's extension. Nothing matters. You feel nothing but the heat of the motor and the wind nipping at your cheeks. All you see are colors – vibrant streaks of reds, blues, and grays melding together."

Marty bit his lip as his refrained from shaking his head. "I sure can't. In fact, I know I'm going to. Do you know why," asked Martin and then he answered his question. "I'm probably gonna go get a hit – some weed, a pill, something. I've been clean for two months and I can't do it anymore. Arrest me if you want… I don't care."

The man's scratched up brow furrowed and his eyes darkened a little as he grew thoroughly annoyed. "Maybe it's better I'm alone! Being alone means I won't be hurt. I won't lose anyone. I won't hurt anyone. I won't disappoint anyone," snapped the man. "Why do you want to be my friend? Why do you want to help me? What if I don't want it? What if I don't need it?"

Marty probably did need it. He was sure of it. But, the young man was never one to admit defeat.