So by now you all know I'm an HC junkie. Right? Right. Thus most of my fics involve SOME measure of Hurt/Comfort. And it usually falls into the same role. Character A gets hurt, and character B fusses. A lot. If this ever gets old, let me know. :P
First thing Mike notices is there's a lot of activity next to him, which is weird because everything was kind of blurred and quiet, dark and motionless, not that long ago. His eyes snap open as he remembers-- the sensations from earlier is because that insane idiot, Ortiz, leapt on top of him after he and Morrison were counted out during their match.
His eyes snap open and track the sounds of hurried speech before dropping on something that's become disturbingly familiar in the past few months. Morrison, surrounded by a cluster of refs, and trainers, and-- and... EMTs? He knows then it's bad and all the aggravation he's been holding in since their match drains out like a seive as he scurries awkwardly over, pain stabbing up his rib cage from the splash earlier. "What happened?" he demands, leaning over to get a good look at his partner. John's pale, breathing shallowly as the EMTs work on him. No one responds, so he speaks in a forceful tone. "What happened?!"
The ref whose name he can never remember who officiated their match finally turns to him and explains how Ortiz attacked Morrison, how John got up briefly, just to collapse again shortly after the show ended.
Before Miz can ask anything, an EMT turns to him. "What's his recent medical history?"
"Uhh, he had a sinus infection a couple weeks ago, but that cleared up and he's been fine since. What's going on?"
"Think his lung was punctured... He definitely has some broken ribs, and he's having problems breathing. We have to move him now. Let's go."
Miz is left behind briefly, dazed on the ring apron, as they prep Morrison and then roll him onto a stretcher, speeding it to a waiting ambulance. "Wait, wait," he mutters desperately, coming back to himself and dashing after the stretcher.
--
Mike hates hospitals. They become a common occurrence, especially in WWE, but it still sucks to wait for news in a lifeless waiting room, especially if it's your tag partner who's far, far away getting who knows what done to him because you were down on the mat while he got beat up. The month's been pretty damn bad for Miz, but downright horrible for Morrison between them being on a losing spree, the sinus infection, higher ups ragging on his ability and now this tonight. No wonder his temper's been so combustible lately...
"John Morrison? Anyone here with John Morrison?" the familiar voice of the doctor that Miz talked with briefly earlier calls through the waiting room before locking eyes with him as he gets up and heads over.
"How is he, doc?"
"He's stabilized, and in his room now. We put him on oxygen, and put a chest tube in just to be safe. We'll be monitoring him closely for awhile, so a nurse'll be in shortly."
Miz nods, taking it all in quietly. "When do I have to leave?" At the doctor's confused look, he clarifies. "Visiting hours."
"Oh. Well, Mr. Morrison has a private room, so the nurses will probably give you some leeway with it. Just don't stay all night; the patients aren't the only ones who need sleep, after all." With a small smile, the doctor points two doors away. "There's his room."
Mike nods, mumbles a quick thank you, and walks quickly to the door. He stops at the doorway, unwilling just yet to enter. Another thing he's getting too used to, he steels himself and walks the rest of the way. "Crap," he mutters, taking in the loud equipment surrounding John and how even paler his tag partner looks than he did while in the ring.
He apparently falls into a bit of a doze while sitting next to Morrison's bed, because a loud cough almost sends him flinging out of the uncomfortably too-padded chair. "Wha?!"
"Sorry, sorry," another familiar voice speaks up awkwardly, as footsteps come closer. He squints up to find the referee from their match-- which feels like it was ten years ago-- staring down at him. "Didn't mean to scare you," the ref continues. "I... you left your stuff at the arena, so I thought I'd bring them in... How's he doing?"
Mike scrubs a hand over his tired, grimy face and squints up at him. "He's sleeping off sedatives. They had to put a chest tube in. Say he should be ok, though."
"Well that's good," the ref says-- and finally his name comes to Miz, almost causing him to choke on his own saliva at the stupidity of it all. Mike Posey, obviously. "Here," Posey continues, handing off Miz' hat and Morrison's sunglasses.
Miz watches in a detached fashion as Posey carefully drapes Morrison's coat over a nearby chair and leans back, fiddling with the insanely expensive sunglasses gingerly.
"Well, just wanted to drop them off... so... er, hope he wakes up soon," the referee states, obviously awkward. When Miz simply blinks at him, no words forming in his tired brain, he nods jerkily and leaves.
"C'mon, Morrison, you don't want me to risk dropping your glasses, eh?" Miz taunts tiredly, after a few more minutes of silence. "I will if you don't wake up and entertain me..."
--
"So, flip a coin?"
Morrison asks flippantly, leaning against the wall as Miz wanders
over to the couch in their locker room. "What?"
"What's the point
of wrestling this match, man? Let's just flip, bs our way through it,
and then--" "What, you think one of us should just
be pinned for the other?" Miz scoffs. "No, I want to do
this the normal way."
Morrison's face hardens as his stance stiffens. "Fine."
"Fine."
--
"Maybe it woulda been better if we had," Miz says around a yawn, laying Morrison's glasses on the tray "Too late now..." He's asleep within a minute, arm cushioning his head on John's bed, his fingers twitching against the tray as Morrison too sleeps on.
