Chapter 10

In which Alfred displays a stunning variation of emotion, Matthew gets beat up, and far off in the distance, the mysterious blob at the back of the fridge moves a few scant millimeters to the left.

Alfred had never hated himself more. He had just finished picking out his preferred flavour of chips and was in the process of paying when an elderly woman ran into the store. She appeared to be hysterical, and kept shrugging off the concerned touches of store employees, insisting that she use the phone. Alfred had muttered a hurried apology to the cashier before abandoning his groceries to see what the commotion was about. He handed her his cell phone, almost grabbing it back when he realized what number she was calling. He quickly thought better of it, and urged the small crowd that had gathered to remain quiet. Not that he really needed to; nobody was going to pass up the chance to overhear the woman's conversation. Her words still haunted him.

"Yes? Hello? I'm calling from the Sobeys on Bay Street; there's been an attack. We need an ambulance." Alfred's blood ran cold. The woman continued as though she hadn't noticed the sudden shock that rippled through the crowd. Her clipped, British accent rang out in the sudden silence. "I was just leaving the store when I heard what sounded like a cry for help, and sure enough, there was a young man being attacked in the alley beside the store. No, I don't know what injuries he has. No, I didn't get a good look. I understand. Yes, I'll stay on the line." By this point, Alfred had stopped listening. There was only one person on his mind: Matthew.

Alfred made to leave, but the old woman grabbed his arm angrily. "Where do you think you're going?" she snapped. "There are a bunch f hooligans right outside the store. You should stay here until the police get here."

"But I know the guy in the alley," Alfred blurted out. "Matthew, I have to help him."

The woman looked at him with something akin to pity on her wrinkled features. "I'm afraid there's nothing you can do at this point. The men could have guns, dear. You'd only be doing yourself more harm by trying to help your friend."

Alfred wanted to kick her. He wanted to punch her in the face and tell her that she was wrong and march out the door. But he knew she was right, and the terrible truth filled his arms with stone and his heart with lead. He gave a small sigh and moved to stand by the door, anxiously looking out at the blackened sky. The store's manager, a short East Indian man who looked to be in his early forties, moved to stand next to him. Alfred knew that while his presence was meant to be a comforting gesture, he could see that the manager was willing to do whatever it took to keep the American from leaving the building. He narrowed his eyes and turned back to the parking lot. Soon, sirens could be heard. They grew louder by the second and soon he could see the flashing lights pull into the parking lot. He rushed out to greet them, ignoring the manager's startled shout.

Alfred caught a quick glance of a dark van pulling out of the parking lot; it's tires skidding on the slippery roads. Several officers streamed from the two squad cars, spreading out to form a barrier over the entrance to the alley. The man who appeared to be in charge rushed into the dark passageway after deeming it safe. Seconds later, he gave a sharp shout. Another officer, this one carrying what appeared to be a trauma kit, hurried forward. At this point, Alfred couldn't contain himself any longer. He ran toward the alley, ignoring the shouts of customers and managers alike. Just when he thought he would reach the crumpled body in the alley, a burly police officer caught him by the shoulder and hauled him back. Alfred nearly screamed in frustration. There was still a small part of him that believed that Matthew might be safe in their car, though he knew in heart that it was highly unlikely. If Matthew had been in the car, he would have rushed out as soon as the officers arrived, if not sooner. The Canadian was naturally curious in that regard. And yet as Alfred gazed hopelessly at the crowd of spectators, he knew Matthew wasn't there. And the only reason Matthew wouldn't be there is if Matthew were in the alley.

"Sir," The officer snapped. "Please step away from this scene. You are interrupting an incredibly serious investigation and obstructing justice. Given your dramatic appearance and the nature of the incident, I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to come with us."

"No," Alfred gasped. "You don't understand. My friend is in there!" His voice cracked as he continued. "Is he alright? Please, let me see him."

The officer's face fell slightly, and his features softened in such a way that Alfred knew exactly what was coming. He braced himself for the worst, shutting his eyes in advance to quell the flood of tears that were already pricking behind his eyelids.

"Your friend… is in critical condition, from what we can tell. It is too early to determine the extent of his injuries, but we have determined that he was been beaten and stabbed. He also appears to have suffered a blow to the head." As if on cue, an ambulance sped into the parking lot. A team of paramedics immediately rushed toward the alley bearing a stretcher.

"I need to see him." Alfred emphasized. "He'd want me to be there."

"We need to remove him from the scene before you can go near him. However, you may be able to come along with him in the ambulance. There is plenty of information that the paramedics will need to know, and I'm sure you can help them out with that. However, you must remain calm of you are to do this. These are medical professionals and you will only be hurting your friend if you cause them any inconvenience."

"I understand," Alfred chocked out. He paused for a moment, mustering up his resolve. "Do you think he'll be alright?"

The officer sighed. "I don't know. We haven't been able to determine the extent of his injuries, and I'm no medical expert. I also didn't get a good look at him. I don't want to give you any false hope, but I wish you the best."

"Thanks." Alfred gave a smile, and although it had plenty of teeth, it had no heart.

The officer walked him to the ambulance and introduced him to the lead paramedic. Alfred was given a small chair in the corner farthest away from the equipment, though he was still close enough that he could touch the instruments if he really wanted to.

And then they brought the stretcher, and Alfred couldn't help but let out a small keening wail. Matthew lay limp on the white-padded board; his normally wheat-blond hair caked with blood and dirt. His skin was covered with blood, as were his clothes. His coat was spread open, revealing a horrible bloody wound in his stomach. There were sterile peach bandages piled on top of the bloody mess, but the blood was already seeping through, tinting the fabric brown.

The paramedics slammed the doors shut and secured the stretcher with alarming efficiency, and within minutes they were pulling out of the parking lot. Things were no less chaotic in the ambulance. Two paramedics remained in the back tending to Matthew while the remaining one drove. Alfred could only catch snippets of their conversation, as he was too absorbed in watching the unsteady rise and fall of Matthew's chest. He watched the paramedics as they applied various dressings to his wounds, prodding the unconscious blond occasionally and making soft remarks. One woman placed a clear Plexiglas breathing mask over Matthew's nose and mouth, distorting his features and silencing the frail breaths that Alfred had been listening to with rapt attention.

Alfred spent the rest of the rude straining his ears for any sign of life coming from his unconscious friend. He was almost grateful when they turned up the volume on the pulse monitor. As cold and impersonal the metallic beeping was; it gave him some reassurance that Matthew was, at least for the moment, safe.

When they reached the hospital, Alfred and Matthew were separated. Alfred knew that it would inevitably happen, but he was still uncomfortable leaving Matthew's side, especially when he was partly to blame for the Canadian's condition. While the team of doctors swarmed Matthew's unconscious body, Alfred was shunted in a different direction. He found himself in the waiting room, in front of a large desk monitored by a stern-looking woman. She peered at him over the tops of her horn-rimmed glasses, wordlessly handing him a stack of papers and a pen. Alfred stared at her uncomprehendingly for a moment. She gave him a soft prodding. "We need these forms filled out so we can treat your friend properly." She then shooed him in the direction of a small, private room. Alfred sat down in an uncomfortable plastic chair and began to write.

xXx

Several hours later, Alfred was called up to the front desk. The same woman as before was till running the counter, though she didn't appear nearly as stern. The cause of her sudden cheer may have been caused by the realization that Alfred remained the only person left in the waiting room, as many of the other patrons had left long ago when visiting hours ended or their emergencies had been cleared up. Alfred had been mildly surprised when people gradually left, though he supposed he couldn't blame them. It would probably be best to get a good night's sleep and then return in the morning. Of course, Alfred chose to remain right where he was, sprawled across a line of plastic chairs. He had given up acting like a reasonable adult long ago. And so, lying despondently in the nearly empty room like a lost puppy, Alfred diligently waited for news of his friend's recovery, desperately hoping for the best and refusing to think of the worst.

Naturally, he was filled with a mixture of glee and dread when his name was finally called. The receptionist brought him into a small room aside from main waiting area and informed him that a doctor would be in to speak with him shortly. She turned with a soft smile and went back to her desk, shutting the door behind her before Alfred could begin his barrage of questions.

Alfred traced his finger over the fake wood table, tracing inane designs as he waited for the doctor to arrive, Though he appeared tired and bored, his stomach contents seemed to be performing a circus. He rubbed his palms together and took a breath, willing himself to stay calm.

An elderly man in a lab coat opened the door and took a seat opposite to him. The man had thick graying hair, and wore a pair of patterned argyle pants that clashed brilliantly with everything in the room. The doctor didn't seem to notice, and Alfred assumed that it was his way of bringing some subtle humour to the situation. For a moment, nobody spoke. Then the doctor gave a long sigh, the air whistling through his nostrils as he met Alfred's concerned gaze.

"Your friend came here with serious injuries obtained in a physical confrontation with an unknown instigator. You are aware of this, correct?"

Alfred gave a small nod, fearing the worst.

"Then you must know that everything I am about to tell you mist remain confidential. You have signed forms that acknowledge this, but your verbal confirmation would be welcome."

"Yeah," Alfred whispered. "I know."

"Now, this confidentiality is binding only until the victim is able to come to his own conclusion as to whether the details of his injuries should be released. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Alfred repeated. Ever moment the doctor spent explaining the legal process, Alfred's terror grew. He tried to console himself, reasoning that Matthew wasn't dead, or else the doctor wouldn't be giving him a lecture on confidentiality. 'Or', a little voice inside him argued, 'Matthew's not dead, but dying.' Alfred refocused on the doctor's words.

"Now," The man continued, "I suppose we should get down to business. Mr. Williams sustained extensive injuries to his face and ribcage. He has fractured three ribs, dislocated his shoulder, and sustained a nonlethal puncture wound to the abdominal area. Furthermore, he has sustained a severe concussion and several minor injuries, which led to a total of 23 stitches and will heal relatively quickly."

"Can I see him?" Alfred asked. He didn't think he could handle hearing the doctor speak of the normally vibrant Canadian in such an impersonal, concise tone.

The doctor's features softened imperceptibly. "I'm afraid Mr. Williams is under general anesthesia, and will remain unconscious for several hours. I suggest you come back in the morning. Visiting hours are from ten till seven, should you wish to come back then. I cannot guarantee that he'll be awake, as he lost significant amounts of blood and this takes quite a toll on one's body, but the likelihood of consciousness will increase."

"Can I maybe see him now?" Alfred asked.

"Mr. Williams is recovering from treatment at the moment, and visitors are not usually allowed in the recovery room. However," He paused, seeing the hopeful look on the American's face, "I believe I can make a slight exception if you keep brevity in mind."

"Alright," Alfred agreed. "I can do that."

They walked down a series of narrow corridors, passing rows of darkened grey-green doors. The doctor seemed intent to make the journey in silence, and Alfred surmised that the doors led to the rooms of sleeping patients. He wondered if Matthew were in a room with a similar door, cool impersonal metal save for a small, darkened window. Alfred hoped not. They turned down another hallway. This one was much wider, and the doors were more spaced out. Upon examining the small plaques beside a few, he realized that these were operating rooms. He shivered. Matthew must be close, then.

They turned down another hallway and stopped in front of a blue-grey door. The doctor swiped a small card, a small beep emitting from the lock. The door was pushed open and Alfred walked in as though he were in a trance. There was no light, save for that of a few instruments hooked up to the limp body on a large, rectangular hospital bed. A soft, steady beeping filled the room. After a moment, Alfred realized that it was Matthew's heartbeat.

'Well,' Alfred thought to himself, 'At least it sounds normal. Not that I know anything about medicine.' His mental voice took on a darker edge, 'that's right fucker. So don't you even think about making assumptions. He could be on life-support for all you know.' Alfred decided that he really needed a better conscience.

He crept over to Matthew's still form. His nose and mouth were covered by an oxygen mask, amplifying his steady breaths for the room's occupants. An IV was taped delicately to the inside of his wrist, leading to a small bag filled with clear liquid that hung from a metal pole to the side. Another bag, this one containing a deep red liquid. Blood, Alfred realized.

He hesitantly reached out, brushing a few stray locks of blond hair away from Matthew's face. Matthew gave no response. Alfred stared for a while, absorbing the situation and coming to terms with his grief. Matthew looked just as healthy as he did before the confrontation in the alley, albeit a little paler. It was hard to believe that he wasn't just sleeping. Alfred almost had the urge to shut by his ear like he used to, just to see the Canadian's panicked reaction as he woke. He knew it wouldn't do any good in this situation though, so he refrained.

After a few more minutes, Alfred made to leave. He stopped halfway through the doorway, ignoring the doctor's surprised look as he crept back to his friend. Alfred grasped the bland, white hospital sheets and pulled them up closer to Matthew's chin, tucking them in around his arms. Then he left, refusing to take another look at the unconscious man on the bed.

Alfred didn't get any sleep that night.

xXx

The next day, Alfred returned to the hospital, determined to wait until Matthew regained consciousness. He had woken up at eight, stared at the empty kitchen, and wondered why there was no breakfast on the table. Then it dawned on him that Matthew was in the hospital, and from there he came to the realization that should Matthew stay overnight for more than a week, Alfred would perish from malnutrition. Keeping this in mind, Alfred quickly got dressed and drove to McDonalds for breakfast. Normally he would be at Tims, but Tims didn't feel the same without Matthew. Besides, he wanted some good ole' southern comfort food, and if that came in the form of three breakfast burrito's with orange juice, so be it.

Alfred arrived at the hospital just before 10, determined to visit the Canadian as soon as he was able. He had gone to a florist after his 'healthy' breakfast at McDonalds and purchased a bundle of vibrant yellow daffodils, which he was currently clutching as though the fate of the universe rested solely on whether Matthew received his daffodils. Maybe it did. Physics is weird that way.

After a quick chat with the receptionist, Alfred was led through the maze of corridors again. He came to Matthew's room, and after flashing a grateful nod to the attendant as she opened the door, stepped inside. The door clicked shut behind him.

Matthew lay on the bed, still unconscious. Alfred noticed that the sheets were un-tucked, but then realized that it was probably the work of a nurse. The absence of the past day's oxygen mask seemed to confirm his assumption. The clear mask had been replaced by two twin tubes, which ran up either side of Matthew's face, tucked around his ears, and met at his nose. Alfred utilized all his knowledge of House and ER, the only hospital-dramas he had seen in his 24 years of existence, and came to the conclusion that the tubes were filled with oxygen. He felt his heart sink a bit. Matthew was obviously unconscious, and the likelihood of him waking seemed to diminish by the second. Alfred stared stupidly at the bundle of flowers in his hand. He glanced around the small room, looking for a vase or similar container that he could put them in, but found none. Eventually he let himself out, wandering the halls until he found another attendant. This one seemed a great deal younger than the other staff he had seen, and upon reading the nametag clipped to her scrubs he discovered why: the girl was an intern. The intern, Laura, according to her nametag, seemed to realize his intention before he could voice it and she quickly rushed in the other direction, returning a few moments later with a clear glass vase filled with water. Alfred nodded in thanks as she walked him back to Matthew's room and opened the door.

"Don't you think it would be easier if you just locked the whole building? That way you wouldn't have to follow people like me around to let them back into rooms," Alfred remarked, giving the attendant a small grin.

"Nope," She replied, already heading back down the hallway. "Because if you saw the people in the psyche wing you'd probably demand that we reinforce the doors. The locks are the least we could do, trust me."

"Okay then," Alfred remarked. He stepped into Matthew's room, shutting the door quietly behind him. How Matthew had managed to get a private room was beyond him, especially since Matthew clearly wasn't able to show anyone his benefits card. Healthcare may be free, but a private room was certainly not. Alfred supposed he would find out then he got the bill. He gave a small sigh. So much for their trip to Whistler next winter.

He placed the flowers on a small table beside Matthew's bed before pulling up a green plastic chair. Alfred retrieved Matthew's medical records from a table nearby and sat down with a sigh. He glanced at Matthew's sleeping face and began flipping through the files, glancing Matthew's face and checking his watch every so often.

It was nearly noon when Matthew woke. Alfred had finished reading the medical records and had resorted to texting and playing games on his phone. He had just lost (again) at Angry Birds when he heard a small groan. Matthew's eyes flickered open, sluggishly panning around the room before settling on Alfred. Alfred cracked a weak grin, determined not to tackle his friend out of sheer, mind numbing, relief. He opted instead to clasp Matthew's hand tightly in his own, relishing the way Matthew squeezed back reflexively.

It was evident that Matthew had not fully recovered, and was still under the influence of the anesthesia in his system. He tried to focus on Alfred, but the American could tell that it was a struggle. Every so often Matthew's eyes would flicker shut, and Alfred would give his hand another squeeze to prompt him to wake up. This cycle continued for some time, the repetitive motions relaxing both men (though Alfred doubted Matthew needed any more relaxing) and slowly coaxing Matthew back to full awareness.

"Ah, Alfred?" he rasped, his voice cracked from disuse and foggy with sleep.

"Hm?" Alfred hummed, giddy with excitement and determined not to let it show.

"Where am I?"

Alfred's face fell. "You're in the hospital, Matt. Do you remember anything from last night?"

"Last night?" Matthew slurred. "We, we were shopping, right? And then, something happened. In an alley."

"Yeah," Alfred gave a sad smile, "Something did happen. That's why you're here, but I'm pretty sure you're not going to remember anything since you're barely conscious. You'd think they'd ease up on the drugs."

At that point Matthew seemed to realize where he was. Unfortunately, he also became aware of the numerous devices attached to his person. Slowly, as though he were underwater, Matthew lifted a hand to his face. He clumsily maneuvered his fingers 'till he grasped the breathing tubes around his nose, marveling at their existence. Alfred, sensing Matthew's next move, quickly pried his hands away from the plastic. Matthew gave a low whine, then lost interest and began playing with the IV taped to the inside of his wrist. Alfred grabbed both hands, clasping them in his own and praying the Canadian wouldn't come up with a new means of fiddling with medical instruments. He needn't worry; the bedridden blond had already forgotten about the instruments and was staring determinedly at the vase of daffodils sitting by his bed.

He seemed to contemplate a question, his face betraying his thoughts before he had a chance to voice them. Alfred settled in for the wait; the Canadian seemed to be taking his time reassembling his brain. The American couldn't really blame him; the guy had suffered a severe concussion and it was bound to have some side effects. Alfred wasn't going to push his luck. If Sidney Crosby was out for almost a year because of a moderate concussion, Matthew should have been in a coma with the injuries he'd sustained.

"Al?" Matthew whined.

"Yeah?"

"Why are there flowers?"

"Oh, um. I brought them for you because you're in the hospital and isn't that what you're supposed to do when someone's hurt? I mean, I'm not one for social conventions but I thought you might like them pleasedon'tlaugh?" Way to go, Jones. Even when Matthew's in the hospital he reduces you to a quivering mess. That's some backbone you've got there; I can go to Walmart and get one just like it.

"That," Matthew rasped, a tired smile gracing his waxen features, "is so gay." He gave a few chuckles, which quickly turned into a series of strangled gasps. Eventually they subsided, and Matthew flopped back into the pillow and shut his eyes, focusing on steadying his breath.

"Yeah well, nice to know my kindness is appreciated," Alfred grumbled, his words lacking any real malice.

Matthew gave a wan smile, cracking open one eye. "I never said I didn't like them."

Alfred's grin could have lit up a northern Inuit community during their winter darkness. Matthew grinned back, growing more coherent by the second.

"Here," Alfred murmured. "I'm going to find a way to prop this bed up so you don't have to crane your neck like that. You've been through a lot."

"Nothing I can't handle," Matthew groaned lightly. He gave a small whine, "I'm so confused."

Alfred hushed him lightly, crowing with delight when he found the remote to operate the bed. After some impressive guesswork, he managed to get the front portion of the bed to rise up to a 45-degree angle. Matthew gave a small giggle as the bed moved. "This feels weird. Let's go again."

Alfred gave a small grin. "If this is what you were like during your stoned escapades in University, everything makes sense now."

Matthew's mood began to somber some time later. Alfred had entertained him to the best of his ability, even going as far as to stage a puppet show with his hands (hell, Matthew was so out of it he probably thought they were real people) but eventually the Canadian's mood had to fall.

"Al," he whined. "Why am I here? Everything hurts."

Alfred sighed. This was not his day. "Matt, you were in a fight. I've told you at least three times now, but you never seem to remember. I don't see the point in discussing this when you're just going to forget and ask me again in fifteen minutes. Matthew looked as though someone had kicked him, and he turned his head away sadly. "Oh, okay," he replied softly, shutting his eyes.

Alfred immediately felt guilty. "Aw Matt, you know I didn't mean it that way. I know you're trying. I just think we should wait until we see a nurse or someone who can tell us what's really going on. I mean, I've read your medical records, and they say nothing about what you're supposed to be feeling right now."

Matthew gave a small sniffle. "I'm sorry. You don't have to stay. It's not fair of me to keep you here. Please don't feel like you have to stay."

"Matt, you know I'm not going anywhere. I've stuck with you for too long, and don't think a little trip to the hospital is going to change anything. Just relax; we'll find out what's going on and work from there. Don't forget that you're on an IV right now, and I don't know what's in it but I'm willing to guess it's painkillers because no offense man, but you're high."

Matthew managed a small smile. "Thanks Al." They were silent for a bit, just relaxing in each other's company. Eventually Matthew shifted, eyes staying closed even as a small grimace crossed his face.

"You okay?" Alfred asked, refusing to think of the blood and terror of the ambulance. Matthew was recovering right now. Even if the cloying scent of blood still lingered in his nostrils, haunting his dreams and tormenting his waking thoughts, he wouldn't show it. Even so, he couldn't stop his eyes from wandering over Matthew's stomach every so often, reassuring himself that he was indeed alive.

"Yeah," Matthew groaned. "Just hurts to move. I guess those thugs really got me, eh? What a shame, I could have kicked the crap out of them on the ice."

Alfred gave a bark of laughter, the sound suddenly dying as the faint click of the door opening filled the room. Matthew had gone silent as well, and his eyes were trained on the sudden interloper. A redheaded nurse who looked to be in her thirties strode into the room carrying a clipboard. Upon seeing the two men, she gave a wide smile.

"Hello Mr. Williams, it's good to see you're awake."

Matthew gave a small nod of thanks, wondering how to respond. The nurse didn't seem to notice, and moved to address Alfred. "And you must be Mr. Jones. I've heard a lot about you; gave us quite a scare last night. We were afraid you wouldn't leave, you know."

Alfred snuck a glance at Matthew, whose cheeks had gone a light red at the mention of Alfred's manic concern. Upon catching the American's gaze, Matthew gave a small smile of thanks. Alfred blushed. The nurse coughed.

"Anyway, I'm just going to disconnect a few of these," the nurse pointed to the IV's hanging from the pole, "and then we can fill you both in. Does that sound alright?" Alfred nodded, struck by the intensity of her green-eyed gaze. Matthew followed suit. The appearance of the nurse seemed to have left him cowed.

"My name's Abby," the nurse continued, "And I'm just going to tell you what I'm doing here, unless you'd rather I didn't. I find it's usually best to keep patients informed on the healing process. I find it helps keep things calm." She gave a grin. "First of all, I'm going to have to disconnect this IV, since you're no longer in need of blood." Matthew nodded dazedly, as if he just realized he had an IV in each arm. Abby took his arm in deft fingers, requesting that Alfred hold Matthew steady as she gently withdrew the needle from his skin. Matthew had shuddered as the thin metal moved under his skin, but, but otherwise remained stationary, refusing to make eye contact with anyone.

Finally Abby finished, unhooked the various components of the system, and disposed of the needle in a yellow bin labeled 'biohazard'.

"Now," She continued, "I'm going to ask you a few questions to determined how well you've been reacting to the treatments. Mr. Jones, your participation is also required, as I believe you may be more informed about Matthew's initial response to the medication we have given him. I assume you were in the room at the time of his awakening?"

"Yes," Alfred affirmed. "I was there, but I don't know much about medicine so you'll have to bear with me if I mess up." He gave a small grin, "I know Matthew's pretty much mastered that art."

Matthew grinned, shooting the American an appreciative look.

"Alright then, let's begin," Abby announced. "Mr. Williams, can you please tell me how you feel at the moment? Are you experiencing any dizziness or drowsiness?"

"Uh," Matthew began, "I'm not sure. I'm not really myself, and I'm sure Alfred will agree with me on that. I'm kind of tired, yeah. Not too dizzy, but I haven't tried standing up or anything so I can't se sure."

Abby looked to Alfred for confirmation.

"Yeah, he's a lot better now than he was when he first woke up. He was really out of it then. When he first opened his eyes, he was essentially still asleep. It took him a good few minutes just to form a sentence."

Abby looked slightly concerned at this, and made a few small notes on her clipboard. "Can you elaborate? Was he having difficulty speaking, interacting with his surroundings, and understanding you? Did he appear dizzy?" She prompted.

"He was generally out of it. I think he was just tired or fighting off the after-effects of whatever drugs you gave him, because he's been gradually getting more aware. There is one thing though. He's having some difficulty remembering what I've been telling him. I have to repeat certain statements multiple times before they stick in his memory. Is that normal?" he asked, praying that it was.

Abby sighed, her cheery demeanor evaporating like water on a hot summer's day. "I'm afraid this may be a result of the concussion he sustained. Short-term memory can be affected, though the effects themselves vary from person to person. There is a good chance that his memory will return to him over the next few weeks, though his injuries were fairly severe; to the point that we feared he would slip into a coma at one point. However, as I said, the effects vary from person to person, and judging by your description of his recovery this morning, the effects will not be permanent. However, I would advise you to take caution when playing sports or doing any physical activity, as concussions will become more dangerous is he suffers more head trauma."

"Alright," Alfred nodded. Matthew looked fairly distraught, and he took his hand and squeezed it in comfort. Matthew gave him a pleading look. "Don't worry," Alfred soothed. "You're going to be fine. I know you heard everything she just said, and you know just as well as I do that you're going to recover from this as long as you stay positive. I'll help you out; I've done it plenty of times in the past, I'm sure this will be no different."

Matthew still looked concerned. Mustering up his courage, he turned to face Abby. "What are the long term consequences?" He asked, fearing the worst.

"Well with luck you'll be fine. You're well on your way to recovering, and the only injury that could potentially limit you in the future would be your concussion. Although, if you allow me to go over your full medical file, you'll realize that you're not going to be doing anything strenuous for the next few weeks."

"Wait," Matthew moaned. "What about hockey?"

"I'm afraid that's out of the question until you're fully healed. However, I know many hockey teams are doing baseline concussion testing. If you had access to the testing, do you mind giving us a copy of your scores? They may help us accurately judge how much time you will need to recover."

"No," Matthew sighed. "Our team hasn't done the tests yet. Can I play in a few weeks?"

"I'm afraid that depends on how quickly you recover. Mr. Jones will be left to determine that, though I strongly suggest that you call us to ensure that you're not rushing your recovery."

Matthew's face fell and he resumed fiddling with the sheets around him. "Okay then." Alfred gave him a consoling pat on the shoulder.

"Don't worry man, you'll be back on the ice in no time."

Matthew smiled weakly. "Thanks. Can we continue? I'd love to know why my side is hurting so much."

"So lets get down to business then, " Alfred chipped in. "I saw a doctor last night who said Matthew's got some fractured ribs?"

"Yes," the nurse admitted. "He's fractured his fourth, fifth, and sixth ribs, though they will heal fairly quickly. Fortunately, they were only hairline fractures. As a result, Matthew will be given pain medication for the first week after he is released."

"You hear that Matt," Alfred grinned, "pain meds. A little hipster like you must love that idea."

Matthew shot him a withering glare before apologizing to the scandalized nurse. "I'm sorry, he does that sometimes, some form of verbal diarrhea I think. He just spouts off whatever comes to mind without thinking."

Abby nodded warily. "Regardless, I strongly advise you to take them only as directed. The medications we give you are powerful, and there can be terrible consequences in the case of an overdose."

"Thanks," Matthew smiled. "I'm not planning on taking many. Pills always seem to fuck up my system. I mean, for the first hour after I got up it felt like someone was trying to pull my brain out my ear."

"Alright," Abby smiled. "Glad that's settled, though the headaches may be a result of your concussion, rather than the medication."

"Eh," Matthew sighed, "It's probably a bit of both. I don't think a headache would be enough to convince me that this lump," He slapped Alfred's arm, "is entertaining. And yet?" He gave a small smirk.

"Well," Alfred sighed, glancing at his watch. "That lasted an hour and a half. Probably the best 90 minutes of my life. Looks like regular-Matthew is back."

"Hey," Matthew snapped, "Don't listen to him. He's only upset because he can't destroy the apartment anymore. I'm back to being his babysitter."

"Aw, you're not my babysitter," Alfred cooed, "You're my chef. I nearly starved to death this morning."

"Anyway," the nurse cut in, "We should probably get back to the topic at hand. Mr. Williams, you were stabbed in the lower abdomen by an unknown man, though thankfully no organs were damaged. You're going to have a bit of a scar there, though. I advise you to refrain from stretching the area or exposing it to unnecessary stress, and please don't pull at the stitches. They will come out on their own as the tissue heals. I have a sheet of instructions for you that explain how to wash and treat the wound at home, and I'll be giving them to you on the way out."

"Alright," Matthew conceded, prodding gently at his stomach. He gave a small wince and decided that maybe that wasn't such a good idea.

"I have a question," Alfred jumped in. "I'm been wondering about this for w a while, but now seems as good a time as any to bring it up. This is a single room. Isn't this going to cost us a fortune? I mean, I know you guys have your free healthcare and all that jazz, but I don't think it's this good."

"Well, you're right about that," the nurse laughed. 'Normally, patients are put into a standard room with three other beds. However Mr. Williams, you are a special case, as we have been informed that he may be a victim of a known criminal. For this reason, you are being isolated and protected until you can be questioned. You aren't responsible for any residence costs, so you needn't worry about any financial burden that this visit may have caused you. I believe the regional police have a fund set aside for this purpose. An officer was here this morning, actually. He had a Russian sounding name; I believe it was Mr. Braginski. I suppose he was hoping you'd be awake."

Matthew and Alfred exchanged worried looks. The nurse didn't seem to notice. "He left you a gift though. Let me go grab it for you; I think you'll love it."

With that she swiftly left the room, leaving Alfred and Matthew to process the new information.

"You were attacked by Gary?" Alfred exclaimed, almost forgetting Matthew's injuries as he shook the Canadian anxiously. "How did he do this to you?"

Matthew hissed at the sudden pain that flared up from Alfred's nervous attentions. Alfred quickly let him go, and he gratefully sunk back into the bed. "It wasn't Gary." He paused, shutting his eyes, trying to remember. "There were three of them, I think. They looked like thugs. I think someone hired them to do the dirty work, because the didn't seem to have any real connection to the case." Alfred was nearly vibrating with excitement and worry. "Oh my god, Matt, and you had to face all three of them alone! I shouldn't have let you leave the store." He ducked his head angrily.

"Alfred, stop. You know you couldn't have prevented this. But Ivan was right; were dealing with some dangerous people here."

"I shouldn't have pushed so hard with this detective thing. I didn't realize how serious things are and now you're in the hospital and its all my fault and-"

Matthew cut him off. "What's done is done. It's not your fault, although we both should have taken Ivan's advice more seriously. Besides, it made me realize that you were right."

"Right about what?"

"About the importance of catching this guy. If he's send people after us, we must be getting close. More importantly, your hero complex actually has some merit. Whoever this guy is, he's not afraid to kill people who have nothing to do with his scheme. He's more dangerous than I thought."

The click of the door opening signaled the nurse's return, and both men immediately went silent. "Here it is," Abby smiled. She carried a vase of brilliant yellow sunflowers, a card, and a tin of Tim Horton's hot chocolate. Matthew's mouth watered at the last item. Abby set them down on the table next to Alfred's flowers. The American noted that they looked rather scrawny in comparison to Ivan's gift. He glared at the flowers jealously before realizing that he was being a complete idiot. "Open the card," he suggested, wincing at the biting jealousy in his voice. Matthew quirked a thin eyebrow before complying, opening the envelope and withdrawing a simple greeting card. It had sunflowers on the front. Alfred rolled his eyes. Of course the card would match the flowers. Fucking precious. Matthew was more focused on the words inside, and remained oblivious to Alfred's fit of irrational jealousy. Maybe he was compensating for something.

"Well this is interesting," He murmured, bringing Alfred's attention back to the matter at hand.

"What?"

"His message."

Alfred took the card from Matthew's outstretched hand, his eyes scanning the Russian's smooth, flowing script.

Matthew,

I am incredibly sorry to hear of your accident. I cannot say what I wish to in a greeting card, and I'm sure you can figure out why; though you may have to explain it to Alfred. I have been informed that you will be released this evening. Though it is not ideal, I will meet with you then. Focus on your recovery; I will seek you out when the time is fitting. Please keep these matters to yourself. I need not explain why. I shall see you in the near future, for there is much to discuss.

Be well,

Ivan Bragniski.