He sleeps well that night. He sleeps like a corpse, sound and deep and detached. For the first time in days, he sleeps without being awoken by nightmares. He sleeps without being awoken by the checks performed on him during the night. He slumbers with the deep, honest exhaustion of a desperate, emotionally wrung out, broken toddler. And, when he wakes, he feels peaceful and refreshed and inexplicably safe.
He doesn't have to move to know that he's in a hospital bed, somewhere. Even if he's not fully sure where, or who, he is, he knows this for certain. He's on his back with an IV in his wrist, an O2 clip on his finger, and a blood pressure cuff wrapped around his bicep. A cold, wet spot by his knee suggests that he's had a bleed there. He opens his eyes before he moves. Even without his glasses, he can see the gentle shaft of early morning sunlight that illuminates the clean, airy room.
As is his practice, he takes slow stock of his joints. The cocoon of sleep dulls the pain in his knee and ankle, but he shifts his shoulder back into place with careful practice as well as his toes. Before he moves more, he tries to estimate the bracing he's going to need. The calculations run in his head. Knee plus ankle plus hospital probably mean crutches, but really mean wheelchair. If he's not putting weight on his legs, he probably won't need much more than immobilizers for the swelling. He'll need gloves, finger braces, and something on his shoulders as well. Stupid body.
"How are you feeling, Hunter?" A woman asks, surprising him from his inventory. He can make out blurry red circles on her white scrubs and a blond ponytail.
Apparently today he's … Oh shit. The world comes rushing back to him. Kellen and Hunter and Denver and Chicago and Fort Wayne and Dalton. Where and why and who hits him like a ton of bricks, and his stomach drops.
"Sore," he admits quietly.
"What's your number?" She asks briskly, referring to the chart of grimacing to sad faces posted in hospitals and clinics. It's numbered 0 to 10, where a 0 represents no pain and 10 is "the worst pain imaginable".
He has never, ever, as any person or any place, claimed 10. Because he imagines that you only get one or two in your life, and he doesn't want to waste them on something that might be seven or eight pain. Although there have been a few times when he's been at an eight or nine.
"Four." It's probably closer to a normal person's six or seven.
She nods, clearly oblivious to the way chronic pain changes your perception of what it is to live with (never without) pain. "Do you want something?"
He thinks back. Cannabis. Codeine. Vicodin. Oxycodone. Morphine. He'd give a lot for floating away from the pain and his memories and Hunter right now. Even if this is a safe place, there are things lurking.
"A couple of tylanol?" He gives a little half shrug.
"I'll be back in a minute." She slips out of the room as he starts his morning ritual of making himself functional. He feels for his glasses, and slips them onto his face. The world slides back into sharp, clear relief. He feels in his backpack for his gloves and his wrist splints. There isn't much he can do about his shoulders until he gets back to his room and his chest, though.
The nurse comes back with the little red pills and a glass of water. He throws them back, then settles against his pillows and waits for the medicine to take the edge off. He floats.
Just as he thinks that things are starting to settle again, a phone goes off across the room. He can hear his heart rate sky rocket and he imagines his blood pressure jumps 10 mmHg to the electronic keening of
Near, Far, where ever you AAAAARRRRRREEEEE
I believe that my heart will go ooooonnnnnn.
A/N: Sebastian has horrible taste in morning music. I think he likes to play awful stuff because supposedly you can't go back to sleep if you're angry. Also, he likes dancing to it. Questions, comments, concerns? Please leave them below!