A/N: Sorry for going dark. I got very sick and wasn't properly diagnosed due to doctors pursuing COVID. Spoiler: It wasn't COVID. I wish I could've updated more regularly, but it couldn't be helped. It took me quite a while to recover, regain my land legs, and acclimate to my work routine. Also, if you sent me a message within, oh, say the past month, know I'll be working my way through those as soon as I can. I'm sorry I wasn't able to respond sooner. Now, back to it.

Chapter 19

Hang in There

The journey from The Waterfront to J. D. Abbott Memorial Hospital was less than three miles, but for Chip it was a hell tour that lasted an eternity. The paramedics had managed to staunch the blood flow back in the lounge by applying a thick stack of gauze to what was surely the largest head wound they had ever seen. Still, like Bernard, they had remained cool and professional during the horror, while Trevor, Chip's manager, could be heard somewhere in the distance, making apologies to lingering guests, requesting they reconvene in one of the hotel's conference rooms for complementary beverages or dinner vouchers. Or perhaps he had imagined that part. It was hard to tell with so many terrible thoughts cycling inside his already fuzzy and pain-filled head. He would be amazed if he had registered anything going on in the outside world while knowing his world could come to an end at any minute. The Erie streets were in good condition, so why did every small bump shake the ambulance with the force of an earthquake? The goose egg on the back of Chip's head pulsed with pain, while one of the paramedics, a gray rabbit man with a thick Philly accent, asked him questions. He squeezed his eyelids together to shut out the blinding interior light as he answered them, fighting waves of nausea. He never imagined going out like this, beaten by a bottle of Mailly. And he had not even been the intended target. They hit another bump, and Chip hissed.

"Sorry 'bout that," the paramedic said. "Now, your blood pressure is kinda high, one-forty over ninety. Any diagnosed hyper—"

"Sorry," said Chip, "but I'm in a ton of pain. Can we skip the survey and just let me go in peace?"

"Go? Oh… You got a concussion. You ain't dyin'."

Chip squinted up at the man. "I'm…not? But my head's wide open. There's got to be at least a gallon of blood all over my clothes."

"Nah," he said once he had taken a long look at Chip's drenched tie and vest, now loosened and unbuttoned respectively, along with his shirt, "not nearly that much, and I'd say that laceration's a good centimeter to one and a half at best. But I bet that hematoma in the back don't feel so hot right now."

"That's it? How did so much blood come out of such a small cut?" He hissed and groaned loudly from a much larger bump in the road.

"Sorry," the paramedic said again. "Yeah, I see this kinda stuff all the time, but it's still sorta shockin', just how much head wounds can bleed, especially the small ones. You got lucky—you seem to be doin' pretty good."

The ambulance slowed to a crawl then stopped. Moments later, they made a turn, shortly followed by a particularly sharp jolt thanks to a speedbump.

"What's going to happen to me?" Chip said once he had recovered.

"They'll check you out, run some tests, give you a few stitches…might even send you home tonight, depending on how it goes."

"For real?"

"Wouldn't tell you that unless I really thought so. Been doin' this long enough to have a pretty good feel for things."

"That's a relief. I can't wait to get back to work."

"Yeah, well, you won't be runnin' any marathons anytime soon," the man chuckled. "Matter of fact, I doubt you'd be able to run the Marathon gas station down the block anytime soon…"

As much as Chip had hoped the paramedic's parting words had been wrong, he had been correct when predicting his treatment. His medical anxiety had been alleviated somewhat thanks to the man's blasé attitude, but he remained on pins and needles throughout the processes, growing particularly uneasy the closer he got to the going home part. As he was loaded inside the hole of what resembled a large white donut for his CT scan, freezing and covered with only a thin white sheet and ridiculous backless gown with "J. D. Abbott Memorial" stamped repeatedly on the fabric, Chip thought about how he was here without his phone, his car keys, or even his coat, his only clothing a bloody, rusting wad inside a plastic drawstring bag also bearing the hospital's name. No one outside of work knew he was here.

It did not happen often, but it was times like these when the loneliness felt all too real. Not long after leaving Tallahassee, Chip had ended up in dire straits. The lowest point in his life found him jobless, battered, and practically broke until Gloria, one of his only true friends, rescued him, talked some sense into him, and offered him a second chance. Before all that, she had lent him a phone so he could call Catherine. It had been so good to hear her voice that he had barely held back tears. He was working to hold them back now, mostly because he was not supposed to move.

"I know it's uncomfortable, but remember to stay as still as possible, okay?" the technologist, a bear woman with curly black hair and a kind face, reminded him. "Hang in there…"

Hang in there…

The words echoed in his aching head as he stared at the machine's interior and its glowing red crosshairs. He wished people would stop saying that. Bad memories were attached to that phrase, exacerbated by the fact that he was in the hospital, one of his least favorite places in the world. He had been in the hospital back then, when the words had been uttered, spoken to him by an insensitive oaf. Looking back, Chip was not sure what he had been thinking when he removed that beehive and carried it home. Being eight years old when he had done it, his only conclusion was it must have seemed like a good idea at the time. However, his good idea had bitten him in the ass, or more accurately, it had stung him in the face. And neck. And arms. He did not remember all the following events in perfect detail because he had experienced too much pain and panic and periods of unconsciousness, but one thing he had never forgotten was the way his mother and the big guy had handled the situation individually. Looking up from his hospital bed, his skin itching, feeling as if it could split open, Chip had seen his mother looking back at him, her eyes brimming. She had stroked his hair and told him how much she loved him, that she was sorry he felt so awful and she was going to make sure he got better as quickly as possible. The big guy had been by his side as well, though he stared down at Chip, grinning blithely.

"Chipster? Hey! You're doing great, buddy!" he had said, giving him a thumbs up. "Hang in there!"

They really had been buddies, or so it had seemed, but even as a small child, Chip had felt a flash of anger at the big guy's attempt at reassurance.

I'm not doing great, Dad! he had thought. You don't understand how I feel at all, do you?

Maybe he had sensed it for the first time, received a tiny taste of just how ignorant and callous the man was capable of being, something that would take Chip another eleven years to fully comprehend. In hindsight, maybe he should have seen it coming, their showdown on the front lawn of Omega Psi Phi five years ago.

Dully, he wondered why he had agreed to go to the Crosswire estate for Thanksgiving.

Oh, right. Because of my compromise with Catherine...

He was willing to try anything to make it work with her. He was willing to give anything if she could be here now.

"Okay, we're all done!" the tech said. "Good job. We'll get you back to your room and give you the results A-sap."

Chip sat in a wheelchair as he was pushed back to his room in the ER. He was nearly there when he thought he might be hallucinating. Catherine was coming up the hallway, her damp hair pulled back in a slack ponytail; she had added a purse, sneakers, and a hooded black puffer jacket to her usual bedtime attire. To Chip, she looked like an angel, albeit an angel who had glimpsed him and clamped a hand over her open mouth to muffle her gasp. She hurried to meet him at the door, then she reached for him, only to freeze, as if she were unsure of how safe it was to touch him. Chip reached for her hands and took them, and they both released a burdened breath.

Once Chip was tucked back into his bed and the two were alone, Catherine took great care as she sat down on the bed next to him. She laced her fingers with his and gingerly put her head on his shoulder.

"How are you feeling?" she said softly.

"Godawful," he said, "like my brain has been rearranged."

"Because it practically has."

There was a sniffle, and Chip looked in time to see Catherine wipe her eye with her free hand, then she placed it atop his, as if she felt she needed two hands to hold onto him properly.

"When Trevor called, I thought… I was scared, Chip."

"So was I," he said. "But I'm doing better, now that you're here."

"What did you do?"

"Hold up…" Endearment aside, he became indignant in an instant. "What did I do? I didn't do anything."

"He said you were attacked."

"No, I wasn't attacked. I…" Chip winced. He rubbed his eyes then dragged his fingertips down his face, wishing he could squeegee away all the pain and stress this evening had handed him. "My head hurts so much, Cat. It's still fuzzy."

"It's okay, it's okay," Catherine said apologetically. "Just breathe and take your time…"

Chip recounted everything in as much detail as he could remember while Catherine listened, having shifted so she could look at him. Her brow creased with concern, but her eyes pitied him.

"The next thing I knew, I was on the floor behind the bar, sitting in a pool of Tito's and bleeding all over the place. You would have thought I was dying by the way everyone was acting."

"From the amount of cleanup that needs to be done on the lounge, it looks like somebody died in there," said a voice Chip had not been expecting, and Catherine hastily stood.

"Trev?" Chip said, looking to the door where stood a haggard-looking Trevor, hands jammed firmly into his coat pockets.

"You gave us all a scare, Charlie. How're you holding up, man?"

"Surviving," Chip said, not wanting to sound too weak in front of his boss. Now that it was pretty much a given that he was not going to die, his next goal was to get back to work. "Just waiting for the CT results, then I'll probably get stitched up. I got spinal X-rays. No issues there. So…"

"Great," Trevor said. "That's great news." He turned to greet Catherine with an outstretched hand. "You're Miss Frensky, I take it?"

"It's about time one of you showed up," Catherine said, skipping pleasantries. She left Chip's side, taking a couple of purposeful steps toward Trevor. "He gets knocked off his feet by some lunatic, and you send him away in an ambulance alone?"

"I assure you I always planned to get here as soon as—"

"Chip has white coat syndrome. He hates hospitals. There was no one who could have left with him, for support?"

As amazed as he was by Catherine coming to his defense, Chip could have done without her revealing that fact to Trevor. Trevor looked intimidated, but he carried on.

"Miss Frensky, please… We did our best to get several situations under control at once. Guests needed to be relocated, EMTs needed to be ushered in, and, yes, a…an extremely upset guest needed to be removed from the premises. We also had to talk to witnesses for our report."

"A police report?" said Catherine.

"Once security removed the guest from the lounge, she left the hotel on her own. Her husband as well as his, uh, companion left shortly after."

"You let her walk?" said Catherine, shaking her head. "Unbelievable. Chip could have been killed. Is that what it would've taken to arrest her?"

Chip could not help himself. "Well, I'm kind of glad she got away. Why should Rachel be punished?"

"You must be punch-drunk still," she said to him. "How can you be glad about this, Chip?"

"Evan's the one who did her dirty. I'm just mad he ducked and I didn't. He's the one who deserves all this." He paused to gesture, first to his head then down his gown-clad body. "Instead, he's probably off somewhere with his side piece, and I've racked up a shitload of medical bills and missed a day of work."

"You'll have to miss more than a day, I'm afraid," Trevor began.

"No way are you going back to work until your doctor clears you," said Catherine.

"But if he clears me tonight—"

"He won't," she said with confidence. "And like it or not, you're going to a follow-up."

"She's right," Trevor said. "You need to rest and recoup. We'll need documentation of your treatment and an official release for work with no restrictions. You'll be out for a few days, at least."

"I can't afford to miss a few days."

"Calm down, Chip. And don't worry about any of this because you're getting workers' comp. He will get workers' comp for this," Catherine added pointedly, looking at Trevor.

"Without question. In fact, that's one of the reasons why I was so late getting here. I got on the phone with HR as soon as I could; they're looking to get the ball rolling pretty quickly. Proving an injured back is one thing, but tonight was something else entirely. They seemed particularly interested in resolving things once they found out it was you. I'd say it's a cut-and-dry claim. I've got your back, Charlie."

"You'd better," said Catherine, shouldering her purse. "I'll be back in a few..." she said to Chip before regarding Trevor again. "Keep an eye on him, if there's any news, fill me in."

"Actually," said Trevor, throwing a thumb toward the door, "I was just about to… It's been a long day."

"I'm sorry," she said. "What was that about having his back?"

"But I'd be happy to help out." Trevor looked deflated.

"Thanks."

"Where are you going?" said Chip.

"To the pharmacy across the way. You'll probably be released tonight, so I need to pick up extra Tylenol and some Dramamine. Hopefully they'll also have some t-shirts and sweats. If your clothes are as bloody as you say they are, I'm not letting you put them back on. So just hang in there until I get back."

"Don't tell me that," said Chip. "I'm sick of people telling me to hang in there."

Catherine paused. "Jeez, that concussion has made you irritable. We need to get you home where it's quiet." She turned to Trevor. "Can someone give me clearance so I can get Chip's things from his locker? I'll need his apartment key so I can grab a few things."

Trevor nodded. "I'll make a call."

"Grab a few things?" said Chip. "Where am I going?"

"Back to Tarver with me."

"Not to my home? Why?"

"Because you're not out of the woods yet, not really. Someone needs to monitor you for a while and make sure you're okay, and it's easier for you to stay with me than it is for me to stay in Belmont. I'll need to call Janice, of course. Hopefully I can work something out, but there's no way I'm leaving you alone. Now, rest…"

Catherine was out the door. It was several moments before Trevor spoke up.

"Is…is she your girlfriend, or something?"

"Or something," Chip said in awe.

To be continued…