Chapter One
The tilt is correctable if he squints just right. He can work around it, and the pain, like his skull is being squeezed in a vice. It's the nausea, the ringing in his ears he's having trouble correcting. He can't even take a deep breath, because he knows it'll light his ribs up like fireworks on the fourth of July.
His lip is still oozing blood and the new penny taste is only making him feel more like hurling. There's a new ache in his shoulder, his jaw, the bottom of his spine and every step he takes jarrs his body without mercy. A stone rolls under his foot and he stumbles, a grunt of effort leaving him as he tries to catch himself but it's no good. He's falling, a swirl of blue sky the last thing he sees before the darkness takes him.
He comes around slowly. Being awake hurts, flesh and bone protesting the abuse. There are hands on him, one set he knows, the calluses familiar and comforting, and another he doesn't, cool inside gloves. He'd startle at that, if he had the energy, but he doesn't, so he settles for prizing one eye open.
Parker is kneeling by his head, hands on his cheeks, holding his head steady. Her eyes are filled with worry. "Hey, Eliot, you're okay," she says, in a way that makes him think she's said that exact same thing before, maybe even more than once.
He blinks at her, licks his lips and tries to find words but there's an ache in his chest that won't let them pass. He coughs once, hard, and watches blood dot her face as it leaves his lips. Each inhale leaves less room for the next and it's the most terrifying thing he's felt in a long time.
Medical terms swirl around his head and a face he doesn't know looms into his sight. Hemothorax, he hears and flinches, because that means a chest tube, and they fucking hurt. The way his heart is pounding makes his chest ache more and he's desperate for a clean breath.
The paramedic is talking to him but he can't get a hold of the words; they slip from his understanding like bubbles, insubstantial, impossible to hold. He knows what's coming anyway. This isn't his first chest tube and right now he can't think of a more depressing sentence.
Liquid pain runs up his arm as someone moves it to above his head. He blinks, and there's an oxygen mask on his face which helps, and hands touching his ribs, which doesn't. Parker's fingers tighten on his face, thumbs rubbing comforting circles on his aching temples. He flexes his free hand, nails digging into the gravel under him.
Hardison takes his hand, grip hard enough to bruise. He can't see the man, but he knows his touch as well as he knows Parker's, is glad of the connection, especially when the hacker shifts so his leg is brushing his hip, free hand gripping his shoulder. "We got you, man," he says.
Cold metal parts his skin, leaving a line of burning agony behind and he has no control over the little hurt sounds that leave his mouth. Something drips in his face and for a second, he thinks it's raining until he sees Parker's face and realises she's crying, silently. He wants to do something about it, reassure her that he's okay, like he has before but he doesn't have the air or the words.
"Sir, I know it hurts," the paramedic says, "but I need you to stay still for me."
He's trying, but it's hard, chest muscles twitching in a way he can do nothing about. More metal and plastic invades his body, his whole world distilled down to the agony in his ribs and the cool relief of his friends' hands on him.
A gloved finger probes the hole between his ribs and it almost breaks him, rips a keening cry from his lips.
"Almost done," the paramedic says. "You're doing great."
He knows that's a lie because he can feel himself fading, the darkness hovering at the edges of his eyes swooping in to claim him. He wants to fight but it's too much, his reserves depleted, and he goes willingly.