Chapter Two

He wakes up, slow and hazy, in the way only good drugs or good booze can do. There's something on his face and he lifts a clumsy hand until his fingers bump plastic. An oxygen mask… The pieces click slowly into place when he forces his eyes open and finds himself blinking at a muted puke green wall. He's never seen that colour outside of a hospital and wearily starts his internal checklist to figure out what broke this time.

There's a deep nagging ache in his ribs that the drugs aren't quite covering. It speaks of surgery in a way that dries his mouth and he decides he's not quite ready to figure out that little mystery yet, skipping to his head, which feels like someone has replaced his brain with sawdust and whatever they put in plushies. He's dealt with it before, knows all too well the signs of a pretty bad concussion and grunts, knowing he's got a chunk of down time coming his way. The ribs alone would see to that, but with a brain injury on top, he's in no great rush to find his next fight.

He's been down that road one too many times for God and Country, learned from the mistakes, knows that asking for a raincheck isn't the sign of weakness he'd always thought it to be. There's blood enough on his hands without adding his team's, without adding more innocents', because he can't move fast enough or think quick enough to save them.

There's a cast on his right wrist and he can vaguely remember punching something that wasn't flesh. He flexes his fingers carefully, feeling a stab of pain across the palm of his hand and grunts in annoyance Boxer's fracture, he thinks. It's not his first and probably won't be his last. They're an occupational hazard when you punch things for a living.

Muted aches cover the rest of his body, but there's nothing screaming for his attention so he turns it outwards, taking stock of the room. There's a small sofa to one side with coats piled on it, and a bottle of violently orange soda on the equally small table. He feels his lip quirk at that, for some reason. The sight of it prompts something in his brain and he realises that he's thirsty.

He turns his head towards the bedside table and has to close his eyes against the sudden wash of dizziness. It makes his stomach rumble unpleasantly and he swallows the spit that floods his mouth. He's spent enough time with broken ribs to know that vomiting would be a really bad idea.

The door creaks open, soft footsteps that he knows as well as his own coming towards him. He risks cracking an eye open and regrets it when the light stabs his brain like a harpoon. His stomach rolls again and he swallows uncomfortably.

"Eliot?" Parker says. "You're sweating. Should I call the nurse?" Her fingers skate over the bed, brushing his arm, and he feels her pick up the call button. "What can I do?" she asks, and there's a note of panic in her voice that he hates hearing. Hates even more that he's the cause of it.

He licks his lips carefully. "Hey Parker," he grates out and has to clamp his mouth closed again. Fuck, he thinks.

"Do you feel sick?" She settles on the chair next to the bed and reaches for his uninjured hand, careful not to catch the IV in his forearm. She probes his wrist, watching his face until he blinks in relief and she knows she's got the right spot. It's an old trick, a pressure point that helps nausea, and she can't quite remember where she picked it up.

The door opens again and she feels the twitch in his muscles as he reacts to the sound.

"Nausea again?" the nurse asks, and that sends a spike of something like fear through him because he absolutely cannot recall having nausea before.

It must show on his face because Parker pats his shoulder gently. "You were really out of it," she says, which isn't a massive help.

"It's very common in concussions," the nurse says as she unlocks the drug cart in the corner of the room. "I'm Jess, your nurse. I'll get you something for the nausea and in a little bit, if you feel up to it, I can get Dr. Emory to go over your injuries."

She draws up a dose of Zofran and injects it into his IV. "Give it fifteen, twenty minutes and if it hasn't worked, we'll try something else." She makes a note on his chart and leaves, closing the door softly behind her.

The nausea ebbs slowly and exhaustion creeps in. He realises Parker is still touching him, though it's switched from holding the pressure point to holding his hand and that makes something inside his chest twinge for a reason that has nothing to do with his broken ribs.

"Don't you have something better to be doing?" he rasps. He's not sure what he wants her answer to be, because the company is nice but there's always going to be a part of him that equates being hurt with being weak and it wants to lick his wounds alone.

She meets his eyes squarely and shakes her head, a tiny, perplexed frown between her brows. "No," she says and shifts to a more comfortable position on the hard seat.

"Huh," he grunts and blinks. He's exhausted now that the nausea is gone and he knows it's par for the course, for a concussion, after surgery.

"Sleep," she says but her voice is already fading out as he gives into the urge. He thinks he feels her press a kiss to his temple just before consciousness leaves him.