Chapter Three

Waking up again sucks. Either the pain relief has stopped working or he's smack between doses because he hurts, every inch of his body throbbing like a bad tooth, a flare of white hot agony over his ribs. It's dark and quiet and he's alone and all of those things remind him of nights he'd much rather not remember. Each third breath leaves him in a muted groan and if he could just find the damn call button, he'd use it, but it has to be in the floor and the way he feels that's about as much use as it not being there at all. He's cold too, the sheet and thin blanket offering scant warmth. He shifts a little, easing off his aching back, and feels his head spin at the movement.

Headlights dance over the ceiling and he eyes them, wishing he was home, letting himself wallow in the self pity for just a moment before he shakes it off. Buck up, man, he thinks. It's not like he hasn't been hurt before, even spent time in the hospital before but it is different this time and he can't let himself think too much about that or the reason why the room feels so empty. Somewhere along the line with the team, he got used to chatter, to constant background noise and he misses it more than he's willing to admit.

He shifts again and feels the nauseating tug of something in his side that's not meant to be there. A careful, skittering search of his body reveals three things; he's bandaged from hip to shoulder, the chest tube is still there and it's been joined by a drain sucking gods knows what into a bag clipped under the bed. Explains why my ribs hurt so damn much, he thinks. He's also fairly sure he has a catheter but he can't bend enough to tell for sure. The IV in his arm itches, the tape holding it in place pinching his arm hairs.

The door opens and he turns his head, expecting his nurse, but it's Hardison and he's carrying a bulging bag. "Umm," he starts, plainly unsure what reaction he's going to get, and pauses just inside the door. "If you don't want me here, man, just say and I'll leave this stuff and go."

Eliot blinks, wondering if he's finally tipped over the edge and started to lose his mind. There's questions that he wants to ask but he's not even sure where to start. "What… How…" he grates out then just closes his mouth and conjures up the hardest stare he can manage. It's pretty weak, but it does the job.

Hardison crumbles. "We mighta sorta bugged your room," he gets out in a rush, because unlike Parker, he knows exactly how big an invasion of privacy it is.

Eliot stares, not fully convinced he heard the other man right. "You bugged my room?" He's really not sure how he feels about that, sifts through the emotions in his muddled head and decides he's too exhausted and cloth headed to even start to get into it right now. "We're having a conversation about this later," he warns and Hardison nods.

He'll take his lumps later but right now he's more concerned about the other man. There's not much light filtering in from outside but it's enough to see just how pale and pained he is, shadows under his eyes flowing into the bruises on his cheek, his temple. "You don't look so good," Hardison says, and drops into the seat next to the bed.

"Yeah well I don't feel so good," Eliot snaps back, but it's lacking anything like his normal bite. Even to his own ears, he sounds worn out, pained. "How long have I been here?" he asks, because he's been trying to fit the scattered bits he can remember together but he has no frame of reference for how long he's been in hospital. He's betting days rather than weeks, just based on how he feels.

"Three days." Eliot says, and watches something like shock ripple over his friend's face. "You…" -almost died, is what he wants to say, but caution wins out. "You're pretty banged up, man."

"How bad?" Eliot asks, meaning can I still operate? Because men like him rarely get to retire in peace. If they're lucky, they get a bullet in the brain and two in the chest and a shallow grave somewhere remote. If not, they die messy, in some foreign hell hole, tortured to death for any secrets still locked inside their head.

"They didn't tell us much, because we're not family-" he stresses the word, because they are a family, just one built on something other than blood, like mutual trust and need, "but you have four broken ribs, a grade three concussion- and let me tell you, higher is not better there- and a punctured lung." He wants to say more, but he stops himself, because the other man is shaking, what little colour that had been in his cheeks vanished.

"Eliot, are you okay?" Hardison asks, reaching forward like he wants to grab the other man, but he doesn't want to make anything worse.

No I'm not, he thinks. He's freezing, and the pain is fast reaching a peak he's not sure that he can deal with. He has a high pain tolerance - it's kind of a requirement, in the job he does, but there's a limit to what he can cope with and it's fast approaching. He feels dizzy suddenly, lightheaded and he can't stop shaking. Shocky, you're getting shocky, man, he thinks.

"I'm calling for help," Hardison says and Eliot blinks in agreement.

The room is full of people, all talking, most touching him and he wants to shy away from the invasion but all he can do is lay there and take it. He's lost Hardison in the crowd and none of the faces are even faintly familiar and something like terror washes over him until someone lays their hand on his cheek. It's Jess, once face he does know and he blows out a breath in relief. She's talking, and he fixes his attention on her, trying to understand what she's saying.

"Eliot, we need to take you back to surgery," Jess says. "Do you understand?"

"Yes," he says, and the flurry of activity changes as they get ready to wheel him out of the room. The bed jolts through the door and he grunts in pain. They spin the bed around to fit in the elevator and the last thing he sees before the doors swish closed is Hardison, shoulders hunched, face set with fear.

The doors close, and he vanishes.

I never got to see what was in the bag, Eliot thinks, just before someone injects morphine into his IV and all coherent thought vanishes.