Chapter Four

When he wakes again, he's intubated, a machine breathing for him and that sends a spike of something like terror through him. His first instinct is to rip the tube out but soft restraints hold his arms, allowing him some motion but not enough reach to get at his face. It's too fucking much and he wants to fight, wants to obay the instincts written in him to the bone, but even though his mind is racing, his body is slow and sluggish. He hits the end of the restraints twice with his good arm before someone grabs his hand to stop him from doing it again.

"Eliot!" Jess says crisply, "Look at me."

He knows an order when he hears one and meets her eyes, years of conditioning meaning he can do little else but obey.

"Good," she says, and squeezes his arm in reassurance. "You're doing great."

There's that lie again, because he's pretty sure he's never been less great in his life and he's been in some truly, truly shitty situations in his time.

"I know it's uncomfortable and scary," she says, tucking a strand of thick chestnut hair behind her ear. "And I know you're probably thinking, yeah right, I bet you say that to all the boys, but it's true." She sits down in the chair next to the bed so she's not looming over him.

He can feel his pulse starting to slow as he listens to her, lets her distract him from his body. The tube is still a massive intrusion, but he thinks he can bear it for just a little bit longer.

"Drunk driver knocked me off my bike a couple of years ago." She flaps a hand. "They never found him and I spent six weeks in the hospital being put back together." A flash of remembered pain crosses her face before she blinks and it vanishes.

Eliot hopes he never finds the man, because he's killed better people for less. The flare of rage takes him by surprise, but it's a symptom of the concussion and fades as quickly as it comes.

"How about we set up some communication?" Jess asks. "One blink for yes, two for no?"

He's pretty sure blinking is a bad idea but tries it anyway, feeling his head swim. He keeps his eyes closed until the darkness forces them back open. It's too much, with his eyes closed, remains him far too vividly of times he'd much rather forget. Maybe he'd be okay without the tubes or the restraints but all together it hits the big button inside of him labelled really fucking bad in big flashing letters.

"No good? Okay, squeeze once for yes, twice for no," Jess says, and lets go of his arm to take his hand. "Do you have any pain?"

Two squeezes. He's feeling pretty well medicated and he's damn grateful for that. But he's still kinda cold and plucks at the blanket with his other hand, hoping she'll get the message.

"Cold?" She nods. "Most patients are after a long surgery. I'll grab you some more blankets." She gently disengages their hands and crosses to the blanket warmer in the corner. It's not the same room as before and he's not sure if that's a good or bad thing.

A long surgery, he thinks as the words register and feels his pulse spike again. What the fuck happened to me?

She drapes the blankets over him, tucking them up around his shoulders. They're nicely warm and the chill slowly leaves him. She reaches for his hand again but he wants to try something first.

It's hard, with one hand in a cast but he takes his time signing the word. Hello. It's a test, to see if she can read sign language and her face lights up.

Hello, she signs back.

He pauses, feeling the strain as he pokes his damaged brain for the memories. It's been years since he last used sign language and it comes back to him more slowly than he'd like. The concussion probably isn't helping, and as much as he knows he just has to be patient and wait it out, he wishes he was healed and back to normal.

What happened to me? He asks, spelling the words out painstakingly. It makes his broken hand throb and he knows he's probably not going to manage much more for now.

She sits by the bed again. "When you came in, you had some bleeding in your chest from the broken ribs. The surgeons fixed it but one graft failed and the bleeding started again." She smiles, gently, and pats his hand. "I know how scary this must sound but there's no reason why you can't go back to your normal life once you're fully recovered."

And this damn tube, he thinks gesturing towards his face as best he can.

She frowns in confusion, then blinks as she gets his question. "Realistically, 24-48 hours to give your body a rest and chance to heal. Might be less than that though."

He nods, then gathers his fading strength for one last question, shaping the words carefully. Can you please take the restraints off? He signs and watches her face. He's not sure what will happen if he wakes again, still tied down but his nerves are already twitchy and he doubts it'll be anything good.

She hesitates, then meets his eyes. Whatever she sees there has her reaching for the straps, slipping them off his wrists.

Thank you, he signs, broken hand cramping. He lets it drop to his side, feeling the pull of the drugs more keenly, and knows that he drifts for a while. He can hear her moving about the room, pen scratching as she scribbles notes on his chart, and the sound is comforting, like he's chilling on the couch at the office, listening to the others doing their thing between jobs.

She clicks the TV on. It's showing a John Wayne movie, though he can't place which one, and he watches it, body lax under the influence of the drugs and blood loss.

Someone knocks on the door and she crosses to open it, turning towards the bed after a short conversation that he can't quite hear. "Your friends are here, do you want me to let them in?"

No! He signs, and she blinks at his vehermance, but nods and turns back to the door, body language turning apologetic.

He closes his eyes against the rush of want, of loneliness that almost swamps him, bears the ache until it subsides, just like it always does. There's a difference between hurt and vulnerable and right now he's the second, can't bear the thought of the people he loves seeing him in such a state. If he tries hard enough, he can pretend that the stinging in his eyes is from everything he's been through and not tears trying to escape. He's surprised he even has it in him still to cry. He blinks, and one slides down his cheek, cool and sharp like the edge of a blade.

He's survived things that would have killed other men. He can survive this.

He knows he can. He just wishes it didn't have to hurt so damn much.