Chapter Seven
At least, that's how it feels, because the damn thing is no longer forcing air into his lungs. In fact, it feels like he can't breathe at all and he feels his pulse spike again. He's not prone to panic, but it almost swamps him, dark waves of terror washing over him like they want to eat him whole.
"Get them out! I want them both in my office!" Dr. Emory snaps to the security guard, pointing at Parker and Hardison. Both look shell-shocked. Parker has her arms wrapped tight around her body, making herself small. Hardison can't tear his eyes away from the struggling figure on the bed, guilt and self-blame sharper than a knife as he follows the guard.
"Eliot!" Dr Emory says, and pats his cheek. "Listen to me. You can still breathe. We've just changed the settings so the vent will help you rather than breathing for you
Deep breath in for me."
It's an order and while his brain understands, the muscles in his chest seem to have gone on strike, cramped tight and he can't make them relax. His entire chest burns so much he feels like he's been dipped in acid, sand blasted, dragged down a gravel road until there's nothing but exposed nerves and bone left.
"Sats dropping," Jess says quietly. "Down to 89%."
He feels hands on his face but his eyes are closed as he fights for some sort of control. Someone strokes his hair, fingers gentle as they comb through the strands and the feeling makes him want to weep.
"Okay Eliot," Dr. Emory says. "We're going to give you something to see if it helps. It's just a painkiller." Her hands brush his arm as she pushes the drug through his IV.
A rush of warmth washes through him. Thank you, he thinks, as the cramping in his chest starts to ease. The relief is enough that he can open his eyes, blinking against the painfully bright lights. He manages to draw in a shaky breath though it feels all kinds of wrong though the tube. He wants it out of his body more than he can remember wanting anything else right now. It takes him a few false starts but he manages to sign take it out with hands that are still shaking.
It's the only barest sliver of self control that's stopping him ripping it out himself. That sliver is eroding fast, and his hand jerks towards his face. He closes his eyes again, sending himself down into the small, dark place in his mind that he only ever visits in times of extreme duress, because each time he visits, he leaves part of himself there. Dissociation has a cost and its parts of his already tattered soul. It takes him out of his body, separates mind from flesh and some distant part of him knows he's probably scaring the medical staff into a collective heart attack.
There are quiet words passing over him but they float past, unimportant.
"Bag him," Dr. Emory says. "Get me the kit. We're taking the damn thing out."