"Sats up to 95%," Jess says, one hand squeezing the bag, the other laid on Eliot's cheek. His eyes are open, but remote and it makes her want to shudder because she's seen that look before in some of her other patients, the ones shipped back after days or weeks of captivity. Which is a nice clean word for torture, she thinks and has to blink sudden stinging tears away. She's treated bad men before, murderers and rapists and drug runners, knows them. The man under her hands might not be free of sin- the scars on his body alone attest to that, but he's not bad, and nothing will convince her otherwise.
On the other side of the bed, Dr. Emory nods, the equipment she needs laid out neatly. Including a couple of syringes, filled with sedatives and paralytics just in case this goes wrong and they have to intubate him again.
"Hey, Eliot," Jess says, and can't stop herself from stroking his cheek with her thumb. "Come back to us," she adds softly.
He blinks, and emotion floods back into his eyes, his face. The dormant relaxation from seconds ago vanishes, replaced by tension. He's back in his body now, and by the frown on his face, it's not an experience he's currently enjoying.
"Give us thirty seconds and we'll have the ET tube out of you, okay?" Jess says.
Her thumb is still stroking his cheek, gloves soft against his skin. The gesture - or maybe the intention behind it - is comforting out of all proportion and he lets himself focus on it, pushing everything else away. He can take thirty more seconds. It's how he gets through any tough spot, by breaking it down and telling himself he can. It's mind over body, just like they taught him, way back when, when he wore the flag on his shoulder and believed he was making the world a better place.
"Okay, we're ready," Dr. Emory says and sends him a reassuring smile. "Take a good deep breath for me and when I tell you, exhale. Ready?"
He's been ready since he woke up with the damn thing in his throat. He gives her a tired thumb's up and sucks in the deepest breath he can manage, stubbornly ignoring the ache from his broken ribs.
She deflates the cuff and tugs the tube out smoothly, keeping a careful eye on his sats. They've dipped a little, but it's not enough to worry her, yet.
He gags and coughs, bracing his ribs with his arm as the movement lights them up red hot with pain. His throat feels raw, abused and he swallows carefully as he manages to get the cough under control. The pain is nothing against the sense of relief he feels at having his body back.
Someone slips a nasal cannula on his face and the cool flow of oxygen helps. He swallows hard against his dry throat.
"Thank you," he grates out, because his voice is wrecked, but the words are heartfelt. His chest aches with every breath but it's not the first time he's had broken ribs, and it's not likely to be the last, given his line of work.
"Glad you're back with us," Jess says, and hands him a cup of ice chips.
He dumps a few in his mouth, wincing at the cold. "My friends?" he asks, and has to shove down the emotions that stirs hard. It's a stupid, groundless worry, but he can't help but think they'll see him differently, now they've seen him vulnerable. Weak, his mind supplies. Broken.
"They're in Dr. Emory's office." Jess says, "Do you want me to get them for you?"
Every self protective instinct in him is screaming no. If it's bad, he doesn't want to know yet. But he's never been one to walk away from trouble, never, and he forces himself to nod. Might as well find out, he thinks, and shifts, easing onto his side. "Yeah, I'd like that," he says, softly.
"Okay doke," Jess says, and tucks an extra pillow behind his back.
It takes some of the ache out of his back, his ribs and he blinks his thanks at her.
"Where did you serve?" she asks.
It's the last thing he expects her to ask and he sucks in a startled breath that almost sets him off coughing again. "How did you know?"
She shrugs, ponytail bouncing with the movement. "You vanished." Her eyes are full of sadness when she looks at him. "I've only seen three types of people do that. Abused kids, and I don't peg you as one, victims of domestic abuse, and I doubt your friends are beating you up, and soldiers."
"I can't tell you," he says softly. He's trying not to lie to her and she nods, once, accepting that.
"Just… Don't let it drag you down. You deserve to be happy."
No, I don't, he thinks instantly, because even though he caged the monster, it's still there, deep down inside of him. He's let it out before, and knows he will again, if the motivation is right. He's done unspeakable things and he knows where he's headed. The thought makes his eyes burn and he blinks, lifting a shaking hand to swipe his face.
"I'll go and get your friends," she says and slips out, leaving him alone.
It takes him longer than he'll ever admit to get the tears under control. It's the concussion and the drugs and the exhaustion, but some of it is purging, clearing out the stress and terror of the last few days and he's defenceless against that. They're silent things that slip down his face like rain and he aches under the weight of them.