He cracked open his eyes, lids burning as he blinked away the bleary film and stared at the ceiling, trying to bring it into focus. The pull of sleep was magnetic, his brain sluggish as he tried to place what day it was amid a string of drug-blurred days and lapses in time. He gave up, hearing himself groan under his breath while attempting to roll over. Then the pain came with all the subtlety of being kicked by a horse – or, at least, what he guessed being kicked by a horse was like.

"Whoa- -" A disembodied voice cut into his thoughts. "Take it easy, son."

Squeezing his eyes shut and waiting for the angry throb to even out was an exercise in patience. But when he could open them again he took stock of his sterile, Spartanly furnished room, curtains drawn open to the midday sun and a small bouquet of flowers sitting neatly over the end table. There was a hand curled around the rail of his cot. Turning his head to the side, he saw Doc gazing back and realized the extent of his relief when he felt his heart squeeze at the sight of him.

"Doc… whoa. Y'look like hell." He gave a wincing, apologetic smile after a moment. "Sorry."

"I bet I do. Hell, thanks to you, I was lucky if I got three hours of sleep a night."

There was no heat in his answer, though; no real frustration. And for a moment as they sat there taking in the others' presence and searching each others' faces tiredly, Mac thought he saw Doc's eyes darken and gleam wet.

Oh.

The kid felt a different sort of ache clutch fiercely at his chest, the beginnings of a clumsy, half-formed apology sticking in his throat. It must have shown in his face because Louis was suddenly leaning forward in his chair and slugging his shoulder lightly, his voice lower, gentler.

"C'mon, son, I'd rather miss a few weeks than not know how y'doin'." He gave him another nudge. "Now how y'feelin', huh?"

Mac mustered an uneasy, distracted smile. "Ain't too bad for havin' a hose stickin' in my ribs."

Doc offered a sympathetic look. He bent in his chair, rustling through a plastic bag. "Now hold on, I got somethin' for you. A couple things."

"What's that?"

A single page of a newspaper was handed to him. "The front page from a few days ago. Read it."

"The whole thing?"

Doc laughed at Mac's reluctance. "Just check it out, okay?"

Squinting, the kid scanned the front page spread, skimming through its neat, tiny text.

Last night at the WVBA Stadium, tensions were especially high in the wake of the diminutive Little Mac's vicious, unprovoked attack on a self-proclaimed Super Macho Man fan. But Jeremy Owens, the supermodel, celebrity, and bodybuilder extraordinaire better known as Super Macho Man, suffered an embarrassing defeat to the 'trigger-happy', seventeen year old Bronxite.

Super Macho Man? Many now beg to differ.

Mac blinked and pursed his lips, glancing up and into his trainer's expectant face. His gaze returned to the article.

"Iunno, I feel… kinda bad for him." He found himself saying, a part of himself wishing he got some sense of satisfaction out of it.

You shouldn't, Doc thought grimly. He sure as hell didn't give a damn about you. "It's eatin' you, huh?"

Mac sighed. "I'm still kinda worried 'bout what people back home will say." His eyes locked on his trainer, achingly trusting. "What's gonna happen to my career? No one's gonna wanna fight me if I got a bad rep."

Doc laced his fingers together over his lap. "Now listen here. If I know the WVBA as well as I think I do, they won't care about whatever trouble you get into. Think that Aran Ryan sucker hasn't messed around? What matters most to them is entertainment. That's just the way it is." He added, a little ruefully.

The World Video Boxing Association was the internationally-recognized organization that had legitimized a different flavour of boxing (so they had called it), and opened up a world of possibility for Mac. Regardless of the statements they made regarding their organization's mission, affirming that they offered new and old, inexperienced and seasoned boxers equal opportunity in their professional debut, their interest first and foremost was to entertain the masses and pull in a nice profit. To this end they sneakily laxened and adjusted some traditional rules, the most dramatic changes being that matches were restricted to only three rounds at the most and that weight divisions were scrapped for more thrilling – and more dangerous bouts.

Few boxing purists dared to call it a circus. Not when ferocious boxers the likes of Mr. Sandman had climbed the ranks with hunger in their eyes and turned their sights to the championship belts of other organizations.

"You brought down Macho, son!" Pausing, Doc searched Mac's eyes for a flicker of recognition and saw it, letting out a breath he didn't know he had been holding and chuffing a laugh in relief. "Remember this moment! You'll get your shot at Mr. Sandman, don't you worry."

"Y'think so?"

"I'd bet on it."

Mac's lips pulled into a closed, gentle smile. "…Thanks, Doc."

"Y'know, " Doc drew in closer, the legs of his chair squeaking against the floor. "When y'grow older, you gonna realize that there ain't nothing that matters more than what y'got in here." He tapped his own chest.

"Heart?" Mac suggested, hopefully.

The answer earned him a chuckle.

"No – well, yeah, that too. But that's not what I meant." The man's expression sobered. "I'm talkin' about self respect. No kind a' respect matters more. If you got that strong belief in yourself, that strong respect for yourself and who you are? ... Ain't nobody or nothin' in this world that's gonna touch you. It takes an iron hide, this sport, an' not only for takin' punches. People're always gonna talk flack about you - heck, in life too, an' for petty reasons. It ain't easy. It ain't fair, remember?"

Taking hold of one of Mac's hands, he tucked his fingers in and clapped a hand over the fist, clasping it tight for a moment.

"But you gotta learn t'stand up. Now I don' mean punchin' nobody in the face - - but takin' it. Keep rollin' with it an' don't let 'em push you around. Show 'em they can't take you down."

Silent, Mac hung on his every word, breaking eye-contact only as a nurse drifted into the room to see if anything was needed.

"But these are jus' words, Mac." Doc continued, when she had left. "Just tellin' you don't mean as much. Y'got to know it... y'gotta feel it. You'll know it when you know it."

Gaze turning inward, the kid nodded faintly, giving the words time to sink in.

"Hey –" Doc said with fresh self-awareness. Mac looked up suddenly. "How many motivational speeches have I given you this week, son? I think I should start chargin' you for my advice."

"Geez, iunno…" He let out a sharp breath, grinning sheepishly. "Three? Wait … are we countin' this one or not?"

The man reached over and gave Mac a gentle nudge on the chin with his knuckles. "It don't matter; they're all on me, anyway. I know what this all feels like... I was young like you, once."

Mulling over the entirety of Mac's career for the umpteenth time and reeling at how far they'd come through pain and practice, it's all he could do to shake his head in incredulous amusement. "...You just don' know when to quit, do ya?"

Mac smiled cheekily and it was the happiest Doc had seen him in days. "No, sir."

In two words, the pent-up, strangling fear and stress of harried nerves melted away and it was a miraculous feeling, letting go. A hearty laugh surged from Doc's belly, on and on until tears – joyful tears - sprung to his eyes, the sound filling the room with warmth and renewed hope. And a moment after it faded - a moment spent in companionable, thoughtful silence - Mac felt like for the first time in a long time, everything was right with the world.