Even Heroes Have the Right to Bleed
Chapter Nine
In what had long been the typical fashion, Don was roused four hours later by the telltale hum of his vibrating phone on his nightstand. Thoroughly encased in blankets, Don blindly stuck one hand out into the cool air of the rest of the room and felt around haphazardly for his phone. After knocking a bottle of water off the nightstand, jarring the clock and almost upending the lamp, he gave up all hope of finding his phone by touch alone, and since it had long since stopped buzzing, his ears weren't helping much either.
Don withdrew his hand and briefly considered allowing himself to go back to sleep. He was almost warm enough under his blankets, the bed was soft, and the mere idea of moving made his entire body throb. But after a thirty second attempt to just forget the phone entirely, he dragged the blankets back and peered out, unable to shake the guilty feeling that he might be needed.
His phone was not on the table. A slow but thorough search of the surrounding area revealed his gun, badge and wallet sitting neatly in a row on the dresser, his clothes lying in an undignified heap in the corner, the phone case on his belt empty, and the phone nowhere in sight. Deciding he must have dreamed the phone call entirely, Don looked longingly at his bed for a long moment, before realizing that the fact that he had dreamed a phone call did not mean a call had not actually occurred. His phone was not here with him; he could have twenty missed calls. And that was not acceptable.
Don glanced at his bed once more, tugged one of the blankets off of it and wrapped it securely about his shoulders, then ventured out into the rest of the house. A quick foray into his father's room proved the phone was not there, and one look into Charlie's room was evidence enough that, had his phone been in there, he'd be better off buying a new one. Steeling himself, Don descended the stairs, every step jarring his head, which was already threatening a small explosion at the effort of standing upright. Everything spun lazily and nauseatingly, and about two-thirds of the way down the stairs, Don had to pause to regroup. His head, though pounding with all its might, felt distant, and his movements felt slow and uncoordinated, as though he was drunk. But he wasn't drunk, he concluded. He was sick and dizzy and incredibly cranky that someone had taken his phone. Deciding it would not do to remain swaying on the stairs, he took another step down, and the resulting jolt sent black spots exploding through his vision. His momentum going forward, he was forced to take another step, and the resulting impact from that darkened his vision entirely, his head seeming to float off without the rest of his body, everything comfortably weightless.
"Donnie! Donnie, wake up!" Don's vision cleared to find his father and his brother kneeling over him, unnervingly close. He frowned and moved to sit up, but the shooting pain in his head combined with the hand on his chest convinced him that the floor really wasn't all that uncomfortable. He blinked at them.
"Are you okay? Can you hear me?" Alan asked, almost panicked. He brushed a hand across Don's forehead once, then laid his hand there a second time. Don was grateful; his hand was cool and felt surprisingly good.
"Yeah," Don grunted.
"What happened?" Charlie demanded. "Did you trip? Hit your head?"
"I don't think so," Don mumbled. "I got dizzy for a minute and then I – hey, do you have my phone?"
"What do you need your phone for?" Alan asked, clearly not satisfied with Don's answer.
"I need to see if work called, we had that case…" Don trailed off as his father gave him a stern look.
"You are not working today," Alan intoned. "You are going to let us help you up and out to the car, and we are going to get you checked out by a doctor."
"Dad, I'm fine," Don protested.
"You passed out and then hit your head," Charlie said. "You fell down the stairs, Don."
"But, I –"
"No buts!" Alan said decisively. "You're going and that's that."
Don continued to grumble and gripe, but in the end his head did hurt quite a bit and he didn't think he was quite up to fighting off the two of them, even the obvious advantage of FBI training, so he allowed them to help him to his feat, half-carry him out to the car and drive to the hospital. He did, however, coax Charlie into calling his team to make sure everything was okay, so that Don would be able to relax without worry.
So all in all, he would call it a win.
Alan sat uncomfortably in the waiting room of the local emergency center almost two hours later. The chairs were stiff and scarcely padded, the room was air-conditioned to a point somewhere between the temperature of a refrigerator and a freezer, and his arm was asleep, due to the weight of his son sleeping soundly on his shoulder.
At first, he had attempted to keep Don awake, but with the incredible sleep debt his son had racked up – which, when he mentioned it to Charlie was immediately calculated within a comfortable margin of error – getting Don to sit still, relax, and remain conscious had proved impossible. So he now sat, one arm across Don's shoulders, with Don's head resting in the curve between his shoulder and his neck, just heavy enough to cut off blood flow. Both he and Charlie had tossed their jackets over Don, in addition to the blanket he was already wearing, but Don was still shivering from the fever.
"Maybe we should have just gone to a clinic instead," Charlie said, tossing a beat up magazine back onto the heap in front of him.
"I have a feeling they would have sent us here anyway," Alan said softly. "They'll probably want to give him an IV, to hydrate him."
Charlie nodded. "You're probably right. I'm going to go call Amita and ask her to post a sign for my students cancelling class." He stood up and walked away, pulling his phone from his pocket as he went.
Alan rested his cheek in Don's hair, feeling the heat radiating from his son, taking both comfort and worry from it in the chilly room. He sighed and let his eyes drift closed.
He was awakened abruptly by a call of "Eppes?"
"Yes, right here!" he called. Reaching across with his good arm, he nudged Don gently to wake him. Don blinked his eyes open, confused, but quickly relinquished the jackets and blanket to follow the nurse back. Alan followed on her heels.
"You know, I've been going to the doctor by myself for a while now, Dad," Don commented, tone light.
"I just want to make sure he gets the whole story." Alan kept his tone light too, but he could see Don understood that an argument would not be worthwhile in this case.
"We'll just have you sit on the table here," the nurse said. "I'm going to just do a few routine things and the doctor will be in shortly, okay?" Don sat quietly, allowing his pulse and blood pressure to be taken, answering questions and nodding in the right places.
The nurse drew the curtain around them as she left, and Don sighed loudly and lay back on the table, legs dangling off the end. Alan considered trying to start a conversation, but quickly noticed Don's eyes had once again drifted shut, so he settled himself in the chair to wait.
Not ten minutes later, a young, dark-haired man in a white coat parted the curtain and introduced himself as Dr. Metzger.
"So, Mr. –" he broke off as he checked the chart again. "I'm sorry, Agent Eppes. It says here you took a spill down the stairs?"
Don quickly outlined the fall, concluding with "I think I hit my head, so we thought I should get checked out."
"Good idea," Dr. Metzger agreed. "Always better to be sure."
"Actually, doctor," Alan broke in. "That's not the only reason we're here."
"Oh?" The doctor raised his eyebrows and looked back to Don, who shifted uncomfortably.
"Well, I've been a little…under the weather, recently," Don mumbled. Don went on to explain, with periodic interjections from Alan, the vomiting, the hacking cough, the fever and lightheadedness, the fatigue, lack of sleep and general weakness. Dr. Metzger nodded, listened attentively, and took occasional notes. As he spoke, Don's voice became weaker and hoarser until finally, like punctuation to his tale, he broke into a fit of coughing which Dr. Metzger listened to for a moment with a stethoscope before patting Don's back gently and offering him a cup of water, which Don, when he was able to wheeze out an answer, declined.
Dr. Metzger sat back down and regarded Don thoughtfully. "Well, I don't want to say too much yet," he said finally. "I'm going to order some chest X-rays and blood work. Your head is fine, you didn't hit it too hard. But, my best guess would be that you've been running yourself into the ground lately and it finally caught up with you. Your weakened immune system made you even more susceptible to the flu –" at this, Don shot a triumphant look at Alan, to which Dr. Metzger raised his eyebrows before continuing, "and complications arose from that flu when you didn't slow down and let your body fight it off."
"Complications?" Alan asked, concerned.
"Pneumonia," the doctor supplied. At Alan's reaction, he quickly added, "Mild pneumonia that will resolve easily with a little rest and some good strong antibiotics. We'll do the X-rays to confirm, but this is pretty textbook."
"And the fall?" Alan asked.
"Low blood pressure." Dr. Metzger looked back at Don. "You are severely dehydrated. I'm going to start an IV to help get some fluids in you, and I'm going to give you an anti-emetic, to help with the nausea. There's not a lot I can do for just regular old flu, but if we get you hydrated again and you relax and give your body time to heal, you'll be good as new soon."
Don nodded, exhaustion evident. Dr. Metzger continued. "You're in good shape, Agent Eppes. You should bounce back quickly. But you need to take it easy. None of this running off to fight terror and save lives. Not that we don't appreciate it," he added, with a smile. "Just listen to your body. It knows what it needs."
Don had the good sense to look a little sheepish. "Sorry, doc."
"No problem. I can't complain too much, can I? I like my life just as much as the next guy." He stepped outside the curtain for a moment, returning with a bag of yellow fluid and a needle. He expertly inserted the IV, hung the bag and turned to Don once more. "This is a banana bag – fluids and vitamins all in one neat package. We're going to leave this in while the nurse takes you for X-rays, and then we'll see about letting you go home, okay?"
"That would be great," Don agreed. Dr. Metzger shook his hand, and then Alan's before leaving them once more.
Alan looked at his son, who refused to meet his gaze. After a long moment, he finally said, "You and Charlie both have always loved your work. And you've always been so talented. And while I love that you love your work, I'd love it even more if you knew when to stop working."
Don nodded, but cast a knowingly look and the hint of a smile at his father. "Guess Charlie and I take after the other workaholic in our family."
"Yes, you got it from your mother," Alan said, deliberately misunderstanding, with a small smile.