Martin decided he hated being sick and was never going to do it again. Really, once was enough.

He wanted to sigh loudly, but couldn't. He wanted to cough, but really couldn't. He wanted a drink, but couldn't.

Really, he just wanted to be well again.

Save for that, he'd be pleased if they took the tube out of his throat. It was slightly better than when he'd woken up the first time to discover it, but it wasn't like it was something you could get used to. It was unnatural. Martin wasn't opposed to modern technology and medicine, he was a pilot for god's sake, but there was something wholly unnatural about being hooked up to a machine that breathed for you. In fact, now that he thought about it, he really liked breathing when he wanted to.

He wished he could sigh again.

Douglas returned with Irene, who explained about the numbing spray that she squirted in his throat. It began working quickly, and while the discomfort lessened, Martin still had a dry mouth and his jaw was aching from being held open for so long.

And to top it all off, he was bored. Arthur had brought him a lovely little otter, which Martin thought was kind of him, especially since it was his fault they were still in Nowhere, Norway. Carolyn was being really nice too. Saying they could go to the air museum before leaving. Especially since he was costing MJN money and jobs and clients, and they would probably go under because he was stupid enough to get so sick.

Martin squeezed his eyes shut and gripped the covers in his hands as hard as he could, which really wasn't very hard at all.

"Martin?" Douglas asked, a hand on his arm.

Martin jerked his arm away, and wanted to roll over, but couldn't. He wanted to cry, but wasn't sure if he could do that either. Was there anything he could still do?

He motioned for the paper again, which Douglas provided.

He worked hard to grip the pen, and cursed his weak muscles that wouldn't listen.

Jaw hurts.

He practically threw the pen away when he was done, but he was so weak, it barely reached the edge of the tray. Yet another failure.

Irene explained how she couldn't do anything about that, and Martin only nodded glumly, knowing that in the first place.

He told him that he was supposed to get the tube taken out a bit later, which was a good thing. Probably. He heard Irene leave, and Douglas go back to reading his book.

Would it be a good thing?

He closed his eyes and remembered the choking feeling, like he was drowning, only tethered to the world by the grip on his hand from Douglas. Most of that was pretty foggy, which he was grateful for, but he did remember that bit. Looking into his eyes and telling him he couldn't breathe, watching him panic, although he didn't show it.

That was pretty much all Martin remembered from that day.

And the fact that Douglas had carried him, carried him like a baby, out of the hotel and into the hospital in his pyjamas, his footy pyjamas. It was almost enough for him to wish that Douglas had left him there, come what may.

"Oh Martin," Douglas said softly, and he could feel the man dabbing at his face with a tissue. Oh great. You're crying. That's fantastic. Show Douglas just how much of a child you really are, how you need him to take care of you, carry you around while wearing your footy pyjamas, and wipe your face when you cry.

The thought only made him want to cry harder, but he couldn't sob or wail, and really, what was the point of crying if you couldn't do that?

He didn't want to cry, but he did, and he sure as hell didn't want Douglas Richardson watching or wiping his tears away.

Martin struck out without looking, and was surprised to feel contact with Douglas' arm. He opened his eyes and looked at Douglas in shock.

"Martin," Douglas warned. "Stop that. You're supposed to get extubated soon and they can't do that if they have to sedate you."

Right. Of course. You know best Douglas. Obviously. Because you went to medical school. Oh wait. You dropped out.

Martin's thoughts were being very cruel, and he was glad they couldn't come out of his mouth.

Martin squeezed his eyes shut one last time, but opened them to look at Douglas, and nodded.

"That's better," he murmured.

He finished dabbing the tears away and returned to his book like nothing had happened.

If Irene noticed his red splotchy face when she came in shortly after, she chose not to mention it.

"Good news Martin," she told him with a smile. "The second set of x-rays from this morning is back, and Doctor Slidder feels comfortable extubating you. A respiratory tech and two more nurses will be here shortly to help. This is good news Martin!" she exclaimed, patting his hand.

Martin smiled weakly.

"I'll be back when they arrive," she promised. Martin nodded slightly and she left.

He peeked at Douglas, who had put his book down and was watching Martin intently.

"Sir doesn't seem too pleased," he commented.

Martin knew there was no point in lying to Douglas.

Worried, he scrawled on the paper.

"Worried that it'll be like before? That you won't be able to breathe?"

Martin nodded, feeling foolish and expecting Douglas to call him out on it.

He didn't, just got up and flipped through the chart that was rapidly growing thicker. He pulled out what Martin recognized as x-ray films and held them up to the light for Martin to see.

"This is the one taken when you were admitted," he said, holding it in his right hand, "And this is the new one." He held up the one in his left hand. "See how this one," he shook the right one, "Is all splotchy, and this one" he shook the left one, "Is all not-splotchy? That would be the vast improvement. Still not back to 100% of course," Douglas noted, putting the x-rays back where he got them, "But more than enough improvement to start breathing all on your own. I think Sir should be able to handle that." He gave Martin a knowing smirk, and Martin rolled his eyes in return. He knew how to play this game; he could dance this dance. This was normal and comfortable, and he could do it.

And surprisingly enough, he felt okay with going forward.

He trusted Douglas, and that was a terrifying feeling.

But after all, this was the man who'd barely left his bedside since he'd arrived in hospital more than two days ago, only leaving when Carolyn and Arthur were there to keep him company.

He could do worse.