At that moment the loft door creaks open and both Sam and Madeline whip around to face the intruder.
Sam breathes a sigh of relief while Madeline complains "What took you so long?" as Fiona walks in, not replying but closing the door instead.
"And what's going on with you and Michael?" Madeline questions, still feeling frustrated about the whole situation and about being left in the dark on matters that concerned her son.
"Can we not talk about that right now," Fiona pleads with an edge to her voice making it a statement not a question although her voice shakes.
Madeline stops her interrogation as she sees Fiona's tear stained face and puffy eyes.
"Oh, Fiona, what's going on?" Madeline asks, suddenly sympathetic.
Fiona gets angry with herself as her body betrays her, letting tears leak down her face which she wipes at roughly. Madeline closes the space between them quickly and wraps Fiona in an embrace that conveys a message only the female population can comprehend.
Madeline whispers to her, "I'm glad you're here."
Fiona closes her eyes for a second, blinking the tears away and whispers, "Thank you," to Madeline. In that moment she longs for her own mother's arms to be comforting her but it's just another bitter reminder of all she's given up and so she pulls away and finally notices the dampness that transferred from Madeline to her, "You're all wet," she notices.
Madeline gives a small smile and asks, "Yeah, and what's your excuse?" Madeline counters looking at Fiona's wet face.
"I.. Um.. I hydroplaned on the way over here-" Fiona stops in the middle of her explanation as she hears Michael's sharp intake of breath, "-but I'm alright. What happened to him?"
"Oh my, I'm glad you're alright," Madeline tells Fiona, genuinely concerned.
Fiona and Madeline walk over to where Sam has stripped Michael of his shirt, shoes and pants and is currently packing gauze against his chest wound. As soon as Sam had laid Michael on the bed he was making a mess on the bed spread. Now with the sheets tucked around him, the fabric is now stained a vibrant crimson.
"He appears to have a head wound leaving him with a pretty nasty concussion which is why he's so out of it and this…" Sam trails off.
As Fiona gets close enough to see, Sam peels back the gauze revealing the wound to her.
"He's been stabbed?" Fiona asks, shocked at the six inch gash along the left side of Michael's rib cage.
"Sliced would be more precise," Sam replies. "Help me clean it up," he requests.
"I'll get a bowl of hot water," Madeline replies and steps into the tiny kitchen area and pauses.
"Top cabinet on the right," Fiona replies, sensing Madeline's confusion, and answering her unspoken question.
"Get some towels, dry him off, make him warm," Sam requests of Fiona, "Oh and Fi, grab Mike's medical supply bag too, we're going to need to suture this," Sam states as he rambles one handedly through his own bag realizing that he was sorely low on things they would need, while with the other hand he holds pressure to the wound.
Fiona takes several minutes but returns with a stack of dry warm towels and hands Madeline several. Madeline feels the warmth from the towels and Fiona explains to her, "I put the towels in the dryer to warm them."
"Good idea," Madeline states, surprised by the kind action. She pulls back the covers and drapes the warm towels across her son.
"Ugh, he smells like vomit," Fiona complains as she runs a warm washcloth across his face. She dips the cloth into the hot water and squeezes it out over Michael's dark hair. He recoils as the water stings the abrasion above his ear.
Fiona feels bad for hurting him but covers this response with a biting remark, "Oh, don't be such a baby Michael," she mocks and moves onto his cleaning his chest.
Running her fingers across his skin Fiona becomes concerned, "He's really cold," Fiona tells Sam.
"Yeah, well, blood loss will do that to you," Sam replies with the simple answer.
"Lying in the rain for an hour didn't help much either," Madeline adds in.
"He'll be alright once we get this bleeding to stop and we get some warm fluids into him," Sam reassures them.
"I've seen these kinds of wounds before in combat. It's the head wound that I'd be most concerned about," Sam states in response to Madeline's questioning look.
"Here," Sam hands over a hemostat with a needle and thread to Fiona, the metal gleaming in the lamp light, "You were always better at this than I was, I'm sure Michael would appreciate it."
"Sure," she replies, agreeing with him for once, "Hold his arm back," she says gently. Sam moves Michael's arm above his head and pins it to the bed.
Knowing what is coming next, Sam requests, "Madeline, go on the other side and hold his other arm down please."
"This is going to hurt Michael, you seem to be out of peroxide and this suture kit does not have betadine in it, so here, bite down on this," Fiona tells him as she stuffs a folded clean wet washcloth between his teeth.
Fiona gives Sam and Madeline a look making sure they are ready and proceeds to pour the alcohol on the wound. Michael thrashes against the bed and those holding him down as his chest burns like it is on fire. His cries would pierce the quiet stillness of the night only if he could be heard but the washcloth saving his teeth is also effectively muffling/gagging him.
He begins to hyperventilate in response, breathing excessively through his nose.
"Calm down Mikey. I would give you something for the pain but you're already bleeding pretty badly, I'm afraid the alcohol would only make it worse," Sam reasons but feels like an ass nonetheless for having to make Michael suffer through this. Truth is, alcohol would help with the pain, but Sam is more worried that he would stop breathing, alcohol and concussions are a deadly mixture, respiratory depression is serious business.
Fiona methodically sutures the wound closed as quickly and precisely as she can manage with Michael's agonizing moans making her chest hurt each time she sticks the needle in.
As Sam and Fiona tend to Michael, Madeline makes her way onto the balcony. "I need a cigarette," she tells no one in particular, not being able to stand seeing her son like this.
She nervously taps the pack down before sliding one out and placing it between her lips. She lights up the end and breathes in, sighing. Soft whiffs of smoke trail upward from the burning end of the cigarette as it glows orange in the dark night.
By the time Fiona is finished with the sutures and secures the dressing to the area, Michael is no longer complaining, but passed out and his bodied is now covered in sweat from the exertion and fever that has just begun to set in.
"Let's get him into some fresh clothes and change the bed sheets," Sam suggests and both he and Fiona work quietly as they change the linens.
Fiona is about to put one of Michael's cotton t-shirts on him when Sam shakes Michael.
"Hey, Michael, I know it's hard but I need you to wake, just for a moment so I know you're alright," Sam states loud enough not to be ignored.
Michael swallows dryly and cracks his eyes open.
"Good man," Sam smiles.
"Can you tell me who I am?" Sam asks.
Michael gives him a look that clearly inquires is that really what you want to know?
"I know it's a silly question, just answer it," Sam insists.
"Sam," Michael replies, his voice a whisper, before breaking into a cough, his face contorting in pain.
"Good, now can you tell me where you are?" Sam continues.
Michael growls in protest and Sam replies, "Just answer this question and I'll let you go back to sleep."
Michael opens his eyes a bit more and tries to focus on his surroundings, it takes a few seconds but he figures out where he is and tells Sam, "The loft."
"Good. Go back to sleep," Sam whispers and tucks him in.
Fiona raises an eyebrow at the tenderness Sam shows towards the injured man. Sam shrugs, brushing off the inquiry and tells Fiona, "We should wrap his ribs in the morning, he's most likely got a few cracked ribs judging the bruising and how much pain was caused by coughing," and moves to join Madeline on the balcony.
Fiona left alone with Michael takes the moment to study his face. His dark hair makes his face seem even paler and the sheen of sweat makes him look sickly but it was the tenseness of his jaw that tells her in isn't feeling good, the pain from his wounds keeping him from a peaceful slumber.
She turns to leave when he calls out to her, "Fi?"
She knows he's not fully awake and that she can make a run for it if she wanted to, that no one would ever have to know. But it's the word that comes out of his mouth that makes her stay, "Please, Fi." He says it with such softness and unsheltered need that she takes a step closer against her better judgment and she grasps his hand in her own.
"I'm here Michael. Sleep," she whispers and sits beside him as he finally relaxes into deep sleep, a ghost of a smile upon his face.