A.N. This chapter's a little short, but it's all I had time for today so it will have to do. I hope you enjoy!
I don't own Flashpoint. Sigh.
.
.
.
.
He had no concept of time. At first, all he knew and cared about was that the hostages were safe. It puzzled him, how he knew that, but for the moment he didn't care. He was warmer than he'd been the last time he was conscious, but he still could not really move. Part of him was amused at the sense of déjà vu, the rest of him mentally groaned at the inability to control his body—as an ex-soldier, being out of control and inactive were two things he absolutely despised.
He could feel a bed beneath him, he heard beeping and whirring to his right, and his mind felt a little lost in the familiar fog of pain killers. All of this, he realized, added up to a hospital, which meant he was still alive and, thankfully, no longer dangling at an uncomfortable height from the ground.
His hand twitched, and he frowned. He had definitely not told his hand to move. It twitched again, shortly followed by a twitch of his foot, and his frown deepened. He mentally growled and cursed at the pain killers that were causing his body to mutiny, but the moment his back spasmed, he took back the curses. Pain ripped through his chest as his back arched and he gasped, desperate for air that wouldn't come. His hands fisted in the sheets, desperate to find some way of lessening the agony. His back jerked again and it took everything he still had to hold back his scream. His body was telling him to take deep breaths, but he knew that would not end well. Instead, he gasped, shallow, fast breaths that seemed useless in getting oxygen to his starving lungs.
Just when he was beginning to panic, a hand gripped his wrist. He relaxed his hold on the sheets, and the moment his fist was disentangled, the hand clasped his and held on tightly. He returned the solid grip with one of his own, clinging to the anchor that it provided. As his back muscles continued to contract, he focused on the hand that was his lifeline: it was calloused and scarred, much like his own. Although he could not yet open his eyes (he'd already tried and they were firmly glued shut), he tried to extend his senses to the person the hand belonged to. As he lay there, trying to ignore the pain, he started to understand that someone was speaking. Mumbling is what it sounded like at first, but gradually words and meaning started to drift into his mind.
"… Just relax Samo, you're gonna be okay. I know you're in a lot of pain right now but," he heard a laugh, "I have to say I'm pretty ecstatic. That sounds wrong, given the circumstances, but… your foot moved!" Again, he could hear quiet chuckling, and as he focused on that simple sound, he felt his muscles start to relax. The quiet chatter continued, "They told us they were concerned that your spine might have been damaged, and I thought, 'no way would Sam let that happen,' and sure enough, you proved me right and them wrong. I'd say thanks for making me right, but I have a feeling that you were just too stubborn to let the doctors be right." There was a pause and he heard the person shift before the talk turned from rambling chatter to a more intense murmur. "Hey Sam. I know you're awake—the death grip you have on my hand sort of gives it away—so how about this? Think you can open your eyes for me?" He considered it, but determined that no, his eyes were content to stay shut. The voice got a little firmer. "Okay, how about this: Sam, as your Team Leader, I am ordering you to open your eyes." Damn. No way was he going to disobey an order. Steeling himself for the daunting task, he took in a breath, then began to pry open his stubborn eyelids.
After the initial twitch of Sam's hand that had prompted Ed to call Sophie and the team several hours ago, there'd been no movement since. This was why, when Sam started to twitch again, Ed didn't pay much attention—not until his foot moved. At the shift of that one limb, Ed felt his heart both stop and soar. He didn't quite believe that he'd seen it—maybe his tired mind had imagined it—not until Sam's whole body tensed. In moments, Ed was standing and hitting the call button. He cursed the timing, because he knew just fifteen minutes ago a large group of critical patients had descended upon the hospital—victims of a drive by shooting he'd heard—and were currently taking up all of the staff. He hoped that someone would come soon, but knew that for now, he was on his own.
Sam's hands fisted in the sheets and he let out a gasp, before gritting his teeth together. Ed had no idea what to do, nor what was ailing his friend, so he did the only thing he could think of. His hand shot out and gripped Sam's wrist, and when the ex-soldier's fist relaxed enough for Ed to wrestle the sheets out of its death grip and replace them with his own hand, he was relieved by the strength Sam's grasp still held. He could see that Sam's back was spasming and knew that that could not be helping his broken ribs and gunshot wounds—evident by the fact that Sam was in a lot of pain. He decided to start talking at that point, hoping his voice would give Sam something to latch onto.
"Hey, hey, okay, you're in the hospital. Several days have gone by since the incident at Andrew Bank," he mentally hit himself for mentioning that, it wasn't like Sam needed to know that he'd lost a couple days of his life, "And uh, no need to worry about anything except for relaxing. Just relax Samo, you're gonna be okay. I know you're in a lot of pain right now," he grimaced when he thought about just how much pain the young man was in, before a happier thought entered his mind, "but," he couldn't help the burst of relieved laughter that escaped his mouth, "I have to say I'm pretty ecstatic. That sounds wrong, given the circumstances, but… your foot moved!" He chuckled more, grateful and awed at Sam's ability to defy reason. "They told us they were concerned that your spine might have been damaged, and I thought, 'no way would Sam let that happen,' and sure enough, you proved me right and them wrong. I'd say thanks for making me right, but I have a feeling that you were just too stubborn to let the doctors be right." He paused, searching the other man's face for some sign that this rambling was helping at all. He was pleased to see that the pain lines around Sam's face seemed to be disappearing slowly, and that his whole body had relaxed more.
Ed took a deep breath before continuing on in a more serious voice. "Hey Sam. I know you're awake—the death grip you have on my hand sort of gives it away—so how about this? Think you can open your eyes for me?" When no reaction was forthcoming, Ed muttered to himself about cheeky, stubborn blonds, then gave his voice a more commanding tone, like the one he used during a hot call. "Okay, how about this: Sam, as your Team Leader, I am ordering you to open your eyes."
He waited, holding his breath, until finally, Sam's eyes opened slowly.