Chapter 19
"El, are you awake?" Nate quietly tip-toed into the hitter's room, cautious not to startle him in case he was too deeply asleep to notice the other man's presence.
Eliot would normally be conscious by this time, a little groggy on occasions, and usually not aware enough to start his daily routines yet, but still awake though. That day, however, he was completely dead to the world.
As he bent down to check on him, Nate noticed a slight change in the hitter's complexion and the tiredness that was marked under his eyes. There was a small tremble just below the surface of Eliot's skin and he was breathing a little heavier, but it didn't feel like a nightmare, those typically had a lot more movement and shouting.
Hope he hasn't got a cold; the doc did say something about diminished lung capacity. He's probably just pushed himself a little hard recently, some rest will do him good.
The hitter rolled over, his movements slow and lethargic. Even in sleep, Eliot looked exhausted, so it was probably for the best that Nate just left him alone.
The mastermind crept back out of the room and over to the coat racks where his wife was waiting for him.
"Aren't you getting El his breakfast?" Sophie asked as she slipped Nate his coat.
"No, he's completely out of it." Nate shook his head as he searched for his keys, only for his wife to hand them to him, as she did every morning. "Thanks. He looked like he could use some more sleep. We'll only be gone an hour; I'll wake him up when we get back."
.
.
.
It felt like his skin was on fire. Like he'd fallen asleep in the blistering heat of a tropical island, and now he was feeling the consequence of that mistake. Only it was the middle of January, and Eliot was still in his Portland apartment, so why was he so hot?
His body was soaked in sweat and his arms trembled when he tried to lift them. Swiping the moisture from his forehead, he could feel a bone-deep ache resting heavily on his skeleton, even his nailbeds hurt and each strand of his hair where it entered his scalp. What was wrong with him?
Eliot tried to force himself up, he didn't need the bed's support anymore, not after months of therapy and healing to restrengthen his core. But that day, even the simple task of sitting up was beyond him, making him retreat back to the comfort of his adjustable bed. Taking the long abandoned remote in the palm of his hand, the hitter fumbled with the controls until he was upright and gasping for air.
They weren't kidding when they said even a cold might knock me out. Feel like I've gone ten rounds with the Butcher of Kiev before getting thrown on a pier for all my sins.
He considered using the button that Hardison had installed next to his bed, but he felt stupid using something meant for emergencies for just a little old cold. Instead, he decided to rest for a minute, and build up his strength so he could at least move a little without becoming winded.
Looking over at the crutches he'd been working with for about a month now, Eliot knew he wouldn't be able to pull himself upright enough to use them. Besides, it didn't feel like his legs were going to work for him that day, nor his arms or anything else to be honest.
He felt like a huge dead weight.
He could probably just about manage the chair; he was only going to the kitchen and back so he could get the food to go with his meds. It wouldn't be anything fancy, whatever leftovers had been stashed in the bottom of the fridge. But he needed something if he didn't want to throw up the pills he'd meant to have taken. So, bottom shelf scraps it was.
That was if he could get that far.
The hitter dragged his limp body out from under his sweat-soaked covers, (they'll need washing) and into the wheelchair that had been parked next to his bed. That small manoeuvre had left him clutching at the pain in his lungs, his head spinning as he lamented his lack of pills. He needed food quick, just so he could take his meds and be relieved of at least some of the pain.
His hands shook as he pushed himself along the apartment's floor. The dizziness he was feeling mixed with the weakness in his arms sent him crashing into just about every piece of furniture they had, despite their widespread layout. If he was still awake when Nate got back, Eliot would need to ask his friend to help check for any injuries. It was hard to feel new pain on top of the full body ache he had going on right then. Nonetheless, he continued on with his dangerous journey over to the fridge.
Checking the bottom couple of layers, he was surprised to see them both empty. The team normally made sure to have something there, just in case Eliot was left alone. But he guessed they had gotten a little lax in that regard over the past couple of weeks. Ever since he'd started using his crutches around the apartment, Eliot had been able to use more of the kitchen, only struggling with the high shelves that housed mostly Hardison's stuff. And now that he thought about it, Nate and Sophie had mentioned something about going grocery shopping today, because they were almost out of food.
Looking up, Eliot could see a pre-made sandwich all the way on the top shelf. It was clearly out of his reach, stuck in the low wheelchair as he was, but if he was quick about, the hitter could pull himself up using the handrails Hardison had installed, and grab the food before falling back into his seat. It wasn't the best of plans, but it was something.
If he'd been feeling a little better, he'd have probably thought about the staff members who'd already started arriving for the daily prep, asking one of them to get it for him would be a lot easier. But then again, if he was feeling better, he wouldn't need help to begin with.
Reaching out with a trembling left hand, Eliot grasped on (as tightly as possible) to the thick plastic hold attached to the side of the fridge. Feeling secure with its placement, he gradually pulled himself upright onto unsteady legs. He had to brace himself using his right hand as he stumbled forward, too weak in the knees to hold himself upright. The sudden movement sent him into a headrush, or maybe it was something else, it seemed familiar whatever it was. He'd have no time to finish those thoughts, as the next thing he knew, he was in complete darkness.
.
.
.
The supermarket was a nightmare as usual. It wasn't like shopping for shoes on Oxford Street, this had screaming children and boring lists that Nate demanded they stick to. The only addition she managed to get past him was a small treat for Eliot, seeing as how he wasn't looking that great.
Sophie wandered toward the kitchen, a thew bags in hand when she saw something that had her screaming Nate's name.
"NATE GET IN HERE NOW!"
She dropped everything where she stood, and leapt to the hitter's side.
Lying on his back, Eliot's entire body was shaking violently, his head rolled backwards smearing blood across the light brown floor. The open fridge had a light that peered out onto the man's face, illuminating his shockingly pale complexion and wide pained eyes.
The grifter pushed the chair away so Eliot wouldn't catch himself on it causing further injuries, just as Nate ran into the room.
"What happened?" The mastermind was already dialling 9-1-1 as he asked the question.
"I don't know," she gasped, the blood was seeping out faster, staining her dress where she knelt down. "I just found him like this."
"It'll be ok, darling... Oh, ambulance please." Nate redirected, his concentration being fought over by the man on the floor and the woman on the phone. "My friend is having a seizure. Yes, he's epileptic but he takes meds for it... I'll go check." Nate hurried over to the hitter's bedroom, returning quickly with a shaking head. "No, he hasn't taken today's dose yet. He's bleeding quite heavily; it looks like he hit his head when he fell... Ok," he then listed off the brewpubs address before hanging up.
Eliot had stopped fitting, but he still looked bad. His hair was covered in a mix of blood and sweat, and his face was almost white except for the dark patches under his eyes, and a purple bruise forming at his temple. His body was still shivering slightly and his face looked pained even though he was still unconscious.
"Is this what he looked like this morning?" Sophie spoke heatedly through her tears.
"God, no. He was a little pale and his breathing was off, but I thought it was just a cold."
Could a cold actually do this to him? Maybe we should move somewhere warmer, or invest in some better heating. (Not that theirs was anything to laugh at) I shouldn't have left him; he was clearly sick and the doctors warned us about this kind of thing.
"I thought he'd be ok for an hour. The doctor said he'd be fine fighting off smaller stuff on his own."
Before they could discuss this any further, a very confused Amy was leading a paramedic through the door.
"Hi, were you the one who called?" A male paramedic in his mid-thirties spoke as his slightly younger partner tended to Eliot.
"Yes, my brother was having a seizure but it stopped now."
The second paramedic was checking the patient for a response. He didn't show signs of consciousness, but his pupils did react to light which was a positive. She started getting the equipment prepared that would stabilise Eliot ready for transport.
"Does the wheelchair belong to your brother?" The first paramedic nodded over to the discarded chair that now sat in a darkened corner. Nate hadn't even realised it was there until it was mentioned.
"Yes, but he doesn't normally use it around the apartment. He's been managing short distances on his crutches for about a month now. He did look a bit ill this morning before we left, that could be why he'd gone back to using it."
Damnit, Eliot. If you were too tired to walk, why on earth did you get out of bed? You should have just waited, or used the button we had installed.
"Ok, is there anything else you can think of that we might need to know?" The paramedic asked this as he moved over to help his colleague with the patient.
"He was in an accident last year," Sophie responded. "He has nerve damage that affects his right side, a head injury that caused headaches and seizures, and his spleen was removed." Hearing it all together like that, reminded the grifter just how lucky they were to still have Eliot with them.
"Thank you, that information will help us a lot."