All it takes is the blink of an eye for the situation to go from comically absurd to absolutely horrifying.
One second Phil's tripping over loose lumber, getting his foot caught in a bucket, and walking into a rake in an incredibly cartoonish example of the man's occasional bouts of extreme (and yes, sometimes hilarious) clumsiness, the next he's fallen and isn't getting back up.
It's weird, because Phil can do backflips, front flips, splits, cartwheels, half twists, full twists, and a plethora of other gymnastic feats on both the ground and on a trampoline, then turn around and trip over the threshold leading into his own house and face-plant on the kitchen floor. His reflexes are fast enough that he's been known to catch things while he's still in the process of knocking them over; meanwhile, Mitchell's also seen family members try tossing him things and wind up accidentally hitting him in the face when he doesn't react quickly enough.
The man is often a walking contradiction; Mitchell's seen him fall off a roof and get up and walk away with little more than a scratch, only to break his foot simply by putting his weight down wrong and stumbling on the front step.
Mitchell isn't immediately concerned when Phil falls, or when he doesn't pop back up right away-he also tends to waver inexplicably between catching himself mid-fall and jumping back up, and simply going sprawling. Sometimes it takes him a minute to catch his breath.
Mitchell's not entirely sure how they ended up here, to be honest. It's been a weird day.
For one thing, he could tell Phil and Claire were at odds with each other from the second they walked through the door this afternoon, with Claire completely ignoring her husband while their three kids hung off of him, and Phil only talking to her when he absolutely had to, and addressing her as honey every time in a tone that suggested that he didn't think she was being at all sweet.
The kids went straight to the rug on the living room floor and sat there quietly, Alex with a book, Haley with a doll, and Luke with a toy firetruck. That, more than anything else, made it painfully clear that all was not well in the Dunphy household-the kids usually spent most of these family dinners roughhousing with their father in the front yard.
The weirdest part was the way both adults were careful to deny that anything was wrong. Claire, who has never been above venting to Mitchell and, admittedly more recently, Cam, stared them both down for about ten seconds before insisting everything was fine.
Phil-Phil tried to return Cameron's stare, but was blinking too rapidly to manage it-Mitchell remembered Claire saying something about him blinking like crazy when stressed. He did manage a forced smile and thank them for their concern before also assuring them that everything was fine.
"Hey, uh, Mitchell?" There's something in Phil's tone now that Mitchell's never heard before.
"Yeah?" Mitchell starts looking for a safe path through the rubbish; the fact that Phil has yet to get back on his feet has him a little concerned, but he knows better than to just go scrambling through all this junk.
"I might-I think-" he hears Phil pause and take an unsteady breath. "I'm not sure, but I think I might have hurt myself."
Phil and Claire did seem to be managing some sort of unspoken truce; Phil sat quietly with the kids and let Alex read to him while Claire visited with her family. The whole thing made Mitchell incredibly uncomfortable; Claire and Phil have pretty much been a united front at every family dinner since the day Claire told Dad that he was family, and if their dad wanted to continue to be a part of her life-and a part of his grandchildren's-he was just going to have to figure out how to deal with it.
Not that there haven't been disagreements, or misunderstandings, or small annoyances. The two of them just always seemed to view family dinners as a thing to get through together. Phil always deferred to Claire while there, and Claire was quick to defend her husband from anything their father-or mother-might have to say about him.
At some point Claire and Cameron started swapping sports stories, and Claire eventually moved on to reminiscing about the old baseball field next to the junkyard where they used to spend their Saturdays back when she was ten and Mitchell was eight.
Of course Dad had to get it in on it, reminding Claire that field was where she lost the autographed baseball his dad gave her for her tenth birthday, and complaining not for the first time that he kept telling her not to play with it.
Claire, of course, countered that it was Mitchell's fault that she lost it, claiming she had been trying to teach him to hit a baseball and that the one time he actually had managed to hit it, he had knocked it into the junkyard.
Things had gone drastically downhill from there.
The only thing Mitchell can figure, as he treads as carefully over a pile of junk as he possibly can in the nearing darkness, is that everybody had been on edge, and that everybody had had a little too much to drink, and that that conversation had been the spark that had set off a chain reaction of arguments between partners: Jay and Dede, Claire and Phil, and, unfortunately, Mitchell and Cam.
And between Jay and Phil, and Claire and Mitchell, and, somehow, Cameron and Phil.
Mitchell's still not entirely sure how that last one happened.
He does remember finally storming out only to find Phil already sitting on the front step, looking a little lost. He doesn't remember the conversation that led to them deciding to go looking for the baseball that Claire lost nearly thirty years ago, or why either of them thought that finding it would help anything.
Now, as he clears the pile of junk and catches sight of Phil, Mitchell realizes that not only was it a dumb idea, it was a dangerous one.
Phil's still on the ground; that alone is more than sufficient cause to believe that the man may have, in fact, injured himself. Worse, Phil usually manages to get back up fairly quickly, even when he has hurt himself, which makes Mitchell wonder exactly how bad it has to be for his brother-in-law to still be lying on his back, surrounded by garbage.
"Hey," Mitchell says, trying to sound reassuring, because Phil's looking a little pale in the evening light. "You all right?" he holds out a hand to help pull the man up, and feels his chest constrict when the man doesn't accept the offering.
"Not sure that's a good idea." Phil's voice is weird. Lower than normal. Quiet. There's an undercurrent of something there that Mitchell can't quiet decipher. "I'm not sure I should be moving."
That sets Mitchell's heart racing. "What happened?" he asks, trying to find a safe place to kneel that isn't completely disgusting.
"Fell. Landed wrong, I think. Suddenly felt a sharp pain in my side." He hesitates before adding, "I tried to move, and it got worse, so I stopped."
Mitchell looks down and immediately forgets how to breathe. He has to look somewhere-anywhere-else almost immediately as his stomach rebels against the sight and spends the next couple of seconds swallowing desperately, trying not to throw up.
"Mitchell?"
Mitchell makes himself take a breath and look back down at his brother-in-law. At his side where, just a little above his jeans there's a dark, wet looking stain slowly spreading across his dark blue shirt and, sticking through a tear in the fabric, what looks like a piece of metal.
Mitchell swallows back bile and forces himself to take a closer look. There is, in fact, a piece of metal sticking through fabric and, unfortunately, out of Phil.
"So you should definitely not try moving," Mitchell says, trying not to panic. He reaches for his phone only to remember that he left it at his dad's house.
"Okay," Phil's voice is still far more even than it should be, given the current situation. "Any particular reason why?" he asks.
"Uh," Mitchell, desperately wracking his brain for anything he can remember about first aid from his high school health class, fumbles for a minute before managing. "You've definitely hurt yourself."
Phil moves like he's going to try to sit up anyway and blanches, letting his head and shoulders fall backward to rest uncomfortably on whatever junk is currently under him. "That doesn't feel good. How-how bad is it?"
"Um, you wouldn't happen to have your phone on you, would you?"
Phil shakes his head. "Luke tried to flush it down the toilet this morning. It's still drying out on the counter at home. Why?"
"Because ideally we should probably be calling for an ambulance right now. There's a-uh-piece of metal sticking out of you."
"Huh," Phil shifts, and Mitchell realizes he can't quite see the injury because of the way he landed. He immediately looks as if he regrets having tried, closing his eyes and letting out a pained grunt.
"That-that would explain the stabbing pain when I fell. Am I, uh, bleeding a lot?"
Mitchell has to look again in order to answer the question. "Some? You're not gushing..."
Phil closes his eyes, takes a breath, and moves his hand, trying to find the injury by feel. Mitchell catches his hand on holds it still.
"It's a piece of metal sticking maybe a couple inches out of your abdomen," he says, trying to pull himself together.
Phil doesn't try to reclaim his hand.
"Okay...how big of a piece of metal?" He doesn't sound nearly as freaked out about this as Mitchell is expecting.
Mitchell really doesn't want to keep looking at it. "About the thickness of a dime?" he guesses, as Phil lets out a not entirely steady breath that suggests he's actually more worried than he's letting on. "Phil-" Mitchell can feel his own panic mounting. "I don't know what to do. I don't have my phone, so I can't call for help-"
"I think the first step is to slow the bleeding." Phil's voice is starting to sound strained, but Mitchell's surprised that the man seems to be keeping it together-he's certainly not doing nearly as well. "You want to apply pressure around the wound. That should also keep the metal from moving around too much."
"How do you know this?" he asks. A second later he realizes exactly what Phil's just asked him to do, and his stomach lurches.
"Do you really think this is the first time I've needed emergency first aid?" Phil asks, and there's edge to the question Mitchell ignores. The man does have a piece of metal sticking out of him, after all.
"Sorry." Mitchell looks around for a moment before realizing his is cardigan is probably his best bet. He pulls it off and presses it against the wound, only to pull back the second Phil lets out a groan and jerks back away from the cloth.
"It's going to hurt," Phil tells him through clenched teeth. "No way around that."
Mitchel tries again, ignoring the sudden heat pricking his eyes as he arranges his cardigan around the piece of metal sticking out of the man and presses down and fighting back a wave of nausea when Phil lets out a pained gasp.
Mitchel is very close to having a panic attack. He knows he needs to keep it together, knows that Phil's the one hurt, not him, but he can't seem to calm down. His heart is racing, his chest feels like there's an elephant sitting on it, and he's starting to feel light-headed.
Phil's saying something, but at the moment Mitchell has absolutely no idea what. He can't seem to focus, and he can't seem to catch his breath.
A sudden, sharp pain in his hand brings him back to the world, and he looks down to realize that his injured brother-in-law just pinched him. Hard.
"Sorry," Phil says, and the man actually sounds like he means it. A second later he takes Mitchell's hand in his own, and, in spite of the almost unnatural calm he's somehow managed to project so far, his grip is uncomfortably tight. "Thought I'd lost you for a second."
Mitchell takes a deep breath and tries to calm down. "No, I'm sorry," he says. "You're the one injured, and here I am all but useless-" The panic is rising up again, his chest getting tight-
"I need you to breathe, Mitchell. You're kind of freaking me out." Phil's voice wavers, just a little, giving him away. Mitchell's not sure he's ever heard fear in the other man's voice before, but that's what he's hearing now. Phil is afraid.
"Sorry. What now?" Mitchell asks, really hoping that Phil knows, because he sure as hell doesn't.
"You need to call an ambulance."
"I don't have my phone."
Phil closes his eyes, swallows, then says, "Then you need to go find one."
Mitchell blinks. "Are you-I can't just leave you? What if something happens?"
Phil tries for a smile and ends up grimacing instead. "I'm not going anywhere. Trying to move me would be...bad. So you need to go find a phone and call an ambulance, because this isn't something we can just slap a band-aid on and hope for the best."
Mitchell nods and takes another deep breath. "Okay. Just-hang on, Phil. I'll be back as soon as I can."
It takes far too long for Mitchell to make his way out of the junkyard, climbing over scrap metal and pieces of wood and old furniture. It doesn't help that it's getting darker, or that Mitchell isn't really the active sort, or that all he can think about is Phil lying on the ground with a piece of metal sticking out of him, cold and helpless and alone.
It takes even longer to finally convince someone to let him use their phone: nobody answers the door at the first house he comes across, and when he gets to the second a woman answers only to shut the door in his face when he asks if he can use her phone because his brother-in-law is hurt and needs help.
He has to admit, in spite of his rising desperation, that he probably wouldn't let someone in if they showed up on his doorstep near dark with a similar story either.
A frail looking woman old enough to be his great grandmother finally lets him in to use her phone. The call to emergency services takes forever, partly because Mitchell is still doing a terrible job of not panicking, but also because he's not sure of the address, or street, of the junkyard and it takes a while to explain where exactly Phil is.
He finally hangs up the phone, debates whether or not to try to call Claire, then realizes he has no idea what her cellphone number is-he has her saved in his contacts and hasn't really needed to memorize the number.
Mitchell makes it back to the junkyard before emergency services and somehow manages to find Phil. His heart drops to his stomach when he reaches the man; Phil is lying perfectly still, his eyes closed, his skin almost gray in color.
For one devastating moment Mitchell is terrified that it's too late. He takes in a ragged breath as he drops beside his brother-in-law's body, his eyes burning.
Phil moves his head and opens his eyes. "Hey," he says, a bit sluggishly, and while him being alive is a definite improvement on what he thought the situation was, Mitchell's pretty sure that's not a good sign.
"Hey, Phil." His throat feels painfully tight. It's hard to get even those two words out. "Ambulance should be on the way."
"Good. That's good." Phil blinks and takes a short, labored breath. "Starting to get a bit cold."
It isn't, which is another cause for concern. Mitchell takes another look at the man and notices his forehead is damp with sweat, his eyes are heavily dilated, and his breathing is far too shallow-and fast.
"You might be going into shock," Mitchell suggests, uncertain. He really has no idea what he's doing, or how to help even a little bit. He's useless. Worse than, really, because he can tell he's on the verge of another panic attack and there's still not much he can do about it.
"Probably," Phil agrees, unaware of Mitchell's current inner monologue. He's moving his hand around again, so Mitchell takes it in his own, noting that the other man's grip isn't nearly as strong as it was earlier.
"Where the hell is that ambulance?" Mitchell wants to know.
"I'm sure they're on their way," Phil says, and he sounds like he's trying to sound calm in spite of the fact that he's been impaled, which is ridiculous. Mitchell should be reassuring him, not the other way around. "We just have to wait. And make sure I don't bleed to death in the meantime."
Mitchell looks down at the not-great job his cardigan is doing as a bandage and realizes that the item is significantly more blood-stained than it was before he left. "Hey, you didn't try moving or anything did you? Because this is looking worse."
"I did not." Phil's eyes close again. "You need to apply more pressure."
Mitchell nods, braces himself, and places a hand on either side of the piece of metal. He takes one quick breath before pressing down, using his upper body weight to his advantage in spite of the way his stomach lurches when Phil cries out.
What Mitchell can't ignore is the way the man's body tries to spasm as he applies pressure to the wound. He starts to panic, because he's pretty sure that if that piece of metal comes out the bleeding is only going to get worse, and shifts so that most of his weight is on his hands in the hopes that it will hold the man down and keep him from hurting himself even worse.
Phil lashes out, his hand seizing Mitchell's arm just above the wrist in a white-knuckled grip, and Mitchell has a hard time resisting the urge to pull away because he's not entirely certain that the man couldn't break his wrist if he wanted to, and he's fully expecting Phil to fight him.
He doesn't, though. Phil's grip is tight, borderline painful, but he doesn't seem to be trying to get Mitchell to stop in spite of the fact that his face is losing what little color it had left and he seems to be struggling to remember how breathing works.
"Breathe, Phil." Mitchell says. "You've got to stay with me. I don't know what the hell I'm doing."
"Doing-" Phil manages a shuddering, gasping breath. "Fine." His eyes close again, briefly. "Just." He takes another agonized breath. "Slow the bleeding, keep me awake till the-till the ambulance gets here."
"Still working on the first part," Mitchell admits. "How am I supposed to do both if you won't keep breathing, Phil?"
"A distraction would be nice, if you think you can handle that," the man snaps, dropping the act completely. The man is hurting badly, but he's also terrified.
For a moment there's nothing but the sound of them both trying to steady out their breathing, because Mitchell's never been the kind of person to do well in an emergency and the knowledge that Phil's life might be in his hands is doing nothing to help him pull it together.
"Sorry," Phil says, before Mitchell can come up with any sort of distraction, and now he sounds exhausted on top of everything else.
"It's-" Mitchell pauses, trying to think of something-anything-to say. "It's okay? I mean, it's kind of justified. I am quite possibly the worst person you could have ended up in this kind of situation with."
Phil chuckles weakly, then groans. "I mean, it could have been your dad, sitting here explaining to me what an idiot I am and telling me that this kind of stupidity is exactly why I'm not good enough for his daughter."
Mitchell considers this. "Maybe?" He can't rule the possibility out completely. "To be honest, I don't think anyone was ever going to be good enough for Claire, at least not in his eyes."
"Especially not the guy who knocked her up on his first try." Phil winces. "Sorry. I know you weren't particularly thrilled about that either."
Mitchell can't argue with that. If anything, Phil's being generous in his estimation of how much Mitchell originally loathed the man who got his sister pregnant. Never mind that she had a bit of a wild reputation back then-in his mind the guy should have known better, and was clearly taking advantage of her.
He realizes abruptly that Phil's stopped talking, and that his grip on Mitchell's wrist has loosened significantly.
"Hey," he says, "Phil." Phil grunts and stirs, slowly meeting Mitchell's gaze. "You've got to stay awake, Phil. Talk to me."
Phil just looks at him. Mitchell lets out a frustrated sigh.
"Tell me why you know how to treat this kind of injury. I haven't had to think about this stuff since health class back in junior high. We had one chapter on first aid. The rest was mostly about poison ivy and venomous snakes and drugs."
"I took a first aid class-" the other man's breath hitches, and it takes a second to even back out. "When Haley was two she ran face first into the-into the coffee table. I was afraid she'd taken after me and something would happen, and that I wouldn't-" he grunts, his face contorting with the pain. "I wouldn't be able to-" he swallows and tries again. "Wouldn't be able to-"
"You wouldn't be able to help her," Mitchell finishes.
"Yeah." Phil's quiet for a moment, gathering his strength. "When Alex was just learning to walk she smacked herself in the face with one of the kitchen cabinets." He takes a slow, shuddering breath. "And when Luke was two he fell off the roof of the minivan."
Mitchell doesn't ask how the boy got up there; the kid is a natural climber. "So just the one class, or were there more? Because it sounds like this has been a recurring theme."
"Every year since Alex was three." Phil's voice keeps getting quieter, and Mitchell's never missed his usual over-the-top exuberance more. "CPR classes since that time Luke tried to-" he shudders, a hiss escaping from between his teeth, and tries to keep going, "stick a fork in an electrical socket."
"Just in case," Mitchell guesses.
"Yeah."
"You're a good dad," Mitchell says without thinking. Phil chuckles, then groans, his grip on Mitchell's arm tightening ever so slightly.
"I want to be, you know," the man confesses. "My dad was the best. I worry-" his breath catches again. "I'm not sure I can ever measure up."
"Trust me, you're a great dad. Your kids are lucky to have you."
That comes out a little more bitter than he means for it to. This isn't the time or the place, but apparently Mitchell really is the worst person in the world for Phil to be stuck with in a situation like this.
Phil squeezes his arm again. This time the action is intentional, an attempt at offering comfort in spite of the fact that the man is starting to shiver and can't take a breath without grimacing in pain.
Where the hell is that ambulance?
"Cold?" Mitchell asks, even though there's not really anything he can do about it. He's already using his cardigan as bandaging; his shirt is probably not going to be much help in keeping the other man warm.
"That's the shock," Phil mumbles.
"So what do I do?" Mitchell is suddenly very afraid that his brother-in-law is going to pass out on him before help arrives. "Phil?"
He gets an almost annoyed sigh in response before the man manages to at least somewhat pull himself back together. "Elevate the feet and legs. Just a little. If you think it won't make the injury worse."
"Okay," Mitchell looks around and spots part of a rusted bicycle fairly close to Phil's feet. He stumbles over and lifts Phil's feet just enough to drag it close enough to prop them up, hoping that the pained grunt from the injured man doesn't mean he's just potentially killed his brother-in-law. "Sorry."
He checks the wound and is relieved to find that Phil isn't gushing blood. He's less reassured by the fact that his eyes are once again closed, and that his breathing is suddenly far shallower and far more rapid than it should be-even Mitchell can tell that much.
"Phil?" The man moves his head but doesn't immediately respond. "Phil."
Mitchel has no idea what to do, but he's pretty sure that the man needs to stay awake.
"Phil!" He takes a deep breath, places a bloody hand on the man's shoulder, and shakes him gently-he doesn't want to risk injuring Phil farther.
"Huh?" Phil's eyes flicker, and he moves his head slightly. "Mitchell-"
"Don't try to get up." Mitchell's moves his hand to the man's chest before he can attempt it. "Uh-you hurt yourself."
"Right." Phil grunts. "I-I remember."
"You were going into shock. I propped your feet up on half a bicycle."
"Thanks?" Phil is barely conscious. He's also still shivering.
Mitchell unbuttons his shirt in spite of the fact that he's pretty sure it's not enough to make a difference, quickly slipping out of it and spreading it out over the man's shoulders and torso.
Phil looks at the shirt, then back at him, puzzled.
"I couldn't find a blanket."
"Oh."
"Actually that's not strictly true," Mitchell admits. Maybe it's a small, stupid thing, but he doesn't feel right lying to the man when he's this badly injured. "I didn't look for one, mainly because by the time I managed to get your feet propped up, you were trying to pass out on me."
Phil frowns like he's considering the situation. "That seems fair," he finally concedes. "Hey, if I don't make it-"
"You're going to make it." Mitchell interrupts quickly, even though he's not entirely sure that he will.
"Sure." Phil says, his tone flat as if he knows better and is only humoring Mitchell "But if I don't-" Mitchell starts to interrupt again, but Phil talks over him, raising his voice to a level nowhere near his usual slightly-too-loud-for-any-given-situation volume, but louder than he's been in a while. "Tell Claire and the kids I love them?"
Mitchell can't ignore that. "Of course," he agrees.
"And that I'm sorry I won't be there to see them grow up." Phil adds. "But I know that I would be proud of all of them."
There are tears in the man's eyes, but Mitchell can't really blame him. His own vision is a little blurry right now as well.
"I'll tell them," he promises, his throat suddenly tight. "But it's not going to-you're not going to-you're going to be all right, Phil. An ambulance is on the way, you just have to hang on until they get here."
"I know." Phil says, but the man's skin is ashen, and he looks as if the mere task of breathing is almost too much for him to manage. This most recent conversation seems to have cost him the last of his strength, and he's having trouble keeping his eyes open.
"Hey, listen, Claire's going to kill me if I let anything happen to you," Mitchell says. "Phil?"
He gets a soft grunt in reply, so quiet he almost doesn't hear it.
A second later he hears a different sound, ripping through the oppressive quiet that seems to have settled over the junkyard with the disappearance of the last ray of the setting sun. Mitchell has never been so relieved to hear approaching sirens in his life.
Mitchell's in the waiting room, slouched in one of the chairs and absolutely exhausted, when the door swings open and Claire enters the room at what appears to have been a dead run. She's across the room in seconds, staring at him in horror, eyes wide, mouth open, tears streaming down her cheeks.
Mitchell manages to drag himself to his feet. "Hey," His brain isn't working properly; he can't think of anything else to say. He goes to hug her and is surprised when she pulls back, turns, and staggers toward the bathroom.
He stands there for a minute, staring at the closed bathroom door.
"Mitchell?"
He turns at the sound of his name to see Cameron standing there, staring, eyebrows furrowed, lips pressed together. He looks worried.
"Hey," Mitchell says. Part of him is aware that he should probably say something else, but also doesn't seem to have any suggestions as to what.
"Mitchell, are you okay?" Cameron's looking him over like he's the one who's been impaled by a rusty piece of metal instead of Phil.
"I'm fine," Mitchell says, trying to wave away the feeling of the man's blood soaking through his cardigan as he tried to apply enough pressure to make it stop.
Cameron's not convinced. "Are you sure? You're looking really pale, and-" he gestures, and Mitchell follows the motion with his eyes to realize that there is a lot more blood on his shirt than he realized.
His cardigan is still in the junkyard, but he reclaimed his shirt when the EMT's traded it for an actual blanket once they had gotten Phil into the ambulance so he wouldn't have to run around shirtless for the remainder of this god-awful day.
"It's not my blood," he says. "It's Phil's."
He hears a gasp and belatedly realizes Claire's back from the bathroom.
Cameron blinks and looks from Mitchell to Claire. "So you're not hurt?"
"No." He can't get the sound of Phil crying out in pain-or the knowledge that he was the one hurting the man, even if it was to slow the bleeding down-out of his head. He's pretty sure Cam's not asking about that, though.
A stifled sob escapes Claire. Mitchell moves to comfort her and is cut off by his partner. Claire throws herself into Cameron's arms and starts bawling. All Mitchell can do is stand there and watch.
Their dad shows up then, adding to the chaos. He takes one look at Claire before turning on Mitchell.
"Aw, geez. You hurt?" Mitchell shakes his head. It's not his blood staining his shirt. "Come on."
He exchanges a glance with Cameron that probably means something as he ushers Mitchell toward the bathroom.
He catches sight of himself in the mirror and stares.
"That's a lot of blood," he says.
"No kidding." His dad has his jacket off and is unbuttoning his own shirt. "Shirt off. Now." Mitchell fumbles with the buttons long enough that his father sighs and crosses the distance between them. "Here."
He gets the shirt off and balls it up before stuffing it in the trash. "You can take mine." He's still wearing a tank top, and when he puts his jacket back on it looks a little odd, but not indecent. "Clean yourself up," he calls as he heads back outside, presumably to check on Claire.
Mitchell has blood on his hands, blood on his arms, even blood smudged across his cheek. He's not sure how it happened. He remembers there being blood, but doesn't remember there being this much.
He starts with his hands but can't seem to get them clean no matter how much soap and water he uses, and no matter how long he scrubs. He has Phil's blood on his hands, both literally and figuratively-he's pretty sure it's his fault they were out there looking for that ball in the first place.
His vision is blurring, his face is wet, and still he can't seem to get his damn hands clean. He can't seem to breathe properly either, and the more time he spends scrubbing at his hands the more frantic he feels, and if Phil dies it's going to be his fault, but how can the man survive when so much of his blood is on Mitchell's hands, and-
"Hey, hey, easy, it's okay, it's okay. Breathe, Mitchell." Suddenly Cam's voice is in his ear and his arms are around his body and his hands are holding onto his own in spite of the blood he just can't seem to get off, and suddenly Mitchell has nothing left, and the next thing he knows he and Cameron are sitting on the floor and the tears are running down his face and it's stupid, because he's not the one who was hurt.
Cam holds him, whispering soothing things in his ear, and lets him cry himself out.
Claire jerks upright and realizes she must have dozed off in spite of how incredibly uncomfortable the chair beside her husband's hospital bed is-it's like they want people to be uncomfortable while they're waiting to find out if their husband is ever going to wake up again.
"Hey,"
She looks over, and he's awake even if his eyes are barely open and he's fixing her with that glazed stare that means he's on some pretty good pain medication and he's far too pale and far too still and his voice is far too weak-
"Sorry," she apologizes, stretching her shoulders and trying to ignore the crick in her back. "I must have dozed off. How are you feeling?"
"Good," he says, offering her the kind of half smile he gives when he's too tired to manage anything more. "Been waiting for you to wake up."
Claire almost laughs and shakes her head. "I think you're a little confused," she tells him. "I'm the one who's been waiting for you to wake up. It's probably the blood loss."
"No," he imitates her little head shake only to immediately look as if he regrets it. "The blood loss is the reason I feel light-headed even while I'm lying down. You were asleep, so I told the nurse not to wake you. That was a couple of hours ago."
Claire considers this for a moment, but the way her back's currently hurting more than backs up his claim. "Do you know how worried I was? Why wouldn't you wake me?"
"I like watching you sleep," he admits, that tired half smile returning.
"You sound like a serial killer," she retorts, and the smile disappears.
"I'm not, though," he assures her. "You're the only one for me. There are no other women-never will be."
"I can't decide if that's sweet or terrifying," Claire admits. "You had us worried. What were you thinking? What were you even doing out there?"
"Looking for your baseball." He says it confidently, as if his answer makes perfect sense, and to his drug-addled brain it probably does. "We would have found it, too, if I hadn't fallen on a piece of rebar." He pauses, his expression twisting into one of concern. "I hope Mitchell's not mad at me for ruining everything."
"Pretty sure he's just glad you're alive. There was a lot of your blood on his shirt when I got here." Claire's not sure which was worse, thinking the blood was Mitchell's, or finding out it was actually her husband's.
"He saved my life," Phil says, getting choked up. "He was so scared, but he did what needed to be done. I could have died."
Claire doesn't want to think about that. "Well, I'm pretty sure you wouldn't have been out there if not for him, but I'm glad you're okay."
He was lucky, the doctor said. Somehow the piece of metal had missed any major organs. He could very easily have died, or suffered severe long-term injuries, or any number of absolutely awful things.
Claire doesn't want to think about that either. She scoots her chair close enough to the bed that she can reach out and take his hand in hers. His grip is weak, practically nonexistent in fact, making it that much harder not to think about how close she came to losing him-
"Hey," Phil's expression changes abruptly to one of concern. His hand slips out of hers to travel up her arm, squeezing gently as he tries to reassure her. "It's okay. I'm okay." He tries to pull her closer, but Claire's already halfway out of the chair anyway, and the next thing she knows he has his arm around her and she's crying into his shoulder.
"This is my fault," she sobs.
"No,"
"It is. We were fighting, and you wanted to drop it, and I wouldn't-you went out there to try to fix things."
"Well-"
"And what I said-it could have been the last thing I ever said to you."
"Claire..." he trails off, then says in an entirely different voice. "I don't mean to sound unsympathetic, but I can't support your weight like this."
"Sorry." Claire starts to pull back only for his arm to tighten around her. She doesn't miss the brief flash of panic in his eyes either.
There's just enough room for her to balance on the edge of the bed. He pulls her back to him with a small sigh of relief, one she's not sure he's even aware of, and she lets her head rest once more on his shoulder.
"Are you sure this is all right?" she mumbles into his armpit. "I'm not hurting you, am I?"
"Injury's on the other side," he replies. "And anyway, I'm pretty sure you could hit me with a truck right now and I wouldn't feel it."
"That seems a bit much," Claire allows herself a small, dry chuckle.
"I'm sorry," he says after a moment. "About the fight. For wandering off and getting hurt. For scaring you."
"I don't even remember what we were fighting about," Claire admits. Beside her Phil quirks another half-smile, this one less affection and more self-deprecating.
"I'm not sure I knew from the start."
"You know I love you, right?" Claire can't help but ask. "Even if we're fighting, even when you get on my nerves, even when you've just humiliated me in front of half the moms in Haley's class."
His eyebrows furrow. "When did I-?"
"Not the point," Claire clears her throat. "The point is that no matter what, I still love you, and there's nothing that could ever change that."
He considers this for a moment, his expression unusually solemn, before asking, "Not even if I were a serial killer?"
Mitchell's standing outside the hospital room, completely torn.
Everyone else has been to see the man, even Mitchell's dad, even if Phil hasn't been awake for most of it, and the reports so far have been that he's stable, resting comfortably, and was extremely fortunate not to have suffered any damage to any of the internal organs in his abdomen.
Cam also insists that Mitchell saved the man's life, but he wasn't there, so there's no way he could know that one, it's Mitchell's fault they were out there in the first place, and two, Phil pretty much had to talk him through everything.
Even his dad insisted that Mitchell would feel better after checking in on the man; allegedly seeing with his own eyes would do more to reassure him than simply hearing the doctor's reports.
It's not reassurance that Mitchell wants.
How do you show your face to someone who nearly died because of you? How do you meet the eyes of someone who had to coach you through every bit of first aid in spite of the fact that they were the one injured-who had to talk you down from a panic attack while they were slowly bleeding to death?
Mitchell's not sure he can bear to be in the same room as the man ever again.
Cam's down the hall in the waiting room, though, and Mitchell's pretty sure his partner's not going to let it go until he at least tries to see Phil, especially since that's the whole reason they came down here today.
Maybe Phil will be asleep. Last Mitchell heard, he was on some pretty strong medication.
He pokes his head in at precisely the right time to lock eyes with the man and realizes there's no escape.
Mitchell offers his brother-in-law an extremely uncomfortable smile and steps through the open door, only just resisting the urge to bolt. Phil offers him a subdued half nod that could mean he's holding a grudge.
Or it could mean he's busy somehow supporting most of his wife's weight with one arm.
"Hey, um, do you mind?" Phil tilts his head ever so slightly. Claire is asleep, head nestled against his shoulder, precariously perched on the edge of the bed. Phil's arm seems to be the only thing keeping her from slipping off, and Mitchell can tell from his spot by the door that he's starting to shake from the exertion. "She shifted. If you could just give her a little push back toward me-"
Mitchell really doesn't want to, but he also doesn't want to face Claire so soon after last night, and Phil looks like he's going to lose his grip on her at any second.
"Would the chair be better?" he asks, noting the way the man's grip tightens almost reflexively. "Here. She's not hurting you, is she?"
"No." Phil shakes his head. "A little further-I'll be fine."
He doesn't look fine. Claire's partly on the bed and partly on him, but at least she's not on his injured side. "That doesn't look particularly comfortable."
Phil makes a face that is probably meant to be a smile, but isn't. "We've fallen asleep in weirder positions." Mitchell immediately feels his face get hot, and Phil lets out a small sigh. "That's not what I meant."
"Right." Mitchell has no idea what to do now that he's here, especially since Phil's awake. "Glad you're okay," he offers.
"Thanks," Phil says, and for a moment he too seems at a loss for words. "For stopping by, and for last night."
"I really didn't do anything-"
"You saved my life."
"I freaked out," Mitchell corrects him. "Several times. You were the one hurt, and all I could do was sit there and try to remember how to breathe. You had to calm me down."
"Well," Phil nods his head in acknowledgment of the truth. "It actually helped me stay calm, because I knew I had to." He offers Mitchell and exhausted half-smile. "I know you don't exactly do well under pressure, Mitchell," he says, and Mitchell feels his face flush all over again. "I also know that you generally manage to pull it together enough to do what needs done, especially when your family needs you. Who cares if you weren't calm and collected and in control last night? You still called for help, you still kept me from bleeding to death, and you still kept me awake until the ambulance came."
Mitchell sinks into Claire's abandoned chair, suddenly exhausted. "I was so certain that it wouldn't be enough," he admits. "That I didn't know enough, that I wasn't doing anything right. That you were going to die and it was going to be all my fault, and then Claire was going to hate me for the rest of my life, and the kids-" he catches himself and takes a breath, letting his gaze drop to the floor. "And here I am, still freaking out, when you were the one with a piece of metal sticking out of you."
"I mean, I never actually saw it," Phil admits. "It hurt like a bitch, but you're the one who had to deal with the blood." His voice is kind. Understanding. "I'll admit I was scared, but I also wasn't alone."
"It's my fault we were out there in the first place," Mitchell reminds him, only to whip his head up and stare when Phil starts laughing.
The laugh immediately turns into a groan. "Okay, I actually felt that," he complains.
"Are you all right? Should I call a nurse?" Mitchell can feel his traitorous heart speeding up.
"No, I just need to not laugh," Phil assures him. "It's just, I'm the one who suggested we go looking for it in the first place."
"I went along with it," Mitchell feels the need to point out.
"Which turned out to be a good thing. What if I'd gone alone? I might have-I've come up with worse ideas and tried to execute them with far less planning."
Knowing Phil, he probably has. Mitchell doesn't really want to argue with him anyway; if his brother-in-law doesn't hold anything that happened last night against him, then Mitchell really shouldn't be trying to convince him otherwise.
Mitchell stops trying to apologize. It's going to take him longer to stop feeling guilty, especially since Phil's the kind of person to immediately forgive someone for hitting him with their car and then go out with them after-that's how he and Claire ended up together in the first place, after all.
Mitchell settles back in what is possibly the most uncomfortable chair in the entire hospital and allows himself to relax just a bit. He and Phil stumble through a half-hearted conversation; Mitchell still doesn't know the man that well, and Phil's clearly starting to get tired.
It's not too much longer before he dozes off. Mitchell stands up, stretches, and walks over to the bed to make sure Claire isn't going to fall off before leaving the two of them to get some rest.
Cam's waiting for him out in the hall; he pulls Mitchell into a hug that he's too emotionally worn to resist.
"Better?" he asks. Mitchell nods, letting his head rest briefly on his partner's shoulder.
Author's Note: Because we always hurt the characters we love...
Disclaimer: Modern Family does not belong to me.