I DO NOT OWN THE BREAKFAST CLUB. SHOUTOUT TO POPPY471.

Allison & Luke's Apartment. Chicago, Illinois. Later that night.

(Allison)

When Luke slumped into unconsciousness, I was barely able to lower him to the floor without dropping him. I ended up on the floor, cradling Luke's head in my lap, but I couldn't stay this way. What happened? How had Luke ended up this way? What did Claire have to do with this?

First things first, I had to get him into my bed. I couldn't carry him, so I needed him to come around long enough to walk into my bedroom. I gently jostled him, trying not to hurt him, but evidently failing as he moaned. There was a mug of water on the coffee table, so I dipped my fingers in and sprinkled Luke's face with water.

"Luke, c'mon, you need to get up for a second." I jostled him again.

This time when he moaned, he opened his eyes.

"Luke, we have to get you in bed." I managed to get him into a sitting position and leaned him against the couch. He blearily looked at me.

"Allison," he mumbled. "Go somewhere?"

"Yes, we need to get you in bed. Come on, let me help you up."

We managed to get him on his feet. Leaning hard on me, I steered him into my bedroom and guided him to the bed, where he collapsed. I pulled off his shoes and swung his legs onto the bed.

"Luke, you need to wake up a bit, just for a second. You need to look at me. Open your eyes." He looked at me again, and I inspected his pupils. They were the same size. Relief washed over me. No concussion.

"OK, you can sleep now."

"Thank you, Allison," he whispered, and closed his eyes.

Now I had time to assess his injuries. His face was a bloody mess. I'd need to clean him up. The emergency room was expensive, so I wanted to avoid that, but if he was hurt badly enough, I'd have no choice. I got an old t-shirt and a bowl of water, to wash the blood and surface grit off. A t-shirt because a washcloth would be too harsh and abrasive.

He moaned and moved his head as I worked, but I thought he was still unconscious. Just in case some part of him was aware, I apologized for the pain I was causing him. The water in the bowl was tinged pink with blood before I was done.

More supplies from the bathroom, cotton makeup remover pads and hydrogen peroxide. I dabbed gently at the cut on his forehead, and some abrasions on his cheek. A butterfly band aid closed the cut on his forehead. He would have a fat lip and two black eyes tomorrow. He didn't need stitches, thank god. I had been worried about that, with all that blood, but it mainly came from the cut, and head wounds bleed dramatically.

That was all I could do. If he were conscious, I'd give him an ice pack, but it seemed cruel to wake him up again when what he really needed was rest. I turned off the overhead light so that the room was softly illuminated by the bedside lamp. I got in on the other side of the bed, with my art history textbook across my lap. I would wait for him to wake up naturally before giving him Tylenol and an ice bag.

I was absorbed in Russian icons, when he began moving his head side to side, moaning. Putting aside the book, I waited for him to awaken, which he did in a moment.

"Allison?" He seemed confused.

"Yes, I'm here. Let me get you some Tylenol." I touched his arm briefly and left the room.

I was back with water, Tylenol, and a ziplock baggie filled with ice. He scrunched into a more upright position as I offered the water and Tylenol.

"What happened, Luke?"

"Got jumped. Bunch of frats from Loyola."

"They beat you up? Why?"

"Boredom? How the hell do I know?"

"But you mentioned Claire."

"They knew Claire. They said so. I don't know if she sent them or what, but they knew Claire."

"Jesus. Look, put this on your eye, for the swelling."

"It's not my eye that hurts." Luke gingerly pulled up his shirt. A huge bruise was blossoming on his side. He took a deep breath, then said, "I can breathe, so no broken ribs."

I hadn't even thought of that. "You don't have internal injuries, do you?" Panic edged my voice.

"Nah, I've had worse from my dad. I'll be ok." He relaxed back against the pillows.

"Oh, your head!" I saw a patch of dried blood in his hair. I leaned forward to look more closely. "I'll need to clean that, too."

My supplies were still there on the bedside table, so I quickly got to work. Luke winced once or twice.

"I'm sorry, I'm trying to be gentle."

"I know you are."

I looked at him, my heart overflowing with concern. Our eyes met. My hand came up to lie upon his cheek. His skin was hot. He put his own hand over mine. I felt pulled closer and closer by his intense gaze.

Then he broke eye contact and dropped his hand.

"Thank you, Allison." He seemed to notice his surroundings for the first time. "Oh, hey, I'm in your bed. I don't belong here." He sat up and began getting out of bed. "I'll hit the couch now."

I pressed down on his chest, pushing him back into the pillows. "You're not going anywhere."

"But where will you sleep?"

"Right here. This is a queen sized bed, there is room." When he looked reluctant, I said, "Come on, don't be ridiculous. You can't sleep on the couch in this condition."

"Just for tonight. Thank you. Thank you for taking care of me."

It was past eleven, so I changed into my pajamas in the bathroom, brushed my teeth and got into bed, on Bender's side. That felt weird. Luke was already asleep again. I turned off the lamp and lay back.

Morning light was creeping in when I opened my eyes. Something warm and heavy was across my waist. It was Luke. He'd turned on his side and hugged me in his sleep. Had he slept like this with Claire? Bender couldn't stand to be touched in his sleep. We rarely cuddled. I lay there for a while. Being embraced this way felt good, but his sleeping self was embracing Claire, not me. I carefully moved his arm away, to his side, slipping out without waking him. He mumbled and groped around, then turned on his back, still asleep. It was best he hadn't woken up. It would have been embarrassing for both of us. I sat on the edge of the bed, observing him. He looked terrible, both black eyes blossoming into bruise purple, and his hair standing on end where I'd cleaned the cut on his scalp. Those Loyola guys had really done a number on him. I wanted to stroke his arm, lay a cooling hand on his cheek. But he needed to sleep and I needed to get ready for class.

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