By the time Combeferre came in for his shift on Friday evening, he had already heard about the strange attack that had happened on the beach the day before. He had known to expect injured, and he had known that some of them were children. But until he had seen her there, he had not realized that one of them was Patricia. When he saw her there, bruised and bloodied and restlessly asleep, so like she had been when she first arrived, anger had shot through him, and he had found himself grateful that the man responsible had been killed.
The information on the patients told an abrupt and gruesome story. It was to Trisha's bedside that he went first, not wanting her to sleep any more than entirely necessary, not with the concussion she had. Sitting beside her, he shook her shoulder and murmured, "Patricia. Wake up, petite. You've had quite enough sleep for now, I'm afraid."
"I want to go back to sleep though," she protested, looking at him without any real hope that he would allow her to do so. It had been a restless night, both from dreams and constant interruptions of her sleep. "Henri?" she asked.
"It's me," Combeferre confirmed with a smile that he hoped was encouraging. He carefully smoothed back her hair from her forehead. "As I am sure you have been told, you've had quite the bump on the head. Now, is there anything I can get you? A glass of water, perhaps?"
"They told me," she confirmed, though she hadn't needed anyone to tell her about the throbbing bruise on the side of her head, half hidden beneath her hair. She couldn't recall everything, things had happened so fast, but she remembered the feel of that robotic hand lashing out at her far too well. "Water, please,' she said. She wasn't overly thirsty, but Trisha couldn't think of anything to ask for.
Trying to sit up, she stilled herself momentarily as the blood rushed from her head and she felt a little dizzy, but after a minute she scooted back a little to prop herself up against the pillows.
"Coming right up." He returned a few moments later with a glass of water, just in time to help her sit up. "Here. Drink it slowly, now." Trisha looked in terribly bad shape, but aside from the concussion, her scratches and bruises seemed superficial. That much was a blessing; not everyone had been quite so lucky. "How are you feeling, petite?"
She did as he told her, drinking slowly from the glass. After a few moments, she put it down at her bedside still about half full. "I'm tired," she said truthfully. "They keep having to wake me up if I don't wake myself up," she said. "It's this, mostly," she said, gesturing to the bruise without touching it. "And I've got a headache," she added. Trisha knew that she was whining, but she didn't really care.
Combeferre grimaced sympathetically. "Rather troublesome, isn't it? I fell out of a tree once when I was a boy, about your age. My bruise wasn't half so extravagant as yours, but the doctor was still worried and made me stay up all night, just to be sure. He allowed my sister to help. I think she rather enjoyed that." He smiled wryly. "But as long as you listen to the doctors now, you shouldn't have to stay in here for very much longer, and once you go home, you can sleep as much as you like."
Trisha called up a smile at the image. She knew that she would have enjoyed it had she been charged with keeping Pete awake, but Pete had hardly ever had the opportunity to fall out of a tree as attached to his computer as he'd always been. She shrugged a little, which didn't really hurt so much and said, "I bet I won't want to sleep then though. Then someone will tell me to take it easy," she added, calling up the little smile again.
"Probably," Combeferre agreed ruefully. That was the nature of recovery: as soon as you were well enough to truly rest, the last you wanted to do was stay in bed. Adults like to think that they grew out of that sort of thing, but in his experience, they were as restless as children. "And you will need to take it easy," he warned. "No running around for a couple of weeks, I would say."
"See," Trisha said, looked at him pointedly, and then grinned. She knew what they were telling her was for her own good, but she couldn't help feeling a little put out. "None at all?" she asked, a little disappointed. She hoped that she wouldn't miss any off the baseball games. She thought that she was getting really good.
"Well, you will have to take things a little easier than usual, just for a short time. We will want to make sure you're healed before you start playing that baseball game of yours again." He grinned. "But don't worry too much, it shouldn't be very long at all. Before you know it, you will be as good as new."
The information on the patients told an abrupt and gruesome story. It was to Trisha's bedside that he went first, not wanting her to sleep any more than entirely necessary, not with the concussion she had. Sitting beside her, he shook her shoulder and murmured, "Patricia. Wake up, petite. You've had quite enough sleep for now, I'm afraid."
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Trying to sit up, she stilled herself momentarily as the blood rushed from her head and she felt a little dizzy, but after a minute she scooted back a little to prop herself up against the pillows.
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