Fic: Burns
A/N: This is not binding to any other muse, part of the backstory - between the movie and this - with on_crusade. Warnings: Everybody will hate me for what I've done to Face. Bad burns somewhat graphic depiction.
Word count: ~ 2850.
The A-Team plans came together. That's how they worked, how they had survived all these years - not only survived, made good. Never failed a mission. The best unit one could get for special jobs, and that was that.
But sometimes, of course, the plans cut it a little close. Scrapes and bruises. One or another of them a little bit out of commission for a couple of days or a couple of weeks. A shot here and there. Never deadly or near to, they just moved that fast, but sometimes, things were close.
Occasionally, a little too close.
It wasn't anybody's fault, well, not anybody on the team, which was the relevant thing. But the explosion had to come off sooner than planned, and Face hadn't gotten safely enough away. At least it was him only, the thought flashed, before the fire reached him.
He couldn't help it, he screamed. The motherfucker hurt! And it wasn't like he was completely unused to pain; this was different. Not made easier by the fact that he had to make sure he rolled away to put out any possible fabrics (or hair?) that had caught up in flames. The burned skin felt like it was flayed from his body, and he had to find a side that hurt a tiny bit less and just lay there gasping until there was anything to perceive but the pain. Anything.
The smell somehow returned first, and that didn't make anything better.
In another few moments, he could hear again, which made him struggle to stop those pitiful sounds, god. His throat was sore, too, although that was tiny, compared to all the rest. OW.
Then there was Hannibal's voice, urgent to the point of frantic, calling for him to come on. It took a bit to get his arm to work enough to fold; then even more for his fingers to fumble for the touch that would let him speak back; even the small motions made him hiss and swear under his breath.
"Face. Are you there? Com--"
"I'm here, boss." Words. Articulating them was tough. "I'm... going to make it, just not yet. You go ahead and finish this sucker."
"I'm coming to get you."
"Can't afford to. Damned tight... time windows. Go, go, I'll contact you after you're done. Yeah... I'll ... stay safe."
"Dammit, Faceman. How bad is it?"
"Go. We'll discuss later." Please. Please go. I need to crawl somewhere and cry, you've work to do, rather than watch this...
"Don't you-- All right. But if you don't contact us, I'll find you and kick your ass, you know that?"
"'course I do, boss." That almost got him to laugh. Choke, at least, but wheezing made him rub against the ground and that hurt, so he stopped. "Go, dammit."
"Roger. Out."
Face's fingers clutched around the comm link, the touch of the plastic stabbing pain through his whole hand, and he shivered it disengaged, then tossed it away. Hurt too much to keep it, and it would be useless by the time anyone found it. But he had to clear out, so that nobody found him.
That would be a problem.
A few more deep breaths, trying to get some handle on the pain, and then he curled a little on himself, trying to get his feet under him and stand up. He'd try crawling, but that meant more of him scraping against the ground.
Finding a place to hide wouldn't be that much of a problem in this area. Finding a way to get somebody treating the burns before they turned into worse and keep it under wraps... - much more so. His phone was back at base, obviously he wouldn't need it out on a job. He couldn't drop on a security guard like this and ask for help, nor stay around for whoever called the police.
Not unless he had to, at any rate. And wobbly he might be, but there were enough shadows and he could sort of walk. Very slowly.
He wished he had something in his pockets that he could use to bite on, though. Not whimpering swearing loud enough to attract attention was going to be a problem. But he'd get to a pay phone. And take care of himself. Because damned if he would let a stupid explosion get him down. Even if it had gotten close to it. He'd survived it, and he'd survive this. That's what a soldier did.
Well, a good soldier. Cover his orders and survive for the next set.
One step after the other. And then one more. And one more.
The industrial zone spilled him into the fringes of the city when the sound of sirens - police, fire engines - had completely faded behind him. Good thing that by this hour, the streets were just about empty. Not that he cared if somebody saw his tears of pain, or the set of his jaw. Or the burns, blistering and oozing and all of that.
In this part of town, he was easy prey, right now.
He was lucky. He'd be able to find a place to curl up and lay down low without attracting attention, too. There always were such, here. So the windows would be missing and--
-- everything would be covered by a layer of dirt. Damn, damn, damn. He couldn't afford that, not now. Even if the doctor he would call bandaged him up good and tight, his skin was in no state to handle the risk of infection.
More walking. But not planning for that would get worse than his ass kicked.
Phone, first. Slowly, pushing himself one move at a time, and then one breath at a time, until, yes, there was a booth.
The doctor that knew them wasn't home. Or wasn't picking up in the middle of the night. That wasn't a good sign. And voicemail couldn't accept a collect call. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. He tried four times before he registered this wasn't going to work out and there were flakes from his fingertip now on the phone buttons. Wonderful.
He dropped the receiver in place, touching as little as possible, then leaned the slightly-better side against the wall of the booth. Think. Think, Face. Think.
First, he came up with where to curl up until somebody more sanely-looking - and with money on him - could get him into a hotel or whatever. A place he could explain over the phone. It wouldn't be comfortable, but by now he'd given up on that kind of a relief from the suffocating pain until medications were to come. And the place wouldn't likely aggravate things. More than what he couldn't avoid, at any rate.
He reached up for the receiver again, and had to clench his teeth and force his muscles to complete the motion. Goddammit, he had started not four hours ago rested and up to speed for a mission. Dammit. He couldn't be this exhausted already. But he was.
Stupid pain.
He tried the doctor again, to no new result.
Then he took a deep breath and dialed another number. Much more familiar. This time, the collect call came through.
"Sosa speaking." He almost mustered the strength to smile at how asleep she sounded, and yet alert enough. Or maybe just at the sound of her voice. Or that she'd accepted, she knew who'd be calling her there.
"Hey, if it won't get you into trouble, can I ask you for a favor?"
"What's happened?"
Dammit. She knew him too well, even that little had put her on alert. There was little trace of sleep or ease in her voice anymore. "Nothing." Faster, higher. More normal. He hoped. "I just can't reach somebody and need to clear out of access to phone in a few. And I can't leave a message with collect call. Just that."
"Where are Hannibal and the others?" He could practically see the way her mouth compressed with displeasure at his evasion. Meager, but comfort, right now.
"Finishing something. Out of reach for a few more hours."
"And leaving a message will be faster than waiting for them to pick you up?"
"Basically."
"You're not making any sense, Face."
"Please? I'll explain later, if you still want to know?"
"You're not good at wheedling."
"No," he swallowed the I'm very good at wheedling, just not right now when I'm barely standing on my feet. Barely sort of standing on my feet and turned it to, "you've got me, I'm not good at wheedling." He felt like he was going to be sick, stomach turning and bile rising at the back of his throat. He hoped that wouldn't happen until she'd hung up. "Please?"
Her breath out was loud in the phone's pick-up mic. So was the silence that drew out while she was thinking. He could hear his own heart thud in his ears. Feel the blood pulsing in his veins here and there press against the blistered skin. At his wrist, pressing against the receiver. Another effort to shut away as much of the pain as he could. Another heartbeat. And another... "All right. What's the phone, who is it, and what do I tell them?"
He sagged against the phone booth's wall but swallowed the sigh of relief, trying to hide all traces of it from his voice. "Thank you." Thank you, thank you, you're possibly saving my life. Thank you. Instead of saying all of that, he rattled off the information, as clear as he could, then repeated so she could write it down. And had her repeat it, not that she was surprised at that part.
"Face, you sure you're--" It took him two tries to click the receiver in place and cut the question off, but he couldn't lie to her any more right now. Or couldn't hold the vomit in. He did get the door open and his head outside, out of some obscure thought that the insides of his stomach in a closed space were worse than even just outside.
Then stood leaning over it all for a little longer. Until he mustered strength to start walking again.
When he reached his destination, he was barely conscious. If that. He didn't drop like a sack of potatoes only because of the dim awareness that it was going to make him hurt a hell of a lot more. That was the last thought-like occurrence he remembered.
"Jesus Christ. Why would he make you meet him in a place that stinks like this?" A voice. A voice that shouldn't be here, and the thought nudged at him through the hurting dreams. His skin was being peeled from him. Slow and long. There were whole strips already taken away.
No, that was wrong. That was a dream, his skin wasn't cut away. It was burned. FUCK. The thought made him aware of each and every stab into his body and he wanted to shout out against the pain. But his mouth didn't work, the sound he made was more like a moan.
It overlapped with the tail end of the other voice's response. "I don't know. Considering that this is cleaner than ninety percent of the residences in the area, I'm not sure I know what causes the--"
"Listen."
Okay, she'd heard that.
Sosa.
That realization made him try to open his eyes wide, except they were mostly stuck and he couldn't even get a sliver of vision. Dammit.
Steps.
"Doctor. Back here, behind the door."
"Good god! No, don't touch him, let me look first!"
Then there was touching him. Turning him around, which got him to whimper. Careful hands,but there wasn't enough on him to not hurt more. Peeling the remainder of his clothes away, which did feel like parts of his skin was coming off with it and his throat was making noises he couldn't control. The second voice had gone quiet, except for an occasional quiet word of instruction. The first voice was doing a litany of swearing.
At him, he realized.
There was a needle, except that was less pain than the skin around it, just a weird sensation. A distorted eternity later, the pain started to recede.
Darkness returned.
When he came to, the smell that he'd almost gotten used to had been partially replaced by disinfectants and other medications. And her smell, just a bit, probably too close if he could detect it. He was... feeling very little, although his head didn't seem to be bumping against the floor still.
This time, opening his eyes worked.
His head was in her lap, sort of. She was kneeling against the wall, leaning over him, and her hands were close to his head, but not touching. He realized he was both grateful and disappointed for that.
"Hello, beautiful," he croaked. Her eyes narrowed. So did his. "You shouldn't be here."
"You didn't tell me."
"Being here can get you into trouble, don't want you to be in trouble..." Except, it didn't sound like berating even to him. He was... happy. Oh, the good drugs, a part of his mind still working supplied. "Didn't even know you were this close."
"You were this close to dead, badly in need of medical attention, and you didn't even tell me the man you wanted me to call was a doctor."
"Shouldn't get you involved, you know?" She was so exquisite. Even when she was glaring at him and swearing. "Why did you come?"
"I looked him up, you idiot. And then realized somebody must be hurt and went to round him up," she looked to the side and Face followed her eyes to see Dr. Speigh carefully cleaning and putting away his things. "You... what happened?"
"Boom," he smiled at her. "Big boom. Sooner than it should."
"Bastard."
"He can't stay here," the medic's basso cut in.
"Well I couldn't just walk into a hotel like that. Or hospital. Can't go to hospital, they'd pick me up before I got as bandaged as I am now. Hotel... Pfft. They'd call 911. Plus, the plastic didn't survive the boom. But if you help me..."
"Where are the other three?"
"What time is it?"
"Face!"
"I've no idea how long I was out, don't know where they might be. If all went according to plan."
She closed her eyes, exasperated. "Can you even walk?"
"Dunno... let me try?"
"This is a bad idea."
"You said I can't stay here, doc."
"Bastard," Sosa said again.
But she helped him up. And she helped them lie through their teeth to make sure they got a hotel room and wouldn't get disturbed; Face saw and heard most of that, but the pain reliever was good stuff. He was ve-ery doozy.
Speigh wrote down instructions, repeating them out loud for both of their sakes. Face reassured him the hotel would be paid for properly as soon as he got in touch with the rest. Sosa made no move to leave with him.
When they were alone, she turned to him - flopped, if not quite curled up, on the bed - and crossed her arms. And continued swearing at him.
Face didn't smile, that would just piss her off. More. And he didn't want to piss her off enough to make her go away. She was worried about him. She hadn't turned him in, she was here, and she was pissed.
When he found a lull, he muttered, "it was bad, wasn't it?"
"Oh, I'm sure you'll be reminded just how bad as soon as the morphine or whatever he gave you wears out."
"Yeah, I guess you're right."
"Why would you even..."
"It's what I do, babe. Always risky. Usually isn't this bad. And I'm alive. And you helped for that."
"Oh... shut up." But she sat by the bed, and reached to hold one of his bandaged hands, careful and easy. "You're still a son of a bitch."
The warmth that seemed to spread up his arm from that simple touch had nothing like the kind of heat that was hurtful. Nothing. It yanked at his heart, but even that felt sort of good. "Okay. What... what have you been doing?"
"Change of topic?"
"Might as well."
She snorted, but the corners of her mouth twitched slightly. "Think you can keep up with me telling you my adventures?"
"I'll sure try."
He didn't manage to keep to wakefulness long, but this time he drifted off, rather than fainting away. And when he did, her voice and her hand eased him into it.
When he woke up, she was gone.
Now that was a déjà vu.
He groaned, and she had been right. The medication had worn off and he hurt. But it wasn't as bad as it had been before, at least his skin didn't feel like it was flaying on every surface he touched.
In a bit, he found that she'd left him a note.
Stop doing stupid shit. -- Sosa
This time, he did smile.
Word count: ~ 2850.
The A-Team plans came together. That's how they worked, how they had survived all these years - not only survived, made good. Never failed a mission. The best unit one could get for special jobs, and that was that.
But sometimes, of course, the plans cut it a little close. Scrapes and bruises. One or another of them a little bit out of commission for a couple of days or a couple of weeks. A shot here and there. Never deadly or near to, they just moved that fast, but sometimes, things were close.
Occasionally, a little too close.
It wasn't anybody's fault, well, not anybody on the team, which was the relevant thing. But the explosion had to come off sooner than planned, and Face hadn't gotten safely enough away. At least it was him only, the thought flashed, before the fire reached him.
He couldn't help it, he screamed. The motherfucker hurt! And it wasn't like he was completely unused to pain; this was different. Not made easier by the fact that he had to make sure he rolled away to put out any possible fabrics (or hair?) that had caught up in flames. The burned skin felt like it was flayed from his body, and he had to find a side that hurt a tiny bit less and just lay there gasping until there was anything to perceive but the pain. Anything.
The smell somehow returned first, and that didn't make anything better.
In another few moments, he could hear again, which made him struggle to stop those pitiful sounds, god. His throat was sore, too, although that was tiny, compared to all the rest. OW.
Then there was Hannibal's voice, urgent to the point of frantic, calling for him to come on. It took a bit to get his arm to work enough to fold; then even more for his fingers to fumble for the touch that would let him speak back; even the small motions made him hiss and swear under his breath.
"Face. Are you there? Com--"
"I'm here, boss." Words. Articulating them was tough. "I'm... going to make it, just not yet. You go ahead and finish this sucker."
"I'm coming to get you."
"Can't afford to. Damned tight... time windows. Go, go, I'll contact you after you're done. Yeah... I'll ... stay safe."
"Dammit, Faceman. How bad is it?"
"Go. We'll discuss later." Please. Please go. I need to crawl somewhere and cry, you've work to do, rather than watch this...
"Don't you-- All right. But if you don't contact us, I'll find you and kick your ass, you know that?"
"'course I do, boss." That almost got him to laugh. Choke, at least, but wheezing made him rub against the ground and that hurt, so he stopped. "Go, dammit."
"Roger. Out."
Face's fingers clutched around the comm link, the touch of the plastic stabbing pain through his whole hand, and he shivered it disengaged, then tossed it away. Hurt too much to keep it, and it would be useless by the time anyone found it. But he had to clear out, so that nobody found him.
That would be a problem.
A few more deep breaths, trying to get some handle on the pain, and then he curled a little on himself, trying to get his feet under him and stand up. He'd try crawling, but that meant more of him scraping against the ground.
Finding a place to hide wouldn't be that much of a problem in this area. Finding a way to get somebody treating the burns before they turned into worse and keep it under wraps... - much more so. His phone was back at base, obviously he wouldn't need it out on a job. He couldn't drop on a security guard like this and ask for help, nor stay around for whoever called the police.
Not unless he had to, at any rate. And wobbly he might be, but there were enough shadows and he could sort of walk. Very slowly.
He wished he had something in his pockets that he could use to bite on, though. Not whimpering swearing loud enough to attract attention was going to be a problem. But he'd get to a pay phone. And take care of himself. Because damned if he would let a stupid explosion get him down. Even if it had gotten close to it. He'd survived it, and he'd survive this. That's what a soldier did.
Well, a good soldier. Cover his orders and survive for the next set.
One step after the other. And then one more. And one more.
The industrial zone spilled him into the fringes of the city when the sound of sirens - police, fire engines - had completely faded behind him. Good thing that by this hour, the streets were just about empty. Not that he cared if somebody saw his tears of pain, or the set of his jaw. Or the burns, blistering and oozing and all of that.
In this part of town, he was easy prey, right now.
He was lucky. He'd be able to find a place to curl up and lay down low without attracting attention, too. There always were such, here. So the windows would be missing and--
-- everything would be covered by a layer of dirt. Damn, damn, damn. He couldn't afford that, not now. Even if the doctor he would call bandaged him up good and tight, his skin was in no state to handle the risk of infection.
More walking. But not planning for that would get worse than his ass kicked.
Phone, first. Slowly, pushing himself one move at a time, and then one breath at a time, until, yes, there was a booth.
The doctor that knew them wasn't home. Or wasn't picking up in the middle of the night. That wasn't a good sign. And voicemail couldn't accept a collect call. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. He tried four times before he registered this wasn't going to work out and there were flakes from his fingertip now on the phone buttons. Wonderful.
He dropped the receiver in place, touching as little as possible, then leaned the slightly-better side against the wall of the booth. Think. Think, Face. Think.
First, he came up with where to curl up until somebody more sanely-looking - and with money on him - could get him into a hotel or whatever. A place he could explain over the phone. It wouldn't be comfortable, but by now he'd given up on that kind of a relief from the suffocating pain until medications were to come. And the place wouldn't likely aggravate things. More than what he couldn't avoid, at any rate.
He reached up for the receiver again, and had to clench his teeth and force his muscles to complete the motion. Goddammit, he had started not four hours ago rested and up to speed for a mission. Dammit. He couldn't be this exhausted already. But he was.
Stupid pain.
He tried the doctor again, to no new result.
Then he took a deep breath and dialed another number. Much more familiar. This time, the collect call came through.
"Sosa speaking." He almost mustered the strength to smile at how asleep she sounded, and yet alert enough. Or maybe just at the sound of her voice. Or that she'd accepted, she knew who'd be calling her there.
"Hey, if it won't get you into trouble, can I ask you for a favor?"
"What's happened?"
Dammit. She knew him too well, even that little had put her on alert. There was little trace of sleep or ease in her voice anymore. "Nothing." Faster, higher. More normal. He hoped. "I just can't reach somebody and need to clear out of access to phone in a few. And I can't leave a message with collect call. Just that."
"Where are Hannibal and the others?" He could practically see the way her mouth compressed with displeasure at his evasion. Meager, but comfort, right now.
"Finishing something. Out of reach for a few more hours."
"And leaving a message will be faster than waiting for them to pick you up?"
"Basically."
"You're not making any sense, Face."
"Please? I'll explain later, if you still want to know?"
"You're not good at wheedling."
"No," he swallowed the I'm very good at wheedling, just not right now when I'm barely standing on my feet. Barely sort of standing on my feet and turned it to, "you've got me, I'm not good at wheedling." He felt like he was going to be sick, stomach turning and bile rising at the back of his throat. He hoped that wouldn't happen until she'd hung up. "Please?"
Her breath out was loud in the phone's pick-up mic. So was the silence that drew out while she was thinking. He could hear his own heart thud in his ears. Feel the blood pulsing in his veins here and there press against the blistered skin. At his wrist, pressing against the receiver. Another effort to shut away as much of the pain as he could. Another heartbeat. And another... "All right. What's the phone, who is it, and what do I tell them?"
He sagged against the phone booth's wall but swallowed the sigh of relief, trying to hide all traces of it from his voice. "Thank you." Thank you, thank you, you're possibly saving my life. Thank you. Instead of saying all of that, he rattled off the information, as clear as he could, then repeated so she could write it down. And had her repeat it, not that she was surprised at that part.
"Face, you sure you're--" It took him two tries to click the receiver in place and cut the question off, but he couldn't lie to her any more right now. Or couldn't hold the vomit in. He did get the door open and his head outside, out of some obscure thought that the insides of his stomach in a closed space were worse than even just outside.
Then stood leaning over it all for a little longer. Until he mustered strength to start walking again.
When he reached his destination, he was barely conscious. If that. He didn't drop like a sack of potatoes only because of the dim awareness that it was going to make him hurt a hell of a lot more. That was the last thought-like occurrence he remembered.
"Jesus Christ. Why would he make you meet him in a place that stinks like this?" A voice. A voice that shouldn't be here, and the thought nudged at him through the hurting dreams. His skin was being peeled from him. Slow and long. There were whole strips already taken away.
No, that was wrong. That was a dream, his skin wasn't cut away. It was burned. FUCK. The thought made him aware of each and every stab into his body and he wanted to shout out against the pain. But his mouth didn't work, the sound he made was more like a moan.
It overlapped with the tail end of the other voice's response. "I don't know. Considering that this is cleaner than ninety percent of the residences in the area, I'm not sure I know what causes the--"
"Listen."
Okay, she'd heard that.
Sosa.
That realization made him try to open his eyes wide, except they were mostly stuck and he couldn't even get a sliver of vision. Dammit.
Steps.
"Doctor. Back here, behind the door."
"Good god! No, don't touch him, let me look first!"
Then there was touching him. Turning him around, which got him to whimper. Careful hands,but there wasn't enough on him to not hurt more. Peeling the remainder of his clothes away, which did feel like parts of his skin was coming off with it and his throat was making noises he couldn't control. The second voice had gone quiet, except for an occasional quiet word of instruction. The first voice was doing a litany of swearing.
At him, he realized.
There was a needle, except that was less pain than the skin around it, just a weird sensation. A distorted eternity later, the pain started to recede.
Darkness returned.
When he came to, the smell that he'd almost gotten used to had been partially replaced by disinfectants and other medications. And her smell, just a bit, probably too close if he could detect it. He was... feeling very little, although his head didn't seem to be bumping against the floor still.
This time, opening his eyes worked.
His head was in her lap, sort of. She was kneeling against the wall, leaning over him, and her hands were close to his head, but not touching. He realized he was both grateful and disappointed for that.
"Hello, beautiful," he croaked. Her eyes narrowed. So did his. "You shouldn't be here."
"You didn't tell me."
"Being here can get you into trouble, don't want you to be in trouble..." Except, it didn't sound like berating even to him. He was... happy. Oh, the good drugs, a part of his mind still working supplied. "Didn't even know you were this close."
"You were this close to dead, badly in need of medical attention, and you didn't even tell me the man you wanted me to call was a doctor."
"Shouldn't get you involved, you know?" She was so exquisite. Even when she was glaring at him and swearing. "Why did you come?"
"I looked him up, you idiot. And then realized somebody must be hurt and went to round him up," she looked to the side and Face followed her eyes to see Dr. Speigh carefully cleaning and putting away his things. "You... what happened?"
"Boom," he smiled at her. "Big boom. Sooner than it should."
"Bastard."
"He can't stay here," the medic's basso cut in.
"Well I couldn't just walk into a hotel like that. Or hospital. Can't go to hospital, they'd pick me up before I got as bandaged as I am now. Hotel... Pfft. They'd call 911. Plus, the plastic didn't survive the boom. But if you help me..."
"Where are the other three?"
"What time is it?"
"Face!"
"I've no idea how long I was out, don't know where they might be. If all went according to plan."
She closed her eyes, exasperated. "Can you even walk?"
"Dunno... let me try?"
"This is a bad idea."
"You said I can't stay here, doc."
"Bastard," Sosa said again.
But she helped him up. And she helped them lie through their teeth to make sure they got a hotel room and wouldn't get disturbed; Face saw and heard most of that, but the pain reliever was good stuff. He was ve-ery doozy.
Speigh wrote down instructions, repeating them out loud for both of their sakes. Face reassured him the hotel would be paid for properly as soon as he got in touch with the rest. Sosa made no move to leave with him.
When they were alone, she turned to him - flopped, if not quite curled up, on the bed - and crossed her arms. And continued swearing at him.
Face didn't smile, that would just piss her off. More. And he didn't want to piss her off enough to make her go away. She was worried about him. She hadn't turned him in, she was here, and she was pissed.
When he found a lull, he muttered, "it was bad, wasn't it?"
"Oh, I'm sure you'll be reminded just how bad as soon as the morphine or whatever he gave you wears out."
"Yeah, I guess you're right."
"Why would you even..."
"It's what I do, babe. Always risky. Usually isn't this bad. And I'm alive. And you helped for that."
"Oh... shut up." But she sat by the bed, and reached to hold one of his bandaged hands, careful and easy. "You're still a son of a bitch."
The warmth that seemed to spread up his arm from that simple touch had nothing like the kind of heat that was hurtful. Nothing. It yanked at his heart, but even that felt sort of good. "Okay. What... what have you been doing?"
"Change of topic?"
"Might as well."
She snorted, but the corners of her mouth twitched slightly. "Think you can keep up with me telling you my adventures?"
"I'll sure try."
He didn't manage to keep to wakefulness long, but this time he drifted off, rather than fainting away. And when he did, her voice and her hand eased him into it.
When he woke up, she was gone.
Now that was a déjà vu.
He groaned, and she had been right. The medication had worn off and he hurt. But it wasn't as bad as it had been before, at least his skin didn't feel like it was flaying on every surface he touched.
In a bit, he found that she'd left him a note.
Stop doing stupid shit. -- Sosa
This time, he did smile.