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We’re looking at the middle of the story now, after Aidan was attacked and found by Rhett. Needless to be said, he does not do well in hospitals.

Here we go.

~*~

 At the surgeon’s voice, Summer jumped up and hurried to the man with one question. “Is he okay?”

“He’s good. The knife had entered the forearm through the flexor, near the median nerve and away from the radial and neurovascular bundle. Guy must have some bad-ass guardian angel watching over him, because the cut did no neurovascular damage. No fracture. Blood loss was the main deal and we fixed it. We’ll keep him until tomorrow as a precaution–he did bleed a lot. But then he’ll be good to go.”

She sagged against the wall, dizzy with relief. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

“My pleasure.” The surgeon, probably in his mid-thirty, smiled and bent closer to her. “Wanna play the title card and go to him? He’s in the Recovery Room which is not for families or friends. With you being a doctor, though…” he trailed off with a shrug and a smile. “Your call.”

Oh, she didn’t need a word more.

Summer found Aidan awake and conscious, if a bit loopy, a very unusual state for him. His spirit? Alive and kicking, as the first words he had for her clearly showed. “Get me out of here.”

God, she loved this man.

Happiness was a heady feeling and paired with his request, made it hard for her to contain the open laugh. She doubted he would appreciate it right about now so she tried to keep it under control and cleared her voice. “Well, now, Aidan, it’s not that simple.”

~*~

A little more to finish the scene.

~*~

“You’re a doctor, sign the papers and let me go.”

“I’m not your doctor. Besides, you’re not in a prison, you can go whenever you want. But,” she hurried to say as he started to push off the sheets. “As a doctor, my advice is to stay.”

“No.”

“It’s only until tomorrow, and–”

“No.”

He did manage to put his feet on the floor and when he stood, or tried to stand, his face turned white as a ghost and he grasped at the air for help. He found her.

“See?” Summer scolded, holding most of his weight as she pushed him back in bed. “Look, they just pumped buckets of blood into you. Your body needs time to recover.”

He laid back, closed his eyes. “I hate hospitals,” he muttered.

“I’ll add it to the list of things you hate. You still need it, though.”

“Whatever.”

“Yeah, whatever.” More for herself than for him, for erasing the tactile memory of his cold skin from her fingers, she took his good hand in hers. Something cracked inside when he entwined their fingers and brought it to his lips. Warm and solid. Alive.

“How bad is the arm?” he asked.

“Not as bad as it could have been. They fixed the muscle and nothing life-threatening was harmed. No major nerves, no major artery or veins. For future references, never, ever pull out a knife, or whatever else, stuck into you. It works like a cork: pull it, and the blood gushes out.”

“I needed something to defend myself and that was handy.”

“It also nearly killed you.”

He twitched his head in bored annoyance. “Details.”

“Damn it, Aidan,” she snapped, feeling the thread keeping her together loosen, then loosen some more. “I don’t want to–I can’t, and–for Pete’s sake, just don’t get into fights anymore, all right?”

“You think it’s how it went?”

“Part of me hopes it is, so tonight doesn’t trace back to the bomb.”

“Sorry, I didn’t. Fucker waited for me–” He stopped and his eyes were on her, probing, searching. “What are you doing? Are you crying?”

“Pfh, no, of course not. Doctors don’t cry.” But her voice swelled too much and broke in a twisted sob. “Okay, I may be crying a little.”

“For me?”

“No, because the Ducks lost the game. Of course, it’s for you.”

Something passed in his eyes, that mix of rage and pain and wishfulness making him the man he was. A man who smiled with love and sadness in his eyes as he dried a tear on her cheek. “Not many people ever bothered crying for me. Thank you.”

“Yeah, well.”

The corners of his mouth twisted upward a bit. “I’m okay.”

“Yes, you are, but you were–there was blood, and you laid down still and pale, and–” She shook her head. “I’m supposed to be used to it, and I am. When it comes to you… Things always feel different with you.”

He rose a hand to her face, wiped away more tears with his thumb. “Different is good. Don’t cry, Summer. I’m fine.”

A nurse entered in the room, ending the moment. “Time to go to your room, Mr. Murphy,” she said in a cheerful voice. “Are you ready, sweetie?”

And with pure loathing in his eyes, he grasped Summer’s hand and hissed through clenched teeth. “Get. Me. Out.”

~*~

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