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James Bond Meets General Hospital Feedback:
Positive or negative both welcome.
celli@fanfic101.com
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I am tired.
God. Damn. Am I tired.
I've been lying in the hospital bed from hell for the last...I don't know, actually...for-fucking-ever. Oh, except the times they come to get me for physical therapy. Which is torture beyond reason, but at least then I have an excuse for being tired.
No, apparently just being shot takes it out of you. Who knew?
Vaughn comes bounding in the door. "Hey, Eric, how's it going?"
I'd tell him, but a) it hurts to talk, and b) he doesn't really want to know. So I just shrug.
He launches into his usual tale of the day's events. I tell you, I know more now than I did when I was at work everyday. I admit, I'm fascinated by all the stories. It's starting to sound more like James Bond meets General Hospital.
Come on, I'm not the only one half-convinced that Sloane is actually Sydney's father. And he's going to show up someday with a black mask and a scuba apparatus. "Join me, Sydneeeeeeey."
...or possibly I need to stop pushing the painkiller button. Whatever.
Apparently Sydney's having some trouble with her parents. Poor baby. Apparently there are sociopaths on both sides of the family tree. And she's sad, and she's angsty, and-- ooh! She hugged Vaughn. This must be described in detail. I'd vomit, but it hurts my throat.
Finally I wave him over. "Hey. Mike."
"Huh?"
"Confession."
He gets a funny look on his face. I shake my head. "Not religious."
"Um...okay."
"Don't care about Sydney."
Dude, he looks like I smacked him one. File that away for reference...'cause God knows I want to sometimes.
"Don't care about Mommy and Daddy."
He's starting to lean back from me. But he can still hear me.
"Talk about something not work. Not Bristow."
He stares down at me. "I...I'm sorry."
He turns and leaves, and if I could yell after him I would. Goddammit, she shot me! Why do I have to be nice? I went along for mission support and I got fuckin' shot!
She shot me.
Shit, now I'm all guilty. And I'm still tired.
Physical therapy is almost a distraction. Hell, the pain in my neck and my head and my back and whatever, it's just pain.
Guilt sucks.
Okay, now I'm really tired.
And I'm still hurting.
And that painkiller button's looking damned attractive.
Um, did Sydney Bristow just walk into my room? Or am I just completely, you know, high?
She crosses her arms and glares at me. What the fuck does she want? An argument? I sound impressively shitty. A catfight? I could hit her with my IV stand.
"What did you say to Vaughn?"
I try to communicate huh? with body language.
"You upset him. He won't say why, but he came back from visiting you not talking to m--anyone."
So sorry I put a damper on their budding...whatever.
"You know, he was in the ICU waiting room for three whole days when we brought you in. He'd come out for briefings and that was it. He slept on the floor. Tanya from the typing pool was bringing him food. He didn't leave until they promised him you'd live. He hasn't missed a day's visit unless he was in another freaking country."
And I made him feel like shit.
"And you make him feel like shit."
I blink. A lot. I don't think I've ever heard her swear before. I'll have to ask Vaughn if she was like this under pressure...except, of course, I just told him not to talk about her. Plus he's not talking to me. This is all very complicated.
"And you know Vaughn, he thinks this is all his fault anyway. You can read it in his forehead wrinkles."
I open my mouth to laugh before I remember who I'm talking to.
"It's not. It was my mission. And my...you know, mother." She drops her head, and that fantastic sweep of hair covers her face.
"It's okay that you don't like me," the hair says. Generous of it. "I'm not very good for you. I'm not very good for...I'm sort of a health hazard. I expect a warning from the Surgeon General's office any day now. But he's your friend."
She tosses something that lands squarely in my lap and walks out.
My lucky yo-yo. I had it in the pocket of my flak jacket when Derevko shot me. It's older than me and has chipped paint, so I can always find it by feel. Except....I check it again. The paint is wearing off in new spots.
I run it through my fingers for a long time. Someone's been using it for a worry stone, and it wasn't Sydney Bristow.
Dammit. Goddammit.
I ring for a nurse. I need paper. At least with my throat, uh, shot, I can get away with apologizing in writing.
--the end--
Photo from Alias Media. Thanks, Gertie!