![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
The waiting is the hardest part.
He never wanted to be back here again. As his leg was being set and he was gritting his teeth through the pain and wishing like hell for some morphine the back of his mind muttered something about best laid plans. He should have picked that up by now. Shit just happens.
He just wishes it would happen to someone else.
His leg is back to a dull throb and he lies in the clinic bed and stares at the ceiling and tries to make his mind blank. Dr. Grey had been patient with him and really impressively competent, and everything could have been a lot worse. It could have been a compound fracture. It could have been a broken wrist instead of just a sprain. It could have been a lot further away. Chris could have headed in another direction. He could have hit his head on a rock in the fall.
He could have seen it again.
He's got a towel full of ice on his wrist and his leg bound up in straight, slender pieces of wood, and despite the pain sleep is threatening, but he can't. Chris has gone to get Eostre. And he has no idea what she's going to say or do, but he has a strong feeling that he should be awake for it.
And Hobbes. He had left Hobbes. He wonders if he'll even know. A less charitable part of him wonders if Chris might not just neglect to tell him out of spite.
No. He'll find out somehow.
He turns his head to the side, shuts out the sterile, white ceiling and sets his jaw.
Fuck.
He just wishes it would happen to someone else.
His leg is back to a dull throb and he lies in the clinic bed and stares at the ceiling and tries to make his mind blank. Dr. Grey had been patient with him and really impressively competent, and everything could have been a lot worse. It could have been a compound fracture. It could have been a broken wrist instead of just a sprain. It could have been a lot further away. Chris could have headed in another direction. He could have hit his head on a rock in the fall.
He could have seen it again.
He's got a towel full of ice on his wrist and his leg bound up in straight, slender pieces of wood, and despite the pain sleep is threatening, but he can't. Chris has gone to get Eostre. And he has no idea what she's going to say or do, but he has a strong feeling that he should be awake for it.
And Hobbes. He had left Hobbes. He wonders if he'll even know. A less charitable part of him wonders if Chris might not just neglect to tell him out of spite.
No. He'll find out somehow.
He turns his head to the side, shuts out the sterile, white ceiling and sets his jaw.
Fuck.