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"Bed pan," Marcus said abruptly. Thomas lunged up but Owen was already there.
Marcus grabbed it, turned to face the wall and got violently sick. Thomas stood by, close, wanting to touch, help, but oddly restrained by Owen's light hand and a quick, silent shake of his head. When Marcus was done, he was sweating. He lowered himself into the chair, his arm shaking. The nurse fortunately appeared with a wheelchair.
"You may have yourself a bit of a concussion, Mr. Stanton. I think we better take you in this. "
The fact he let himself be helped into the chair like an old man, rather than telling the nurse what she could do with the wheelchair, frightened Thomas worse than anything.
"I'm going with him. "
"I'll come get you just as soon as Dr. Tillman says it's okay," she promised, but in a firm tone that brooked no argument.
"Marcus. " Thomas closed his hand on his wrist.
"I want to get the hell out of here," Marcus said abruptly. He lifted his head and pinned Thomas with a hard green stare that was almost glassy. "No matter what.
They're not admitting me here. I want to go home after they stitch me up, even if I pass out. You got it? You nod and don't mean it, I won't forgive you. " Thomas tightened his grip. "I'll take care of you, of everything. Don't worry about it. "
"Promise me. "
"Not if your life's in danger. If they say you have a punctured organ or a concussion, then tough shit. Get over it. You stay here. Anything else, I'll get you home. "
Marcus sat back in the chair. "Asshole. "
"Stubborn bastard. Let them take care of you. " Thomas had to close his hands into hard fists to keep from reaching out again as they wheeled him down the hall and out of his sight. "Goddamn it," he muttered.
He whirled on Owen. "What the hell was that about?"
Owen ran a hand over his balding head. "Of all the places Dodger could show up, this would've been the last I'd guess. Like Fate, isn't it?" He shook his head at Thomas' searing look of impatience and moved back to his own cart. "Not my story to tell, son. If you're the right person to tell, he'll tell you. But I don't know you. "
"He doesn't tell anybody anything. "
Owen stopped, his hands clasping the handle. "Sometimes when you lose everything, the last thing you want to do is remember. And telling is remembering. You do what you said you'd do. " His dark gaze fixed on Thomas. "If it isn't too serious, get him out of here. Best for him and Toby. "
Watching Owen retreat down the hall, Thomas wanted to put his already swollen knuckles through the sheetrock of the hospital's sea green wall. Fortunately, it wasn't long before the nurse let him go back to Exam One. Marcus was stripped out of his shirt, his slacks open in the front. The doctor, a small-boned woman in her forties who barely came up to his chin, was checking out his ribs. A nurse had prepared a tray of sutures.
"Looks like they're going to give me a wrap, stitch me up and then we can head on," Marcus said.
"If the X-rays say so," Dr. Tillman corrected. "You his family?"
"Yes," Thomas said without hesitation. "Is he okay?"
"Other than being arrogant as hell, which I don't think can be surgically removed, I think he's going to be fine. He was lucky. " She glanced sharply at Thomas, taking in his appearance. "Do you need medical attention?"
"No. Not my blood. "
"He's obviously a better fighter than you," the doctor observed to Marcus.
Marcus curled his lip. "I'm getting tired of hearing that. I was taken by surprise.
They jumped me. He had the advantage of jumping them. "
"Mmm. I'm going to go check those X-rays. "
When the doctor and her nurse left them alone, Thomas approached the table, ran his hand up the curve of Marcus' bare back. There were bruises rising there from where they'd kicked him. He wanted to go hurt them some more. "You hanging in there?"
"Hanging. I just want out of here. Christ, what a stupid thing to do, wandering behind that place. "
"Guess talking to Lawrence really stirred you up. "
