Chapter 24 Tate
Tate
When his eyes fluttered open, Tate was aware he was somewhere unfamiliar. Someplace unfamiliar, his entire body aching, and unable to breathe.
He choked against the tube down his throat as his fight or flight reflex kicked into high gear, but instantly, there was a soft hand on his arm, a high voice urging him not to fight, that he was safe.
Silva.
He went limp, melting back against the strange bedding.
There was a steady beeping overhead, a continuous metronome that did not care whether he was conscious, only that his heart continued thumping.
A pressure at his side, his ribs throbbing with a deep, grinding ache that made each breath feel like a negotiation he was losing, and a telltale antiseptic smell.
Hospital. You’re in the fucking hospital.
He could only see out of one eye, and blearily at that.
With a fucking eyepatch. Perfect. But she was here.
She had been there, in his apartment. Her mouth had opened in shock at the sight of him, coming to him across the kitchen like the goddess of starlight herself, making him squint to take in her glow.
It was a struggle now to even turn his head minutely, casting his one good eye to the side where she sat, trying to make out the hazy shape of her before him, coming together slowly.
It was Cymbeline.
Cym, sitting beside his bed, a crumpled tissue clenched in her velutinous hand.
“Oh my fucking stars, Tate. I thought we’d never see you again! We thought you were dead! We literally had a funeral for you! And now you’re back, and-and you almost died again?! My nerves can’t take this!”
He turned his head back, sinking into the unsupportive pillow.
It was Cymbeline. Not his Silva.
“Don’t try to move. You’re still intubated, but they said they would take the tube out today if you woke up.
And you still have your chest tube. You have so many broken ribs .
. . I’ve been stopping by every day on my way home from work; you know we’re just around the corner .
. . I didn’t want you to wake up alone.”
Alone.
Then he remembered. His Silva. His no longer. A ring on her index finger, her hand bartered for. A tiny voice calling out for her.
It was better that she wasn’t here. He didn’t think he could survive seeing the inevitable exhaustion on her face, the stress of obligation in her eyes instead of . . . whatever he’d been hoping for. What that was, he wasn’t sure.
It was better that she wasn’t here.
His eyes fluttered shut once more, allowing the darkness to swallow him.
He should’ve died on the forest floor. It had been a mistake getting up, a mistake climbing his way out.
This was the part in Faerie stories that never made it to the page.
He’d crossed worlds for her, killed to fight his way out, and it was still too late.
Endurance entitled him to nothing. Survival was the only thing he was actually good at, but he should have fought the instinct a bit harder, gotten it over with while he lay there in the dirt.
Ending the bastard’s bloodline while he had the opportunity. No time like the present, boyo.
When he woke again, there was someone new sitting beside his bed. The tube was out of his throat, and evidently, whatever steady drip of morphine they’d provided had been cut back. He winced, turning his head, attempting to make out the shape beside him.
“I’d like the record to show,” Elshona began conversationally, “that you spent fifteen years telling me what a thick Orcish skull I have. And yet here you are with your dainty little noggin cracked like an egg shell, clearly kicked arsesways. So really, who’s come out better for it?”
He grinned, in spite of himself, wincing as he did so.
Shona leaned forward, eyebrows knitted together.
“What the fuck happened to you? You had internal bleeding. Most of your ribs are broken, you have a punctured lung and a cracked skull. Broken nose, broken fingers. You’re covered in bruises.
You know how your back is always giving you trouble?
Yeah, it’s because it was literally broken at some point, ya’ fuckin’ knob.
They said you’ve probably had herniated discs from it for years.
There’s a hole under your bleedin’ eye that almost severed the nerve.
There was an actual piece of tree in your head, Tate.
I’d say you look like someone kicked your fucking head in, but it appears they actually did. ”
“They did,” he confirmed weakly, realizing he was missing a tooth or two. “I got into a fight, Shona. You ever been in a fight before? You’re a liar if you deny it, because I happen to know you have.”
The tense moment was broken as she dissolved into exhausted-sounding laughter, dragging a big hand down her face. “Fucking stars. Who did you pick a fight with? A bloody giant?”
He huffed out a laugh, realizing immediately that that was a terrible mistake.
Laughing hurt. Talking hurt. Breathing hurt.
Every weak inhalation sent pain ricocheting down to his toes.
Should have died when you had the chance.
Now they’re going to make you pay this fucking hospital bill, and they’re not even giving you the good drugs.
“It wasn’t. He was just a little cunt. I was bigger than him. Taller, heavier. Stronger, I’d hoped. He was just a wee mite. But the little ones are always really fucking fast, have you noticed that?”
Her shoulders were shaking in laughter, her head tipped forward, braced in her palms. “I hope he was at least a tough little cunt, or you’ll never be able to admit this to anyone. You probably shouldn’t even be admitting it to me. Say you were in a car accident, if they ask.”
He shrugged, knowing before he did so that it would be an agony, and it was. “I mean, yeah. Tough. He led battalions into war. Killed people for sport. I don’t know, Shona. My skull must be thicker than I thought. I honestly believed I could take him.”
Her laughter had ascended sound by then, her forehead resting on the bar’s hospital bed. “Fucking hells, you’re going to make me piss meself,” she wheezed. “Scarlet on your mam. Whoever it was, they did a number on you. You look like you were run over by a fucking lorry.”
He closed his eyes, staying quiet as she laughed. It was a nice sound, a familiar sound. Strangely comforting. One he’d never expected to hear again. She was his next of kin, always had been. An unfortunate role she’d been thrust into, he supposed, but he, in turn, was hers.
“The fucking irony is if I’d stayed for just a bit longer, I’d be right as rain. Would have healed in the moonlight. Instead, I rushed back for no reason, and it feels like they’ve given me baby aspirin. Culchie, am I maudlin? If someone called me a self-involved prat, d’you think you’d agree?”
“Oh, I’d buy them a fucking round for having the bravery to say it to your face.
Of course you are. You’re the most self-pitying prat I’ve ever known, and you always have been.
You’re consistent, if nothing else. A car accident is what I told them when you were admitted, by the way.
They absolutely don’t believe it, but you’ve broken half their bleedin’ equipment since you’ve been here, so they don’t fuckin’ care.
Every time they try to get your whole head looked at, poof.
The whole hospital wing lost power for a bit.
So you’d better hurry up and flirt with one of these nurses before they dump your carcass on the curb. ”
“Oh, grand. I’ll be sure to wink with my one good eye.”
She dissolved into laughter again, Tate yelping as he tried. He was never going to be able to breathe without pain again.
“I always knew you were coming back,” she sobered suddenly, her laughter dying.
“I didn’t want to argue with the rest of them, didn’t want to tell them they were wrong, but I knew.
I was out with Ains, a while ago, a long while ago .
. . anyway, I got a call about some things coming in for the dining room change-out, because that was the plan we made.
Of course, I’m sticking to it. It’s a good plan, we made it together.
And I didn’t want to risk having to hear your mouth if I didn’t do it.
And he was so fucking mad at me over it.
But I knew. I knew you were comin’ back.
I knew I’d be getting that call eventually. ”
His lips were parched, and his throat burned. “I shouldn’t have. I’m not helping anyone by doing so. Should have clocked out while I had the chance . . . I’m sorry you’ve always been the one to take that call, Culchie.”
She pushed to her feet, leaning forward to kiss the only patch of his head that wasn’t wrapped in a bandage.
“Well. This is you being a maudlin, self-involved prat, if you weren’t sure.
You save my life. I save yours. Isn’t that the way of it?
Let me find one of these idiot humans, find out when I can get you out of here. ”
“Don’t bother. I have nowhere to go. I’ve no job. No home. Probably going to find the closest open manhole and just drop myself into it if they make me leave now. I need to figure things out. Does the storage unit have rats? I suppose that’s an option.”
He wasn’t able to see her full face but it was enough to see the way she winced.
“Your apartment’s empty, so you’ll be going back there.
Unless you’ll need round-the-clock care when you do, because I’m not changing your fucking bedpan.
” She paused, her voice gentler as she continued.
“She was here, Tate. Before you woke up. You were unconscious for a week. Said she needed to get back to her little girl, but I’m s’posed to call her now that you woke. ”
“Don’t.”
She rolled her eyes. “Tate, don’t be—”
“Don’t. Please. Don’t call her. I don’t want her here.”