Chapter Text
Pain and dark.
It was dark and Annie’s head was pounding. A bleary, half-asleep instinct told her to turn, to nestle deeper. Maybe she’d fall back asleep and the pain would go away. Her limbs felt heavy and disconnected and achy. And her body wouldn’t turn. Was there something on top of her? She usually kept her quilt pretty loose, she was a wiggly sleeper. This was wrong. She couldn’t turn. It was dark and her head hurt and she wanted it to stop.
Maybe she should try shutting her eyes and then sleep would come? She couldn’t get them to close. Why wouldn't they work? Her head was throbbing. Her face felt heavy. The pressure of the bed was wrong. Oh, her eyes were already shut. That was why it was dark.
Sleep wasn’t happening, and something wasn’t right. So Annie opened her eyes.
Blurry brightness pierced Annie’s eyes and smacked into her aching brain.
She shut her eyes against the onslaught. Too bright. Too pain.
Her head hurt and swam and span and was laden down with so much weight and the bed was moving her body was spinning like she was pirouetting in Chris’ ballet but that wasn’t one of the moves and she was spinning and hurting and tumbling and falling and everything was heavy and wrong.
Eventually, the pain faded enough that Annie could open her eyes again. Cautiously.
It may have been seconds after her first attempt, it might have been years. Blurred, bright shapes started to slowly ease themselves into focus as Annie realised it wasn’t just her body that felt heavy but her brain. Thoughts were usually easier, less sluggish. Had she hit her head?
Pressure pulsed up her nose rhythmically. A push then nothing. Pressure then no. Things were still blurry. And quiet. She was in a bed. It wasn’t hers? Pushing up her nose. All of her ached like she’d been running. Pressure in her nostrils. There was something on her face, wrapped around her head. Pressing against her skin. Forcing air into her nose. Air being pushed through her nose. She didn’t want it. Nope. If she wanted air she could breathe. Was this breathing? It felt intrusive, unwanted, uncomfortable.
Hospital. She was in hospital. She could vaguely see other beds around her. There was a mask on her face, forcing air up her nose. There was something in her arm. A tube, from under the skin trailing up to a bag of liquid. There were machines, and now she noticed them she could hear the beeping and clicking and whooshing.
Hospital explained why she hurt. Had she hit her head? The mask forced more oxygen into her lungs as she tried to piece things together through a swimming head. Air was going into her lungs but water was going into her brain and washing all the thoughts away like the tide came in and out taking things away and the sea was so big they were lost. Drowned. Water was so quiet. Hospitals usually weren’t, but sound wasn’t working right for Annie. Swimming in and out. It was supposed to be there all the time, you couldn’t close your ears. Not like your eyes.
Her eyes had closed again, she forced them open. Hospital, that’s where she was. She didn’t know why, but hospital.
Chris. If she was in hospital she’d get Chris! And the others, Sandra was always a frequent visitor when Annie was hurt. But always Chris, he always came and fussed and was a mother hen. Annie had missed Chris, but foggily, she couldn’t think of why. Where had he gone? But she was in hospital, so there’d be a Chris. And Chris would know what to do, because Chris always had a solution. Sometimes not a good solution. Chris could… Chris could…. Annie wished the air would stop going up her nose. Chris could stop that.
She looked around. It made her head spin and throb louder but she needed to know. There were people on the other beds. Looking hard enough to see hurt her head, but it was important. Annie recognised Sandra. Sandra was also in a hospital bed. That was bad. What had happened? She could see two people near Sandra’s bed. Blurry figures that focussed into Chris and Trevor. Chris would know what happened!
Trevor was gesturing; angry motions moved through his limbs. Chris seemed small, folded in on himself looking utterly miserable and small. Chris wasn’t meant to look like that. Trevor wasn’t meant to make Chris look like that.
It was wrong. What had happened?
“-assume you know best? Fuck Chris, you-”
Annie opened her mouth to get their attention. Air pushed in, pressing down her throat and into her lungs. It wasn’t quite choking, but it did remind her that she wanted to vomit and felt ill and tired and sick. Her eyes and mouth closed, mystery forgotten.
“-You got fucking shot, you could have died.”
“Trevor...”
The world span. It was dark. The bed was soft and hugging her tight. She felt awful. Sound swam in and out, words she heard but didn’t understand.
“I am sick and tired Chris, of arguing with you over your own fucking health!”
“-wanted to see if they’re okay, I’m director it's my respon-”
Her head ached. Her limbs felt heavy and if she had ever felt more sick, she couldn’t remember it now.
“-Fuck. I don’t know if I can look at you right now. Can I trust you to admit yourself, or do I need to go with you and make sure you actually-”
“You don’t need to bother, I’m going.”
Air pushed its way down her throat. Her body was falling through the black and her head was pounding. And Annie was powerless to do anything but wait it out. Eventually, an eternity later, it stopped.
She opened her eyes.
There was no Trevor or Chris by Sandra. Sound was at least staying consistently on. The world was spinning slightly less and her head had stopped thumping erratically and now was a constant, low whine of pain.
How had she gotten here? Chris, presumably. That was a fair bet. They'd started the broadcast, she could remember Sandra’s audio drama, and then Dennis’ had took far less time than they’d planned; she’d started hers early. Had she finished? Her head was pounding.
“Oh, you’re awake love.” A doctor was standing next to her bed. How long had she been there? Annie was sure that she’d not been there a second ago, but her grasp of time was perhaps faulty.
The doctor looked at the machines, “How are you feeling?”
“My head hurts,” said Annie, her voice sounded muffled through the mask. Talking made her aware of how dry her mouth was. She was feeling less dizzy at least so the pain was definitely her biggest problem.
The doctor hummed, “would you like a drink?”
A drink sounded like heaven. Annie nodded, her brain rattled with the motion, hurting to her very teeth. The doctor adjusted the bed so Annie was sitting and handed her a plastic cup of cool water.
“Take slow sips.”
That was difficult, Annie’s mouth felt so dry she wanted to gulp down the cool liquid for some relief. Sadly, this was not her first hospital visit and she knew she’d regret giving in to that temptation. She took a sip and felt it cool her throat.
“Do you remember what happened?” the doctor asked.
Annie didn’t think she did, it felt like she should know. It wasn’t one of those times Annie had been knocked out before she even realised something was wrong. She took another heavenly sip.
“We were filming. We were doing my play-” and it had been going well, not perfect, but a good enough showing for Annie to be proud of. The only major issue was,
“The horse had gotten loose.”
Had she been trampled by a horse? Her body hurt, but not that badly. Plus, she didn’t seem to be bruised. Trevor and Chris had been sorting the horse. Although, what Chris thought he was going to do with his arm was a mystery. She’d made the call to concentrate on her play. Vanessa had kept screwing up the innuendos. She’d never stumbled over scripted lines before, not with Chris or with Robert. It was ruining the gags: ‘strong one’ instead of ‘stiff one’, ‘back corridor’ instead of ‘back passage’ and ‘give me a pill’ instead of ‘give me one’.
Give me one, a tablet….
“And they took horse tranquillisers instead of the prop pills!”
Shit, the pills had been missing from the drawer and Trevor had thrown them in and Annie hadn’t thought to check. Annie had handed them out herself, she’d drugged her castmates. Annie had the bottle; she could have looked anytime, not when it was too late. Her stomach had stopped its rolling motion and now felt like ice. She’d given them the pills. She’d drugged them. She turned to look at Sandra, a few beds away. So still. Annie had done that, had put the pill into her hand herself. Shit.
Max and Vanessa too, and Robert. Although she couldn’t see any of them. Dennis had ran into a window. And Annie… Annie hadn’t taken any pills so how had she ended up here?
“My friends; Sandra Wilkinson, Vanessa Wilcock-Wynn-Carroway, Max Bennet, Dennis Tyde and Robert Grove, are they alright?” Annie asked, dread heavy in her stomach, heavier than any of her limbs.
“Sandra is doing well, she should be waking up shortly-”
Annie breathed a sigh of relief.
“The others aren’t my patients, but my colleague seemed pleased with their prognosis last time we spoke. Your other two friends have been doing the rounds. They were causing a bit of a scene earlier, so I asked them to leave. But if you want, they can come and see you.”
Her other friends, Chris and Trevor. Vaguely Annie could remember seeing them argue. But she’d been half convinced it was a dream.
“Yes, please.” Seeing them sounded wonderful.
Annie hurt and she wanted the comfort of her friends. Everything was a mess and Annie knew that Chris would sort it, or help, because that’s what Chris did. And she wanted Trevor to pat her shoulder, or hold her hand because she felt like she might shatter right now. She’d drugged the others.
“Your numbers look good, you can keep the mask off for a bit if it’s more comfortable.” And with that the doctor left.
It was quiet in the ward. Annie appeared to be the only one awake. She didn’t know what time it was, but there were lots of empty beds. She found her gaze drawn to Sandra, watching each breath forced into her by the mask. She was alive, she’d wake up soon. Annie’s farce hadn’t killed her.
Annie should have just looked down. She should have read the bottle. She’d been too focused on making her play a success to pay attention. She’d wanted it to be good. She didn’t want to always be director, she enjoyed focusing on her own performance too much for that. But she’d wanted the one time she was director to go well; she wanted to put on a good showing, that nobody would be able to find much fault in. Instead, she’d drugged half the cast.
Annie felt the pressure of tears behind her eyes. She’d just wanted it to go well, not perfect, but she’d wanted to have fun and prove she wasn’t just a bad actor in a big hat. Instead she got to join Robert as the only one not to have finished a play in some form or the other. That wasn’t the proof of her worth she wanted. She’d wanted it to be good. She’d wanted her to be an okay director. She was never going to be Chris, but maybe she could be good enough, better than Robert at least.
The frustrating thing was the horse tranquillisers weren’t Annie’s fault. Trevor had thrown them onto set, Trevor had ruined her play. But things not being solely Chris’ fault hadn’t stopped Annie from signing Robert’s coup. Chris always talked about the responsibility of being director. It had been Annie’s play, Annie’s responsibility.
Besides it had been her handing the tablets out. She should have read the label before the script called for her to do so. Trevor shouldn’t have thrown them in in the first place. They could have mimed. How could he have been so careless? It had to be an accident. But it had hurt everyone and ruined Annie's play. All her hard work and practice, wasted. She looked at Sandra’s still form again and drained her water to choke down the tearful lump in throat.
She wanted to see Trevor, to hear his explanation, it was an accident, it had to have been a careless accident. She didn’t want to see him, he’d ruined her play, he’d hurt her friends. She hurt now and she didn’t know why but it might be because of him. She wanted Chris because he made everything better. But they’d argued earlier, and Trevor had been the one yelling at Chris. It didn’t make sense. This was not Chris’ fault. It was Trevor’s fault, it was Annie’s fault.
Something was wrong.
If it had been Chris yelling, it would have made sense. Chris had a quick temper and hated it when any of them were injured.
Chris lost his temper, shouted and then moved on; he was notoriously bad at holding grudges, not about anything important. He still occasionally teased Trevor over the mixup with The Wizard of Oz which had led to them visiting Scarlet City via the Red Brick Road. But Max breaking two of Chris’ fingers three shows in was never brought up again.
Annie hadn’t finished her play, she’d failed and drugged her castmates. She wished she was still asleep. Everything was wrong; Chris had been shot by Robert, Annie and Trevor had drugged everyone and Trevor had yelled at Chris. She sniffed, pushing back the pressure of the tears threatening to fall.
Footsteps drew her gaze away from Sandra to see Trevor enter the ward, naked relief clear on his face. There was no mistaking the guilty look that followed. Trevor had drugged the others.
Annie waited a few seconds, but Chris didn’t follow him. Her unease grew.
“How are you?” Trevor asked, looking tired and guilty.
“Alright,” said Annie, “Tired, and my head hurts but I’m alright.”
Trevor let out a breath he’d been holding. Annie noticed his eyes were ringed red as if he’d been crying.
“How are the others?” Annie asked. The doctor said that he and Chris had seen them. Trevor would know how they were. Annie needed to know that her play hadn’t hurt anyone too badly, that they’d all be ok.
Trevor glanced over at Sandra, “They’re good. Max, Vanessa and Robert woke up during the initial treatment, but have been asleep since. You and Sandra were more of a concern for a while, but you’re both out of danger. They’re taking Dennis for some more scans, his verbal concussion check was a ‘cause for concern’,” Trevor shrugged, “But that’s probably just Dennis. And Jonathan’s broke his leg diving out the way of a piano.” Trevor sounded mystified at the last part.
That was a relief. There’d be no permanent consequences. Everyone was going to be fine. It was an accident, but they happened and they’d all been responsible for their fair share. Annie still wanted to cry.
“They’re going to be fine?”
Trevor handed her another cup of water. Annie hadn’t seen him pour it. He was looking at her, face careful and tired and twisted in guilt.
“You’re all going to be fine,” Trevor sounded on the verge of tears, “I’m sorry.”
Annie swallowed her mouthful of water, “the pills?” she asked, looking for confirmation of what she’d pieced together.
“It’s my fault,” Trevor said, voice hoarse with self-blame, “I grabbed the wrong bottle, but I should have checked. I, fuck Annie, I’m so sorry.”
He was, Annie knew. It was written all over his face, it was in the way he was barely holding himself together. It was an accident. Annie had known it was, but it was nice to have it confirmed. It was an accident and Trevor was sorry. Annie felt lightheaded in a way that had nothing to do with her hospitalisation, sick with the relief that it had been an accident. She’d never expected it to be anything other than an accident, so the staggering, dizzying level of relief was unexpected.
“It’s fine,” because it was just a play and everyone was going to be alright, “what happened to me? I didn’t take any pills.”
Because that was bugging her. She hadn’t taken the tranquillisers, it wasn’t in the script anyway. The last thing she remembered was realising what the bottle was.
Trevor shifted guiltily, gaze dropping to the floor, “Sorry, thought you already knew. You got shot by the tranq gun. By me. Accidentally. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to and you just dropped and I’m so fucking sorry.”
That made sense. Annie had seen Trevor and the tranq gun earlier, although at the time she’d been more concerned he was going to do himself an injury. But it made sense. Annie felt the last of her anger at him leave; it was an accident, he clearly felt terrible. And she always tried to forgive accidents. It’d ruined her play, but it was just a play.
If this was a play this was the part where Annie would scream at him. Where she’d yell because this was serious and his fault. But Annie wasn’t one of her characters, she hated being cross with her friends. It was an accident, and yelling wouldn’t make anything better, except for dramatic purposes. Annie knew what it was like to be the cause of something like this. Maybe not quite the same, she’d never managed to send so many of the society to hospital at once, but the sick feeling of having accidentally injured someone was not unfamiliar.
“You owe me a drink. Actually; drinks, plural.” Annie declared, trying to smile at Trevor to show him he was forgiven, “take a seat before you fall over, there’s already enough of us in hospital.”
Trevor winced at the reminder, but sat. Annie should have phrased that better, she hadn’t meant it as a dig. She took his hand in hers and squeezed in comfort and apology.
“Where’s Chris?” she asked, because Chris would usually be fluttering around her by now, fussing and organising and generally being an irritant. Him not being here worried her. This was the first time she’d been seriously injured following the coup. Was this just the new normal? Or had something come up with one of the others? It was even stranger seeing Trevor without him. They tended to come attached to the hip, especially when something went wrong. And with how clearly upset Trevor had been, it was odd he was alone.
But they’d argued earlier. Trevor had yelled at Chris.
Trevor’s mouth tightened, a look of fury darkened his face. Yeah, they’d argued. Annie hoped it wasn’t going to be a repeat of whatever had happened last series. That had been a horrible month, both men had been clearly miserable but also stubbornly not speaking to each other. She’d wanted to shake some sense into both of them.
“Chris,” Trevor started, voice tight with anger, “has been admitted for surgery. Surgery he should have gotten last week, but instead he told me he was fine.”
Fuck. That was- fuck. Annie was going to kill him. What the hell had Chris been thinking? Was he even thinking? No wonder Trevor had been yelling at him. Annie was going to actually murder him.
“He lied to me,” Trevor’s voice broke and Annie’s fury at Chris flared, “He turned down surgery and lied to me. What was he thinking?”
Annie would like to know that too. Even if she hadn’t let go of her earlier anger at Trevor it would be dwarfed by how pissed she was at Chris. Pissed and worried. Because this was self-destructive even by his own standards. He’d had a week, this wasn’t just an impulsive bad decision.
But the initial impulsive decision made a horrible sort of sense. She’d been lucky; Trevor had hospitalised her accidentally. Robert had shot Chris and Chris had had to deal with that. Annie still felt the numb horrified disbelief now, still as strong as it had been a week ago, what it must have been like for Chris…
“He’d just been shot by a friend, Trevor. I doubt he was thinking clearly.”
Annie couldn’t imagine what that was like, to be in hospital following that and told that you needed surgery. But still, a week.
“I know, I know,” Trevor ran his free hand through his hair, “fuck.”
Chris being there for her play meant a lot to Annie. He was her director, he was the standard they were all measuring themselves against this and last week. But his health and wellbeing was more important than any play. Chris was more important than any play.
But it wasn’t just Chris versus plays. It was Chris hiding injuries, Chris not trusting them to know when he was hurt. It was last Christmas, getting a message from Robert saying he’d taken Chris and Trevor to A&E, then finding out Chris was internally bleeding and Annie hadn’t even known he was injured. It was watching Chris limp around on a foot he’s refusing to acknowledge hurts, with Annie a hair's breadth from confronting him when Trevor sorts it all out. It’s last series, Chris on the ground, the smell of bile and the flashing lights of the ambulance.
Annie didn’t know how to fix this. She didn’t know how to fix Chris being increasingly self-destructive and withdrawn since the coup. She didn’t know how to fix the fact Robert had put Chris into surgery. But she could try and make Trevor feel better.
Annie squeezed Trevor’s hand, “I heard bits of you and Chris talking earlier. Not much, but it didn’t sound like Chris was arguing back-”
Annie knew what that meant, Trevor knew what that meant. But just to be sure she continued, “-so he knows he is in the wrong.”
Because Chris would argue until he was blue in the face for CDS. He’d argue for hours for himself if he thought he was right. Chris liked to quibble and poke holes. If he wasn’t defending his decision with Trevor, it was probably because he hadn’t found a defence. It was a stupid decision for Chris to have made, but understandable.
Trevor closed his eyes for a second, as if reliving the argument, before nodding. Some of the tension drained from him. He checked his watch and fidgeted.
“How much did you hear?” Trevor asked.
“Not a lot, I was pretty out of it.”
Trevor sighed, “I was pretty harsh, I said some things I maybe shouldn’t have.”
That was also understandable. Chris had been exceptionally stupid, and Chris being hurt had always been the quickest way to set Trevor off. Annie was lucky, she hadn’t found out how stupid Chris was with Chris right there. She probably wouldn’t have been able to contain herself.
“Chris will understand,” Annie said. Because Trevor and Chris didn’t fall out. Not seriously. And when Annie had visited them in hospital after The Nativity they’d been as close and comfortable with each other as ever, as if the month of not speaking had never happened.
Trevor checked his watch, before letting a long breath out, “I might be able to catch him before he goes into surgery. I don’t want him going into surgery thinking…”
Trevor trailed off, but Annie knew what he meant.
“Go,” she said, freeing him of any obligation to stay with her.
Trevor shot her a grateful look and practically rushed out of the door. Leaving Annie alone with her thoughts and her headache. And the empty chair where he’d sat.
She’d failed as a director. But she’d hopefully succeeded as a friend. The image of Chris from earlier, folded in on himself under Trevor’s angry onslaught flashed through Annie’s head. She’d hopefully made that better. Oh, she was going to make Chris aware of how stupid he’d been later, that no play was worth more than Chris. But for now, this was all she could do.
Trevor would be back, hopefully with more news of the others, and of Chris. News that they’d woken up, that they were definitely unharmed by Annie’s farce. Annie knew she wouldn’t quite believe it until she saw them for herself. Her eyes drifted to Sandra again.
Sandra, who was twitching. Sandra whose eyes had just opened.
Sandra had woken up, already things were looking better.
Trevor pushed open the door. Looking at Chris now, it was hard to believe this was the same Chris who’d, just a few weeks ago, reduced a BBC hotshot to tears for suggesting that they remove Dennis from the play entirely. He looked so pale and small in the hospital bed, out of the costume he’d been wearing for the past couple of hours.
Trevor was beginning to regret his earlier anger. Oh, it was still there. How could Chris be so careless with his own health? How could he be so fucking stupid? How could he lie to Trevor? What had he fucked up by skipping this surgery. It was still fueled by a week's worth of worry over Chris not improving, Over Chris in pain and Trevor being unable to help. But Trevor could have helped; he could have talked Chris into surgery, or more likely, just banned him from rehearsals entirely until he saw sense.
But with Chris looking lost in a hospital bed, it was easy to shift his anger into concern. He wanted to make Chris feel better, to wipe away the look of resigned hurt caused by Trevor’s own snarled words earlier.
Trevor was three steps into the room when Chris looked up, gaze slightly unfocussed. The nurse had given him half an hour before they needed Chris. For his surgery.
Trevor suspected it was only the staff’s long familiarity with CDS, by reputation if nothing else, that allowed this after the scene they- after the scene Trevor- had made in one of the wards.
“Trevor?”
“Yeah,” Trevor made his way to the chair next to Chris’ bed, “How are you doing?”
Chris blinked, “I’m fine.”
Trevor suppressed a sigh, this was typical of Chris. Part of him wanted to yell, to have a go at Chris cause he clearly wasn’t fine. But Chris looked so cautiously pleased to see Trevor. And Trevor had already yelled, and all it had done was made him feel like shit. And Chris was about to go into surgery and didn’t need Trevor making him feel even worse.
Chris was looking at Trevor like he couldn’t believe he was here, face unguarded in a way it rarely was. He’d either been given something or the week’s events were finally catching up to him.
“I thought you were angry with me.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever been more furious with you, Chris.” Because he hadn’t. This was beyond simply reckless, it was beyond Chris’ usual minimal amount of self-care. This was something more stupid and dangerous.
Chris winced, shrinking back a bit, before nodding; setting his face into a neutral blank expression. Braced for whatever Trevor might say next.
Trevor put a hand on Chris’ good shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze. Would he ever stop thinking of it as Chris’ good shoulder? They’d had so many injuries over the years, but this one felt like it changed things, like it’d always be with them.
He could feel the warmth of Chris’ shoulder through the gown, the way he relaxed at the touch. Trevor relaxed too, Chris was here, Chris was fine. Chris was a stupid fuck, but he was going to be fine.
Chris hadn’t needed to be in such pain all week. He could have been recovering. He should have been recovering, instead he’d been getting worse. His roles this week weren’t vital, they could have done without him. And even if they were vital, they could have made changes. Chris was his own worst enemy.
The calmness made it easier to keep the betrayed pang of furious worry down. Oh, they were going to have a talk later. A long one, when Trevor was able to channel his worry into more than just screaming at Chris. Because this was stupid, possibly the stupidest thing Chris had done; although the jury was still out on that one. But this, unlike most of Chris’ other stupid decisions, wasn’t a bad choice made in the middle of a play. He’d had a week, and he’d kept lying. They could have accommodated it. He just had to be so stupidly, pointlessly self sacrificing.
Trevor wished he knew what went through Chris’ head when he pulled shit like this.
Trevor sighed, “You can’t do this again, Chris.”
Chris smiled tightly, “I hardly think Robert is going to shoot me a second time.”
The nerve of Chris trivialising how serious this was set Trevor’s teeth on edge, and he barely bit back the spiteful urge to ask if Chris had thought Robert would shoot him the first time. Because he hadn’t. As hurt and betrayed as Trevor was by Robert’s actions; it had to be a hundred times worse for Chris, the victim. Trevor had been friendly enough with Robert, but they’d never been close. Not like Robert and Chris used to be.
“I won’t,” Chris was looking at him, almost warily, “I’m sorry.”
Trevor could read the apology in his face, feel it in the slump of his good shoulder. Chris was sorry. Yet Trevor was grimly certain that his remorse was more to do with him lying than it was about how reckless he’d been with his own health. Christ, he was an uphill battle.
“I know,” Trevor said, moving his hand back to his lap and fiddling absently with the bandana on his wrist.
Chris scared him. More than anything else. That one day he wasn’t going to be lucky, or quick or clever. That one day he was going to get himself killed. He’d thrown himself into this series harder than ever. After the mess of A Christmas Carol his dedication had been great; a sign he wouldn’t leave and penance all in one. Now it was concerning. He couldn’t keep it up forever. Something was going to break and Trevor couldn’t let it be Chris.
“I was planning on telling you,” Chris said, “but with the others still unconscious, it didn’t seem like a good time.”
“And the rest of the week? What the fuck were you even thinking, mate?”
Because he’d had a week. And not once had he mentioned to Trevor that he needed surgery. Never even hinted at it. He’d let Trevor worry about his lack of recovery, that he wasn’t improving as he ‘should’ and he’d never mentioned it. If he hadn't been caught out would he have ever told Trevor? Or would he have just ignored the surgery he needed?
Chris had the decency to look ashamed, “I don’t know! I didn’t want to miss the rest of the festival, I didn’t want to let everyone down.”
Chris had been injured, he’d been shot, he wasn’t letting anyone down.
“You’re not letting anyone down. This wasn't your fault. And even if it was; we’d all rather you were taking it easy and recovering than pushing yourself.”
“...I don’t want it to have been Robert’s fault either,” Chris said this very quietly. As if it was an awful thing to admit you didn’t want one of your friends to have seriously, deliberately hurt you.
Trevor immediately gave his good arm a comforting squeeze.
Trevor’s heart went out to him. It was a shitty situation. Robert had shot Chris. That didn’t mean that Trevor wasn’t absolutely furious with Chris’ blatant disregard for his own health. But he could understand that it had been difficult, in a distant sort of way. Pretending something hadn’t happened was always one of Chris’ preferred coping strategies.
Trevor didn’t want it to have been Robert’s fault either. It would have been so much easier if this was an accident, a careless mistake and not a betrayal. Robert might not have intended Chris to be hurt this badly, but that didn’t make it an accident.
It was probably why Annie had forgiven Trevor so quickly. The relief that this was a stupid accident and not another betrayal. Trevor would never hurt any of them deliberately. And he’d thought the same applied to Robert.
No matter what Annie said he owed her more than a few drinks. That scene was going to be in his nightmares: looking up and seeing the whole room slumped unconscious by his hand. That initial pang of ‘oh shit, that was me.’ It hadn’t been until they’d reached the hospital that the full guilt and gravity of the situation hit him. Chris had been his rock when all he’d wanted to do was hide and cry, but couldn’t in case that was when they got news. And that wasn’t a surprise; you could count on Chris to be there when things went to shit, no matter how inconvenient it was. There was something sad that after all these years, Chris didn’t expect the same support in return.
And just like that Trevor felt his anger drain away, leaving him just very tired. He was going to need to make plans for Chris’ recovery. He was going to need to make sure that Chris had passed on all the medical information this time. He still had to make it up to the rest of the cast for poisoning them, or in Jonathan’s case, abandoning him.
“He is sorry,” Chris said, almost consideringly.
Trevor felt an angry heat in the back of his mouth at the thought of Robert, “He should be!”
Trevor didn’t think there’d ever be a time when he wasn’t angry with Robert. He’d trusted him. Chris had trusted him. And now Chris needed surgery. It was Robert’s fault that Chris looked so small and frail in this hospital bed. It was Robert’s fault that Chris was in constant pain. Chris’ blood on the floor and the costumes was Robert’s fault.
“He apologised,” Chris said, there was something off about his tone, something distant, “I’ll need to accept it.”
Trevor would much rather he didn’t. He’d rather Chris asked Robert to leave and Trevor never had to look at his smug face again. But it was Chris’ call, he was the director. And if he wanted Robert to stay, then he was staying. If he wanted to accept whatever Robert had offered as an apology, he could. He was the victim.
“I just wanted to wait until it hurt less, but I need to get over myself.”
Trevor went cold at Chris’ words. He didn’t seem to be aware he’d spoken them aloud, gazing unfocused at Trevor’s hand, still wrapped round Chris’ arm.
“Chris,” Trevor watched as Chris’ gaze snapped to his face, focussed again, “you don’t have to forgive him.”
Because it was suddenly very important that Chris knows this. He probably already knew, but Trevor suddenly needed to check. To make sure.
“It’d be bad for morale if I held a grudge.”
A grudge? Robert hadn’t stolen Chris’ coffee, he’d shot him!
“Robert shot you and it’s fine to never be ok with that,” Trevor said this as calmly and firmly as he could manage; it was important Chris understood this.
Because Chris forgiving Robert was up to nobody but Chris. If he needed time to get over the traumatic event Robert had put him through, he got time. If he found he could never forgive Robert then Robert would just have to cope. Forgiveness was not something Robert was entitled to, not just for saying sorry. The society tried to forgive accidents quickly. But it wasn’t an expectation, not if it was something big, or something careless, or- in Robert’s case- malicious.
Trevor knew he’d fucked up, if any of the others didn’t forgive him that was their right. Trevor would be making it up to everyone regardless of whether or not he got forgiveness. He hadn’t meant to do it, but he’d put them all in hospital. He’d hurt them enough that Chris had made the call to leave the show before it was finished, Chris who embraced the saying ‘the show must go on’ more than anybody else.
Chris’ face did something strange, “I’ll heal, besides it’s unfair of me to keep up this animosity. We can’t exclude Robert forever.”
Trevor felt like his sigh came from his toes, “Chris, if Robert had shot anybody else, would you be forcing them to forgive him?”
Because Chris didn’t prioritise his own health the way he did everybody else's. And sometimes the best way to get through Chris’ thick skull how important he was was to put someone else in his shoes.
Chris looked horrified, “No! Of course I wouldn’t.”
“Then what makes you different?”
Chris opened his mouth, paused and then closed it again, looking at his lap. The stubborn expression on his face was familiar enough, but there was just enough hurt and confusion mixed in that Trevor started to move his thumb backwards and forwards, soothingly on Chris’ arm.
“I want you just as safe as everyone else, mate.” Perhaps even more so, Trevor could admit to himself. He was biased.
Concern for Chris aside, managing a crisis was a lot easier with an uninjured Chris onside. No-one wrangled the rest of the CDS like Chris. If he was sorting out a disaster with only one other person he’d want it to be Chris. The unavoidable thought of Dennis being the only other conscious person to help Trevor made him shiver.
Chris glanced at his phone, face up on the table, scepticism all over his face.
“I don’t suppose there’s been any change in the others?” he asked, in a blatant change of conversation.
Oh crap, Trevor probably should have mentioned earlier; “Annie’s awake.”
Chris shot up, pushing himself up as if he was going to get out of the bed. Trevor grabbed his hand to stop him.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
Fucksake Chris. It really wasn’t that difficult to just take it easy, he’s about to go into surgery for Christ’s sake.
“Sorry,” Chris settled back a bit, “I didn’t think. Is she okay?”
“She’s doing good. You know Annie, nothing can keep her down for long.”
Because she’d barely been awake five minutes and she was already sorting out Trevor and Chris’ spat. Because she’d been in pain but was still willing to accept Trevor’s apology. Because she’d been angry with Chris, but had still empathised enough with his decision.
Chris smiled, “Good, that’s good.”
The relief was clear on his face, and he looked more relaxed than he’d been all week at the news. Trevor felt absurdly fond of him.
“You’ll be able to see her soon,” Trevor said. Because he had no doubt as soon as the rest were discharged, Chris would have a lot of visitors, “after your surgery.”
Chris hummed in agreement, absently. Trevor was pretty sure he had been given something prior to Trevor’s arrival, with how his focus seemed to be coming and going. At least he didn’t seem to be in pain anymore.
It might be a bit before they were discharged, though, Trevor was going to need to make sure he had an update ready for Chris when he woke up after surgery. Chris wouldn’t relax until he knew they were alright, until he’d done everything he could and more.
Trevor brushed an errant strand of hair from Chris’ face, “I’ll check on them when you’re in surgery and I’ll be here when you wake up.”
“You don’t need to, Trevor; I know you’re busy. You have better things to be doing, than waiting for me. I’m not going to be good company, I’m afraid, nor much use.” This was half mumbled, sleepily certain.
Trevor felt that old, familiar spike of fury at Chris’ parents. There was a reason that Chris was so Chris about injuries. There was a reason why Chris’ own health was his lowest priority. It wasn’t just him being an awkward, stubborn bastard.
“Chris, there’s nowhere I’d rather be.” Trevor kept his voice calm, “You’re hurt, I’m happy to keep you company. I’m always happy to spend time with you.”
Because Chris was hurt, Chris needed comfort and that was important. More important than anything else that Trevor could be doing. Chris hated anything that made him feel less in control, like anaesthetic and strong painkillers, Trevor couldn’t leave him alone and vulnerable.
Chris mumbled something that sounded like “chairs aren’t comfortable” or possibly “elephants like football” into his pillow.
Trevor huffed a small laugh, “even if the chairs aren’t comfy.”
He just wished that Chris could see how important he was to them. How important he was to Trevor. The coup hadn’t helped, but even before that Chris disregarded his own health to an extent that worried them all. Nobody was going to be happy to hear about Chris’ delayed surgery.
“If anyone else had put off surgery you’d be furious.” Because he would. Chris nagged about the smallest injuries, with anything major he became a full blown mother hen.
“But they’re important.” Chris had turned his head away from the pillow, eyes still closed.
“You’re important.” Trevor said, immediately.
Chris shook his head.
“I’m replaceable.”
Trevor wasn’t sure what hurt more, the words or the inattentive certainty in Chris’ voice, as if this was an obvious, inescapable fact. He squeezed Chris’ hand.
“Chris, Chris look at me.” Trevor kept his voice firm. He hadn’t wanted to force Chris to talk about the coup, not if Chris didn’t want to. Chris was clearly hurt by it. Chris had been the one who’d been betrayed, he got to call the shots. But maybe that was the wrong decision.
Chris’ eyes blinked open, focussing on Trevor. Trevor could see the moment Chris registered what he’d said and his eyes widened in embarrassment.
“You aren’t replaceable, mate. You’re our director. Do you have any idea how much chaos everything is when you’re not there? You’re the reason we got this far. And outside of that, you’re my friend, Chris, my closest friend. I can’t lose you. I need you to take care of yourself. Please.”
The ‘please’ caught on a sob in his throat, tearing it loose. Trevor could feel the hot pressure behind his eyes burst. For the second time today, he tried to take calming breaths through the unstoppable flow of tears and snot streaming down his face. He could have lost Chris. A bit to the left and he would have lost Chris. He had lost a friend he’d had for years and, although he wanted to punch Robert again, he hadn’t felt pleased when he’d accidentally tranquillised him so that was something. Chris had lied to him about something important, something major. Chris was a danger to his own health. Chris had nearly died. Trevor could have lost him. Chris was hurt, in more than just a physical way and he’d nearly died and Trevor hadn’t been looking, hadn’t been watching, hadn’t been keeping him safe. The snot clogged his throat, choking him on his own emotions.
There was a familiar line of warmth against his chest and his head, circling around his back. The smell of Chris and hospital. Trevor could have lost him. Trevor sobbed into the familiar shoulder. There’d been so much blood and Chris had been inconsistently responsive and Trevor had been so, so scared. The press of Chris against him grounding him into the reality that Chris was here, Chris was alive, that it was safe to cry because Chris was out of danger. Chris was going to recover. Chris had lied, hadn’t trusted Trevor, hadn’t cared about his shoulder or his arm or his fucking life and Trevor hadn’t spotted it. Chris was going to keep putting himself in danger and take shitty care of himself because that was what Chris did and suddenly that was too much to cope with and Trevor went down into another round of shaking, uncontrollable sobs.
Eventually, the pressure of Chris rubbing on his back- a silent promise of his continued survival- won out against the squeezing miserable worry and fears. Trevor’s head rested in the damp of Chris’ good shoulder, wrung out. His head ached faintly and without the tears he was empty and worn.
Chris continued to rub his back for a few minutes in the silence. Trevor just breathed. He was beyond embarrassment now, and besides, it was just Chris. Chris was still here, Trevor hadn’t lost him. He could hear the thumping of Chris’ heart, he was alive.
“I’m sorry,” Chris broke the silence, his voice tinged with a tone of self-loathing.
“I forgive you. Just don’t do it again, you pillock.” Trevor reassured the damp patch on Chris’ shoulder. A sleepy, wrung out contentment, the joy of Chris being alive. He didn’t want to move.
“I didn’t mean… I... fuck.”
“Now who's a bad influence?” Trevor could hear the smugness in his own voice.
Chris didn’t often swear, he thought it was a bad habit to get into, considering the CDS’ track record on stage. Trevor had argued that he wasn’t meant to be seen or heard on stage anyway, so it didn’t matter. Chris usually pointed out that the CDS had a bad track record in that area too. It usually ended in a friendly stalemate, but the new words St John’s Year 1’s had learnt had tipped the argument in Chris’ favour recently.
Trevor could feel the rumble of Chris’ laughter under his head, slightly hysterical, slightly relieved.
Chris was here, he was alive. He was hurt, but he would recover. They would recover. They just needed time. It wouldn’t be a smooth road, there were going to be setbacks. There were going to be moments where Trevor lost it with Chris or Chris lost it with Trevor. And Chris hadn’t broke yet, as far as Trevor was aware, not like Trevor just had. It was going to be difficult, and he was going to be tired and grumpy. But they’d get there in the end.
He hadn’t lost Chris.
They’d be fine.