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Chuck groans, blinking his eyes open and being greeting with a dimming light. The room feels unfamiliar, lying on a bed that isn’t his own, the stale stench of blood hanging in thick in the air.
There’s a warmth too, comforting and grounding. A hand placed over his own, where it lies on his chest, fingers laced with his in a loose grip.
He furrows his brows, twisting his head in the direction of the person sat by his bedside, only to regret it. He must still be asleep. Maybe that bullet really did off him, because there is no way what he’s seeing isn’t just a figment of his imagination.
“Grant?” the figure beside him grunts, voice heavy with sleep, hoarse in a way that tells Chuck there might have been an argument not so long ago. The fingers entwined with his tighten their hold, a calloused thumb dancing fleetingly over his knuckles, and Chuck shivers involuntarily.
“Yeah?” he finally chokes up the courage to speak, figuring if this isn’t real then there’s no harm in playing into the fantasy.
Captain Speirs lifts his head then, from where it had been resting on the edge of the mattress, and Chuck’s breath is suddenly caught in his throat; Speirs’ face looks soft under this light, hair mused with sleep, a hint of relief evident in the edge of his eyes.
“Thank God.” Speirs lets out a breathy chuckle, face splitting into a warm smile that seems to send heat straight through Chuck, from his skin to the bones in his toes he feels alight. Not once does he think to pull his hand away.
“Am I-” Chuck can’t speak it aloud, too scared for the answer, “What happened?”
Speirs’ face turns dark, a cloud over his expression, and Chuck swears he hears a growl in his voice. “Piece of shit shot you. You’re fine, though.” Speirs slides his thumb over the back of Chuck’s hand, resting it over the pulse on his wrist and pressing down with the smallest amount of pressure. “You’re going to be alright.” The last part sounds more like a reassurance to himself rather than to Chuck, but Chuck doesn’t find he cares much.
His mind is reeling, finally noticing a dull pain throbbing through his head that only confirms Speirs’ words. He’s okay. He didn’t die. He’s alive.
His heart almost stops then, though, his eyes snapping open wide.
This is real.
Speirs is really here.
Holding his goddamn hand!
As though sensing his thoughts, Speirs pulls his hand away from Chuck’s with an almost sheepish look (and isn’t that something, nobody would believe Chuck if he told them). He doesn’t consider the consequences of his actions as he reaches out, taking Speirs’ hand in his own again and pulling it back. “Don’t.”
Speirs watches, brows furrowed with curiosity, and cocks his head to the side. The corner of his lips twitch upwards and Chuck finds himself smiling, no guards up this time. They’re alone in this room (wherever it was) anyway; nobody will judge him.
“You should rest,” Speirs tells him then, voice softer than Chuck’s ever heard. It has his heart swelling twice its size in his chest. A hand comes up to his hair, brushing it away from his face, and Chuck can’t help but lean into the touch.
“What about you?” he asks, his eyelids dropping with the sudden want to rest more. He supposes being shot does that to you.
Speirs chuckles quietly, palm grazing over Chuck’s face for a second longer before falling away. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”
It doesn’t feel fair, leaving his Captain sat in an uncomfortable chair all night, but Chuck hardly has the energy to fight back right now so he leaves it, giving in and closing his eyes with a soft sigh.
The room is quiet, peaceful even, and it isn’t long until Chuck drifts off back to sleep. Although, not before he feels the gentle brush of lips over his forehead.