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The first time was screaming agony and relentless chaos. His skin was on fire and his head was going to burst; his bones were broken and his blood was boiling and he was screaming, screaming, screaming inside his own head: make it stop! fucking make it stop!
And it seemed like someone was listening because the pain started to ebb away. The blaze became a simmer which then became an ember, and the bright, angry red turned to cool, safe dark again. His world unravelled and his body relaxed and he drifted back into the nothingness with a sigh of relief.
The second time was easier. Swimming up, up, away from the nice place where nothing hurt and into the light. Pain was a dull throb, no-where near as bad as the misery of before. He felt like he was drifting still; floating, there and not-really-there. He chased half-thoughts and smoke-like images but nothing made sense. Then fresh grass and sharp citrus caught him, held. It cut through everything like a clean knife and the smoke-like images formed briefly into a face.
Roxy.
Then he was sinking again, carrying the scent with him with a smile.
The third time was the worst. The third time was rising up to break the surface and letting the bitter ache settle into his bones. Noises carried to his ears but his mind couldn't make sense of them yet: beeping, tapping. Snatches of conversation, someone saying his name. He struggled to open his eyes, found them glued shut.
“..wha?” he slurred.
“...you hear me? Eggsy?”
And suddenly an eyelid was forced open and bright white light blinded him. Eggsy jolted away from the light with a hiss of pain, “‘uck off, f’ckin’ hu’ts.”
“Ok, alright.” Someone soothed. “Merlin.”
“They’ll have to assess him-”
“I know. Give him a moment.”
His mind started to feed him information: the beeping was coming from above him, there was a quiet conversation happening somewhere on his right, cool fingers settled lightly on the inside of his left wrist.
“Wha’s goin’ on?”
“You’re in the Infirmary.” Deep, soft, Scottish. Merlin. “You've been… out. For a little while.”
Eggsy drew in a breath to steady himself - Jesus, it felt like someone had stabbed him - and opened his eyes. Frowning against already dimmed lights above the bed, he blinked slowly, letting his double vision swim back into focus. Merlin looked down at him with a concerned frown, eyes sharp behind the black-framed glasses.
Glasses. Glasses. On the floor, fucking should have stayed at home-
It lanced through his skull like a hot poker and he cried out, body curling in, protecting itself. Chaos reigned. The the beeping was more frantic and high-pitched, people swarmed around him, hands held him down, barked orders and spat terms he didn't recognise to each other, and all he could do was bite down and fucking breathe because fucking hell it hurt it hurt it hurt. Like someone was cleaving his skull in two and burning out his brain.
“...seems to be linked to his memory.”
“That will happen every time he remembers something?”
“Looks like.”
“Shit.”
And in the chaos was that voice. He knew that voice. But it was impossible because he was dead. He was dead-
“He’s dead, he’s fucking dead!”
He didn't even realise he was screaming it until calming hands took hold of his shoulders firmly, heat sinking into the thin gown that covered his shoulders. “Who’s dead? Eggsy?”
Anger surged up like a flow of lava, spewing out of his mouth without care, “Fucking Harry! He’s dead, Merlin. Fucking dead, and I let that fucker get away. I fucked up, I fucked up, Shit.”
His outburst was followed by silence but all Eggsy could hear was the pounding of his heart under his ribs, the echo of it in his ears, his breathing fast and hard through gritted teeth. The pain rattled round his head like a pin-ball as it slowly, slowly diffused. Everything hurt and everything was fucked and he didn't know how to make it right again.
It seemed like an age before Merlin sighed softly above him, rubbed his tense shoulders absently, then finally let go, “You did the job and you came out alive. That’s all that matters. The medics are going to check you over, look after you.” He paused, “Take it easy, Galahad.”
Cramped fingers unclenched from the sheets as the fight drained out of him, leaving him with stiff knuckles and aching wrists. Didn't matter. He heard the door swish open, swish closed, then gave himself over to the medics, answered their questions as much as he could before his voice started to slur and his eyes started to drop. God, he was so tired. He barely noticed when they finally left him alone, wandering out muttering about drugs and chemical reactions.
Silence again. The darkness was waiting for him, tugging him back down with promises of peace and comfort, and he didn't bother to resist.
Cool fingers against his wrist again just as he lost consciousness. Rest now. We’ll take good care of you.