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Nigel ached. He ached more than he could ever remember aching before. The pain radiated out from bones, through muscle and tissue, filling up all of his senses and making his mind foggy.
He groaned and opened his eyes. At least he opened one eye. The other was swelled shut and, from what Sydney had said, an ugly combination of dark purple, blue, and black. Both of them felt gritty. The pounding in his head sounded as if someone were beating a drum.
Sydney had been sitting beside him silently but at his groan she straightened. Her eyes widened and she frowned.
“What is it?” she asked quickly. “Are you okay?”
He winced. “The painkillers haven't kicked in yet.”
“Oh, Nigel.”
She gently ran her fingers up his forearm in sympathy. He looked at her carefully with his good eye and noticed that her hair was untidy and her clothes rumpled. Dark stains marred the caramel tinted flesh under her eyes. There were lines in her forehead and around her mouth.
“The doctor said I'm going to be fine. You should go back to the hotel and get some rest.”
The lines deepened. “I'm not leaving you.”
“There's nothing you can do.”
“I can make sure you get some sleep.” He heard the echo of the words she didn't say. I can make sure you're really all right.
“Don't worry about me.”
“How can I not worry? You look like hell.”
He felt a faint smile come to his face. “Thanks, Syd. Have you looked in a mirror lately?”
One slim hand twisted as it raked through her hair. “What do you mean? I've been here all...Oh, I get it. It's not going to work, Bailey. You're stuck with me. At least until the drugs take over and I see you sleeping like a baby.”
“I think that might be pretty soon.” Nigel felt his body start to relax and his eyes start to droop. Everything began to feel detached and far away—except for Sydney. He felt her hand once more run down his arm; he heard her breath as she leaned over him, her eyes full of the things she couldn't say.
“Are you getting sleepy?” she asked softly.
“Yes.” His voice came out slightly slurred, as if he'd been drinking.
“Good.” She sounded relieved. He knew his pain was hurting her. She always blamed herself when he got hurt.
Warmth filled him as Sydney's hand went to his forehead. Tender fingers brushed the hair away. They caressed his face, leaving trails of peace that no drug could replicate. Nigel closed his eyes.
On the edge between awareness and sleep, Nigel asked, “Will you sing for me, Syd? My mum used to sing to me when I got hurt.”
The fingers stilled on his cheek. “Nigel, I...”
He had never heard her sing before. Maybe she was embarrassed. “Never mind. It was silly.”
“No,” she whispered. “I'm being silly. I don't like to sing. I'm awful, and my grandmother was so wonderful.”
“You're wonderful to me.”
She gave a soft laugh and smoothed back his hair again. “All right, you asked for it.”
When she started to sing lowly, Nigel decided that he loved her singing voice. It wasn't perfect, but it wasn't as bad as she feared. To him, it sounded like Sydney herself—wild and fierce but sweet. He wanted to tell her so, but his mouth wouldn't work anymore. Sleep was reaching out for him and pulling him under. His last thought before it claimed him completely was that somehow he'd have to get her to sing for him again.