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“Squeeze my hand if you need to, Core. I'm right here.”
Tuesday sits with the chair so close to the hospital bed that her knees knock against the railings, one hand holding her boyfriend's, the other gently stroking his hair. His eyes are heavy lidded, but when the doctor attempts to move his left arm, he winces like he's in agony and groans.
“Sorry.” The doctor says, wincing with him. “But I'm afraid we've got to relocate this shoulder, Mr Howard. We can get you some more pain relief if you'd like?”
Corey, unsurprisingly, shakes his head. He's already been dosed up on a cocktail of all sorts of drugs Tuesday didn't even know could be used medicinally (ketamine, fentanyl- you name it, her boyfriend’s on it right now), and adding those onto his already groggy post-ictal brain has made him incredibly out of it (not to mention sick as a dog). The last thing he needs is yet more sedation. He's pretty content with the entonox mouthpiece he's intermittently breathing from, and Tuesday isn't about to force anything else upon him.
“Alright, then. Just try your best to relax, and we'll hopefully have your shoulder back where it should be soon.”
Corey's eyes flutter closed, the corners of them wrinkling with pain when the doctor comes in for round two. Tuesday's fingers continue to rake through his hair in what she hopes is a soothing motion.
“It’s alright, sweetheart. You're doing so well.”
He breathes in deeply through the mouthpiece, lower lip trembling with the next wave of pain. A weak cry of pain slips out. His grip on her hand tightens.
“That’s it. Squeeze as hard as you need to.” Tuesday makes the mistake of glancing over to see what the doctor is doing, and averts her eyes just as quickly. Christ, his shoulder does not look good.
It popped out a couple of hours ago when he'd hit the ground, eyes rolling back in his head before he'd had the chance to respond to the pain. When he'd come to, though, Tuesday had a hard time keeping him calm.
“Stay still, Core, you have to stay still. I know it hurts, sweetheart. Just stay right where you are.”
Still, he'd been confused, panicked, and her attempts at keeping him restrained only served to increase his own desperation to get free. The lump in her throat that formed seeing him like that, helpless and exhausted, not understanding why he was hurt or why she was seemingly hurting him more by keeping him still, is only just lessening now.
“You’re doing so good, babe. So good.”
His eyes are tightly squeezed shut now, sweat beading on his forehead, and his breaths are more like groans of agony, nostrils flaring as he tries to keep himself still. Tuesday brings his hand up to her lips, kisses it gently.
“Nearly there. You're being so brave, Corey. I know it hurts.”
That isn't really true. She knows that of course it must hurt, but she can't really fathom the true pain of it- not just physical but psychological. The searing agony of waking up on the floor, head pounding, muscles still twitching, shoulder flaring with pain whenever you try to move. Not knowing how you got there or why your girlfriend won't even let you get up.
She doesn't know whether she'd be able to bear it as well as Corey does.
The doctor makes another sudden movement, and at once her boyfriend's cries of pain increase in volume, then subside. The scream dies on his lips. He relaxes entirely, panting, heart rate on the monitor quick with the flood of adrenaline.
“There we are.” The doctor steps back with a small smile. “It's back where it should be. I’ll go get a sling so we can keep it immobilised for a while, but hopefully that pain should start to trickle away.”
Tuesday sighs with relief and looks down at Corey, his eyes still closed, but in a far more relaxed way now. It looks like the doctor's assertion was right.
“All done, sweetheart.” she whispers as the tails of his lab coat drift away, leaving her alone with a drowsing Corey. “You hear that? It's over now. They're just going to get you a sling.”
He murmurs something unintelligible, cheek pressed into the fabric of the pillow and the mouthpiece of the entonox discarded in a limp hand. Tuesday opts to forgo attempting conversation for now, and instead presses a kiss to his forehead before the hand not occupied with his starts to pull the thin hospital blankets over his shaking shoulders.
“Good job, babe. I'm so proud of you.”
He breathes deeply and evenly, heart rate beginning to slow.
She smiles. “Time to rest now.”