Chapter Text
Scott jolts awake to the surreal sensation of his right thigh being stabbed repeatedly, viciously. He reaches for it in shock, still blinking sleep out of his wide eyes, his lips parted for a pained gasp. What the hell is going on?
Throughout his life, Scott has experienced various flavours of pain. He fell on the ice countless times, ending up bruised, scratched, and sore. He got smashed into the boards and hurt his shoulder. He had two concussions from impacts. During a squabble, he bit his lip until it bled and swelled. Another fight led to a tooth breaking in his mouth - and Scott is pretty sure he swallowed a piece.
Yes. Scott is used to pain. And he can bear it. He can push it back to some distant place in his mind until a game is over, and he can take care of whatever part of his body is damaged.
But this … This is different.
Scott grimaces, the pain burning white and hot, not getting any better when he pulls his leg to his chest or stretches it, trying to find the source. He doesn’t understand where this is coming from. He did have a little lower back pain after the last game, but that’s normal. He almost always has some kind of back pain now, which is to be expected after so many years of playing hockey. He’s not getting any younger. He knows that, even without Rozanov’s loose, annoying mouth reminding him of that fact, thank you very much.
Beside Scott, Kip is sleeping peacefully on his back, his lips slightly parted, breath even, face relaxed. He has to go to work in the morning. Scott really doesn’t want to wake him up and disturb the precious hours of sleep Kip has left.
So since he can’t sleep anyway, he gets up and paces the apartment, his leg constantly pulsing in pain. It won’t stop. Not even after he takes some Tylenol. Yoga doesn’t help either. Nothing helps. Scott ends up on his knees on the floor, in a cowering position like a hiding rabbit, the only position that doesn’t hurt so much that he wants to scream.
This is getting scary. He has never felt like this. So helplessly in agony.
Scott closes his eyes, tries to breathe through the searing pain, and just wishes it would stop.
Please. Please make it stop. Please …
“Scott?!” Kip’s shocked voice tears through the silence of the dawning morning.
Scott perks up, blinking in confusion, realising he’s still on the floor and everything’s aching.
Somehow, he must have fallen asleep like this, in the middle of the night.
Why?
Oh. Right. The pain. The pain in his thigh. It’s still there. But there’s something new too. A tingling sensation. When Scott puts his hand on his leg, he’s shocked to feel numbness. Yes. Definitely fucking scary. If only it would be a nightmare …
“Scott.” Kip crouches, putting his hand on Scott’s shoulder, his eyes wide. “Scott, babe, I’m worried. You have to tell me what’s going on. Are you in pain? Do I have to call an ambulance?”
“No,” Scott gasps out, gritting his teeth as another stab of pain shoots through his leg. “No ambulance. I … I will be fine.”
That was totally unconvincing, as Kip's doubtful, worried expression confirms. “Scott, you’re on the floor instead of in bed, you’re drenched in sweat, and you’re squirming. Where does it hurt? Is it your stomach? Maybe your appendix?”
Scott shakes his head. “It’s not. Not my appendix. It’s my right thigh. It hurts. So much. It’s like … It feels like someone is stabbing a knife into it over and over again.”
Kip swallows. “That sounds horrible. Do you think you might have pulled a muscle?”
“Maybe?”
No.
Scott has pulled a muscle before. This doesn’t feel like a pulled muscle at all.
He groans when the pain intensifies, pulling his leg to his chest, making himself smaller. It hurts too much. He can’t do this. He can’t deal with this. Scott blinks against the tears in his eyes that blur his vision and just wishes he could switch himself off like a lamp.
Kip looks at him for a long moment, worrying his teeth. Then, he shakes his head. “That’s it. We are going to the ER.”
Scott can’t even walk.
After getting up, he barely manages to take five steps until the pain is so bad that he has to stop and crouch down until it calms down a little, but never goes away completely.
Which is why they end up with Kip carrying him.
Scott feels horrible. He scared his husband. He worried him. And now he has to be carried to the car like useless dead weight when he's actually supposed to be an athlete with a perfectly functioning body. But at the same time, it’s so comforting to be able to hide his face in the crook of Kip’s neck, to breathe him in, his familiar warmth and smell. He just wants to stay like that. And forget about the pain.
But he can’t.
Because it never stops.
The car ride is agony. Scott tries to hide it, but the sitting position is actually making it even worse. He squirms, writhes, and groans. Kip sends him worrisome glances, biting his lip. “We are almost there,” he says, reaching out to run gentle fingers over Scott’s arm. “Almost.”
At the hospital, they make Scott sit in a wheelchair in the waiting area, where Kip calls work to excuse himself for the day. It makes Scott feel even worse. Kip loves his work at the museum. And he never missed a day so far.
“I’m sorry,” he says sheepishly when Kip gets off the phone. “I could probably do this waiting stuff alone, you know?”
Kip frowns. He reaches out to take Scott’s hand, squeezing it. “There’s no need to apologise. And I definitely won’t leave you alone, Scott. You’re in pain, and I can’t even imagine how scary it must have been to wake up like this.”
It is. And Scott is so grateful Kip is here, sitting next to him, holding his hand. Waiting with him.
With the years, many of his childhood memories faded. But Scott does remember a moment when his mother was holding his hand, telling him everything would be fine, while a doctor examined his sprained ankle.
He remembers driving home with a cast but still smiling because he got ice cream. And he remembers the contrast, years later, when he was “the orphan”. The boy with a bruised shoulder and without a family. No relatives, no emergency contacts. Just Scott. And his hockey family that came to visit.
It wasn’t the same. No matter how much Scott tried to tell himself otherwise. It wasn’t the same, and it wasn’t enough. Deep down, while watching his friends being picked up from the airport by their loved ones or celebrating with them after wins, he always craved a love, a bond, a family for himself.
For so many years, it didn’t seem possible. Didn’t seem like something that was meant for him. But now, there’s Kip. And Kip wants to be here with him because he cares. I would do the same for you, Scott thinks, smiling even though he’s in agony.
The doctors’ expressions are serious, and Scott gets increasingly scared.
They ask him endless questions, take his blood, then make him sit on a gurney and stick a needle in his arm to give him strong pain medication. It makes him feel dizzy.
Kip sits with him, holding his hand, stroking his arm, watching as a neurologist does some tests with Scott, including stuff like raising his arms, touching his nose with a finger, or pushing his foot against the doctor’s palm.
They seem to take this very seriously, Scott thinks, his throat tightening. What if this is bad enough to make him retire? What would he do without hockey? Scott doesn’t know yet. He doesn’t want to know; he’s not ready. Everything in his life is about his body. If his body isn’t functioning, what is he good for?
“We need to do an MRI,” a doctor tells him.
Great, Scott thinks while already preparing himself for twenty minutes in hell. A narrow, blazing white, noisy hell.
Scott has done an MRI before, of course. He has been through everything medical, from blood tests to EKGs to scans of his head or professional dental care.
Regular tests are important to ensure he stays fit and can do his job for as long as possible. But he can’t stand MRIs. He can’t stand being boxed in, feeling trapped, having to lie still with all the hammering noise around him. It makes him anxious, and he always has to force his legs to keep still.
“Hey,” Kip says, squeezing Scott’s hand gently. “You got this. I will be waiting for you, alright? And once it’s over, I’m sure they will know what this is and what we can do.”
Scott nods, steadying himself with a deep breath. Kip is right. They need to know what they’re dealing with. “Let’s just get it over with,” he sighs. At least the pain is a little less intense now. But who knows for how long?
“A herniated disc,” Scott repeats, baffled.
This isn’t what he expected. Of course, he knows it can happen to anyone for any reason. Scott knows enough people with herniated discs. But still. It’s a surprise, and it’s also not a good one.
The doctor points at the pictures of Scott’s spine. “The disc is putting pressure on your nerve, which explains the extreme pain and the numbness. We shouldn’t wait much longer with the surgery …”
“Surgery?” Scott blurts, freezing. He feels cold with shock. Surgery. He can’t … It’s the middle of the playoffs! Beside him, Kip clears his throat. “There’s nothing else you can do?”
“There’s not always a surgery needed for herniated discs,” the doctor explains patiently, clicking through the pictures on her computer and zooming in, showing the dark spot that apparently is Scott’s compressed nerve. “But this case is severe, and if you wait much longer, there could be long-lasting damage. It would take you way longer to recover from that than it would take you to recover from surgery.”
Scott feels sick. Sweat is gathering on his forehead. He never needed surgery before. “When would I be able to go back on the ice?” He asks anxiously.
The doctor looks at him calmly, folding her hands on the table. “After the surgery, you need to stay at the hospital for at least three or four days so we can monitor your surgical wound. You won’t be able to do any contact sport for at least 3 to 6 months. And of course, you have to do physiotherapy, since your right leg and your muscles will be weakened.”
“Months.” Scott echoes numbly, gripping his own knee.
Slowly, reality starts to settle in. He won’t be able to do anything for days, no, weeks. He will just lie around in a bed. Useless. Watching his team from the outside. Oh God. He can’t do this.
“Hey,” Kip puts his hand on Scott’s back. He clearly senses Scott’s fear. “I know it sounds like a lot of time. But it will pass. And the most important thing is that you will get rid of this pain, okay? You can barely walk, babe. We need to do this.”
Scott swallows. “I know. This is all just going so fast,” he says weakly. “And I’m bad at giving up control.”
“You don’t need to worry,” the doctor says with a gentle smile. “We will explain everything to you. And this surgery is an absolute routine here. It’s safe. The risks are extremely low.”
Scott nods. But he’s not even that scared about being asleep while being cut open, or about the risks of something getting damaged. Mostly, he’s scared of what will come after and how it will affect him.
“We’ll get through it together,” Kip says then, though, with a voice of certainty, and Scott is once again reminded that this sucks, but it would suck endlessly more if he were alone. He takes Kip’s hand and says, “Let’s do it.”
“I feel naked in a bad, non-sexy way,” Scott grumbles.
He’s in a bed, wearing nothing but a ridiculously thin hospital gown, and Kip is sitting in a plastic chair next to him, wearing normal clothes, waiting with him. For the surgery.
Between waiting, getting “dressed”, and then waiting more, Scott found the time to text Carter.
Hey. You have to be the Captain for the foreseeable future. I am at the hospital. Have to get surgery for a herniated disc.
Carter: Oh shit, man. I’m sorry. Tell me which hospital and which room. I’ll visit. And don’t worry about the games.
Scott felt warm. He still typed: You don’t have to visit. I’ll probably be dozy from the anesthesia anyway and won't make much sense.
Carter: Then I’m definitely coming, I wouldn’t miss this for the world :D Will bring you something nice to eat, too. I know the taste of hospital food. It’s like paste.
And because he’s learning to accept all forms of love in therapy, Scott didn’t type another “You don’t have to”; instead, he sent: Okay, thanks. I appreciate you.
Carter: Love you too. Hang in there, Cap!
Now, there’s just waiting.
“Is this like … a foretaste of the future?” Scott asks, smiling up at Kip weakly. “Where you will have to take care of my brittle body, just like Ilya Rozanov always predicted?”
Kip chuckles, shaking his head. “You’re not brittle. And you never will be. You're an athlete. In no time at all, you will be back on the ice, back running, back at the gym. This is just temporary, Scott. It’s an obstacle, nothing more.”
“That sounds lovely. Do you have that from a book?” Scott asks dryly, tilting his head.
Kip looks at him seriously, clearly looking right through him. “Scott. You do know everything will be fine, right? These are experts. They know what they’re doing. You heard the doctor. The risk of something going wrong is practically non-existent. You’re healthy. You’re strong. And this is a routine kind of surgery. No need to worry.”
Scott swallows. “I know. It’s just … My nerves. Can you, can you maybe hold my hand some more?”
“Of course.” Kip takes his hand and squeezes it lightly.
“Thank you for being here with me,” Scott says quietly, blinking up at Kip. “It means a lot.”
Kip nods, his eyes a little wet in the corners. “Always. I will always be there.”
And that is definitely a lie, Scott knows. It’s impossible. Because Kip is human and life is cruel. But right now, the words do help. Right now, this is exactly what he needs.
In no time at all, two nurses enter the room. “Ready?” One of them asks way too cheerfully, like they are about to go to the beach and not to a room where they will put a sleeping Scott on his stomach and open up his back to release the pressure on his stupid nerve.
Scott takes a deep breath. “As ready as I can be.”
His heart is beating fast, though. And he wishes he wouldn’t have to let go of Kip’s hand.
Kip kisses Scott’s forehead and then the back of his hand. “I'll see you in a few hours, babe. I love you.”
“I love you too,” Scott breathes, blinking tears out of his eyes. And then he’s wheeled out of the room. Away from Kip.