The sight of a coat laid across the back of the chair or a bag stowed beneath would have indicated someone had been there with the intent to return out of duty, a chore to complete, which would have necessitated him feigning unconsciousness a bit longer, but that moment never arrived.
The tube in his chest was removed, and his prognosis — that he would be in excruciating pain for the foreseeable future, generously aided by the weakest drugs formulated for humans as his ribs considered the possibility of healing themselves — was that he would, regrettably, live another day.
On the third day when a nurse came in to tell him he would be discharged the following morning, Tate was resigned to the new state of the world to which he’d returned.
“Do you have someone we can call for you?” she asked, glancing at the chart. The pause that followed stretched a fraction too long as he weighed his meager options.
“No.”
In addition to the watch and peanut butter, he always made sure to have cash upon his person whenever he was dragged back to Faerie withsomewarning. This wouldn’t have been the first time he’d found himself far from home with nothing but the clothes on his back upon his return, and having some liquidity to call a cab was essential.
It was better that he was alone.
Better that she had moved on. Better still that he’d found out early, allowing the truth to settle cleanly, like dust waiting to be swept away.
She had a child. She had a ring. She had an entire life that did not include him, and it was good that his brief reappearancehad not upset it in any meaningful way. She could sweep that momentary vision of him out the door and continue on.
As it should be.
Tate shifted minutely, trying to find a position that did not cause a lance of pain with every breath, that did not pull so sharply at his injuries, to no avail. All he’d accomplished was accumulating a light sheen of sweat on his brow and a faster tempo from the machine above his head. He lay completely still, attempting to breathe as little as possible.
Silva was safe, he reminded himself.
That was all that mattered. If he loved her, which he did, then he would be happy that she’d made a full life for herself. He would disappear for good, once he could breathe again, and he would never need to see the relief in her eyes that he was gone. He could make himself small enough until the ripples caused by the minor disturbance of his re-emergence would fade, leaving placidity behind, the kindest thing he could do for anyone.
By the time the harried human doctor came in to explain the aftermath of his injuries and the physio he would need to do during his recovery, Tate had already rewritten the ending of the story into one that very nearly made him sound noble. Martyrdom from a sickbed was more akin to clarity.
Either that or he reallywasthe most self-pitying prat on either side of the veil.
‘Going home with nothing but the clothes on his back’ took on an entirely new meaning when he realized the sodden, wadded-up bundle in a plastic bag on the floor was all that remained of the blood-stiffened clothes they’d cut off his body.
The nurse gave him a thin smile, one he was certain was saved for patients suffering the sort of crisis that involved security and bed restraints.
“We’ll see what we can find for you in the donation closet. It’s going to be a bit before your discharge paperwork is ready anyhow, so sit tight.”
Tate returned the sentiment with a thin smile of his own. He had no intention of sticking around that long.
They’d given him a grabber to use in the hospital bed to pull his water cup closer, in an effort to move as little as possible, and it was useful for lifting the bag of his ruined clothes up, retrieving his watch and shoes, and the tattered remains of what was left of the bills in his back pocket.
The credit card they’d been wrapped around, like most of the money, was gone. He had a vision of one of those fucking audacious little roots that crept by attempting to trip him, booking themselves tropical vacations and buying pornography on his dime. It was a pre-paid card with no name on it, but he was still miffed at the thought.
Every step was agony, but fortunately, he didn’t need to shuffle far out of his room to find a cart of scrubs, spending an unfathomable amount of time dressing himself, shaking in pain and exhaustion once he was through.
The thought of climbing the staircase to his apartment was daunting, and then climbing further still to get to the roof. The moonlight on this side wouldn’t reduce his injuries to silvery scars as that huge unnatural moon over the forest had done so many times, but it would ease the worst of his pain and help him feel a bit less feeble.You’re on your own, boyo. Best figure out how you’re to manage. The moonlight on this side wouldn’t fix him, but it would help.
Dumping his clothes in the trash, he hobbled to the supply closet near the door, emptying its contents entirely into the plastic bag, adding the ointment for his incisions that had been left on the rolling cart beside his bed. He glared at the spirometer, deciding it would take the place of the physicaltherapy he’d be skipping, adding the water pitcher for good measure, as well as the tiny, kidney-shaped bowl for vomiting.Just in case. He didn’t know what, if anything, would be left in the apartment after so long.
He’d made it all the way to the door, before turning slowly to double back. He’d forgotten his grabber.
No one stopped him when he stiffly walked down the hallway to the elevators, and no one so much as blinked when he exited the building.And that’s that. He wasn’t going to physical therapy, wasn’t coming back for a follow-up, and he had no need for whatever pitiful excuse for pain relievers they were sending him away with. Being in the bar industry meant he had no shortage of contacts who traded in pharmaceuticals of a less-than-legal nature, and they all owed him a favor.
Most of his money was gone. Tate stood on the street in his stolen, ill-fitting scrubs, swaying, realizing he’d left prematurely. He ought to have taken advantage of having a phone at his disposal while he could, the latent threat of the donation closet making him overlook basics in his plan.Youstilldon’t have a fucking plan.
He was in agony. He could go into a nearby business and beg to use the phone, attempt to convince a cab company to send a car, and hope and pray he could pay for the ride once he was at the Pixie. He could call Shona, forcing her to leave Clover during dinner prep.Or option three.
“Can I get a large fry and a chocolate shake?”
He could take the bus and spend the rest at the Blinxieburger across the street.
