Chapter Text
The fluorescent lights burn his eyes as he squints them open. Everything feels fuzzy, like there’s marbles in his mouth and his tongue is two sizes too big, but he manages to slur,
“I-is she… alright? Is the girl a-alright?”
He doesn’t know if anyone is there to hear his question, and as he forces his parched lips to form the words, the second thing to register (after the pain of bright lights to his retinas) is that he feels…bad.
Really bad.
Everywhere.
Off in a way that’s more than sick or drunk or hurt. It’s like part of him is fading. Or missing altogether? Maybe it’s his mind? He can’t seem to get his thoughts in order – like where he is or how he got here.
“Oh good, Mr. di Angelo, you’re awake…” A woman’s face comes into view close above him. He must be laying on his back, he can see right up her nose. Her face floats and swims at first, but when she says his name again, he manages to focus on her. Her dark brown eyes narrow in concern, flicking over his face, neck and lower down his torso. She leans over him to adjust something near his arm, and the end of her long, braided brown hair makes a swishing sound as it brushes across starched sheets, then a fresh prick of pain pinches his wrist; he glances down and his foggy brain registers – an IV into his wrist.
That’s something he’s familiar with, people have those when they’re in the hospital.
Oh.
Okay.
Well, fuck.
Hospitals are one of the institutions Nico tries to avoid at all costs, right up there with Churches and Targets. Hades’ men could usually patch him up well enough to keep him adequately conscious until he could collapse in the safety of his apartment. The last few times he’d needed suturing, he’d done it himself.
He needs to get out of here. Instinctively. Urgently.
But the IV binds him to the bed and the machines beep mutedly, rhythmically behind him. A beat he can’t escape.
The plastic tubing feels freezing cold next to his skin, his left hand is all bound up and taped with a lump at his wrist, the IV port. The thin, white sheets smell strongly of cleaning agent; his skin is so pale he is nearly indistinguishable from the bedding. Ghostly. But the sheets are smooth while his skin prickles with goosebumps. And while a ghost would be weightless, he feels so heavy; it’s an effort to keep his eyes open.
He registers he’s not in his clothes anymore. He’s wearing something papery, a medical gown of some sort, and…he doesn’t think he has on underwear. So that is less than ideal. He can’t remember the last time he was in a room…with a woman…without wearing underwear.
Probably never.
He feels extra naked, and extra cold, and he’s just starting in to a panic about what happened to his clothes and who changed him into this when the woman interrupts his thoughts,
“Mr. di Angelo - how are you feeling? What’s your pain level on a scale of 1 to 10?“
Her questions quickly remind him that she hasn’t answered his question about the girl.
“She’s dead isn’t she.” His voice warbles and feels far away, like it’s coming from a different person, a young boy, shoulders hunched small in front of a formidable father. Suddenly it’s hard to swallow, and he squeezes his eyes shut.
A warm hand grips his shoulder firmly, connects him back to the present, and this stranger at his side. Her voice is softer this time, less commanding. He cracks his eyes open, focuses on her calm face as she slowly says, “I’m afraid there was no report of a girl…it was 4:30am…on a Wednesday…on the FDR overpass,” She pauses between each detail, giving Nico time to process, probably hoping he’ll piece together the event that put him in the hospital.
She removes her hand and pages rustle as she flips through a binder. Anxiety starts again as he realizes his full name and birthday is on the cover. And someone dotted the I’s with little hearts. Jesus Christ.
Is this Hell? He didn’t think Hell would smell so strongly of bleach.
The woman murmurs to herself, “Your cranial MRI showed no signs of acute trauma...looks like your bloodwork came back normal, no sign of hallucinogens. Blood alcohol was within normal limits,” her lips pressed together in a firm line as she continued examining the paperwork, “Mr. di Angelo, to your knowledge, were you under the influence of any substances at the time of your accident?”
Accident.
That word jolts bits and pieces of memory to the surface. Flashes suddenly fit together, seemingly in reverse – someone pressing too hard on his chest, taking a deep breath as a black surface sucked him down, the metal guard rail and how his hands had been ripped from the handgrips of his motorcycle.
And the girl.
Yes – there had been a girl.
A girl he had once known so well.
Wide set chesnut eyes, like his own.
Long, thick black hair half pulled up and tied with a green satin bow, gently curling at the tips. Sweet, tidy bangs. (She had debated forever about getting them, and when she finally made up her mind – he had cut them for her. She told him he was the only person she trusted to do it right.)
She had tilted her face to smile a dazzling, perfect smile as she silently mouthed ‘Piccolo Nicolo! Can’t catch me!’ running just ahead of his motorcycle, and then….jumping over the highway barrier and plummeting 50 feet down to the river. As her small body careened into the churning black water, her voice was suddenly loud in his ear. Screaming his name, screeching as the waves pulled her down.
And then he had been in the river - wet and alone.
Just like before.
Rain slowly drips from the tips of his dark hair to the white marble of her headstone. Behind him, a shadowy figure tells him it’s time to go.
But now, as he swallows around a lump, and takes one slow, painful breath, and then another, and then another, the fog lifts from his memory, and he realizes…it wasn’t a girl.
It was a ghost.
Bianca’s ghost. The one haunting his dreams. Always running away from him, going places he can’t follow. Why can he never catch her? Why does she always leave him?
Maybe he had fallen into a dream. Or maybe the ghost had finally escaped his subconscious.
The woman’s voice startles him from his thoughts, “You were the only person reported being involved in the accident. It appears you were going approximately 70 miles per hour in a 55. Had you not been wearing a helmet there is no doubt you would have been killed on contact. That, and the fact that you were thrown into water is what saved your life.”
A diluted memory of drowning comes back to Nico, of hurtling into the deep, resisting the innate urge to start paddling surface-ward, relaxing as the darkness pulled him under; relaxing as he drowned.
Looks like he even managed to fuck up drowning.
The woman eyes him strangely, maybe wondering if he is alert enough to understand what she is reporting. He gives a slight nod and whispers, “Okay.” That seems to satisfy her enough to continue, “You sustained hairline fracturing to six ribs, probably a result of the paramedics performing CPR. Minor contusions to your hands and face,” she draws a deep breath, sets her jaw and looks Nico straight in the eyes, “and you have suffered a complete non-displaced fracture to your L2 vertebrae.”
“O-okay,” he whispers numbly. ‘Accident and broken’ are the main words that register. Familiar words. He has been broken longer than this, much before Wednesday; and far deeper than this, deeper than bones.
He closes his eyes again, pain ensconcing his chest. Despite having no medical background, he somehow already knows that there’s not much to be done for broken ribs, just wait for them to heal. He’s pretty sure he’s broken some before. He supposes he won’t be able to ride again for awhile, if just laying down hurts this much, he can’t imagine angling over handlebars.
Machines gently beep and calmly click behind him. Though painful, his breathing is even.
“Okay. Thank you. I…I was having a dream about a girl. That’s…I remember the crash now.” His voice is scratchy and soft, like he’s been sleeping for days.
She puts her hand back on his shoulder and squeezes gently, “Mr. di Angelo, I’m Dr. Ramirez-Arellano. Are you able to give me your pain level, please? I want to make sure the hydrocodone dosing is sufficient.”
Nico’s eyes flutter open, “Right, sorry, um…maybe like a five,” he trails off, he doesn’t need to impress anyone here, and whatever hydrocodone is he thinks more sounds good, “…or an eight.”
“There were no current medications listed in your file; are you currently taking anything? Prescription or otherwise?”
“No,” Nico whispers, looking at the IV, distracted by the pain.
The Doctor’s brow creases, “Mr. Di Angelo, your honesty is paramount. If you’re using illegal substances, I need that information. It’s confidential, and as your care provider I need to know if you’re on something that will interfere with or amplify the analgesics.”
“No,” Nico states more firmly, “not for…at least three years. Just cigarettes now. And alcohol - but not much last night.”
Dr. Ramirez-whatever nods succinctly and makes a note in his binder. She pulls a small device from the end of a lanyard around her neck to her mouth, presses a button on it and orders, “Rachel, please bring another 15 milligrams of Vicidin to room 13,” then closes the binder and turns back to Nico, and seems to consider him, silently weighing options before she asks, “Is there anyone we can call for you? There weren’t any emergency contacts listed in your file.”
Easy question.
“No,” Nico replies quickly, “No. I’m fine. I’ll be fine.”
The Dr.’s glare only seems to intensify, and Nico feels exposed. Uncomfortable. He wants to wriggle away and hide. She’s searching him for clues or something. Shit is he in trouble for the 15 miles over? Or did he cause more damage than to the guard rail?
“Yes, I agree, you will recover,” then she pauses, like she wants to make sure Nico understands that before she continues more slowly, pointedly, “but you will not be the same.” Emphasizing the final word of the phrase, then continuing, “Your spinal vertebrae,” she shakes her head slightly like she’s searching for a word, “…your back is broken.”
Okay, what so his ribs and back are broken. Bones break, so what?
“Yes. Guasto,” Nico regurgitates, feeling stupid.
“Oh - do you need a translator?” her eyebrows quirk up almost comically.
Belatedly, he realizes he spoke in Italian; maybe it’s the drugs messing with him.
“No, no sorry. I understand. Broken. Back and ribs. I understand being broken,” he tries to finish with composure and confidence, tries to cue her in that he doesn’t need to talk about it anymore, he definitely doesn’t need a translator; she’s given him the facts, now she can leave and let him rest and then, maybe tomorrow, he’ll get out of here. Sleep the rest off at home. What’s the treatment for a broken back, anyway? It’s not like you can put it in a cast. So probably the same as the ribs, just let it heal on its own.
Yeah, he’ll heal on his own. No one needs to know about this. Definitely not his few friends. Especially not his father. She doesn’t need to linger at his bedside. She does not need to keep touching his shoulder. He’s an adult.
But she doesn’t take the hint in his tone and leans closer to him, checking the monitors behind him and moving her hand from his shoulder to pull the blankets up a little higher, brushing her hand past his forearm in doing so. Her touch feels warm against his icy skin, and he can’t help but shiver. She must notice, because with catlike reflexes her hand flies to press against his forehead while the other taps rapidly at the computer screen.
“We administered a potent antibiotic cocktail to prevent illness from anything you may have come in contact with in the East River…”
Oh right, he’d fallen into the River. Gross. Is that why he so strongly smells –
“Did you bleach me?”
The Doctor glances at Nico with what he thinks may be a flicker of amusement, “We administered a soak in a hospital grade anti-bacterial …And yes, I did a secondary cleanse with some diluted bleach. Unfortunately your clothing was unsalvageable.”
Nico stares at his hands, mortified. Someone had soaked him? A stranger had soaked him? Oh grossgrossgross. Is it better or worse that he has no memory of this? Had it been this doctor? What is the protocol for this? Normally Nico would be furious – at the destruction of his clothing and violation of his body – he had killed men over less - but…this whole situation is nightmare crazy. And the doctor seems respectful and professional. He’s doesn’t have the energy to argue, and the doctor looks like she’s waiting for a response. He whispers,
“’S fine. Sorry.”
“No need to apologize. At least it wasn’t the Hudson, then we’d need to monitor you for radiation poisoning.” She gives a final decisive tap to the monitor, “No fever, CBC looks okay,” she returns her inquisitive stare to him, seeking out the culprit of shivers. “Are you cold? I can have a heated blanket brought in.”
“No, thank you, Doctor Ram-,” he’s not going to attempt it, “….Doctor, I’m fine,” he replies quickly.
She cocks her head to the side.
“You can call me Reyna,” she gestures toward her ID badge, where REYNA is indeed in large bold letters above the hyphenated last name. He shrugs and that was the wrong gesture for someone with six broken ribs to make. His breath catches in his throat and he grits his teeth and for a minute he can’t breathe the pain is so intense. His mother will be rolling in her grave at his manners, but he’s really in no shape to carry on a conversation with Reyna right now.
He’s not really sure what he’s even trying to say, whether it’s ‘Please leave’ or ‘Get the fuck out of here’ but the halting, weak whine that comes out is not what he was going for.
And now her hand is on his shoulder again, looking concerned. So, making zero progress. Two steps back it would seem.
“Please lie still, the nurse will be in shortly with the hydrocodone. The doses I have been administering have been based on weight so…I…must not have dosed enough.”
Yeah, Nico knows he’s thin. ‘Skin and bones’ was what Jason had said the last time they’d hung out together. He just…hasn’t felt like eating. Hasn’t really had the energy to. And for some reason food just doesn’t seem to taste very good. Maybe it’s the cigarettes killing his taste buds. It’s just as well.
“It’s actually a good sign to up the dosage. Means your liver is functioning well.”
Nico tries to nod with only his eyes, “Okay.” Hooray for his liver.
A red headed nurse comes in carrying a syringe which Reyna immediately attaches to the saline drip hanging next to the bed.
“Thank you, Rachel. And could you please bring in a heated blanket for Mr. di Angelo as well.”
“Nico,” he whispers, avoiding Reyna’s eyes, his gaze settling on the blankets covering his legs “just…Nico is fine.”
His brow furrows as he continues looking down at his legs.
He is laying very nearly flat on his back, but he can see the shape of his toes sticking up and the lump of his knees. His lips part and his breathing picks up. His eyes feel stuck, like his brain has forced them to halt and notice something.
Something is happening.
Something terrible is happening.
No – something terrible has happened.
His heart beats faster, evidenced by the quickening bleeps on the monitor.
“My…” his voice cracks off, too much pain in his chest from rasping the single word. Every breath, every tiny motion causing tremendous pain everywhere but there’s no pain in his…
Reyna slowly steps into his line of sight, near the end of the bad, but he can’t tear his eyes from his covered legs.
Slowly, so as not to spook a feral animal, Reyna raises her hand…
…and sets it on his knee.
Whether she sets it gently or firmly, he has no idea.
His eyes snap to hers and again, he can only manage sounds, not words – terrified huffs and guttural gasps. Nononononono! his brain starts to alarm.
“Paralysis of the lower extremities is a common result of a complete non-displ – “
“I can’t feel my legs!” Nico finds his words, and chokes through the pain to spit them at her as he tries and fails to prop himself up on his elbows. He needs to run.
He’s an ADULT. And he’s FINE! And he needs to get the fuck out of here nownowNOW!
But everything is heavy and hurting – he shakes as violently as he can, needing to thrash, but his movements come out clumsy and slow, like he’s still underwater. Like he changed his mind and he wants to swim but it’s too late; the current’s got him in chains.
He exhausts himself in mere seconds, his vision swims, his hearing cuts in and out. All he can do is lay back and breathe. It was a brief fight, and he can feel…he’s finished.
He lost.
Again.
Piangere non risolverà nulla, his father had said as he shut the back door of the limo.
That had been the first time he had held back a flood, so many years ago. He’s well practiced now. His breathing evens out and his senses settle enough that he feels present, though the goddamn monitors BEEPBEEPBEEP faster and an alarm sounds; Reyna moves to the screen and taps until the blaring stops.
With trembling hands he barely has the strength to move he weakly gropes around the blankets at his waist. There’s his stomach, fine, and his groin, thank god, and his hips, okay, but when he grabs for his thighs?
It feels to his hands like they’re touching something firm where his thighs should be but – he squeezes harder and whimpers.
Then squeezes with all his strength and growls, “Fuck!”
Fuck, where is my body!?
He needs to get out of here.
Incensed, he uses one clumsy hand to tug at the tape securing the IV to his other. He feels like this line is all that’s tethering him to the world. And he is desperate to rip it off.
“Nico, please calm down,” Reyna pries his trembling fingers away from the tape, “you are fortunate to have survived the accident,” she holds his arms against his sides, “you are fortunate the paralysis is limited to your legs,” her voice clear and authoritative, “there is some chance that you may recover feeling and mobility.”
“Mobility?” Nico sobs, finally fitting the pieces together. Not only is he not able to feel his legs, he can’t move them. You will not be the same, she had told him.
Holding back the tears just makes the knives twist deeper into his chest. He closes his eyes and finally lets them spill down his cheeks, the tears won’t solve anything, but he’s lost everything. And he’d already lost everything - how could he possibly have lost more?
He is vaguely aware of someone else coming near his bedside and Reyna saying something about, “need to increase his alprazolam, too” then a warmth comes over his chest and arms. Someone’s brought a heated blanket and Reyna is tucking him in snugly, almost aggressively. Probably so he can’t pull at the IV port again. He feels numb, sobbing silently as he stares down at his useless legs.
There is nothing to do.
There is no stepping back in time. He can tell from Reyna’s measured movements, sealing him in tightly, militantly.
He’s an adult and he takes care of himself and there is nothing to be done. No one can clean up this mess. Just let it rot under a warm blanket.
Reyna carefully and efficiently wipes his eyes and face with a tissue, then brings it to his nose and quietly commands, “Blow.”
And like a two year old child, he does. He has lost.
He closes his eyes, because what’s the point of keeping them open. The fresh meds have kicked in enough that the pain has subsided to a distant throb; he can feel sleep taking over. He’d like so much to just stay there, in his familiar dark dreams. He vaguely registers Reyna clean up the tear tracks down his cheeks, and pull the blanket up to his chin. She rests a heavy hand on his shoulder once more.
“Nico…who can I call for you?”
He swallows down the lump in his throat. And surrenders a name.