His leg was hurting him again.
Only, logically speaking, his leg couldn’t be hurting him because it wasn’t there. Not all of it anyway.
And yet it did. It felt like what Nick imagined it might feel like to stick your toe into a giant electrical socket. Shockwaves of pain jolted up and down, starting in his left thigh and coursing down his non-existent shin to his non-existent toes, then rebounding and shooting right back up again. Biting his lip, he stared determinedly at the TV screen, trying to focus his attention on the show and not the pain.
But somehow, “The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air” just wasn’t gonna do it.
So he let his eyes shift to Claire, who sat perched on the bed, right up by his pillows, a hint of a smile gracing her lips as she watched the show. It was the second in a pair of back-to-back episodes, and conversation had died as the first episode had ended. As content as he was to lay there at her side, his fingers still laced loosely through hers, there was an undeniable awkwardness between them. But that was to be expected. They hadn’t been together in over seven months, unless you counted Valentine’s Day, which Nick just wanted to forget. And what had finally reunited them was the amputation that had taken place only two days earlier. So after Nick had dutifully asked her what she’d been up to – “working mostly” – and how her doctor’s appointment had gone – “fine... still in remission” – they had fallen into silence. Not an uncomfortable silence exactly, just... well, silence. Claire didn’t know what to say, and neither did Nick. So they said nothing. And as long as she was sitting there, it was enough. Words were not needed.
For about a minute, he was able to just watch her, the way her free hand unconsciously rose to her hair, her fingers easily combing through the short, fine locks, then lingering at the ends, absently twirling little bits of hair round and round. He smirked a little as her hand moved to the opposite side of her face, stopping to pick at a small red blemish on her chin. “Don’t pick that!” he could almost hear Kevin scolding, “or it’ll get even bigger, and it’ll scab over, and if you keep picking at it, you’ll have a scar.” Nick almost snickered at that, then moaned instead as a particularly high-voltage wave of pain shot through his detached leg.
As he sighed in defeat, his left hand found the control for his PCA device, the machine that provided him with pain medication. The rush of morphine the machine delivered never failed to relieve most of his discomfort, but at the same time, it made him groggy and fatigued. Which wasn’t really such a bad thing, considering sleeping was one of the few activities he could still participate in. Still, he hated the drug-induced stupor it put him in and didn’t really want to drift off yet, not with Claire there. But there was no choice in the matter now; he couldn’t stand the phantom pains any longer, and his finger punched the button in desperation, signaling the machine to dispense another dose of morphine.
He glanced back at Claire to find her looking at him with empathy. “Are you hurting?” she asked softly, giving his hand a light squeeze.
He squared his jaw, trying to put on a brave face and play it off. But the mask of courage melted quickly, and he gave a short nod, grimacing as he waited for the morphine to kick in and do its job.
“I’m sorry,” Claire murmured. “I wish there was something I could do to make it feel better... I can’t even imagine.”
Nick smiled weakly. “Yeah, I think I’ve got one up on you now.”
“Yeah,” she echoed, returning the smile awkwardly. “I think you do too. Okay, so you win. Game over?”
“Unless you want a rematch,” smirked Nick.
“Nope, don’t think so. This game isn’t much fun anyway.”
“Sure isn’t. This game sucks,” Nick sighed.
“Definitely sucks. I think we should stick to Monopoly from now on.”
“Only if you’re the banker. Cause I suck at all that making change stuff.”
Claire snorted. “Sure, I’ll be the banker.”
“And I get to be the car? Or the boat... there’s a boat in Monopoly now, isn’t there? In the new one?”
“Um... maybe?”
“Yeah, there is. I get to be the boat,” insisted Nick.
“Okay, okay, you’re the boat,” Claire assured him. “And speaking of boats, you promised me you were going to take me out in yours, you remember? You still have to do that sometime, you know, cause a promise is a promise.”
She smiled good-naturedly, but Nick only frowned. His boat seemed so far away, as did the ocean, his house, and every aspect of his previous life. And although someday he would go home from the hospital, back to his house, to the ocean, and maybe even to his boat, nothing would be the same. How could he take his boat out if he couldn’t even walk? He could he do anything for himself?
“Nick?” Claire’s concerned voice pried into his thoughts. “Nick, I was only kidding, I won’t hold you to it. But I would still like to go at some point... you know, when you’re back on your-... well, when you’re... better,” she finished lamely, her cheeks flushing pink. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
He flashed a grim smile. “Don’t be,” he muttered. “But don’t expect a boat trip anytime soon either, not with me anyway.”
“I didn’t say soon, I said at some point. And at some point, Nick, you will be able to take your boat out again and do all kinds of stuff that you used to. Don’t worry.”
“I hope you’re right,” Nick said quietly, his tone wistful.
Claire grinned. “I’m always right.”
Nick snorted, but didn’t protest. He wanted her to be right.
The morphine was kicking in now, and his body was relaxing into numbness, the agonizing shockwaves dulling to manageable throbs. He could feel his eyelids growing heavy, but fought back oncoming sleep, wanting to stay awake to talk to Claire awhile longer. But Claire seemed to notice this and smiled. “Are you wanting to sleep?” she asked. “That pain crap they gave me during my transplant always made me space out and fall asleep.”
“Yeah,” Nick smiled languidly. “It’ll do that to you.”
“Well, maybe I should go then and let you get some sleep?” Claire suggested, starting to stand up.
“No, wait.” Lethargic though he was, Nick reached out and caught her wrist. “You don’t gotta go yet. I-I mean, you can... if you want... but you don’t have to.” Fuck, Carter, you’re pathetic, he thought, annoyed with himself for sounding so needy.
Claire smiled. “You want me to hang around for awhile? Until you fall asleep maybe?”
He returned the smile, relaxing, and tried to keep his tone casual when he replied, “Sure.”
“Okay.” She sat back down, edging a little closer to him this time. “Don’t expect me to sing for you though.” She smiled crookedly, and a lump rose in his throat. Wow, how long ago had that been? It seemed like ages... in fact, it seemed like it hadn’t really happened at all, like it was all just a dream... a dream that was the reverse of this nightmare, with Claire in the hospital bed and him sitting beside her, holding her hand as she drifted off. But now the tables had turned...
“Aww, darn,” he muttered, managing a wink, though it was rather difficult to get one eyelid to go down without the other going with it... damn these narcotics messing with him. “I was hoping you could sing me a medley of Justin Timberlake songs or something.”
Claire snorted. “Yeah... and you want me to show off my mad beatboxin’ skillz and bust a few Michael Jackson moves while I’m at it?”
“That would be entertaining,” replied Nick.
“Oh, I bet!” she exclaimed, lightly swatting his upper arm.
Nick chuckled weakly as Claire shifted her weight on the edge of the bed. “You don’t gotta sit like that, you know... you can come closer, I won’t bite,” he remarked.
She glanced at him. “Well, it’s your bed, I don’t wanna hog.”
“You’re not hogging. I can share,” Nick smiled, grunting as he attempted to scoot his upper body over to make more room for her.
“Thaaanks,” Claire said gratefully, moving closer to him. “Now I can get both ass cheeks on here.” She grinned widely.
Nick just shook his head, adding sarcastically, “You’re such a lady, Claire.”
“Oh, aren’t I?” she fired back, and without warning, kicked both of the flip-flops off her feet and brought her legs up onto the bed as well, stretching them in front of her. “Does that bother you?” she asked.
“Nah, it’s fine,” replied Nick. “Plenty of leg space now that I only got one.”
Claire made a face, which eventually turned to a slight smile. “I guess that’s a good sign,” she murmured. “You being able to joke about it.”
Nick didn’t reply. It wasn’t funny, not at all, but he knew that lying there and sulking the whole time wasn’t going to get him anywhere. He remembered how Claire had managed to keep a sense of humor through the very worst and vowed that he would try to do the same, at least to some extent. Maybe, somehow, that would make things easier...
“Are you comfortable like that?” he asked, noticing the way she was stretched out beside him, sitting up, her feet out in front of her, her arms behind her, propping her up.
“Not really,” she replied with a grin.
“Well, c’mere, lie down,” he said, moving his arm from his side to up near the head of the bed to make more room for her.
She looked over at him, her eyes dancing with wickedness, an amused smirk playing on her lips. “If I’m going to sleep with you, Nick, it ain’t gonna be here, I’ll tell you that much. I refuse to make love on a hospital bed.”
Months earlier, he might have grown completely flustered by this and stammered an embarrassed, “I-I didn’t mean it like that.” But he was used to her sense of humor now and only heaved a sigh. “Okay, fine, your loss.” He was just playing around with her, but even as he said the words, a sick feeling rocked his stomach. How was he ever going to be intimate with a woman again? Who would want him? Claire was only kidding; she didn’t want him, and neither would anyone else, not now that he was damaged goods.
Claire snickered and eased herself down so that she was lying beside him. His arm came around her, nestling her into its crook, a perfect fit, as if she’d been designed to lay there. Her head relaxed against his shoulder, and she expelled a soft sigh. “You’re right, this is much more comfortable,” she said.
“Mm-hm,” he murmured, enjoying the feel of her snuggled so close to him. The last woman he’d held like this was... well, Leah. But that was different. He and Leah had been lovers... their touches were passionate, intimate. He and Claire were friends, and even now, lying so close, that was all they were. Friends. It was no different from the time they’d lain together on her bed, both miserable and overwrought, finding comfort in each other’s company.
But, Nick realized as he breathed in the sweet scent of her hair, he secretly wished it were different.
Secretly being the key word there.
He’d tried to reveal his feelings to her once, and he’d been shot down, and certainly not by Cupid’s arrow. No way was he going to make that mistake again. She obviously didn’t feel the same way she had eight months ago, when she’d told him she was falling for him. What exactly that had been, he wasn’t sure. Maybe it was just a hormone thing. Girls were funny like that. He’d never understood them and probably never would. But all he knew was that if she hadn’t wanted him in February, then she definitely didn’t want him now.
But that was all right. Because he didn’t need a lover now anyway. He needed a friend. And in the woman he harbored at his side, he had one.
***
