That Blue Gibson: Etc.

Again, David? Pt. 2

"Baby, it's okay, it's not a big deal. They said-"

He's serious again, shifting his weight as best as he can in the narrow bed and looking around for help which she knows he won't find - if they know what's best for them.

But she's still pissed.

Pissed at hauling herself across the goddamn desert after a morning of feeling like a shitty mom, pissed at how he's acting like it's no big deal when she was so scared.

Well, fine. If it's not big deal...

She angrily wrenches the strap of her purse further up her arm indicating she'd rather leave than be toyed with, that there were far more pressing matters at home if this was just 'okay'.

And then the panic flashes across his face when he realizes her intentions, "Babe, please! I just didn't see the edge of the trail! I thought it was all flat past the scrub brush but there was a fucking drop and I... I sort of ended up at the bottom."

Her eyes close for a beat then spring open again at the image of him laying in a bloody heap in the dirt next to a mangled bike, the engine still revving as if its rider isn't unconscious. She'd been there before herself and knew how scared she was about her parent's reaction to just how badly she'd fucked up.

The purse is tossed somewhere into a corner along with the majority of her anger, and she somehow gets around all the tubing and gauze to pull a chair up next to the bed. It's clear he's a little disappointed she didn't just crawl right into the bed with him, but he leans into her hand when she combs his hair back.

"How bad does it hurt?"

He hums a bit into the feeling of her nails on his scalp, "It's not too bad. I missed you though."

"You have no idea," she tries to smile at him but only grimaces when she notices how pale he is up close, "What did they give you?"

"I don't know. Some pills when I got here," he's a little too gruff with it, letting her know that he doesn't want to talk about it, but he doesn't want to dismiss her either. Painkillers are still a delicate thing for him, especially when he's loopy on them.

So she changes the subject, "How's the bike?"

His smile is back and she matches it as best she can, "Goner. I'm gonna have to buy Catch a new one."

"We'll buy him a fleet as long as you promise to stay off of them," in her head, she's already planning a call to her favorite bike shop, "So just your arm and some scrapes?" She's hopeful but she knows they wouldn't keep him strapped to a bed for almost five hours if he just needed some bandaids.

"Well...," he takes a deep breath and it gives her a second to prepare herself, "My leg."

She gasps hard enough that she jolts the bed and he yelps in pain. "Oh my god," she breathes, "Your bad leg?"

He tries - she has to give him a little credit - he tries to show her his leg, but the blanket is tangled and he's moving slow enough to tell her that it's hurting him. So she helps, moving as slowly and deliberately as she can, something he taught her when she was still too scared to sit down after David was born, and wonders if he felt like he was dealing with a feral animal then, too.

One look is all it takes for her to get why he's nervous.

Under the blanket, his ankle is wrapped in a crude brace and positioned at a horrifically unnatural angle, still dirty from the desert crash but thankfully not bloody. She wasn't sure she could face a compound fracture on anyone let alone him.