The darkness stubbornly persisted. Even when he was conscious, he was trapped in the dark. It impaired both sight and hearing. His eyes refused to open and the only sounds he could pick up were dull thrums. It affected his mind too, making his thoughts sluggish and incoherent. He couldn't hold a solid thought for long before the dark ripped it away from him and tore it to shreds, making it impossible to piece together again.
It was frustrating.
And empty.
And lonely.
His voice didn't work. He couldn't call out to anyone. He couldn't even fend off the oppressive dark with a distracting one-sided conversation.
In times of semi-consciousness, his body felt heavy and unresponsive. He couldn't move. His hands were made of lead and his feet felt like they were missing from his body. He couldn't wiggle his toes to assure himself that his feet were still attached. Even the mere movement of his chest as he took in slow, deep breaths felt arduous.
The one comfort he did have was that everything hurt.
The pain reminded him that his limbs were all still attached and that everything was working properly aside from being immobile. That pain meant that he was still alive.
Despite this truth, in the unyielding empty darkness, he began to feel afraid. Trapped as he was, he could not cry out for help. He doubted he even had the ability to register help if it was given to him. There was no escape.
And he was afraid he would be trapped forever. Lost in the dark. Alone.
Perhaps he was in a coma. He had never been in one before. Was this what it felt like? To be so close to the tangible world: to be able to dimly hear sounds of movement around him and yet be unable to determine what or who was making them? to be able to feel his own body and the pain that emitted from it and yet be unable to move?
Perhaps he was in limbo, suspended between life and death. He grandmother had mentioned limbo once after a harrowing encounter with a heart attack. She had died for a full minute before the doctors had brought her back. She had said that, in the minute, it felt like a lifetime of just floating, weightless in the dark where she could make neither sound nor movement.
Was he dying? He couldn't remember if he had been. He couldn't remember anything except the unending dark close around him. Was he already dead? Was he doomed to spend an entirely alone in the dark?
He didn't like it. He hated it. He wanted it to stop; to go away.
Something wet and warm trickled down his cheek. He could feel that. He could feel the tears sliding down his face. But he could do nothing about it. He was still in the dark, unsure if he was comatose or dying or not. But he could cry. His body hadn't quite detached from the physical world just yet.
The fact brought some relief; a small victory in a losing war. But clearly not enough since the tears continued to fall.
And then a presence appeared at his cheek and shattered the suffocating dark. A soft touch from, what his mind dimly registered as fingers, caressed his cheek, wiping away the tears.
He could have cried out in pure joy. He wasn't alone after all. There was someone else at the edge of the darkness. Someone he couldn't see or hear, but knew to be there. The warm touch lingering on his cheek proved it.
But then the touch went away and he panicked in the dark. Had he slipped back into unconsciousness and could no longer feel the presence beside him? Was the presence even still there?
He relaxed again as the familiar fingers embraced his hand. He wished with all his heart that he had the strength to grip that hand back but the fact that there was someone with him and that his body had not disappeared into the dark was enough.
The hand that held his was warm and gentle, a thumb slowly stroking the back of his hand. And it didn't pull away. He was sure time passed but the hand and presence remained at his side.
Reassured, Mike didn't mind falling back into unconsciousness. He knew that the hand would continue to hold his and the owner would be at his side when he woke up.
OoOoO
He wasn't sure when it happened or for how long it had lasted, but the dark finally started to recede.
Mike was able to cling to consciousness for greater amounts of time between lapses of sleep caused by the exhaustion from being awake.
He found he could finally open sore, sensitive eyes. His vision was marred and blurry but he could make out hazy shapes, subdued color, and piercing light. Shadowy figures passed before him, teasing him with their presence but never quite granting him a clear image of who they were. There was one shadow that hovered at his side, never moving. But no matter how hard Mike squinted at it, the shadows never parted to reveal the person.
His hearing had improved as well, but perhaps a little too well. Before, the sounds he could hear were distant and muted. Now they were too close and far too loud. He could distinctly hear hollowed footsteps that echoed painfully in his head. Every shift of the blanket; the way the rough cloth scraped against his clothes; every minute sound resounded clearly in a cacophonous roar in his head. It made him cringe.
That was his silver lining: that fact that he could move his body again. Granted, it was a slight movement, more reflexive than voluntary, but it was a start. He could feel his feet again.
And, as the dark released its immobilizing grip, Mike found that his memory was recovering. He remembered what had happened, where he was, why he was suffering, and who had saved him.
And he found that he could make new memories again rather than lose his thoughts to the dark. There were a few moments of consciousness that he retained in his mind.
The first of which was when cold jolted him aware. He had looked around wildly to find himself submerged in an ice-tub filled with cold water that came as a relief to his fevered body. It felt so good to have the clinging heat chased away by soothing cold. He remembered leaning back into the pillow that kept his head above the water. He could hear movement around him but kept his eyes tightly closed to block out the light raining down from above.
He remembered being eased back into bed with ice packs around him as a fan buzzed somewhere near his head. The room was already air-conditioned but, under the blankets, it was still too warm for his liking. The fan felt good against his face.
He remembered waking to find a shadow looming over him while brusque prodding fingers checked his pulse and temperature.
He remembered the bite of a needle as a new IV was put in.
He remembered gentler fingers performing the same acts as the previous shadow he figured to be the doctor had: carefully checking his pulse and placing a comforting hand over his forehead to test his temperature.
He remembered fingers brushing through his hair; a cloth being dabbed at his brow; a constant weight on his hand.
More than once he heard his name being spoken aloud: sometimes in a woman's velvety voice; often in a man's lower one. He could hear other words and quiet murmurings being spoken but they were too faint for him to catch, even with his newly acquired Spidey Senses.
He even vaguely remembered a melodious hum that mercifully drowned out the sharper sounds that haunted him. The pleasant song lulled him into an easy sleep.
The latest memory was the one occurring now.
The heat woke him first, followed by his throat's demand for water. He kept his eyes closed. The lights seemed to be particularly bright this time.
"Hello…?" he asked in a rustic voice.
There was a rustling beside him and the creak of a chair. Then the weight on his hand shifted and gentle fingers squeezed his hand.
"Thank God," a voice said, relief making the words light and breathless. "What is it, Mike? What do you need?"
"Water," Mike croaked.
The weight left his hand and Mike thought it felt oddly light and cold without it. There was more rustling and then the sound of water being poured into a cup.
"All right, kid. Here we go," the voice said as a hand slipped under his head and eased him upright. "Ready?"
Mike nodded blindly and a paper cup came to his lips. Mike obediently opened his mouth and the cup's contents were eased down his parched throat. He swallowed with slight difficulty, coughing wetly, but the water stayed down. He was given more water before the cup was regrettably pulled away and Mike's head returned to his pillow.
He laid back with a sigh. But his brows furrowed from the intrusive light that beat against his closed eyes.
"Too bright," he moaned, voice raw and strangled.
"Hang on," the voice said and Mike decided he liked the sound of it.
A moment later and a damp cloth was draped over his eyes, cutting off the light and offering respite from the heat that plagued him.
He murmured his content, a smile crossing his features.
The chair creaked as the owner of the voice settled back into it and then the familiar hand took Mike's once more.
"How you doing, kid?"
"Tired…" Mike answered in a fading whisper. "Everything hurts."
"That's to be expected. Pushing yourself in this weather. You should have taken a cab."
Mike gave his head a tiny shake: the extent of movement he could perform as of yet. "Traffic. Would have been late. Harvey'd get mad."
The voice paused and that hand that held his twitched slightly. Mike thought nothing of it. He was preoccupied with trying to deliver the command to move to his hand. He wasn't sure why, but he wanted so badly to return the hold the voice's hand had on his. He was failing.
"I think your boss would have understood," the voice said heavily. "Better you be late than have a heat stroke."
Mike tried to laugh but the attempt came out as a wheeze that made him cough. "You… don't know my boss."
"You may not believe me, but your life does happen to be more important than a stack of files. I'm sure your boss knows that."
"I doubt that," Mike countered dryly, his voice matching the way his body felt.
"Don't hold your boss in much high regard?" the voice asked, an edge to the words that went unnoticed by Mike.
"That's not it," Mike protested, his voice gaining some strength at the incredibility of the claim. "I hold him high in every regard." He cleared his throat painfully and another cup of water mercifully came to his lips. He drank what was given and then settled back.
"I don't understand," the voice said hesitantly.
"Harvey's a good man," Mike explained lightly, "though you may not know it at first." He paused, swallowing several times. It felt like he hadn't talked in months and the sudden strain of talking a lot all at once was beginning to take effect. But he had to get his point across.
"Honest and fair. Doesn't play dirty. I trust him." He chuckled brokenly. "Saved my life more than once now."
The grip that held his hand had tightened but Mike paid it no mine. It didn't hurt any more than it already was. He tried again to make his fingers move, even a little.
"And he takes care of me. I mean, really good care of me… In his own way."
"How do you figure that?" The voice was sharp and Mike winced at the sound of it. "You could have died today because of him."
"Not his fault," Mike argued, brows furrowing under the cloth. "Not his fault it was hot or that I forgot water." His body started to shake and his throat grew coarse, making him cough. Dammit. He was just getting the hang of talking again and his voice was failing him.
"Hey, take it easy. Calm down," the voice said quickly, a hand taking his shoulder. "I believe you. It wasn't his fault."
Mike took a shuddering breath and did as he was told. The hand patted his shoulder proudly and pulled away. "Good boy."
"Don't tell Harvey this," Mike started again, his voice weaker, "but, why he looks out for me. It's because he cares."
"Why can't I tell Harvey?" the voice asked, amused.
"He can't admit it," Mike answered. "That he cares. Don't tell him I told you. He'd fire me. Promise."
The voice chuckled. "All right, I promise. Just stop talking and get some rest."
"Seriously. If he found out, he'd punish me with paperwork, and then fire me. He might even –"
"I said shut up."
Mike paused indignantly. The moment he did, however, the exhaustion from talking bombarded him. The attack caught Mike completely by surprise as darkness beat at his consciousness. His body shuddered as the fatigue washed through him, shutting down the muscles he was just starting to regain control of.
"Mike?"
"Tired…"
"Ok. Get some sleep, kid. I'll be here when you wake up."
"Promise?"
"I promise."
Satisfied, Mike was about to succumb to sleep when the voice suddenly registered in his mind. It was familiar. He knew who it belonged to.
"Harvey?" he asked in a small voice.
Harvey's hand squeezed his reassuringly as fingers trailed through his hair. There was no answer but Mike didn't have the strength to stay awake any longer to wait for one. He didn't stand a chance against his sheer exhaustion.
Before he could recount what he had said and panic about it, sleep overtook him and he remembered no more.