Shot

The ugly ducklings don't turn into swans
And glide off down the lake
Whether your sunglasses are off or on
You only see the world you make—John Hiatt, Are You Ready For This Thing Called Love

X

Vincent thinks, lying semiconscious on the ground, that boredom is underrated. He would have been bored at home. He should have stayed there in spite of the lingering early morning nightmare that he felt lurking around the corners of his consciousness still. But no, Cloud—no stranger to those demons himself—had talked him into joining one of his “easy” contract missions with the Turks and it beat to all Hells waiting all day for Rude to get back. Rude. Vincent had likely frightened him half into the Lifestream when he woke up screaming and then ran into the bathroom to throw up his very soul. Assuming, of course, he still had one. A couple sports drinks later to rehydrate and he was just fine, just needed to get out of the house.

Right.

Until the “mission” goes horribly wrong, somehow, and they are running back to the vehicle in triple digit heat. He feels suddenly chilled as the hard ground comes up to slap him in the face and a searing pain rips through the shoulder of his left arm.

“VINCENT!” Gods, that is loud. And entirely too close to his head, though he can be reasonably sure Elena knows his name now. Comforting, that. The sensation of being lifted, carried, does nothing for his nausea as he clamps his jaw hard.

Today is just not going as planned. He feels himself being jammed into the back of the vehicle as a needle is stuck into his good arm. Oh no, needles are not good. His nightmare comes rushing back and he hears Cloud telling him to calm down, it’s just fluids, he is having a heat stroke. He wonders if anyone will notice if he has been shot or if he will just sit there bleeding all over everyone until someone bitches about needing to get their uniforms stain treated, and he plunges into darkness.

X

He wakes in a hospital, he knows the smell. And there is too much light, too much noise. He hears Tseng ordering everyone to get an IV, they are all dehydrated. Cloud asks why only Vincent collapsed.

“He had a bad night.” Okay, Rude. Guess you thought it was time to out us to your boss? Like Reno and Cloud weren’t enough. Fine. His arm throbs. Oh yeah, I’ve been shot. Why does Cloud never get shot? Short fucker probably just ducks. He opens his mouth to say something and vomits, again. Joy. He hopes he didn’t hit anyone he likes, but that list is getting brief.

He feels someone removing his gauntlet and then Rude’s voice again. “Boss? I think it’s more than heat stroke.” The room spins and goes dark.

X

He wakes a second time in a quiet room. He knows he’s drugged because the bed is comfortable and hospital beds are never comfortable. His left arm is a mass of bandages and his throat feels like he has been gargling straight razors. He gives an agonizing pathetic little cough and Rude wakes from his nap.

“Here.” Ice chips. They taste better than the finest cabernet franc. He thinks he will buy an ice maker if he lives through this so he can have ice chips every day.

“What…the…fuck…”

“You were dehydrated. Heat stroke. And you got shot; only a flesh wound, you'll be fine.”

Flesh wound, his ass. Vincent has been shot before and thank you, it still fucking hurts, flesh wound or no. He decides that he will kick the balls of every person to ever utter the words “only a flesh wound” from now on, just on principle.

“Everyone else?”

“Fine. Dehydrated, but treated and released. You win an overnight stay, however.”

And the hits keep on coming.

“Did I puke on anyone?”

“…Tseng.” It would do for a day’s work. He feels a strange sense of satisfaction. Rude gives him more ice chips and kisses him on the forehead. “Please refrain from doing that in the future. You frightened me, badly.” His hand shakes. It is one thing sunglasses cannot hide. The hitch in his voice is another.

Vincent thinks it is odd. He has passed through so much. All to be brought to his knees by the love of this large, quiet man who says so much that words cannot.

He would kill for a shower, perhaps literally, and the tape on his arm is starting to itch.

“I’ll try to behave from now on.” He swears to himself. He sits up so Rude can hold him a little, though it is awkward around the IV tubing and bandages, but he finds himself growing drowsy with the pain medication. He feels Rude’s gentle hand in his hair and gives himself up to sleep once again.