Page 91 of Manner of Death
Bashir blinked at him. “You’re up.”
“Yes.”
“Ah.”
That was too many monosyllables for Sawyer. He walked over to Bashir and took his hand. “Are you okay?” he asked, squeezing gently.
“I—” The distance left Bashir’s gaze, and he shuddered a little as he sighed. “No. I’m not, but I could be worse. I mean…”
“I get it.” Sawyer nodded.
“What about you? Why are you out of bed?”
“I’m fine.”
Bashir shook his head. “You exacerbated one of the breaks in your arm when you fell, and the doctor on call had to reset the bone. You’ve got to be in incredible pain. You should stay here.”
Sawyer sighed. Yes, his arm hurt. Yes, it would be nice to lie down again, even if it was on a hospital bed, but the truth was… “I can’t.” He leaned his forehead against Bashir’s shoulder. “I’m not going to be able to get any more rest without you. I know I won’t, so please don’t ask me to try. Just let me come with you to the station to talk to Tami—I don’t even have to be in the room, I’ll wait outside, but I want to be with you.” It felt awkward, almost painful to let himself be so blatantly honest about what he wanted, but it was the truth. “Don’t leave me in the same hospital as Boyce,” he added, and that got a little chuckle.
“Okay,” Bashir said. “Okay. But you have to take it easy, all right?”
“I will,” Sawyer promised. “Uh…whose car are we taking?”
“Well, mine is officially evidence for the time being, so Nan will drive.”
Great. Greeeeeat. Maybe if she was driving, she’d be less inclined to tell Sawyer he was an idiot.
Not likely.
Chapter 25
“Sawyer.” Nan shook her head as she started the car. “You’re an idiot.”
From the slightly reclined passenger seat, Sawyer offered a subtle shrug. “Eh.”
Nan tsked and pulled out of the parking space.
In the backseat, Bashir suppressed a chuckle at the interplay. Mostly because he was too fucking sore to risk a laugh. Though he’d done his level best to keep his discomfort out of Sawyer’s sight, the truth was that Bashir hurt from his hair all the way down to his toenails.
Somewhere in the process of being hit by a weaponized kettle ball and then crashing his car through the wall, he’d fractured two ribs. Hairline fractures, fortunately, but they were going to be a pain in his ass—well, his upper back—for the next couple of months. And then of course there were the three impacts. The kettle ball hitting his chest. His body hitting the floor. The car crashing. Even though he hadn’t been able to gain much momentum to crash the car, it still fucking hurt.
Whiplash. Fractured ribs. Bruises every-goddamned-where. A nasty scrape on his hip that he couldn’t even remember acquiring. And how the fuck had he sprained the ring finger on his right hand? Well, whatever. He was a mess, and he was going to be down for the count for a while. The brass had already told him he was on paid leave for the next thirty days minimum, both because of the investigation into Boyce and because he was a mess.
“That would be a huge liability,” the police commissioner had told him. “If one of your injuries were to get worse while you were performing your job, the city could be on the hook for an enormous lawsuit.”
Nice to know it was his physical and mental well-being they were so concerned about, but he’d take it. A month off from work was a month off from work, even if he was going to spend most of it wishing for drugs. Strong drugs. Really strong drugs.
A few blocks away from the hospital, Nan took out her frustration with Sawyer on the brake, stopping harder than was necessary at a yellow light that she could have made.
“Seriously?” Sawyer asked.
She shrugged unrepentantly.
Meanwhile, Bashir gritted his teeth, trying like hell to breathe as the sudden stop aggravated every pissed off cell in his battered body.
Fuck it. He was going to spend the next month wishing for illegally strong drugs.
When the pain subsided enough for him to slowly release his breath—well, fuck exhaling hurt, too. Of course it hurt. Everything hurt. Existing hurt. God, this was bullshit.