Fiction: Recovery

[kethni]

Name: Recovery

Pairing: Matt/Peter

Rating: PG-13

Warnings: Some adult language

Word Count: 3455 approx

Authors Note: For dragon6593’s prompt: Matt is part of a police raid on a suspected meth lab. But when they enter the house it's booby trapped and the resulting explosion blows Matt out the front window of the house. A twist of fate that throws him clear of the fire that kills the rest of his unit, a unit he was leading. His swat gear protects him from the shrapnel and force of the blast. However it couldn't protect his legs. Leaving Matt with a long and painful recovery ahead of him. A recovery hampered by a severe case of survivor's guilt.






The dirty, dank farmhouse has broken windows, rotting sills, and crumbling walls. The scum filled pond shines emerald on top of the black, putrid water. The garden is covered with matted, decaying grass, brittle and yellow, and the drooped roses are curling and brown.

Matt lowers his binoculars. There’s no sign of movement within the building although received information is that inside there is a fully-fledged meth lab along with the men flooding the tri-state area with low quality, cheap meth amphetamine.

He doesn’t issue orders. He doesn’t need to. His team has been fully briefed and after several years of working together, they barely need more than a nod or a gesture to spread out around the building. Meth labs are notoriously dangerous and explosions resulting from incorrect storage or other accidents are common enough to be something against which they train and brief. The SWAT team are fully equipped with night-vision goggles as well as the usual protective equipment but they edge through the cluttered rooms with graceful ease. There is no sign of any of the inhabitants and no sound but the slight creak and shuffle of the team’s feet.

Matt, leading from the front as always, is in the dark and stinking front room when hears the telltale sharp twang of a tripwire come from behind him.

He turns and meets the horrified gaze of the young agent who has just broken the tripwire.

There is moment of utter silence and then the world is full of sound, movement, and pain.

Briefly, before Matt passes out, he sees the white clouds passing overhead.



There are moments that pass like fragments of a dream. Lights blurring overhead. People gathered around him. The cold metal snip of heavy scissors cutting away his clothing. The echoing tunnel that he is slid inside.

Later, there is the pink painkiller cloud that smothers all thought, all other sensation.



Two Weeks Later

Peter is whistling as he strolls through the hospital corridors. He dodges between the staff, patients, and equipment as he skims through the records on the clipboard.

Crush injuries to the legs including compound fractures, one open, tendon damage, and some minor chemical burns. The fractures have been set, the tendons surgically repaired, and the burns are healing. Peter stops in the corridor and is almost struck by an elderly woman shoving herself along in a wheelchair.

‘Out of the way, sonny!’

Patient is verbally unresponsive and declines to engage with medical staff.

Peter sighs to himself; attitude has far more affect on a patient’s recovery than people think. A positive attitude and determination can have a patient on their feet weeks earlier than anyone anticipates but giving up... that can set a person back months.

That isn’t really Peter’s worry though, not really. He sets off again, wending through the corridors, until he finds the private room. He taps briskly on the door as he opens it.

‘Hey Mr Parkman,’ he says, walking into the room. ‘I’m Peter; I’m your CNA, that’s certified nursing assistant. I’ll be providing most of your day-to-day care once you’re at home. I’m here to get you ready to go home, okay?’

The man in the bed isn’t even looking in Peter’s direction. He isn’t looking at anything much. He might as well be asleep except his eyes are open.

‘Okay,’ Peter says, putting the clipboard to one side. ‘You’ll feel better once you’re back at your own place.’

Nothing. Nada. No response. Peter wasn’t expecting else but he was kind of hoping. Mr Parkman is a relatively young guy and looking at the records he should be able to make a good recovery. But all that’s the physical stuff and Peter knows that the mental stuff can be more important.

‘Has anyone explained what’s going to be happening when we get you back home?’ Peter asks, as he packs up Matt’s apparently untouched belongings. ‘No, okay, well, your insurance is paying for you to have a nurse come in to oversee your case. How often he comes in will depend on your meds. I’m not allowed to give you meds so either you take them yourself or the nurse will come in and give them to you.’ Peter moves the wheelchair over to the bed and starts readjusting the IV stand. ‘I’ll be there every day though. I do the stuff like help you wash, change your bedpan...’ Peter’s voice trails off as he registers Mr Parkman finally looking at him. ‘It’s not for long,’ he says quietly. ‘A big strong guy like you will be back on your feet in no time.’

Mr Parkman snorts and looks away.

‘I’ll sort out the food too, so you won’t have to worry about that,’ Peter continues. ‘I’m like your arms and legs. Okay? Right, now we’ll see about getting you into the chair.’

Well at least he looked, Peter thinks. Even if he looked completely disgusted, it’s a start.



‘So you’re in the SWAT thing right?’ Peter asks as they ride up in the elevator to Matt’s apartment. ‘I always wondered about that. Do you just kind of hang around waiting for people to take hostages and stuff? Or do you do other stuff in between gunfights and stuff?’

‘Was in SWAT,’ Matt says very quietly.

Peter checks the brake is on the wheelchair and walks around in front of Matt. He squats down so he’s level with Matt.

‘You’ll get better,’ he says mildly. ‘This isn’t a permanent thing.’

The elevator doors open and Peter has to run around to get the wheelchair moving before the doors start to close again.

‘This is a pretty nice building,’ he says, grunting with the effort of swinging the wheelchair around a corner. ‘Do you get grocery delivery service anywhere nearby?’

Matt shrugs.

‘I can find that out,’ Peter says as they reach the door. ‘I’ll get you settled and then I’ll see about sorting out something to eat. Okay?’ He waits a couple of seconds for a response. ‘Well I guess that’s okay then.’



Matt has his eyes closed as Peter flits about the living room clearing a path the sofa.

‘Don’t worry Mr Parkman, you can throw this stuff back on the floor once you’re better,’ Peter laughs, as he piles up magazines and clothes.

‘Didn’t expect anyone to be seeing it.’

‘At least you’ve got some stuff. My apartment has a chair, a TV, a phone, and a refrigerator. My mom is always hassling me to get some furniture to fill it out.’ Peter returns to the chair and pushes Matt over to the sofa. ‘Will you be okay on the sofa for a while? I’m going to sort out some food and make sure you can get around the rest of the apartment.’

‘Not going anywhere.’

Peter carefully moves Matt onto the sofa, being sure to keep his legs straight, and puts a cushion behind him. ‘You want the TV on?’

Shrug.

‘Okay, TV on,’ Peter says, handing Matt the remote and turning on the TV. ‘You shout out if you need anything, okay?’

Shrug.



There are gay porno magazines in the bathroom. Peter laughs a little as he tidies them into a pile. He certainly wouldn’t have called that one and he’s normally got a good eye. It’s kind of sad though. Not that he’s gay obviously. Peter’s gay and he’s got none of that self-hating gay crap, thank you. But the fact that Mr Parkman apparently has such a lonely life that he obviously has no expectations of people visiting. It can’t just be that he’s messy; he was way too embarrassed by the mess for that. It’s that he’s messy and never thinks anyone else is going to see it.

The place is generally pretty clean for being untidy, even with two weeks in the hospital. Well at least Peter won’t have to start scrubbing floors just to avoid catching something.

The kitchen is sure bachelor-ville, Peter of all people recognises the signs: milk, bread, butter, and beer in the fridge, frozen meals in the freezer. Bad food eaten quickly. Nasty. That can be fixed though and after a few weeks of hospital food Peter’s pretty sure that a nice home cooked meal might cheer up his charge, if only a little. The delivery guy turns up just then with bags of groceries. Peter couldn’t get more than a shrug out of Matt when he asked about likes and dislikes, so he’s gone for the basics.

‘How we doing, Mr Parkman?’ Peter asks, poking his head back into the living room. ‘You ready for a cup of coffee? There’s drinkable milk now.’

‘Please,’ he mutters.

‘Awesome, how do you take it?’

‘Milky and no sugar.’

‘No problem!’ Peter says, buoyed by this surprisingly vocal response. He’s a friendly, upbeat guy and takes his job seriously. He’s been told he takes it home with him too much, but that’s just his nature.

Mr Parkman doesn’t look up when he walks into the living room, but keeps staring at the TV.

Peter glances at the television and almost groans, some medical show. Seems to him like a guy just out of hospital would probably be better not dwelling on it.

Peter puts the coffee within Mr Parkman’s easy reach and then sits down in the armchair with his own drink.

Mr Parkman’s hand is shaking a little as he grips the cup of coffee but he doesn’t ask for help. Seems to Peter he’s the type who won’t ask even when he needs it. Probably the more he needs help the less likely he is to ask for it.



It’s an impression that only becomes more certain over the next few weeks. Mr Parkman is stubborn. Stubborn enough that Peter wishes he wanted to get better. Stubborn enough that if he did then he could halfway done right by now.

‘I don’t know how you deal with the man,’ the nurse says, shoving his equipment into his bag. ‘It’s like trying to get a bull to do physiotherapy for all the attention he pays.’

‘I don’t think he wants to get better.’

The nurse sighs, and rubs his face. ‘Yes, well. That’s one for the counsellor. He’s young enough and generally healthy enough that he could make almost a complete recovery. It’s just... frustrating. Has he had any visitors?’

‘No, not mentioned any family either,’ Peter says with a shrug. ‘Seems like it’s just him.’

‘Maybe he likes it that way,’ the nurse says quietly.



‘Do you like being solitary?’ Peter asks, as he washes Matt’s back.

‘Don’t think I remember the sensation,’ Matt says sourly.

Peter laughs and squeezes out the sponge. ‘Well the longer you keep sulking about physio and refusing to get better the longer we’ll all be hanging around being annoying.’

Matt half turns to look at Peter. ‘Yes. I like being solitary.’

Peter licks his lips as Matt continues to stare at him. ‘I didn’t mean to pry, Mr Parkman.’

‘For fuck’s sake it’s been weeks. You call me Matt. Just because you haven’t got any self-respect doesn’t mean you to have bow and scrape.’

‘I... what?’ Peter demands. ‘What’re you talking about?’

‘You clean up shit and you do chores,’ Matt says distastefully. ‘What kind of job is that for a grown-up?’

‘One that has a huge effect on people’s lives,’ Peter says coolly. ‘If I wasn’t here you’d be lying in bed, in your own waste, with bedsores the size of beach balls. If you hadn’t starved to death.’

‘It’s your fucking job! Do you want a medal?’

‘Yes, it’s my job,’ Peter says firmly. ‘One that you just implied was worthless. I help people, Mr Parkman. I help people at a really bad time of their lives feel that little bit better. I can’t wave a magic wand to get you walking but I can make you as comfortable as possible. I help people. I happen to think that’s pretty worthwhile.’

‘Constantly telling me that I can get better quicker, that’s worthwhile is it?’ Matt demands.

Peter pushes his hair back off his face. ‘Firstly, mentioning three times that attitude plays a part in recovery is not “constantly telling you to get better quicker” and secondly, you have a job here too, Mr Parkman. Your job is to get better as well as you can and you’re not doing it. Now it makes no difference to me if it takes you three months or three years to get better. But I figure it makes a difference to you and I’m here for your benefit, not mine.’

‘I never fucking asked you to be here!’

‘Well fortunately we don’t always have a choice in what’s good for us.’

‘Jesus Christ! Why the hell should I get better? They won’t. They’re fucking dead and nothing’s bringing them back.’

Peter sits back on his heels. ‘The other guys in your SWAT team?’

‘My team,’ Matt says turning away. ‘My responsibility.’

‘It’s not your fault they’re dead,’ Peter says quietly.

‘My team,’ Matt says again. ‘My responsibility.’



‘I’m sorry I yelled at you,’ Matt says later, as Peter is wheeling him to the bedroom.

‘That’s okay, Mr Parkman. This is a really stressful time for you.’

Matt looks up at the younger man. ‘You can call me Matt you know.’

‘You’re not a guy who encourages intimacy,’ Peter says mildly, as he moves Matt to the bed. ‘But sure, I’ll call you Matt.’

‘Sorry.’

‘For what?’

Matt shrugs and plays with the sheets. ‘For the not encouraging intimacy... thing. And being such a pain in the ass. You must be getting a bad back dealing with me.’

Peter tucks his hands in his pockets. ‘You’re SWAT right? All macho and stuff,’ he says with a smile. ‘Too macho to get all friendly with a CNA. Don’t worry about my back; I’ve had training in lifting techniques and stuff.’

‘Macho,’ Matt says quietly. ‘You saw the magazines in the bathroom, right?’

‘Sure. But, you know, Alexander the Great liked guys and he was pretty damn macho.’

Matt laughs a little at that. ‘Yeah? Didn’t know that.’

‘Oh sure. I saw the Colin Farrell movie so then I checked on Wikipedia and yeah, turns out Alexander had a really long term thing with his best pal.’ Peter shrugs. ‘I’m a sucker for Colin Farrell. He’s in my imaginary harem along with George Clooney and Denzel Washington.’

Matt purses his lips. ‘Are you making fun of me?’

‘No,’ Peter says gently. ‘I apologise if I was inappropriate but I wasn’t making fun or even joking.’

‘I don’t...’ Matt shrugs and looks away. ‘I don’t get out much. Obviously now I don’t get out much. Even before though I didn’t. Not a club person. Not likely to meet anyone at work either.’

‘Meeting people is difficult,’ Peter agrees. ‘There’s a lot of stupid unrealistic expectations around too.’

‘Yeah.’

‘I’ll see you tomorrow then, Matt.’

‘Have a good evening, Peter.’



To celebrate Matt managing his first few steps with crutches, they have a Chinese takeout from a nearby restaurant while watching Alexander.

‘Why is he Irish?’ Matt asks.

‘I guess because they wanted Colin Farrell to use his own accent,’ Peter suggests. ‘I love his accent. I think it’s the reason I like him.’

Matt shrugs. ‘He’s cute when he’s not got the weird blond hair going on.’

‘Yeah... he’s not my usual type though, I normally prefer older guys.’

Matt raises his eyebrows. ‘I thought everyone liked guys under thirty,’ he says dryly. ‘Seems like that in every chat room. If you’re over thirty you might as well be dead.’

Peter reaches over to steal one of Matt’s noodles. ‘That’s what you getting trying to meet guys in chat rooms.’

‘A completely honest response?’ Matt asks tartly.

‘Assholes too self absorbed to realise how hypocritical they are. Do you like guys over thirty?’

‘Are you calling me an asshole?’ Matt laughs. ‘A hypocritical asshole?’

‘If the asshole fits!’

Matt takes a sip of his alcohol-free beer and shakes his head. ‘I don’t have a type. I don’t meet many guys I could have any kind of a relationship with. I’ve had... you know, crushes from time to time. Never on anyone in my team, thank God! That could be a serious problem. I’ve liked guys my age, not too many older than me. Plenty over thirty though. Doesn’t seem they’d like me though.’ He salutes with his can. ‘Can’t walk, can’t piss without assistance, and revolting sexually, here’s to being me.’

‘That’s a crock,’ Peter says mildly. ‘You can’t assume no guy is going to want you because you’re over thirty. Or even because you’re currently laid up.’

‘Oh great, I can put a classified in the paper looking for some weirdo with a fetish for older crippled guys,’ Matt snorts. ‘I could be the world’s least successful male hooker.’

‘You are such a downer!’ Peter laughs. ‘I think you want to be miserable and lonely.’

Matt finishes his drink and puts the can aside. ‘I’m being realistic. Peter, you’re a cute kid and you probably can walk into any club you want and have men queuing up, particularly since older men seem to be your thing. But I’m not you. I’m not cute, I’m not young, and I don’t know how to meet people, let alone talk to them. The whole Hollywood everyone-paired-up happy ending thing isn’t for everyone. Yeah, in an ideal world I’d meet some great guy and we’d be perfectly matched and everything. But it’s not an ideal world. Not getting pensioned out of the police will make me happy. Anything else is unrealistic.’

Peter shakes his head. ‘It’s not going to happen if you don’t even try.’

Matt rubs his face. ‘I’m nearly forty, Peter. I’m too old, too fat, and my idea of fun is watching a movie. I might not have a job to go back to and I might end up needing to walk with a stick. I don’t meet many people and the ones I do meet don’t show any interest. What do you want me to do? Waste my life getting hurt over and over chasing after some dream that’s never going to happen?’

‘You don’t make it easy for people to get to know you,’ Peter says. ‘It took me a good while and I’m here every day.’

‘Look,’ Matt says, pointing at the screen. ‘One of your harem is cheating on you with some other guy.’

‘Asshole.’



‘What are you doing?’ Matt asks, hobbling around the apartment after Peter.

‘Putting up decorations, what does it look like? Sit down Matt, you’re going to tire yourself out.’

‘Peter, I’m not six,’ Matt protests, as he sinks down onto the sofa. ‘I don’t have kids, so what’s with the Christmas decorations?’

‘Duh, it’s nearly Christmas. What do you want for Christmas dinner?’

‘There is nothing more miserable than sitting here alone with decorations up, eating turkey by myself, and pulling a single cracker,’ Matt says with a snort. ‘Trust me. I’ll get a pizza.’

‘Oh nice! And there I thought we’d be having Christmas dinner together,’ Peter says, turning around. ‘What I’m not invited?’

‘I thought you’d want to be with your family,’ Matt says gently.

‘Pft, my mom’s on a cruise and Christmas dinner with my brother is just... painful, man. He’s screwing around, she knows it, but they’re staying together for his career.’ Peter waves a hand. ‘Seriously, Matt, there is no fun to be had there.’

‘And there would be fun here?’ Matt asks, reddening.

‘We have fun now you’re not such a cranky pants.’

‘Besides don’t you want to... make a clean break? You’re being reassigned soon,’ Matt says awkwardly.

Peter swipes something from the bag of decorations and bounces over to Matt. ‘Yeah I am. Which means I get to do this.’ He holds up a swig of mistletoe.

‘Aww come on, Peter, don’t do that.’

‘Don’t do what?’ Peter asks, stiffening.

Matt sighs and shakes his head. ‘Don’t go giving me some patronising kiss. We both know I like you. Let’s just carry on pretending I don’t. Okay?’

‘I didn’t know,’ Peter says quietly. ‘You have a funny way of showing it.’

‘Shit.’ Matt rubs his face. ‘So why are you waving mistletoe around?’

Peter leans down and kisses him. ‘Because I like you.’

‘Seriously?’

‘Oh my God! You are most difficult guy in the world to woo!’ Peter says, throwing his hands in the air. ‘Yes, really! Geez! I’m going to decorate the rest of the apartment,’ he says, scowling playfully at Matt.

‘Peter?’

‘What?’

Matt shrugs. ‘Do you want to come to Christmas dinner?’

‘Yeah.’ Peter perches the mistletoe over the door. ‘I do.’

The End