Viggo's Break - Chapter 4.2 - Feverish (seven years ago-now)

Viggo, a disgraced cop, escaped jail but he's been wounded in the process and he is delirious.

To know more, read Chapter 4.1.

Seven years ago

Viggo dreamed of waking up in a hospital room. The bed felt abrasively clean. Harsh light burnt through his eyelids. The smell of disinfectant filled his nostrils. He blinked at the false ceiling. His last memory was of getting shot – no, of passing out in the ambulance.

Someone's hand clutched his. Silky white, unblemished fingers. Perfectly manicured nails. He knew that hand. A smile pulled at his lips before he had truly identified it. Angela. The lure of her beauty was enough motivation to turn his head and gawk at her face.

She was sitting at his bedside. Long, black, straight hair. Evenly-spaced, porcelain-white teeth. Ivory skin. He couldn't get used to the sheer perfection of her, every feature a work of art, female, patrician and utterly flawless. Not even those slate-colored eyes spoiled the balance of her face. He had always believed such beauty belonged to masterpieces. On a living and breathing human being, it came as a perpetual shock.

“Did you see that truck?” he asked.

She burst out laughing, then pressed a palm to her mouth, glaring reproachfully at him. He grinned. He loved that he could always slip under her iron guard and tease laughter out of her.

“I was terrified, you, idiot…”

“Sorry, hon.”

“No, you're not,” she said, shaking her head, half a smile on those soft pink lips. “You would do it again in a heartbeat.”

“I would do it again in a heartbeat,” he admitted. “But I'm sorry I scared you.”

Her eyes took that slightly lighter shade of gray, the one he called 'Angela's melting color'. She pressed a kiss to his mouth. She had intended to keep it short and light, he knew, but he used his one good arm to draw her closer, kneading her nape and coaxing a much hotter reaction from her.

When she finally drew back, they were both out of breath.

“I should scare you more often if that’s what I get.”

Her face froze, caught in a mixture of amusement and annoyance. Her eyes were scowling, her mouth was smiling. “Don't even joke about it.”

He…

***

Nowadays

Viggo jerked awake, barely keeping the scream in. He was lying in a cold bath. Porcelain, obviously. He was freezing. He wasn't wearing a shirt or socks and he was so damn cold. And that glaring light…He braved it to take in his surroundings – and Nyssa standing above him. He stopped growling. She probably had a reason to put him through torture. For her sake, he hoped she did.

“What…the…hell…” he panted.

His voice startled her. Whatever she was doing, she slipped, and it stung something fierce. He let out a ragged breath, and she winced.

“Sorry.” She sounded exhausted. “I…You've got a pretty ugly wound and it's festering. I need to…”

“Argh.” The air wheezed out of his mouth. “Just empty it.”

He had gone through worse. He gritted his teeth until she dabbed gauze drenched in alcohol on the wound. It packed a bite but, at least, the ordeal was over. She bandaged his arm with quick efficiency.

“Viggo?” she squealed.

He could hear that something bothered her. What? His tone? The pain? His reaction to it? Because he couldn't help it, he was getting hard. Had she noticed? Did he disgust her? Was she scared? Not like he was going to jump her, he thought resentfully. It had nothing to do with her, really. It was the pain. Wasn't that messed-up?

Eight years as a cop in jail.

He told himself that he had lost count, but he could still feel everything in his bones. Eight years. Ninety-eight hospitalizations. Five concussions. Four broken arms. Three broken legs. Fourteen fractured fingers and toes. Eleven teeth replaced over the years.

His body didn’t differentiate between pain and pleasure anymore. He pushed through the pain, and shameful warmth spread down to his toes. She didn't have anything to worry about. He made a point of letting those erections go to waste.

“Hm?” he grunted defiantly when he couldn't decipher the look on her face.

“You’ve got a cut on your face too.”

He breathed in and out, braced himself. Oh, that was going to be a bitch.

“Do it, then,” he rasped. “Quickly.”

“Close your eyes.”

He did it without hesitation. She bathed his face with a cold wet towel. She was very gentle, very careful, and it felt incredible. His face was insensitive around the wound, it promised to leave a terrible bruise. He jumped when she stroked his cheek, trailed down his unbroken nose, along the seam of his lips.

“I think you need stitches.”

“I don't care about being pretty.”

She laughed. It surprised him. Not so much that she would laugh, because she did it often enough. Socially, if not out of real pleasure. But that he could hear a thread of honest to goodness happiness in her voice, “You're going to look like a pirate.”

“Just put the dressings on tight,” he snapped.

“It's going to hurt.”

“Hurt away.”

She didn't. Not right away. He sensed her retreat and got pissed off thinking that she was being such a coward. Then, her feet slapped, slapped the tile again. She pushed a bottle in his hand. Minibar-sized. But he heard a distinctive tling-tling-tling and he knew there were more to come.

“Drink. It's scotch. Your favorite.”

Of course, she remembered that – she had tracked down his fucking watch. He hadn't drunk alcohol since before his arrest. Eight years. Big as he was, he probably didn't have much tolerance left.

“I don't need…”

“I do,” she replied drily.

Bossy, he thought, amused. He downed the bottle of scotch. It was terrible. Minibar-issue. She took the empty bottle from him and started working his gash. He couldn't tell what she was doing at first, then she gasped with him when she brought the edges of the wound together.

“Viggo…”

“Keep going.”

She swore at him. Viciously. Enthusiastically. But she didn’t stop again. It burnt, ached, then she was done. He felt better. Drained, but better. Even his damn erection had eased up. He was about ready to crash. Nyssa handed him another bottle and he emptied it without prompting, this time.

“You're dirty,” Nyssa told him. “Do you want me to wash you?”

God, yes.

His body, his face, everything quivered at the idea. She laughed again, still light but a lot quieter. Was she embarrassed? He didn't bother to open his eyes and check. He wanted to enjoy this moment. He just wanted to enjoy every exquisite second.

And damn if he didn't have the greatest time ever…

They went through a rough patch when she pulled off his pants, but she managed. She turned on the water. At first, she made sure the rush only hit his feet. He felt it slowly warming up.

“Is that okay?”

“Great.”

Nyssa handled the hose like a pro and avoided his bandages. He craned his neck so she could shampoo his hair. It was paradise. He actually fainted from the pleasure of her lathering soap all over his body. He came to again when she rinsed him clean with a slightly colder spray.

“Let's get you in bed.”

Bliss had left him positively spineless, but he complied. All things considered, it was the easy way out with the kid. She got him vertical again, then walking.

The bedroom next door smelled of polyester and pine-scented floor-cleaner. Motel-room. Honeymoon suite. The bed was big enough to accommodate an orgy and looked too high-quality for a roadside motel. The drapes were drawn. Nyssa had opened the double bed. She eased him under the covers. The mattress was so soft it was like floating on a cloud.

He tried to speak. He was too exhausted for articulate speech, but the hotel-room had never been part of the plan.

Nyssa smiled. “Sleep.”

She pushed him back against his pillow. He was too weak to resist, which seemed like sign enough that he should obey. He never got to make that decision, he went free-falling into unconsciousness before his head touched the pillow.

***

Seven years ago

Viggo did know whom or what to blame for his persistent headache anymore. On the first day, it had been that damn sticky pillow's fault. Angela had brought his own that evening. It had been relief for about two hours before the nagging pain came back. He had found a new target in the never-ending ballet of colleagues, friends and family, and sent them scurrying off.

No relief whatsoever.

He had found another excuse on the fourth day. He had attributed the headache to the constant comings and goings of the nurses. He had been so odious that they had shut him in his room for the next twenty-four hours until he was ready to crawl up the walls, sick with cabin-fever.

His door was ajar, now. Angela had left it that way when she had left for work. He had a sneaky suspicion that she had been escaping.

“Permission to enter?”

He glanced up at the playful words. Nyssa Malik stood in the door, all relaxed and summery. She was wearing white and bright yellow cotton that accentuated her dark tan. She glowed with health. And she was grinning, which was adding insult to injury. Not only was she mobile when he was bed-ridden, but she radiated joie de vivre.

He scowled and grumbled, “It's a free country.”

Her eyebrows rose and rose and rose up her forehead. She stepped in, shut the door behind her and opened the window – never asking for his permission. A nice summery breeze blew in, warm and soft on his face. It dispelled the nasty smell of antiseptics.

“Geez, Carlsen, don't overdo it with the flowers and welcome banderoles,” she said, pulling a chair closer to the bed. “You'll make me blush.”

A faint smile pulled at his lips. She was so completely…unfazed.

“Sorry,” he apologized, a little abashed now.

“Don't sweat it. I've been forewarned.”

Her smile was downright mischievous.

“Forewarned?” he repeated.

“Apparently, a bad-tempered grizzly bear took up residence in your hospital room.”

Damn.

“Angela?” he asked, just to make sure.

“Russ, actually, but Angela said something to that effect as well.”

“I guess she needed a breather. Is that why you're finally visiting?”

“Nah,” she drawled. “Vacation days. I'd have come earlier but I was down in Austin.”

“Damn. I forgot.”

She made a vague you-are-forgiven gesture. He thought about asking about her vacation, but he didn’t do small-talk. They sat together in companionable silence. Nyssa seemed happy to hum to herself and watch his TV. When it started getting on his nerves, he turned it off and she gave him a sarcastic look.

“Spill,” she said.

“What?”

“Just tell me. What got a bee up your ass?”

“Ah,” he grunted.

He lifted a hand to his temple, now frankly ashamed. He was taking his annoyance out on her, and she was just weathering the storm, head tilted to the side, waiting for him to get over his snit. He looked away.

“I don't know,” he grumbled. “It’s being stuck in bed like that, it’s driving me crazy.”

“Why are you staying in bed?”

He pondered that. No one had actually…He had just assumed…

She snickered in her hand, then, smiling more compassionately, she patted his shoulder. “Come on. Let's get you out of here, big guy.”

It appealed to him. He helped himself to his feet with his hospital pole – he probably wouldn’t have made it without Nyssa. She pulled a lot more than her weigh, then she cheered, grinning, sweaty and all, “We did it!”

“Yes, we did,” he confirmed, his mood much improved already. “You're very good at this.”

She laughed. She fit nicely under his arm.

“Are we taking a walk in the garden?” she asked. “Or just down the hall?”

“Down the hall. Let's not get crazy.” But he felt better with every step they took. He didn’t want to turn around at the end of the hall. “On second thought, maybe we can make it to the garden.”

They did. It smelled of summer in San Francisco. Pollution. Ocean. Heat. The hospital's garden was a mosaic of so many different flowers, so many vivid colors. Sunlight beat down on his nape. Nyssa led him to a stone bench and they sat together in the shade. Once again, their silence was a comfortable one. His mood was contemplative now.

“I'm itching,” he admitted. “Not from inaction.”

She pressed her shoulder to his, gently. “What's wrong, then?”

He bowed his head. “I'm in pain and scared. My shoulder hurts and the docs won't let me get started on my physical therapy.”

She leaned forward and to the side to peer into his eyes, an intent frown darkening his brow. “But they say you'll recover completely, don’t they?”

He sighed. “You don't understand, Malik. I'm a cop. I need to be in good physical condition to work in the field. If I lose my dominant arm…If I can’t shoot, I’m stuck behind a desk.” He stopped, gritting his teeth. “Disabled and useless!”

She winced. “That's harsh.”

He rolled his eyes. “Come on. Don't get PC on me. You know what I mean.”

“Better than you do, maybe.” She bent and rolled up her pant-leg. He froze. Her leg was a mangled mess of red to purple scar-tissue and tiny stretches of healthy pink skin. “Car-accident when I was twelve,” she explained matter-of-factually.

“I never noticed.”

She unrolled her pant-leg, careful not to meet his eyes. “I work hard to make sure people don't. I won't ever completely recover, but I don't need physical therapy anymore. I've got my routine now. I can go through it on my own. But, some days, it feels like I'm walking on a loaf of dead meat.”

“I never knew,” he marveled, truly in awe of her determination.

“Well,” she started.

She faltered, blushed, swinging her legs back and forth like a guilty kid.

“Can't you take a compliment, Malik?” he teased. She ducked her head lower. Impulsively, he kissed the top of her head. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.” She leaned closer. “Let go of the useless worry, focus on the things you can change – like eating right, sleeping right and, then, rehab. You’re making yourself sick over nothing.”

“The things I can change?” He whistled. “Someone has been going to meetings.”

She grinned. “I can take advice too.”

***

Nowadays

Viggo wasn’t prepared to wake up naked in a real bed with a woman pressed against him. Eight years of sleeping in a hard, uncomfortable bunk bed, eight years of celibacy…He just kept his eyes closed for a moment, enjoying it – fixating on the female body, on the female bits he could make out. A breast. A small, plump breast was squashed against his flank. An arm laid across his chest, a naked leg twined with his. His shoulder cushioned a flagrant head.

His body had gotten way ahead of him – he was pitching an impressive tent under the bed sheet. He marshaled all the blood left in the upper regions to try for some rational thinking.

He opened his eyes.

Blond. The head on his shoulder was blond. That was wrong. So was his morning wood. With a gentleness that felt alien to his nature, he gathered one pointy chin in his hand – he had trouble moving that arm, it was squashed in thick bandages – and he studied Nyssa’s face.

It was pretty damn gaunt – bruised eyes, hollow cheeks, unhappy lines at the corners of her mouth and eyes. He had seen her slowly emaciating, wasting away. He seemed to remember her waking him up regularly all through the night. She had obviously fallen asleep at some point – tired and scared even in her sleep. That hurt.

She was only wearing underwear and a pink shirt. It was riding up and baring her mid-riff. It wasn't half as sexy as it should have been. She was too skinny now. He could see the outlines of her bones under the skin of her arms and legs. He could count her ribs. Her elbows and knees were so pointy they could gouge out an eye.

“What the hell…”

Her right thigh was entirely black. He let go of her face and rolled her on her back, careful not to wake her up. His mood turned dark, angry. She had bruises all over. Her collarbone was an ungainly shade of green, blue ringed her ankles and wrists. Everywhere he could see, he noticed purplish hand-prints and red welts that reminded him of a whip.

He felt like he had been bathed in ice-cold water again. Nyssa had unwittingly brought Russ in bed with Viggo. It wasn't any place any of them wanted to go, not even in mind.

He slipped out of bed, tucked her in. An odd urge, that.

His erection was holding on. It would probably hold on for months, if only for the sensory pleasure of being free. But he didn't want Nyssa to see it when she woke up, to get confused, flustered. They had serious matters to discuss.

He couldn't bring himself to lock the bathroom door.

He didn't feel like shit anymore. He still looked it. His fever had gone down, but his face and arm were all but mummified. He had a hard time taking his shower thus trussed-up. It helped that the bathroom sported an old-fashioned bath and curtain combo. He froze when he heard someone come in. Even knowing that it was probably Nyssa, his body tautened all over. He only relaxed when she left the room again.

He relaxed and looked down at the scarlet-red tip of a huge boner.

“Well, what to do with you, buddy?”

He hesitated, sighed, then closed a hand around his penis. Freedom felt very much like prison in this one instance.

To find out what Russ is up to, read Chapter 5.