Visiting Hours: A TGSC Short

Hospital
Tokyo, Japan
July 2012

He wasn’t exactly sure what he remembered last.

It was either running in front of the kid or falling back on the floor – either way, there was a lot of adrenaline involved in what he did back at the bank. The remaining memories were like short bursts in his brain; Peters recalled running, recalled yelling, recalled talking in straight Japanese and asking for the people to be calm and for the criminals to surrender.

He then recalled a gun shoved hastily in the direction of a child cowering in a corner. Peters’ mind ticked and before he knew it, he was running and throwing himself in front of the child at the very last second.

Before he knew it, there were lights everywhere, screaming all over, and he swore he could feel some kind of feeling lodged in his stomach or somewhere near his ribs. He couldn’t remember. There was too much pain to even focus properly.

At the brink of falling into black, Peters briefly wondered if the kid was okay.

As his associates went nuts and attempted to rectify the situation, all the way back in HQ did Touta Matsuda receive reports. One of the agents who was a good friend of Peters stammered the news to him before running straight to where A was located. It took him a good amount of seconds to process the information before letting out a large curse, sprinting away and out of the building.

“Peters was shot when they were trying to round up the criminals at the bank. Don’t know how he is, they’re sending him to the hospital nearest – he’s bleeding everywhere, the poor chap, the others were panicking–”

The only thing Touta could process was how the goddamn moron might have forgotten to slide on his bulletproof wear that morning.

He ended up shoving through people and just running.

There was fear and there was panic – he wasn’t sure how his squad mate was doing, wasn’t sure how grave the injuries were, wasn’t sure if he was shot in the head or in the calf. For a moment, he realized that A, who he had left behind at HQ, would be just as distraught and panicked at the thought of one of her squad mates down.

However, it was too late to go back, he thought. Touta felt a small stab of guilt as he thought of A in a frenzy, but the time was for Peters and he had to check on the tall American goof who could charm his way though an interrogation.

He prayed that Peters was all right.

He couldn’t lose a squad mate, a friend – not again.

* * * * *

Peters felt like he was floating.

The whole time since he had passed out felt like a period of heavy floating. It was a weird feeling; sort of like gliding through the air while there was a gentle heaviness pushing him down. He didn’t know if it was gravity that was doing it, or if it was his mind fucking with him so that he’d be entertained as he went from bank to ambulance to hospital.

It wasn’t like those cheesy movies wherein he could be some kind of omniscient being who could creep on the living. Not quite. If anything, it was like he was in a deep, dark sleep although lacked the ability to dream.

A dreamless sleep – that’s what it felt like to him.

There was none of that bullshit which reflected his life in a span of seven minutes. If there was, he’d be freaking out. He couldn’t be dead – not yet. The man was only in his twenties; frankly, if he were dead, he’d riot to the gods and insist that they give him another chance to live.

But none of that came and Peters’ subconscious kept him calm.

He didn’t know that doctors were operating on him to take the bullet out nor did he know that the other two members of his squad were in a crazy. As he was on the operating table, Totua was speeding to the hospital and A was listening, eyes wide and face pale, as a co-worker reported to her what had happened at the bank.

Shock, horror, anger, fear.

Perhaps it had hit them just now what the repercussions of the job were.

Either way, he still remained mute to the world as professionals took the bullet out. They were commenting that he was lucky; no vital parts had been hit. When one of them asked how it happened, he was given an answer and merely gave a stunned shake of the head.

Thirty minutes through the procedure, Touta had arrived and asked about the condition of Peters. After minutes of explaining, showing his license and ID, he finally heard the story.

Touta understood the following:

They were trying to rectify the situation; one of the robbers lost his control and proceeded to aim at the child. Upon seeing, Peters instinctively jumped in the way, surprising the robber and making him shoot twice in self-defense. The two bullets struck him (and not the child) in the rib area and abdomen. At the moment, he was being operated on but it didn’t seem too damaging or fatal.

Numbly, he thanked the doctor and proceeded to wait.

You moron.

No – you brave, courageous moron.

Touta didn’t know how long he had been waiting until a nurse told him that it was all-good and that he could check. He was surprised that his legs didn’t give in; sitting for a long time made them a little numb and unfeeling, unused to motion.

When he entered the room, he expected sheepish Peters with a guilty smile and drinking his coffee ala Americano. But what greeted him was simply Peters resting, different monitors keeping track of him and an IV drip (most likely pain killers) attached to his arm.

“Would you like to stay?”

“I’ll see if he wakes,” Touta replied, and the nurse nodded before leaving. The door clicked – and he was left alone there with an unconscious squad mate and the other most likely in hysterics back at the building.

Touta waited but Peters stayed asleep.

Touta waited but Peters didn’t know.

Touta waited but Peters merely stayed shut down.

And Touta understood. For Christ’s sake, the man was shot.

Peters didn’t know that while he was unconscious and healing, the eldest member of their squad came to visit. He didn’t know that he merely watched the other, trying to assure himself that the other was still alive and that he merely needed to recuperate from his injuries. He didn’t know that Touta worried the hell out of himself on the way, emotionally and mentally embracing himself for the horrid truth and words like coma and dead thrown in his face.

(He also didn’t know that Touta was overreacting by the last part.)

He didn’t know that Touta was worried as fuck, didn’t know that the Japanese wasn’t ready to potentially lose a member of the squad and someone he considered a dear friend.

He didn’t really know much of those until the present; Touta was never the type to share about his fears and such with the squad. He, A and Mack suspected that Touta was the easily teary kind of person, to which the latter denied constantly.

Peters didn’t know that as his breaths evened and his data showed signs of improving, Touta merely sighed in relief, took out his phone with shaky hands, and texted A updates from time to time.

            Matsuda: He’s okay. He’s stable.

            Maxwell: I’m still coming for that piece of shit

            Matsuda: He’ll be here tomorrow, A, you need to rest –

            Maxwell: The asshole owes me for making me worry

            Matsuda: Please don’t kill Peters.

            Maxwell: I make no promises

Peters didn’t know that when A had arrived, Touta chose to leave. He knew that the two had personal issues to solve and that it would be best if A confronted them by then. A tried to make him stay but Touta shook his head, saying that he would visit the next day.

When Peters opened his eyes and groaned, Touta was already out the door. Immediately did A begin to fuss, and from outside, Touta felt immense relief that the six-foot tall American was very much alive.

You're alive.