Chapter Text
The first thing Angel remembers is lipstick smeared across long teeth.
"Well hello there!" A nurse chirps, coppery orange lipstick smudged along her teeth. "Glad of you to join us, Mr. Torres! You've been asleep for a few days now."
"What–?"
"So many stitches," she prattles on, flipping through his chart. "Mr. Haywood told us you fell into a barbed wire fence? Tsk, tsk."
"Why was I asleep?" Angel asks. His throat feels like he swallowed all the dust in the gulch.
"Stitches," the nurse repeats. "We had to sedate you, so you wouldn't itch."
His skin feels too tight, like it's been pulled taut and sewn together. He feels the thread of countless stitches snag against his hospital gown. His hands are bandaged, some fingers wrapped awkwardly to cover his wounds.
"Are they here?" Angel asks. He sounds sad and desperate but he wants to cry.
They couldn't have left me, he thinks. They didn't leave me after all this, did they?
"Who?"
"OJ a-and Em-Emerald."
"Mr. Haywood is downstairs," the nurse explains, her eyes narrowing suspiciously. "And Ms. Haywood is at her ranch, having her fourth press conference of the day."
"Press conference?"
"Something happened out at that ranch," she says, slightly nervous. "The same time Mr. Haywood tells us you fell into that fence."
She doesn't press. She asks if he'd like apple juice, or maybe some jello. She does not recommend the lime but says the pineapple is passable.
"Just the juice," Angel says.
Please tell him I'm okay.
"And Mr. Haywood?" she offers.
Please.
"Please."
She comes back 30 minutes later, a tray loaded with drinks and light snacks and OJ at her heels.
"You've still got a few days with us," she tells Angel, moving his gown to check his wounds. "And I figured you could both use something to eat."
She turns to OJ. "Would you mind stepping outside for a moment? Just for privacy."
OJ, silent as ever, nods and heads outside the door, closing it quietly.
Why did you–?
"Lift," she orders, tugging up the hem of his hospital gown. Angel groans, taking in his bruises and lack of underwear. "I figured it was best to send your friend outside for this," she says tactfully as she inspects the stitches along his waist and lower stomach.
Something flashes in Angel's mind– rough hands, warm breath, dark eyes– but he shoves it away and swallows thickly as she rights his gown.
"Thank you," he says. "For the food."
She smiles, still faint traces of copper on her teeth. "I'll go get your friend."
She gives OJ more directions than she gives Angel. Smart woman; OJ, even with his brace, limping and bruised, isn't the one who supposedly fell into a barbed wire fence.
OJ doesn't say much as he picks through the food the nurse brought them. No lime jello, but he picks up a cup of raspberry applesauce and a small bottle of juice and sits next to Angel's bedside.
"Didn't take you for an applesauce guy," Angel tries, wincing as he sits up.
"Love apples," OJ says. "Horses try to get them out of my pockets."
"How's, uh…"
"A mess," OJ says, sitting back in his chair. He fixates on the floor, avoiding Angel's eyes. "I've been working on fixing the house. Got contractors and stuff working to get everything back to normal. Em and I got the house cleaned off a few days ago. We've been sleeping in her RV, just waiting for you to wake up."
You didn't leave me.
"Nurse said something about press conferences?" Angel pushes.
OJ smiles a little, rolls his eyes but still avoids Angel's face.
His face is bruised, he knows. His left eye is swollen and he feels the snag of stitches along his temple. Shame flushes his cheeks; now is not the time for vanity.
"We got the Oprah Shot," OJ says with a proud smile. "And there's a lot of people trying to get our attention."
"Makes me uncomfortable," OJ continues. "I've been letting Em do all of it. She's smilin' and charmin' and milkin' it for every penny she can."
"How's the house?" Angel asks.
"Wish it was faster," OJ shrugs. "Em and I, we're close and all, but not close enough to live in that RV, you know?"
"Close quarters," Angel smiles.
OJ smiles back. Something warm and comfortable unfurls in Angel's chest. It spreads, puts butterflies in his stomach, heat between his thighs. He shifts slightly, trying to will things down.
OJ isn't looking. OJ is more interested in the child sized serving of applesauce he's finishing up. He licks the foil lid clean with a wide, flat tongue and Angel catches himself staring. He coughs, clears his throat, and busies himself trying to open a bottle of water.
"Shit!" he hisses as he presses too hard on a bandaged palm.
"Need help?"
Yes.
"I got it," Angel says dismissively. He tries again and drops the bottle when pain races up his arm. He's lucky it doesn't burst.
"Here," OJ half scolds as he picks up the bottle, opening it before loosely replacing the cap. "You want some jello too?"
"Pineapple?" Angel offers. He keeps his hands useless against the tray as OJ peels open the cup.
"I imagine you don't need spoonfed," OJ plays as he sits back down.
Another flash, Angel's nails clawed into the muscles of OJ's thighs as he swallows him down, the catch of callused fingers in Angel's hair as he gently pushes Angel down further on his–
"Thanks," Angel mumbles.
The silence isn't comfortable, but it's not terrible. Angel hurts, his whole body fucking aches and now he's not dead and OJ is humming absentmindedly and drumming his fingers on his thigh.
Admittedly, Angel originally had eyes for Em. Loud Em, bodacious Em, crop tops and cowboy boots, commanding a room with only a grin and a wink.
But they'd all been Ems, the girls he'd been with. Loud girls, beautiful girls, girls that made everyone in a room love them. And he loves Em, he really does, loves her easy laugh and her constant energy.
And there weren't always beautiful girls. Sometimes Angel would meet someone at a club, drugged and heated kisses in a bathroom or in an alley; Angel dropping to his knees to fumble and swallow as the club rat above him grunted his name and tugged his hair.
But OJ wasn't a skinny clubber, no blown out pupils or jittery hands. And it wasn't just Jean Jacket, Angel knew that. He didn't feel like he needed to repay OJ for rescuing him or keeping him safe.
It wasn't that OJ was taller than him, they're fairly close in height, but rather just…him. He'd seen OJ lift things with ease, things Angel struggled with. He watched the cords of muscles in OJ's forearms as he worked, pulling reins and keeping everyone alive. He wanted to coax the aged hoodie and worn t-shirt off OJ, watch his muscles flex and move as Angel watched him do the morning's work. Angel would be there, with coffee and kisses, distracting OJ with touches and promises.
And when the sun was high, the afternoon burning bright above them, they'd go back into the house, back upstairs to that guest room they gave him for the time being. OJ's hands would be rough, tugging at Angel's clothing. And Angel would gasp and groan, crying out loudly as OJ pulled him into his lap, pressing heated kisses against Angel's throat as Angel grinded, working his hips and rubbing against one of his thighs. After Angel came, when his body was loose and syrupy, OJ would push him into those worn blankets, pulling his ass into the air so he could–
"Jello that interesting?"
Angel jumped, nearly sending the tray clattering. "Uh–?"
"Just wanted to make sure you were doing okay," OJ continues. "How's…everything?"
Hurts.
"Hurts," Angel admits. "I didn't think it was that bad but the adrenaline and painkillers have worn off. I feel like I need to get out of bed."
OJ won't let him. Instead, OJ leaves the room to check with a nurse. The same nurse comes back and helps Angel out of bed. He's attached to an IV on a pole but wraps his hand around it delicately.
OJ does a few laps up and down the hallway with him. Angel is barefoot, gown wrapped tight around him in the hopes he doesn't flash anyone around him. They don't say much, OJ's hands are stuffed in his pockets and he keeps his cap pulled low. Angel's run out of things to say.
The nurse helps him back into bed and cleans up the tray before pushing it aside. It's late now and the sky darkens outside.
Angel's scared. The sky rumbles and he wants to bury himself in bed and cry until it passes. He wants to watch every single cloud outside and make sure they move.
"Em's on her way to get me," OJ says, eyeing the outside. "I'll be back tomorrow?"
Please don't go. Don't leave me. I'm scared.
"Please?" Angel pleads, trying not to sound desperate.
"Yeah," OJ says, voice catching in his throat. "I-I'll see you tomorrow."
Angel cries once he's alone. He's scared and overwhelmed. His body hurts and nobody will come to soothe him. The nurse's hands are too clinical; she may smile and be nice but there's no affection in her touch.
He wants OJ back. He wants OJ to check his stitches and OJ to kiss his swollen brow and OJ to fit into this shitty hospital bed with him and hold him close.
It's not a trauma bond. It's even more intense.
It's love.
His stitches come out the next afternoon. It's early still and Angel dozes as weak sunlight leaks in through his window.
He has his phone, dozens of texts from Em ranging from manic ramblings to bragging rights to well wishes and 'miss you's.
Only one from OJ– text me when you're awake.
Angel is awake for hours before he texts. He types, erases, and retypes a response a dozen times before a doctor comes in to see him.
"Barbed wire fence, eh?" She says with a playful smile. She's older, thick blonde hair and crinkles at the corners of her eyes. She reminds Angel more of a kindly librarian than a doctor.
"Long story," Angel says.
"And I bet it's got nothing to do with that story out of the Haywood ranch," she continues. She doesn't press further and her hands are steady as she removes the stitches from Angel's back, torso, and lower abdomen. She keeps up a constant chatter– "I got a son about your age" and "my wife says we need a third terrier now that our kids are out of the house"-- inane things that Angel half focuses on.
"Haven't seen your friend yet," his doctor offers as she works on his hands. "He was here for the few days we kept you sedated."
Angel's mind freezes. "What?"
"Oh yes," she continues, pulling thread out of his right hand. "He was in the waiting room, all day, every day. Kept bugging my nurse for updates and everything."
Angel feels himself flush pink. He feels like a schoolgirl, all giddy to see his crush. He wants to hold OJ's face in his hands, kiss him full on the mouth with all that adrenaline and haze of the first time you kiss someone new.
"We'll keep you for a few hours for observation," the doctor interrupts his thoughts. "But I don't see why you can't go home tonight."
Her smile is bright but Angel matches it with one brighter.