Blink

Home

Going home seems like it should be fantastic. It takes a few days before even Scott's optimism thinks it's manageable and several more before the hospital agrees, but once it's decided he's excited and happy. He's so done with hospital food and hospital smell and hospital tubes and hospital life.

The reality is a tragic comedy.

First, there's the fact that someone leaked his expected discharge date. There's a bunch of fans with signs that read "Get Well Soon, Scott!" and "Everything Will Be Okay" and "Scott Hoying: Cracked Not Broken!" —that last one is marginally clever, although they clearly haven't seen his x-rays—in front of the hospital as they're preparing to leave.

It's sweet. It really is. Scott totally appreciates all the people supporting him and the sentiment behind them coming. It's just that being gracious and charming while being ushered through a crowd into a car while in substantial pain isn't something he feels up to accomplishing. One badly timed jostle and he'd be screaming and/or bursting into fucking tears and making some poor teenage fan feel horrible for the rest of his, her, or their natural life.

Also there are a few paps slinking around and Scott's vain enough not to want to be spread across a bunch of tabloids looking like this.

So they're whisking him out by wheelchair through a back entrance and into an unmarked van. He kinda feels like a kidnapping victim, except the security team is helping rather than hurting and the drugs slowing his response time and the metal frame restraining his shoulder are all for his own good.

He still hates it.

Second, Mitch and the rest of PTX aren't there. They've each visited him a lot over the past week, along with most of the crew and all sorts of other friends. They've been great at providing much needed entertainment, comfort, illicit snacks, and the not-so-occasional sanity check. But for the trip home it was deemed enough of a security issue dealing with Scott alone. He's never felt quite so much like a celebrity and it well and truly sucks.

He understands, of course. He's been striving for success his whole life and this is part of the price that comes with it. It's just that right now he'd happily trade any fame he'll ever have for the comfort of Mitch helping him through this. Or Kevin. Kev's excellent at providing comfort and Scott's been relying on his quiet wisdom and clearer perspective quite a bit these last few days.

Kevin also happens to be big enough to fucking lean on, which would be really, really nice right now because the three steps from the wheelchair and up into the van nearly kill Scott and that's with both of his parents helping.

Third, despite having no conscious memory of the accident, Scott's heart rate spikes as soon as the van's engine starts. By the time they pull out of the hospital campus, he's clutching his mother's hand like he'll fall off a cliff if he lets go and by the fourth intersection, he's breathing only because his father is counting out commands. Every inadequately repaired pothole sends a jolt of pain through him and the one time the poor driver—he can't even focus long enough to tell who is driving—has to brake suddenly, Scott almost passes out. The ride feels like it will never end. Yeah, they've taken a bit of a winding route to make sure no one is following them, but it's not enough of a detour that it should feel longer than his last three flights to Asia combined.

Fourth, Scott's been daydreaming about snuggling in bed with Mitch. More than snuggling has also crossed his mind, of course, but he's well aware nothing too interesting will be happening on that front for some time. But he's really been looking forward to them cuddling together in his big comfortable bed.

Which is why when he's half-carried into his room by his father because he's so exhausted he can barely put one foot in front of the other and his mom and all three Grassis are hovering around in concern, he's stupidly surprised that his big, comfortable, beautiful bed has been shoved over towards the wall to make room for a big, comfortable, ugly-as-fuck lazy boy recliner.

He stops a foot past the doorway and just stares at it.

It's... it's blue.

"You okay, Scott?" his mom asks.

"Yeah." Yeah, he's fine. Apart from the fact that his body barely works and also he's a complete idiot.

Seriously, for someone who did so well in school he can be the dumbest person alive. He's been propped sitting almost fully upright the entire time he spent in the hospital. He even knows from experimenting with the bed adjustment doohickey—he got bored fast once he could stay awake for longer than half an hour at a time—that reclining too far back is downright agonizing. He just hadn't made the connection between being unable to lie down in a hospital bed and being unable to lie down in his own. Which, yeah. Did he honestly think being discharged would magically fix that particular problem? It's a good thing Mitch and/or their parents have foresight because God knows how badly tonight would have gone if Scott was the one planning things.

The recliner is still ugly as fuck, though. And it's got an honest-to-God remote control. His dad presses a button and the whole thing slowly stands up until it's fully upright and almost as tall as Nel.

Scott's still staring at it.

It's like a horribly upholstered robot.

An ugly-as-fuck synthetically upholstered blue robot chair thing.

"The fact that I allowed that into my house should prove I love you, Samantha," Mitch says. He's laughing at Scott. Well, technically he's just smirking, but Scott can tell he's laughing his fucking ass off inside his head.

Still, he has a solid point. For Mitch, consenting to be anywhere in the vicinity of this thing is practically a marriage proposal.

Scott lets his dad help him lean—not sit, lean—into the recliner, and then the thing very slowly and carefully lowers back down until Scott looks like he's sitting in a regular ugly-as-fuck chair. It seems to take fifty years to accomplish, which is fine because it means Scott's now 75 and the recliner is a perfectly age-appropriate lifestyle choice.

Sarcasm aside, it hurts a lot less than getting into the seat of the car had, so there's that. He's trying to imagine the bewilderment on his own face.

His dad hands him the remote and Scott tentatively tests it, reclining the back just slightly and then raising the leg rest most of the way up. Blue robot chair thing is smooth, he has to give it that.

What even is his life right now?

Once he and the blue monstrosity are settled, his mom tucks a ridiculous number of blankets in around him. Mike futzes with his laptop on a folding table that's been set up nearby so it's angled perfectly for an invalid's viewing pleasure. And Nel promptly brings him a lap tray with berries, grapes, whole grain crackers, orange juice, and some yogurt with fucking flaxseed sprinkled on top.

Thank you, nurse giving the discharge lecture on opioid use, for letting everyone know far more about his digestive health requirements than he ever dreamed or desired.

Scott doesn't know whether to laugh or cry. Mitch, being the asshole that he is, has clearly decided laughing is the way to go. He's not even trying to hide it anymore.

Scott throws a grape at him. It misses, because it's not like he can aim properly what with the robot chair of death and the opioids and all the metal scaffolding. Trying makes him feel better anyway.

Mitch just laughs harder. Eventually, he pauses long enough to bend down—at least one of them is moving better—and give Scott a quasi-repentant kiss, but he still grins every time all four parents jump up to help whenever Scott so much as twitches.

It's going to be a long, long twelve months.

Blink.