The first aid room smells like antiseptic and Eliot's blood. I can still see the trail we left from the door to the bed, tiny red droplets that Hardison will meticulously clean later. Eliot lies on the cot, chest rising and falling too slowly for my liking, bandages visible beneath his hospital-style gown. The monitors beep softly in the corner—Hardison's addition, not hospital equipment.

I should be relieved. The worst is over. We got him out, got him patched up, and Sophie agreed to give us real time off this time. But the knot in my stomach won't loosen. Not when I remember how he collapsed last time, how he's been moving slower for months, how he hid this injury until he couldn't stand anymore.

Hardison dozes in the chair beside the bed, Eliot's hand still loosely grasped in his. They look peaceful like this, vulnerable in a way they never allow themselves to be during a job. I shouldn't disturb them.

Movement from the bed catches my eye. Eliot's fingers twitch against Hardison's palm. His eyelids flutter, then slowly open, squinting against the dim light.

I stand up, moving silently to the side of the bed. His gaze finds mine immediately, sharp despite the medication we gave him.