When Chance found that he couldn't swallow, he panicked a little. The sensation wasn't of his throat being crushed, rather that it was being held open by something plastic and slightly too large.

"He's coming round…"

Somewhere deep in the fog of his mind, he realised that he must be in a hospital and the cause of the odd sensation in his throat was helping him breathe.

He forced himself to relax, and sank back into the fog.

He surfaced again later, unsure of how much time had passed.

"I need you to cough, Christopher!"

"It's Chance. Just Chance. No one calls him Christopher."

He recognised the second voice as Guerrero.

"Please cough for me, Mr Chance!"

He coughed, and there was an odd pulling, sliding sensation as the tube was removed, and then he could swallow again.

"Excellent."

He drifted a bit after that. Not quite conscious, but not quite asleep either, but he was dimly aware of the presence of someone at his bedside, and that he'd been propped up into a reclining position.

When the fog finally receded, he saw Guerrero watching him anxiously. Chance smiled.

"Hey," Guerrero said.

"Hey yourself," Chance tried to reply, surprised by how hoarse he sounded, and the way the words seemed to catch in his throat. He tried to cough, but that just made his throat sore.

Guerrero poured him a glass of water from the jug on the nightstand.

"Here. Drink it slowly."

Chance sipped at it, and the tepid water did help soothe away the urge to cough somewhat.

He handed the glass back to Guerrero, and as he did, he noticed his t-shirt for the first time and frowned.

I must be on the good stuff, he thought, 'cause there's no way Guerrero is really wearing a t-shirt with a unicorn on it.

"What's wrong?" Guerrero asked, concerned.

Chance pointed to his chest and said: "Unicorn?"

Guerrero relaxed a little and rolled his eyes. "That would be Ames' idea of a joke. I needed fresh clothes 'cause people kept bleeding over the last lot."

Chance grinned, and his shoulders shook with the effort of trying not to laugh and aggravate his throat further. Unfortunately the movement made him hurt everywhere else instead. He was fairly sure that the pain in his ribs and shoulder, although unpleasant, was mainly just bruising, but he had no idea what kind of shape his back was in. He reasoned that it couldn't be too bad if the doctors had been happy for him to lie flat on his back, but as the drugs wore off the skin felt stretched too tight and sore.

"My back…"

"Yeah, Grimes messed it up pretty bad."

"How bad?"

"Well, you remember the ngulu blade?"

Chance winced. "Yeah."

"Well, it's nothing like that bad, so don't be a baby about a few stitches and some bruising."

Again Chance struggled not to laugh, and it made his ribs hurt and pulled at the stitches in his back. He flinched.

"Shit! Sorry, I didn't mean-"

"Yeah, you did. But it's okay. I'll live."

They sat in silence for a while.

"You nearly didn't," Guerrero said. "Live, I mean. It was a close call."

"Yeah. Some of it's still a bit hazy, but I remember…" Chance fell silent for a moment. "I remember seeing you walk into the garage."

"I'm sorry I didn't get there sooner."

"Me too," Chance said, smiling. "But I knew you'd come through for me. You always do."

Guerrero gave an amused grunt.

"What?" Chance asked.

"Just something Winston said when you were out for the count."

Chance tried to reach for the water at his bedside, but found that twisting his body was a very bad idea. Guerrero passed him the glass.

"Take it easy. You're gonna have to rest up for a bit. How's your throat?"

"Sore," Chance admitted, after he'd emptied the glass.

"All this talking can't be helping."

"So shut up then!"

The hospital staff were a little surprised just how quickly Chance bounced back once the sedatives had left his system. It wasn't unusual for someone who'd had a near-death experience to wake up with a renewed lust for life, but once the initial euphoria had passed, most patients would settle down once they had to face the reality of forced inactivity, pain management and boredom. Chance's good mood, however, was irrepressible

He accepted the pain meds that were given to him, but there was none of the usual pleading for stronger drugs, even when it was obvious that he was still in a lot of discomfort. He let doctors run their tests and perform their exams, but when he was offered the opportunity to speak to a psychologist (standard procedure in cases of strangulation or hanging) he politely but firmly declined.

His companion was far less accommodating, grumbling and glaring at anyone who dared enter the room and disturb the marathon poker game that he'd roped an orderly and one of the nurses into playing to keep his friend entertained. It didn't seem to matter how many times the Head Nurse confiscated the cards and threatened to kick the man in the ludicrous t-shirt out, Chance would give her a sorrowful look and charm her into letting him stay. She knew she was being played, but it was hard to resist when she knew she would be rewarded with a pulse-raising smile, complete with dimples, when she caved.

The poker game only came to an end in the evening, when Chance's other visitors returned.

"What the hell doing you think you're playing at, Guerrero?" Winston demanded, once he'd kicked the nurse and the orderly out of Chance's room. "Chance is supposed to be resting!"

"It's fine. Stop making such a fuss," Chance insisted.

"You nearly died! I think that merits a fuss!"

"But I didn't though. Look, still here!" Chance gave him a friendly little wave to prove his point.

Winston huffed and scowled at him.

"Aren't ya glad to see me?" Chance teased.

Winston sighed. "Yes, I'm glad to see you. You had us all worried."

"Not me," Ames chipped in. "I knew you were gonna be okay."

Guerrero grunted. "Says the girl who thought Chance was in a coma."

"Yeah, but I knew he was going to wake up!"

"And you didn't see the state him when we found him in that garage," Winston pointed out.

"We?" Guerrero said, raising a cynical eyebrow.

"Okay, when Guerrero found him."

Chance smiled and closed his eyes. He could feel the last lot of painkillers kicking in and they were making him drowsy. He fell asleep to the comforting sounds of his friends bickering with each other, feeling exhausted and sore, but content.