A/N - Lying still and immobile in a PT room, staring at ceiling tiles for an hour at a time trying to avoid neck surgery, this story came to entertain me. I probably make lots of errors in medical terminology and practices, but as long as no doctors are reading fanfiction (ha!), I should get away with it.

Waaay different than my usual stories. This is a drama, lots of thoughts and feelings. It is not as AU as it seems, believe it or not, and will connect back to Bleach eventually. OC only to help tell the story, they aren't taking the stage at all.

My first story without lemons! Do let me know if I cross any lines and I'll gladly alter story or more likely change the rating if that's appropriate. But other than kissing and some dirty thoughts, it's a pretty clean one. A few references to sex, not graphic.

Warnings - sometimes a boring amount of real life angst. M/F and M/M

Disclaimer - I don't own Bleach.

The air was still and oddly sharp, light dim and diffuse, sound distant and muted. A bland view, as flavorless as the rest of the environment. Black lashes, long and thick, were the most interesting feature visible as they fluttered, then faded as glazed eyes attempted to focus. Blurs of white and beige, faint lines between the two colors, nothing that stood out or made itself identifiable.

As eyes automatically blinked and tiredly struggled to gather enough detail to provide something, anything useful, an equally sluggish brain analyzed the unfamiliar images. Too little information, and the new sensations being reported added no clarity. Something was irritating, verging on painful but dulled like everything else. An attempt to look toward the irritant failed, the field of vision limited and attempts to move fruitless.

Sounds increased, either far away or oddly disconnected as if heard moments after the disturbance. A rhythmic beeping had increased in tempo, a voice perhaps was added, though distorted and unintelligible. Briefly, a face in the peripherals of vision, unclear and blurred like the featureless blobs of pale colors. Sensation, something unidentified lightly pressing close by. The irritation clearer, heat nearly burning and an ache underneath, but too elusive still to be labeled, only placed lower than eyes but otherwise . . ..

Another face, closer, more centered, slightly larger with more color but so unclear, so frustratingly foreign. Voice louder, deeper, more able to penetrate the rushing sound only now quieting enough to separate from other stimuli. It was all so much static.

". . . hear me . . . alright . . . we . . . you . . ."

Too much effort for too little reward, the first clear thought surfacing. Lashes fell as eyes slid closed.

ooooooooooOOOOOOOOOOoooooooooo

Ayane had been a nurse for more than 26 years now. She had done her fair share of dirty work early in her career, before earning the respect and the degree needed to be where she is now. She mostly handles surgery aftercare, and has a sizable team of nurses under her supervision. Trauma cases were the ones she dreaded. It wasn't just the horrible and frightening injuries. Patients who came in for a scheduled surgery were so much easier to handle. You never knew what you'd be dealing with when a trauma case woke up.

She expected the worst with this one, patient 310. He looked like trouble, with that white hair and the horrid scars. This one wasn't even supposed to wake up for two more days, at least. She'd been shocked when she turned to check why the heart monitor was suddenly reading an elevated pulse and found barely opened eyes, a throat struggling to swallow, and a brow tightening in pain or effort. When she moved closer the patient tried to look at her, and she rushed to find the attending doctor. Instead she found the neurosurgeon who had operated on him, checking up, she assumed, on his few patients.

The doctor was far too young for her, but she couldn't help appreciating a good-looking man as the surgeon leaned over the patient. Dr. Kurosaki was well-known, and on his way to becoming one of the leading names in his highly qualified and competitive field. If this patient was waking up days early, it was probably to Dr. Kurosaki's credit. Ayane remembered the first time she heard of someone surviving a broken neck. It was miraculous what doctors could accomplish these days.

She stepped forward as the doctor let out a deep sigh.

"Nope, he's asleep again. He might not even remember this, later. I'll take notes for the attending and adjust the dosages. Can you make certain I'm called if he wakes up again? Any time, day or night. It's too early for him to be conscious."

"Of course, Dr. Kurosaki."

Ayane took the card and handed the surgeon the patient's chart. She stepped back and let him take readings and update the records. Her eyes drifted back to the patient, completely quiet once more. Such a disturbing case, it had everyone on the floor a bit nervous. The patient was young, healthy, and built like someone who could handle a fight. What could have happened? Who could have done that much damage?

The surgeon finished his notes, and just looked at the patient quietly for some time. Perhaps he was wondering the same things. He smiled at her warmly and thanked her before leaving, a good deal more personable than many of the specialists she had to deal with. Great talent, good attitude, and he seemed to genuinely care. The strange patient was terribly unlucky in many ways, but at least now his luck had changed for the better. She only hoped he would not wake up violent and angry, or turn out to be the type of person who deserved enemies capable of snapping his neck.

ooooooooooOOOOOOOOOOoooooooooo

Late night phone calls were nothing new in the Kurosaki household. Two groans followed the shrill ringing, set loud enough to wake the dead. Four hands fumbled, muttered words as tired minds sorted out whose cell phone was shrilly demanding attention.

"S'mine, babe," a slurred phrase as one of the larger hands closed around a flashing screen. "Kurosaki here."

A smaller hand covered a yawn as her husband gave her an apologetic smile. His brown eyes were growing clearer and more awake as he listened, and then he was moving as if he had never been asleep. She had seen it a hundred times. She probably looked the same when it was her phone summoning help at 3 AM.

"I'll be there in 10, keep sedation light and only if there is no other option."

Even before he brusquely ended the conversation, he was pulling on slacks. She sat up halfway to meet him as he leaned in for a quick kiss.

"Sorry, Hime. I probably won't be back tonight."

"Mmm, good luck. I'll check on you at lunch if I can."

When a neurosurgeon marries an equally gifted obstetrician, interrupted nights were the rule rather than the exception. She stretched and settled back in the bed for a few more hours rest as he sped toward the door while buttoning up his shirt. It wasn't the life she used to dream of. She had wanted his time, his children, his head resting on her lap. But she had loved him enough to chase him through medical school. She had loved him enough to push herself to be his equal, because he did not have the same dreams. It had taken everything she could give to become the woman he wanted, but in return she was the one he came home to. Most days, it was worth it, she thought as she drifted back to sleep alone. Most nights, it was not.

ooooooooooOOOOOOOOOOoooooooooo

Ceiling tiles. Such a simple answer. It had taken several minutes to come up with it, but the tiny mystery was solved. The white patches were ceiling tiles, and the beige to the side must be a wall. A woman was talking to him, one word out of every twenty perhaps coming through. He did not pay attention, too committed to identifying the light gray patch at the lower limits of his vision. Wall, ceiling tiles, gray patch. A light? Perhaps. One of those panel lights in commercial ceilings, currently off.

Something else, he needed something else to think about. The four . . . yes, four patches of irritation would take over all his attention if he did not find something else. Oh, that horrible feeling like mild electrocution, stronger and weaker, gone then suddenly returning. Pain would be better, this hovered right below the threshold like a bad itch just out of reach. Something else to distract his thoughts. There was nothing else he could see, and he refused to think about the fact that he could not move his head.

Fine, he tried to focus on the words. The woman keeps talking, in what was probably intended to be a soothing tone. It just made her harder to understand, didn't she realize that? Her face came and went at the edges of his field of vision. His eyes wouldn't focus quickly enough to catch more than pale skin, dark hair. The face reappeared, and something cool and wet touched his lips. He would have pulled away in disgust, but nothing would move, nothing at all except his eyes and the skin of his face. He imagined his lips were stretched in a grimace. He did not know if he was successful in expressing his displeasure.

"Doctor . . . any . . . now," it wasn't enough to make sense. Doctor. Unable to move, no voice, white ceiling tiles, doctor. What had happened to him? Both the beeping and the high-pitched voice sped up, and he knew that mild panic was creeping up. No questions, ask yourself no questions at all or they will overreact.

"Stop! I specifically said sedation was a last resort. Does he look violent to you?"

Mumbles and scattered noises. But that one voice had been crystal clear, loud and authoritative to cut right through the haze. It was angry, that voice. And he could not move, could not even look. He was angry, too, angry to be helpless, vulnerable, unable to understand. And something more, something terrible that he suppressed along with everything else. Ask yourself no questions.

". . . about that . . . feeling," dammit, back to this again. The voice had softened and become unclear as a face swam into view. His vision was still blurred, or maybe it always was. Maybe this was normal, his normal. Did he wear glasses? Was he partly blind? Were his perceptions off and this is simply how everyone sees the world?

No questions. He was not doing a very good job of following his own instructions. The voice was silent, the face watching him critically as he concentrated, moving his eyes around the face to try to piece together a clearer picture. Fairly young, features just a little sharp, outstanding orange shade of hair that would have made him smile. Perhaps he did, he couldn't tell.

"You're having trouble hearing me." The statement was slow and clear, but he could not nod or speak. He felt his lips move, which immediately caused him to swallow hard. Those four places somewhere below the level of his mouth lit up like fireworks and his eyes clenched shut.

"Easy now. Stop trying, just breathe. We will get there together. Breathe now."

It sounded like stupid advice until you found yourself incapable of even the most basic function or thought. He kept his eyes closed and breathed, for the first time feeling the air push through his teeth.

"When you think you can, try to breathe through your nose. There is a tube by your nose delivering oxygen. It will help. Then when the pain subsides, I want you to open your eyes."

He heard the man moving nearby, the sound of beeps. He breathed, in and out. More slowly, more relaxed. It was the only thing he could do, so he gave it all his attention. When he opened his eyes, the face was right where it had been, less clear than before.

"Very good. Now, if you can hear me clearly, please try to blink one time, deliberately so that I can tell it isn't just a regular blink."

Ah, this could work. Primitive, but what else was there? He watched the face as he slowly closed and opened his eyes.

"Perfect. I am going to tell you a few things, and ask a few questions. To start, I am Dr. Kurosaki. You will be able to speak soon, and when you do you can call me Ichigo. You were badly hurt, your head and neck both injured in a way that made surgery necessary. Your neck is in a stiff brace to allow healing, you won't be able to move your head much if at all, but it is going to get better. Everyone heals differently, I can't tell you how long, but it is going to get better. And I'll be here to answer all your questions when you are able to ask. If you understand so far, give me one more blink."

He was tempted not to respond, as he truly did not understand. There was too little information given. But there was no way to ask for proof or clarification. And he certainly had no way to defend himself if he angered these people. It seemed distrust was natural for him, a nagging doubt of anyone's intentions or honesty. With his doubts clear, he slowly blinked.

"Okay. I have a few questions, nothing too complicated right now. You are on some pretty heavy painkillers, in case you are wondering why you can't think clearly. But you can help me out with a few things. First, I was right that you can't hear clearly unless I speak carefully? One blink for yes, no response for no."

God, this was going to take forever. Blink.

"Can you see clearly? Can you, for example, see the writing on this paper?"

A white smudge with smaller, dark smudges. No blinking.

"Alright. We'll be monitoring both issues. One of your injuries was a minor skull fracture with severe concussion. There was some swelling, causing pressure on the brain. I expect vision and hearing to improve pretty quickly now. Can you please move your hands for me?"

He focused, but there was nothing to focus on. If his hands moved, he did not know it.

"Next, please move your feet, even just your toes."

His brow knit in concentration and frustration. He could not feel such things, not hands, not feet, nothing, nothing at all below his neck. Ah, his neck. That's where the heat is, the irritation, the ache.

"I am going to move now."

The face left him alone, but the voice called out more loudly, enunciating carefully.

"Please be honest, and blink if you can feel my fingers touching your legs."

The beeping of the machine nearby gave him away. He stared at the ceiling tiles, trying to control the panic and definitely not blinking. This stranger's hands were on him, and he could not see it, could not move away, could not even sense the touch.

"Enough of that for now. Breathe for me, nice and easy. It's alright. It would have been remarkable if you could feel your extremities this early. You can't, but that does not mean you will not. Just like the swelling from the head injury is causing interference with your senses, the swelling near the spinal cord is making it difficult or impossible to feel below the injury. It will improve as the swelling recedes. Again, I can't say how long this will last, but you responded very well to surgery. There is no reason to think you will not make a solid recovery. That means walking, running. I can't guarantee one hundred percent perfection, but we'll see if we can get very close."

Perfection. What was 100% for him? Was he an athlete? A paraplegic? He did not know.

"There will be some complicated questions later. Just one for now. Confirm for me that you hear me, one blink."

His eyes swung back to the face and blinked.

"Do you know your name?"

His vision grew much blurrier as sudden tears fell, but he held his eyes open and stared, trying to make the message very clear.

"Alright then. Post-traumatic amnesia isn't uncommon, and it almost always goes away on its own. We'll come back to that question later."

The face came close, and a hand came into view. He could not flinch away. A soft cloth brushed high on one cheek, then the other. The face was clearer. Brown eyes, kind and confident, filled with concern but no pity. A slight smile on thin lips.

"It's going to get better. And I'll be here every day, as long as it takes."