Disclaimer: See initial chapter.

A/N: Written ten thousand (or so) feet in the air, on my way home to Hawaii. Hopefully all of this makes sense, and isn't completely stupid. If there is anyone left reading this. I also worked a little on, "Quick and Tawdry," (can't sleep on planes) but need to double-check a few things before posting that.

Tig's so tired that he thinks he's losing his mind; seeing and hearing things that aren't real. Things which complicate his life more than what he needs. More than what anyone needs.

He scrubs a hand over his face, feels the rough stubble - he hasn't been able to shave in days. "Fuck."

Juice is watching him warily. Dark eyes guarded in a way Tig's never seen them before. It doesn't suit the kid at all, but Tig doesn't know what to do about it, how to fix what the idiot's done to himself.

"I know it's a lot to take in," the doctor says, sighing heavily.

The aging man takes his glasses off and polishes them on his white coat before replacing them on his face and looking at the wall opposite of where Tig's standing.

Tig wants to bash the man's face in, because he's not said one thing that he wants to hear, and the doctor seems content to write Juice off as a lost cause. Wants to send him to a 'long-term care facility' where he can get the 'care he needs'.

"You don't know shit," Tig says, and he rolls a cigarette between his fingers, before tucking it into his pocket.

He wishes Chibs was here, dealing with this crap. The man wasn't a saint or anything, but he had more patience for things like this, knew how to keep his cool when the doctors were talking in circles, getting nowhere.

The doctor blinks and he frowns slightly, reaches for his glasses - like it's a nervous tic - and lets his hand fall to his side, hand clenched in a loose fist. He sighs again, and Tig counts to ten, hoping that the urge to deck the doctor will pass.

He glances at Juice, diverts his eyes back to the doctor, because Juice's eyes are just 'wrong,' and there's a bit of drool in the corner of his mouth. He knows the kid is in there, somewhere. Knows that the doctor's wrong about that much. Juice isn't brain damaged. There's too much knowing in the eyes that watch Tig, tracking his movements.

It's the silence that Tig finds unnerving, because the kid talks too damn much. Has always talked too much, and there was a time when Tig wanted nothing more than to get Juice to shut up.

Now, though, after one week of the kid's waking silence, Tig feels like he's drowning in it. Drowning in the absence of words and constant, inane chatter.

"I know it's frustrating for you to see your partner like this, Mr. Trager, but -"

"I'm not putting him in some goddamn nursing home where he'll waste away," Tig growls, gets in the doctor's face, because he's tired of staring at the man's back. "He's not a fucking vegetable."

The doctor swallows, his fingers twitch as he raises his hand. "Mr. Trager, I'm sorry, but we just don't -"

"Don't give a flying fuck about him, because he's a fag? Or because he's a biker?" Tig grasps the doctor's coat by the lapels, and grins when the doctor's eyes widen and the man pales.

"It...that's...it has nothing to do with your..." the doctor stammers, cheeks flushing in his attempt to defend himself and the hospital. "That is, your uh... your sexual...uh..."

Tig raises an eyebrow and the doctor, unable to maintain eye contact, looks away. "Mr. Trager, our facility is simply not equipped to handle the long-term care that your partner needs."

"So, I'm just supposed to check him into a nursing home, and that's it?" Tig lets go of the doctor's coat, and backs away. His head spins, and he grips the back of the hospital chair he's spent countless hours in.

"I'm afraid it's not as simple as that," the doctor says. His voice is quiet, filled with compassionate understanding that Tig doesn't want or need right now.

"Recovery after such a traumatic injury is tricky, especially when the brain and nervous system are involved," the doctor's words are sincere, matter-of-fact, and grate on Tig's already fried nerves. "Your partner was without oxygen for an indeterminate amount of time, he was in a coma for weeks, and suffered internal injuries. Quite frankly, it's a miracle that he's still alive."

Tig looks at Juice, sees something in the younger man's eyes that seems like understanding, but Juice looks away, rolls his head toward the window. It's dark out, raining, and Tig wants to run.

Get on his bike, and ride, and never look back, let the doctors shove Juice into one of those government operated facilities where he'll waste away to nothing.

It'll kill the kid before it makes him better. They'll keep him doped up, and underpaid orderlies will take advantage of him, abuse him. Or he'll be neglected, left to rot, body riddled with bed sores, like Tig's grandfather had when his family sent him to live out the rest of his days in a nursing home.

Bile rises at the back of his throat, burning it and Tig swallows it, and the images that the thought of leaving Juice to the mercies of California's medical system conjure up. None of them are pretty, and Tig isn't a man who gives up easily.

He might be a cold-hearted bastard most of the time, but, when push comes to shove, Tig pushes back. No one tells him what to do. He's lived long enough, and earned the right to do what he wants, how he wants to do it, hell, he fought for that right.

Tig glares at the back of Juice's head, and clenches his jaw. He takes a deep breath, and turns to face the doctor.

"He stays put," Tig says. "I'm not giving you permission to move him to the long-term care facility."

The doctor gives him a sad, tight smile, and sighs. He nods and this time he does reach for his glasses, polishes them on his coat. He places them on the bridge of his nose and pushes them onto his face before shoving his hands into his pockets.

"We'll continue to monitor him the best that we can," his voice betrays how futile an idea he believes it to be, what a fool he thinks Tig is for not giving up just yet.

"I'd like a second opinion," Tig says. He has no idea where those words come from, but is undeterred when the doctor sighs yet again.

"It's within your rights to request a second opinion," he says. "I'll have a nurse bring in a list of doctors, but I've got to warn you, more than likely, they'll tell you what I've been telling you all along."

The doctor leaves without a backward glance and Tig collapses in the chair. He runs a hand through his hair, and knows that, like it or not, he's got to take a shower.

A light knock at the door startles him, and Tig is on guard instantly. Chances are that it's one of the nurses - he hopes it's the pretty, dark-haired one who has legs that go on forever- or someone from the club, but Tig sits up straighter, reaches for the weapon he's hidden at the small of his back.

He relaxes slightly when Happy enters the room, closing the door behind him. Rolls his shoulders and offers Happy a smile.

"How's he doing?" Happy jerks a chin in Juice's direction as he takes a seat beside Tig.

"Same," Tig says, feeling some of his pent up anger bubbling toward the surface. "Doctor Frankenstein still wants me to put him in a home."

Happy raises an eyebrow at the nickname, gives Tig a thoughtful look. "You sure that's not a good idea?" he asks, holding his hands out to stave off an argument.

"The way I see it, he's not getting any better," Happy says.

"That the way you see it, or is this coming from the club?" Tig fists his hands in his lap, doesn't understand why the fuck he cares so much about what happens to Juice. The kid's a pain in the ass most of the time, and he's unstable. His accident all but proved that.

"Easy, brother," Happy says, hands held up in a placating manner. "I'm just trying to get a handle on the situation. Seems to me you spend more time at Juice's bedside than you do at the club, seems more than's necessary to satisfy those papers the lawyer drew up." Happy shrugs, gives Tig a loaded look.

Tig's blood runs cold, and his head spins. Fuck all, he doesn't need Happy reading more into all of this than he should be. Tig schools his features, scowls at Happy, and flicks him off.

Happy laughs. "Relax, I'm not here to out you. Go, take a shower, eat, sleep. Chibs asked me to come spell you for a couple hours. Don't worry, I'll keep an eye on sleeping beauty over there."

Tig looks over at Juice, and sure enough, his eyes are closed, his chest rising and falling evenly. Tig opens his mouth, closes it, and drags a hand over his face. He's too tired to argue, doesn't have the wherewithal to ask why Chibs hadn't come himself, is afraid of the answer.

"Chibs had to deal with some club business. He'll come spell Bobby tomorrow. You're not allowed back at the hospital for at least forty-eight hours," Happy says. "Now 'that's' from the club."

Happy's lost the smile, the look on his face is all business. He cracks his knuckles when Tig doesn't move right away, shifts forward in the chair.

"Promise, we won't let the doctors move him. We'll take good care of him, Tig. Go, get some rest. You look like you've met Mr. Mayhem." Though the words are delivered in a lighthearted manner, the look in Happy's eyes is anything but lighthearted. It's hard and unmoving. Happy will bodily remove him from the room if Tig refuses to leave. In a way, it's comforting, reminds Tig that he really isn't alone, that neither is Juice.

"A nurse is supposed to bring a list of doctors I can get a second opinion from," Tig says. It's a last ditch effort to stay, though the road and sleep - freedom - are calling to him.

"Go," Happy says, gesturing toward the door. "I'll get the list."

With one last look at Juice, confirming that, for now at least, he's safe and resting, Tig leaves. Lets the door fall shut behind him, and practically runs down the hall, through the exit, to his freedom.

He mounts his bike, and rides, not looking back, feeling the tension, the responsibility fall away as he puts miles between himself and the imprisoning hospital. Between himself and the maddeningly unresponsive Juice. It all bleeds away - the tension and constant, mind-numbing worry - as he loses himself in the ride.

Tig throws his head back, howls into the night, and rides as far away as he can get, relishing the sense of freedom.

Thanks for reading. :-) Reviews would be awesome, if you have the time.