Consciousness slammed Raidou like a kick to the head.

After four days spent doing almost nothing but sleeping--when he wasn't worrying, screaming, or so drugged the world seemed like a technicolour playhouse--he hadn't expected to spend long doing the REM dance, especially with Genma finally in sight.

Eight hours proved him wrong.

The heavy dose of painkillers probably helped. Likewise being able to finally lie on his right side without restraints to keep him flat. The slow, even tickle of breath ghosting over his palm, backed by the steady rhythm of a heart monitor counting out living beats, definitely helped.

He slept. If he dreamed, he didn't remember it.

Then knuckles hit wood, and something that was definitely not cognitive thought slammed red hot wakefulness straight down his spine. He jerked off the bed with a cardiac clench--machines shrilled a protest--and grabbed the first thing that looked remotely weapon-like.

An IV stand, as it turned out.

It made a hell of crash as it hit the door, trailing plastic lines and flinging bags of fluid everywhere. Genma woke up with a startled gasp, hand jerking in its restraint, and Raidou realized three very crucial things: they were in hospital, he'd probably attacked a strangely polite nurse, and he'd just torn his morphine drip out.

"Son of a bitch."

They might have had a point with the restraints. But his nerve-endings had finally caught up with current events and he was too busy trying to breathe to feel generous about it.