Eggsy was reading through his medical notes, propping them up against his elevated legs as he drank yet more tea. A handwritten sheet was tucked into the back of the folder, Dr. Shearing telling him to get in touch with a guy called Aaron Cross so they could start physiotherapy, and Eggsy was going to do that as soon as he'd finished his tea. And as soon as he'd wrapped his head around the fact that his notes very clearly stated that he'd been dead. For a whole fucking day. None of this "flatlining on the operating table" bollocks, not for him. No, he'd gone through rigor mortis and all that shit. He'd died.
He wanted a fuckload of gin, but tea was what he had to make do with. Morphine and alcohol wasn't the best cocktail, despite what Kat thought.
"You comin' or goin', Rox?" he asked, before closing his notes over and looking round at her standing in the doorway.