Larkin sat on the side of an emergency room bed in nothing but a pale blue hospital gown. His forearm had been given a temporary splint in the time between him being divested of his clothing and the operating room being prepped for his visit. His left flank hurt like a motherfucker, but the X-ray technician had sworn up and down he’d only been on the receiving end of two bruised ribs. Larkin’s forearm hadn’t been so lucky. Harry had fractured both the radius and ulna with his goddamn baseball bat, and apparently it was the kind of break that needed surgical correction before they’d slap a cast on and send Larkin on his way.

He studied the granular patterns in the tile floor and listened to the murmur of emergency room nurses nearby and the constant drone of various machines beeping. The room smelled like recycled air and harsh cleaning products, but it was better than a bloated body in a bathtub. Larkin closed his eyes and massaged his forehead with his good hand. The curtain rings rattled on the overhead metal railing around his bed. He raised his head, expecting staff arriving to whisk him off for surgery. But it wasn’t hospital personnel.

It was Doyle. He did a double check over his shoulder, like he damn well knew he wasn’t allowed back here but was going to break the rules anyway, then moved into the space. He smiled, but the black eye and bandage across his forehead had a way of muddling the effect that killer look usually had. Still, though, it buoyed Larkin.

“Hey,” Doyle said in a low murmur.

“Hi.” Larkin pointed. “How’s…? Are you…?”

“I’m fine,” Doyle insisted. “Looks worse than it is. A nick in the bat sliced me open, but after a few stitches, I’m good to go.” He studied Larkin for a long moment. “How’re you?”

“Physically, I need surgery. Probably won’t lie comfortably for a few days either.” The recycled air suddenly felt stronger, like an Arctic gale. Gooseflesh broke out across his exposed legs. Larkin studied the tiles again as he said, “I saw that baseball bat and froze.”

Doyle took a few more steps before his wingtips came into view.

Larkin shook his head, cleared his throat, and looked up. “I don’t want to talk about it.” He had to work his mouth so Doyle wouldn’t see his chin quiver, but there wasn’t a way to hide the tears welling in his eyes. “I’m sorry I let you down.”

“You didn’t. Harry was hiding in the closet, and it was my fault for holstering my weapon before properly clearing it.”

“But I froze. If I hadn’t—”