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Or was already--he was mostly out on account of the unfettered pain, and when he'd gotten shot Kostya and America had seen him tense, ready to fight like a wild animal at the mere suggestion of a needle, but he would beg for it now if he could.

Needs prioritized themselves: is America alive (yes, and even turning his head to look was a crashing effort), is Bashmet here (yes), are all my limbs intact (yes), did I lose an eye (unknown; bandage inhibiting assessment).

It was the sound of the curtain pulling to that jarred him the rest of the way to unfortunate consciousness, and it was matched by a hard breath through his teeth, almost a gasp, the same sound he'd made in America's ear followed by the same immediate clenched teeth, the same immediate attempts to master himself.

He'd thought maybe he'd dreamed or hallucinated it, but he hadn't: there Bashmet stood, just as he had through the haze, and Taym, tired and quiet, said: "is she OK?" And then, flatly and without any blame or anger whatsoever: "You shot me in the ******** face, a*****e."

There was no answering smile or responsive, cheery sarcasm. Instead he stared distractedly past Kostya towards the curtained bed, his hands shaking on top of the blankets.

"When did that happen?" he asked, oblivious to the fact that it would sound like he was asking about the rocks, or possibly just apathetic.

He was simply silent for a long time, still staring at or through the bed, before hauling himself upright (slowly, with difficulty) and saying: "Not that. I need a ********' cigarette. Where's my bag? And ******** any stick-up-her-a** nurse who tells me there's no smoking in here."

He rooted through the contents of the bag, pausing to examine the used-up trapping gun, the empty bandage container, finally securing his cigarettes (the box somewhat battered, his expression resigned as he assessed the damage) and saying nothing as he tamped them down on his palm and, with difficulty given the shaking of his hands, fought to light one.

"Later," he said after a drag that didn't seem to bring him any pleasure at all, "if I tell you where I've got it stashed, you can bring me something stronger since they refuse to help me out and I feel like I've been hit by a ******** truck." A pause, and he indicated America's bed with a movement of his elbow. "When did that happen. When'd you get so ******** lovey-dovey, share a ******** bed, whatever."

Another protracted silence broken by the sound of his inhales and exhales, that he spent with his one visible eye roaming sightlessly back and forth, unfocused.

"I can't even ******** her without pushing her hands around and god knows I've ******** tried." Another slow, steady exhale, and this time he abruptly fixed his eyes on Kostya. "What are you gonna do the day you wake up and that... condition is gone too?"

Here, now, in a room with America's unconscious body, the both of them coping with the pain that they'd largely inflicted on each other, here just hours after that moment before the elevator doors opened, here, now, here, now, with a man that despite everything he considered a friend, here, now, he should have set this aside.

Instead he felt sick with resentment, physically ill, the nausea of it overriding the nausea of pain until he thought he might throw up, and he took a slow and steady drag and tried not to succumb to a need to break down into exhausted, frustrated tears, his throat already straining with the effort of holding them back. He wanted, humiliatingly, to simply curl up and sob into his arms: I don't understand.

(Although he did understand: his best was not enough. His best was never enough. His best was being somewhat able to repress the worst of the cringing for the sake of sating an animal need and an emotional thirst that cruelly never subsided. His best was anyone else's bad day.

He did understand. But he still wanted to wail it through childishly clenched teeth: I don't understand.)

"It was not a rhetorical question. I want to know."

This time the silence stretched out to accommodate the rest of the cigarette, which he dropped, disgusting and apathetic, into the tumbler of water waiting beside the bed in lieu of scrounging up an ashtray.

"I wish I was you," he said (and maybe, maybe, there was the edge of strain creeping in, the hint that he was normally so good at hiding), and without a pause: "Do I have both my eyes?"