"Alex." Granny was knocking on the door that he could practically see through, watching the way her sweater swayed with each flick of her wrist. "Alex!"

It was several moments before he realized that Granny was actually knocking on his door, that it wasn't a part of his dream, and he groaned out a croaking "What?"

"Doctor Howard called, dear." Alex shook his head, cheek rubbing noisily against the pillow. The words sounded almost underwater and he smacked his tongue against his teeth in an attempt to stay awake. Granny's next sentence, though, had him sitting up straight, eyes burning and wide. "Tucker apparently used us as an emergency contact, and he's in the doctor's office right now—"

"I'm going." Alex said. His voice was still thick with sleep and his movements were only habit, reaching out to grab the closes sweatshirt and pair of moccasins that he could find. One hand tugged nervously through his mussed hair while the other pushed through the door and past his grandmother– "Sorry," was all he muttered, before he was hit by the humid night's air. They lived close to the center of town, where Harvey's clinic was located, thank god because even running Alex felt like he wasn't moving fast enough.

"Jesus christ." He found himself muttering, breath short, as both hands pushed through the clinic's unlocked front door. Alex immediately brought them up to his eyes, shielding them from the florescent light. He hissed— what time was it, even? And before his stinging eyes could find a clock, Harvey was ushering him deeper into the building, into the back where the lights were a little yellower and Tucker was lying down on a paper-covered exam table, eyes closed and bruises painting his whole body.

"He'll probably be fine within the week." Alex suddenly realized that Harvey had been speaking the whole time, his glove-covered hands guiding Alex away from Tucker and into a chair. "I did a cranial nerve examination on him, very quickly, so beyond the sprains he has a concussion, and—"

"Wait, wait. Sprains. Concussion." Alex tried clearing his throat but it hardly dislodged the sleepiness from it. He looked down and realized his sweatshirt was the same grey as his pants. Harvey seemed understanding, though, and walked over to gently shake Tucker as he started to re-explain.

"Tucker can't be allowed to sleep for more than four hours at a time, ideally. He had a pretty nasty bump on his head, and sprained his left wrist and his right ankle. His left ankle has some swelling, also, but it doesn't look more than mildly irritated." Harvey's eyes traced down Tucker's body, as if he were a diagram and the doctor were checking off every injury that he could see. His voice was eerily clinical. Alex's mouth hung open dumbly, until he noticed Tucker's brown eyes— dimmer than usual— were smiling at him.

Alex realized he was interrupting the doctor, again, but as soon as he saw Tucker was conscious he couldn't stop his voice from croaking loudly: "What the hell did you do?"

Tucker looked shocked for only a second and then he started to laugh, head lolling back as though he were drunk, or sleepy, or high, or maybe all three. Alex's question was answered by Harvey's muttering something about medicine, and then Tucker was the one cutting him off with a giggle. "Your voice is so deep."

"Yeah, well, it's ass o'clock." Alex ran both of his hands up his ears, scratching into his hair. It helped wake him up just an inch more, and he could see the bandages wrapping around Tucker's wrist, his ripped jeans rolled up to his knees, and the compression sleeve pulled over his ankle. There were little cuts everywhere, like he had just learned how to shave, and a nasty black eye spread practically over half of his face. Alex felt— well, angry. Tucker was sitting here beat to shit, and he's laughing about it?

"Come on." He ripped himself out of his chair, legs squealing against the cold tile floor. Tucker looked surprised, concern coloring his purple features when Alex showed no sign of smiling. "Let's get you home."

"I can get home myself fine." "I'm—"

"You're concussed. And you can't sleep on your own with a concussion." His voice is gentler than he wants it to be. Is he mad? Who is he mad at? "Come on. Do you want to go to my place or yours?"

"His is probably better. Just so that he can move as little as possible tomorrow." "If that is all right."

"It's fine. Let me just call my grandmother—"

"I can do that."

"Thanks, doc."

"No problem." "Alex, have you been concussed before?"

"Once, yeah."

"So you know the protocol."

"Yep. I helped a lot of buddies through it." "Three to four hours, wake up and ask questions. Limited food but lots of water."

"You got it." "You'd be a fine nurse."

"Heh. Maybe if gridball doesn't work out."

"Can you walk, Tucker?"

"Yeah, I'm—" he hissed as soon as he put weight on his ankle. "I can hobble—" another hiss. The other ankle seems just as sore.

Alex sighed, and immediately held out his arms. "How do you want to do this?"

"What?"

"I'm getting you home. Front, or piggyback?"

"Piggyback." Tucker looked gleeful. Alex lifted him up— a little more problem than he expected, but that's fine, he's not that heavy— and they're heading off. Tucker is so warm against his back. It's nice.