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Bedside lullaby

(Brandt/Hunley, 1.5k hurt/comfort drabble. Pre-relationship, but if you squint real hard it’s here)

One shot. One bullet, straight to the stomach. There had been blood, of course. A lot, he’d heard. They’d kept Luther close to him until backup had arrived, and by the time they were there, their Secretary was covered in gore.

Serves him right for trying to be a secret agent à la Ethan Hunt, he thinks, grumbling to himself as he throws his shitty coffee cup in one of the hospital’s bins, leaning back against the corridor’s wall. Some people are meant to give orders from the comfort of an office, there was no need of changing the order of things.

One of the doctors suddenly catches his attention, nodding to him as if to make him understand that he could finally come inside his superior’s room. He’d been waiting for around seven hours, had visited approximately all that a visitor could, had seen the different wings of the buildings at least twice, and had had the time to count the amount of ceiling lights in wing W, which were at a total of 247. How fucking peachy.

“He’s awake,” the man in the white coat tells him, but truth be told, he’s barely listening to him, “he’s extremely numb and vulnerable, so try not to push him too much. The bullet barely grazed his stomach, a few millimetres more and he was a gone man.”

That’s great, thanks a lot.

“Alright,” William Brandt says instead, offering him a tight lipped smile. “Thank you.”

“Of course. We usually only allow family, but the man who was with us in the ambulance gave us your contact info. We assumed he had no other next of kin.”

“Yeah I’m…we’re coworkers,” he defers, technically not lying. “Sorry, I’ll leave you to it. Thanks again.”

The doctor nods curtly, exiting the room quietly. Brandt watches him disappear around the corner of the corridor before inhaling deeply, smoothing the lapels of his jacket, trying to pretend like he hadn’t just spent the most boring and stressful day of his life. And anyway, his face and the dark bags that adorned it would probably tell the story for him. No need to play pretend.

He makes his way inside the hospital bedroom, taking in how spacious it was. The bathroom was wide, and there was a small couch near some sort of diner table. He almost wants to roll his eyes at this—how many missions had he gone through, waking up in the world’s shittiest and least clean hospitals he’d seen ? Talk about special treatment.

His superior is in the bed, one arm hooked to a catheter, his chest rising and falling to the rhythm of the bipping of the machines, eyes closed. He looked almost peaceful.

“I know you aren’t sleeping,” Brandt groans, grabbing a chair and letting it drag on the floor with an uncomfortable screech, “asshole.”

“Ow,” comes the immediate reply, “you could afford to give a little more sympathy to a wounded man.”

“If you had stayed in D.C, you wouldn’t be here.”

“One has to make sacrifices, in this line of work,” Alan Hunley retorts, but his voice isn’t either playful nor amused. He sounds extremely tired, and he has difficulties speaking. “It’s fine. I made it out, in the end.”

“Barely, yes.”

“Yes, sorry about that, I’m sure you learning of my demise would’ve brightened your day considerably,” Hunley offers, finally daring to let humour slip through his words, “I’ll do better next time, I promise.”

“I don’t fucking feel like joking, Alan,” Brandt almost spits, fists closed in anger, “this isn’t funny !”

“No, it’s not.”

The Secretary closes his eyes again, sighing deeply as he let his head sink deeper into the hard pillow. The drops in his IV were falling almost in synch with the beating of his heart.

“Why are you here ?” he asks then, turning his face a little so they were looking at each other, “don’t you have mission files and reports to fill ?”

“I’m here because you’re a lonely guy whose closest next of kin is his subordinate,” Brandt icily replies, locking their gazes forcefully. “That’s a little sad, isn’t it ?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I’m sure your mother is fond of coming to your bedside everytime you hurt yourself on missions.”

“Okay, funny guy. Hilarious. Just—that was a really close call. And I don’t feel like joking about it, is all.”

“I’m not making jokes,” Hunley notes, “I’m deflecting. The mood of this place is daunting enough as it is, no need to add your forever gloomy face to the mix.”

“My face isn’t gloomy. I’m—concerned.”

“Well, you shouldn’t be. I’m alright, I’ll be good as new in a few months, ready to overwork you and your team of self sacrificing idiots.”

“Unless you’ve forgotten, you are part of this team too,” Brandt says, “and anyway, talk about self sacrifice when you’re the one who jumped in front of a bullet.”

“How sweet. Just what I needed,” the other mocks, the shadow of a smile still appearing on his bow shaped lips. “I may be the one who has gotten shot, you don’t look too well either. Did you run into a wall, perhaps ?”

A scoff, and Brandt’s crossing his legs self consciously, tugging at his loosened tie.

“I’ve been here since 1AM yesterday,” he mumbles, running a hand through his short hair, “there isn’t much to do, in a hospital.”

That seems to take Hunley by surprise.

“1AM ? But it’s early morning.”

“Yeah, Sherlock. It’s almost 9AM.”

A frown.

“Why on Earth would you stay the night ?” the older man asks, clearly confused, “that seems counter productive.”

“Oh, are you fucking kidding me ?” Brandt frustratedly exclaims, throwing his hands in the air, “because someone needed to check on you, is why ! Because there needs to be someone to tell the IMF if their Secretary General fucking died in surgery !”

“While I appreciate the sentiment, I’m sure doctors would’ve notified you all the same without you having to stay here,” Hunley remarks, raising his index at him. “All I am saying is, you could use some sleep. That look on you is…ghastly.”

“Honestly, go fuck yourself,” the other annoyedly replies. “I stayed because I wanted to. And yes, I look like shit, but at least you’ve got someone to talk to while you’re waking up from your surgery, and you’re not staring at the ceiling waiting for God knows who until God knows when.”

“Mm. That would imply that I want to talk to you.”

“Well, you are. Aren’t you ?”

A huff.

“Alright, sure. You look jumpy, though. Are you sure you’re alright ?”

“Am I sure I’m a—fuck, Alan !” Brandt can’t help but yell, face in his hands, “you almost died ! What is it about that that you don’t understand ?!”

“No, William, I understand the gravity of my situation quite well, thank you very much. What I do not understand, is why you seem so worked up about it.”

The younger man lets out a high pitched scream inside his palms, shaking his head dejectedly. His shoulders are shaking.

“Brandt ?”

“I guess I got scared, alright ? I got—I got scared you really were dead,” he finally says, defeated. When he raises his head again, his eyes are wide. “I panicked, and I felt helpless. I knew I should’ve taken the job with the rest of them. Fuck.”

“Well, I’ve made it out, haven’t I ?”

“A few millimetres to the left and you wouldn’t have,” he continues, parroting the doctor’s words. “I don’t know, okay ? I was scared. Fuck. I don’t even know why I’m admitting this to you, it’s going to inflate to huge ego of yours.”

Hunley lets out a soft laugh at this, clenching his fingers as his catheter slightly shifted on the sheets.

“I’m touched you seem to…care so highly of my person to worry that much. But I promise to you, William, that I am quite alright. Nothing I can’t recover from, at least.”

“I know that,” Brandt mumbles, averting his eyes. “It’s whatever. Forget it. Forget I said anything.”

“No, I think it’s sweet,” the other jokingly remarks, “but really, you should go home and rest, now that you know that I’m okay. You really don’t look good.”

“‘s fine. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“My, are you playing bodyguard ?”

“If that’s what it takes for you to stop putting yourself in stupid situations you aren’t used to tackle, sure,” Brandt says, shrugging stiffly as he took his suit jacket and tie off. He folds them on the back of the chair neatly, patting them for good measure.

There’s a slight pause, and the muscle in his jaw visibly tenses. Like he’s thinking about something.

Finally his hands rises, barely, landing on the other man’s, palm warm.

He gives a soft squeeze, something that’s barely there.

“It’s good to have you back, mister Secretary,” he settles on saying, the corner of his mouth curling until what could be considered a smile. “Don’t go dying on me while I sleep.”

He takes his hand off, and Hunley finds that he misses its warmth.

The other’s snores keep him awake.

#mission impossible #mission impossible fic #william brandt #alan hunley #brandtley #sorry. I’m sorry I’m crazy