Well. It was a moderately normal day. No old boyfriends showing up at work to bring back old memories--he only had the one, after all, which did make it a bit easier--no suicide attempts on the part of Keye, no vanishing student acts, and no faeries throwing things around while he was trying to grade.

Alexander was in a good mood, and we've all remarked just how rare that is.

He'd actually walked to work, today, because it was just so nice outdoors and he was tired of being in his stuffy car all winter. His suitcoat was draped over his arm, revealing a starched and pressed white shirt and black tie, which was loosened a tad, signifiying that he would handle no more business today.

And he was whistling.

Yes. Alexander was whistling.

I told you he was in a good mood.

That was why the crowbar to the back of his head came as such a shock. He dropped like a stone.

Keye had been following him relatively slowly; hell, the man was whistling. Keye only worried him, so he thought to lag and let the professor enjoy himself, because gods knew it didn't happen often enough. He was smiling fondly.
The crowbar came as a shock to him, too.
Within moments, he was running, adrenaline pumping through his body. It may have been some kind of miracle that he got there in time to intercept an intended second blow. He gripped the crowbar, and the force of it jerked him rather sharply to his knees. That didn't stop him; he didn't even feel it. His head snapped forward and he bit the attacker just behind his kneecap. Hard.

Everyone's favorite English professor was lying on the ground, face down, out cold. His briefcase had tumbled and cracked open, and his papers and things would have been scattered to the winds if there'd been wind.

He's probably lucky that there's not.

And the attacker in question--who went by the name Spike, generally--was about as shocked as Alexander had been when some kid with spiky blond hair appeared out of nowhere and got in his way.

"Fuck!" That hurt! Okay, crowbar is not usable right this moment, but... He aimed a kick at Keye's head.

If you remember the incident with Douglas, you'll recall Keye's tendency to not feel pain when angry.
And he's about twice as angry now as he had been with Douglas. He's twice as dangerous, too, because his anger is backed by terrible, biting fear.
What if he's dead?
Don't think of it.
What if he's...
Stop.
What if...
"You ugly fuck!" he shrieked, in the process of tumbling over backwards. But he wasn't going to go down alone if he could help it. He twisted, getting his feet back under him and kicking out at Spike's shins.

Spike shouted something vulgar and repetitive--they've both said it before, you know--and jumped backwards, aiming the crowbar at Keye and repeating himself yet again, with slightly more variety. Unfortunately, he had underestimated the length of Keye's legs, and he also tumbled to the pavement.

His swing went wide, and he tried again.

Spike is not a happy mugger. The old guy looked like he would make a good target, and now there's some psycho kid jumping in on his victim.

This time, Spike got lucky. The crowbar connected with a noise that suggested 'hideously bruised, if not broken, rib.'
Unfortunately for the mugger, it didn't do anything to stop or even slow down the crazy blond kid.
There's that word again.
Keye is terribly displeased, he's in Spike's face, and he has a knife.
"You get the fuck out, hear? If I ever see your ugly face again, I'mma cut it off."

This is the part where coward mugger--why do you think he hit the tall guy from behind in the first place--runs away. He has no interest in aquiring a closer acquaintance with Keye's knife, thanks. He would prefer to keep his face intact.

And Keye is scary...

Alexander, by the way, is most definitely not dead. He's unconscious, but he's breathing. There's blood matting the back of his hair, too.

Keye didn't even follow the mugger with his eyes. He had other things to attend to. Whirling, he knelt by Alexander's side and experienced a moment of heart-stopping terror before discovering that the man was indeed breathing.
Bleeding though. And too pale. A strangled half-sob escaped Keye. He further loosened Alexander's tie, undid the first couple of buttons on his shirt (how does he breathe in the first place. all buttoned up like that?), and shook the man very slightly.
"W-w-wake up..."

A groan was the only answer. Further proof that the man was alive, but that was about it.

Alexander is altogether too limp at the moment; he should be at least responding to Keye's ministrations with more than a groan. His eyes are closed, and there's a scrape on his forehead where it came in too rough contact with the cement of the sidewalk.

"You're going to die, aren't you?"
By this point, he's pulled the unconscious professor into his arms and is rocking him and crying.
"Don't you dare."
Cell phone.
Right. Call emergency.
He did so. His voice barely decipherable through the shaking, he described Alexander's condition and their location, names of streets...
"...please hurry. He won't wake up. Please."
His voice was fading, and the person on the other end asked if he was all right.
"He's my father."
And, ignoring instructions to the contrary, he hung up.

There was a soft sound from the professor as Keye gathered him in his arms and rocked him, but none followed.

You know why they tell you not to hang up, don't you? It's because they want to make certain that you can tell them if the condition of the victim has worsened, and because they want to keep you calm...

Keye shouldn't have hung up.

Alexander was breathing rather shallowly, and there were no more moans. It's a good thing emergency makes it a practice to arrive as quickly as possible, isn't it.

"Hey. Hey."
Shouldn't have hung up, definitely.
"C'mon. Don't do this. If...if you...if you don't ever wake up, where will I l-live? Who will m-make sure I sleep at n-night, huh? No one, that's who. A-and...and I'd be free to g-go in your office and b-b-break everything! So you can't! You can't die, for the sake of that idiotic paperweight..."
Ambulance. Thank goodness.
Somehow or another, Keye ended up in the back of the ambulance, hyperventilating while the EMTs did whatever-it-was to Alexander.

Alexander would probably have been embarrassed by all the fuss if he were aware of it. However, he was most definitely not aware of it, or anything else, for that matter.

Did anyone happen to grab his briefcase? Or the suitcoat?

Oxygen mask, stretcher... All those things that EMTs do to unconscious men who have been hit in the head with a crowbar.

It's fortunately a short ride to the hospital in an ambulance.

Nope. Both were left behind. Keye wasn't thinking about them, and the rest were busy.
One of them was in the back, talking to Keye, trying to calm him. Keye could hardly hear him, because Alexander was wearing an oxygen mask and it's that bad?

A moment before arrival at the hospital, Keye seemed as if he might faint, but upon reaching it, he abandoned that in favor of keeping track of Alexander.

THe thing about being hit in the back of the head that is most worriesome is the fact that, when one has a concussion, the brain swells, and the bone at the back of the skull is hardest, and thus, does not give the brain anywhere to actually go.

The oxygen mask seems to be traditional for anyone breathing shallowly--better that he have more oxygen than that he might not take in enough.

And along the halls, to the emergency room, where a doctor in a white coat takes Keye's arm and says quietly but firmly, "You'll have to wait outside, son."

They don't need panicking relations getting in the way while they do their thing.

"No, let me go in. I'll be quiet, I promise!"
Oh, he'd panic all right. But he would panic on the inside where no one could see or hear or have 'their thing' interrupted.

Then he asked a question that is not a fun question for doctors. Unfortunately they hear it all the time.
"Will he be okay?"

"I'm afraid we can't let you come in. You may take a seat in the waiting room, but we cannot let you in while we examine," He checked the chart on which they'd noted everything that Keye was coherent enough to tell them, "Dr. Barclay."

He started to steer the boy away and towards the mentioned waiting room, when Keye's question made him pause.

"We'll do what we can."

Ah, don't you just love vagueness?

"No, no, you have to let me, so he won't be all alone! I'll be good, I promise. I won't say a word. I won't even move, just stand in the corner of the room..."
He was clinging to the doctor's hands and sleeves, not letting the man push him away, crying like a child. Shaking like the world was ending.
We'll do what we can.
When the doctor said that, stopped, his hands falling to hang limp at his sides. To him, that phrase meant 'don't get too hopeful.'

The doctor sighed and gently patted Keye on the shoulder. (All the while, while he's been talking to Keye, another doctor and a handful of nurses were in the other room, where Alexander had already been wheeled. Waste no time, you know.)

"Why don't you go and sit down, son? We'll let you know as soon as we know the prognosis."

And, for the reader's benefit, Alexander is not in danger of dying.

"I am not your son!" he snarled, turning on his heel and stomping into the waiting room, where he threw himself into a chair and proceeded to pout as hard as he could. The anger distracted him from the fear.
Only one person was allowed to call him 'son.'

Some time later, the same doctor came out to the waiting room and looked around, spotting the excitable young man--though of course, no one could blame him, not with his father (as Keye had said) lying unconscious and mostly unresponsive--and crossing the room to him.

"You can come and see him now."

Despite being in a rather convoluted, tangly position, Keye straightened himself out relatively quickly, jumping to his feet.
He was ghastly white, and he looked terrified, because 'you can come see him now' is not 'he'll be all right.'
"So is he gonna be okay?"
Even if the answer was no, Keye was plainly eager to see Alexander.

"The prognosis is good." Ah, doctors and vague responses. Really, you have to love them, when you're not trying desperately not to strangle them for it.

He led Keye along a different hall--now that he was out of immediate danger (and awake), Alexander had been temporarily installed in another room. He could go home soon, in all likelihood...

And into the room, and...

"Keye." Alexander was half sitting up, rather pale, but definitely looking better than he had when they first arrived. And he was smiling, a little.

Keye stumbled when he heard Alexander speak, staggering in a way that was dangerously close to collapse for a few steps.
"Oh, thank goodness..."
He managed to make it to the side of the bed, and his shivering fingers hung for a moment near Alexander's face, like Keye wanted to touch him. A moment later, embarrassed, he tucked them into his pocket.
"Don't ever do that again." he said, forcing some roughness into his voice.

"Do what again?"

Get mugged? He doesn't want to repeat the experience, certainly. It's so far been very unpleasant. His head hurts. Cause Keye to think that he's going to die? That was a direct side effect of being mugged, and he doesn't really want to do that again, either.

"What happened, anyway?"

Remember, he was out cold for the majority of the experience.

"Almost die! Some fuck whacked you on the head with a crowbar. I woulda fucked his shit up, but I was worried about you, so I just chased him off. I...I..."
He looked at the floor, hugging himself tightly.
"You wouldn't wake up. You were so quiet, and I couldn't wake you."

"That would be why my head hurts so much... Shh, Keye, I'm all right now." Or he thinks so, anyway.

He lifted a hand and touched his boy's shoulder.

"Thank you, son."

He doesn't want to think what would have happened if Keye hadn't been there. He does read the newspapers, you know.

Keye caught the hand and squeezed almost painfully hard, swallowing back tears.
"I thought...I really thought you were going away from me forever. I was so scared. I...you're welcome, but it was nothin' special on my part. Anyone woulda done it."

"Anyone? I don't know about that." He smiled gently--good heavens, Alexander is mellow, despite having been fairly recently knocked in the head with a crowbar--and squeezed Keye's hand in return.

"I'm not going away, son. I don't plan to go away for a long time yet."

Maybe Douglas had the right idea. Immortality. Hm... Or maybe he could wrest a guarantee that he wouldn't die before Keye was ready to handle the loss. That would be convenient...

It was something to think about.

You know, the mellowness could be arising from the painkillers.

"Yeah, anyone. I ain't special."
Really, he should give himself more credit. He fought the guy for the most part with his bare hands.
"Good. Good. You scared me. You weren't breathing right. I didn't know what I was gonna do if you died...I was so scared."

Mm, good point. It's also possible that Alexander doesn't have the energy to spare to be cold and calculating. He hasn't been like that around Keye for a while now, anyway.

He nodded slowly. (Hm, now Keye knows how Alexander feels when the lad's talking about killing himself. Afraid of losing the boy, upset at his inability to do anything... all that sort of interesting stuff.) "I know, son. It would have scared me too... But I'm all right now, and I intend to remain that way."

Finally starting to come down from that adrenaline high, Keye's grip on Alexander's hand slackened. The boy was tired though it was only now starting to show.
But he wouldn't let himself rest. Not until Alexander was safe at home.
"How do you feel? Is there anything I can get you? Water?"
He actually sounded almost angry. It was one of the reasons he hated hospitals: doctors made him feel useless, like he couldn't do anything to help.
"I don't have any fancy degrees, but I figure I could handle a cup of water."

"Yes, water would be nice."

Never mind that Alexander could probably reach to that pitcher that's a fixture of every hospital room and pour himself water. He was willing to let Keye take care of him for now. (Good grief, does it take going to the hospital to get the man to slow down?)

"Yet. You don't have any fancy degrees yet."

Remember, Alexander's going to get him into Keaton. Or that's the plan, anyway.

A shy little grin. It seems to crop up on his face when he's unexpectedly complimented. The rather disgruntled expression on his face dissolved as he got Alexander a cup of water.
"Do you really think I could get a degree? Do you need help sitting up or anything?"

"I think I'm fine for now..." He didn't feel like sitting all the way up just yet, thanks. He was comfortable leaning back as he was.

A sip of water.

"Of course I think you can get a degree. I wouldn't be helping you get in otherwise." Just work hard and come to Alexander if you need help, Keye. Except in math; he knows enough of it to work out certain magical elements, and he can balance a checkbook, but there are certain things that are just beyond him.

Alexander shouldn't worry too much about it; Keye probably won't be needing his help in math.
"...even given my bad record?"
He has his transcript, by the way. His GPA is a rather disturbing 1.4.
"I kind of...I did really bad in school. I acted out a lot."

Sip.

"You aren't going to act out anymore, though, are you? Then there's nothing to worry about--I'll be there to help you, remember."

He's wondering vaguely where his briefcase and coat have disappeared to, because he remembers leaving campus with them and they're not around now. He'll ask in a bit, though. It isn't immediately important, because he has the wallet in his pocket.

"I'll try not to..."
You'd think he'd just say 'No, of course I won't.' But he sounds unsure even when saying that he'll try.
"What'cha lookin' for?"

"My briefcase, and my jacket..." A small frown as he tried to remember if there was anything too important in the briefcase, since it seems to be no longer present. Let's see, there were his notes for this week's lectures... Oh, and a book, but he can't remember which one.

Hm. It won't be too terrible if they were lost, but...

"I suppose they're gone."

Keye's brows drew inward and he pressed his lips together.
"Shit, I'm sorry..." It wasn't difficult to tell from his expression that he was mentally berating himself.
Idiot! Why didn't I just grab them?
"I forgot. I'm really, really sorry."