Chapter 123 : Recovery – Breathing Again
New York, Manhattan, Midtown Hospital – Alex's POV
By the time I get back to the hospital, the place feels different.
Not calmer exactly.
Hospitals are never really calm.
But the sharp edge from earlier is gone.
This morning everything felt urgent. Nurses moved faster. Voices stayed lower. Every footstep sounded like it might lead to bad news.
Now the building feels tired instead.
Like everyone inside survived the emergency phase and collectively crashed afterward.
The fluorescent lighting's still aggressively terrible, though.
Some things transcend human progress.
I step off the elevator onto MJ's floor and immediately catch the smell of coffee, disinfectant, and overheated ventilation.
Honestly starting to think hospitals manufacture that smell intentionally.
A nurse I vaguely recognize from this morning gives me a small nod while walking past carrying a stack of charts.
Less tension now.
People aren't looking at me like someone waiting for catastrophe anymore.
Good sign.
The hallway's quieter too.
Not silent.
Just filled with softer sounds now.
Muted television somewhere nearby.
Shoes against polished floor.
A tired cough behind one closed door.
Somebody laughing weakly at something down the hall.
Life continuing carefully around recovery.
I spot Gwen near the waiting area almost immediately.
She's sitting sideways in one of the chairs with her legs curled slightly underneath her, scrolling through her phone with the exhausted focus of somebody who's read the same three headlines twelve times already.
A paper coffee cup rests beside her.
Untouched.
That tracks.
She notices me halfway through pushing hair back behind one ear and looks up.
Something subtle shifts in her expression immediately.
Not surprise.
Not relief exactly either.
More like some unconscious tension loosening once she confirms I actually came back.
The weird thing is…
I think I do the exact same thing.
"Hey," she says quietly.
"Hey."
I stop beside her chair.
For a second neither of us says anything.
Not awkward.
Just tired.
Gwen studies my face for a second longer than normal.
"You slept."
"Apparently unconsciousness won the argument eventually."
"That's probably healthy."
"Debatable."
That gets the faintest tired smile out of her.
Better than earlier.
Earlier we both felt like exposed electrical wiring pretending to function normally.
Now the exhaustion settled deeper.
Less sharp.
More human.
I drop into the chair beside her with a low exhale and immediately realize my ribs are still deeply unhappy with existence.
Fantastic.
Gwen notices the movement instantly.
"You okay?"
"Depends how ambitious your definition of okay is."
"That bad?"
"Mostly sore."
She narrows her eyes slightly.
"That answer sounds suspicious."
"It's honest."
"That's not the same thing."
I glance toward the hallway leading to MJ's room.
"How is she?"
"Still asleep most of the time." Gwen sets her phone down finally. "Doctors are happy with everything though."
Everything.
Meaning MJ.
Meaning the baby.
The knot behind my ribs loosens slightly again.
Still not fully gone.
Probably won't be until MJ's awake properly and yelling at me for something trivial.
Honestly looking forward to it.
Gwen leans back into her chair slowly.
"You look more like yourself now."
The statement catches me slightly off guard.
"Do I?"
"Yeah."
She pauses briefly.
"This morning you still felt…" Her eyes drift away for a second while searching for wording. "Like you were waiting for another emergency."
I stare ahead at the hallway.
She's not wrong.
Even now part of my nervous system still feels vaguely braced for impact.
But it's quieter than before.
Less violent under the surface.
"I talked to your dad," I say after a while.
Gwen's eyes flick back toward me immediately.
"How'd that go?"
I consider the question honestly.
"…Complicated."
"That sounds about right."
"He didn't throw me out the window."
"Good start."
"I appreciated the restraint."
That earns an actual small laugh from her this time.
Weak and tired.
But real.
The sound does something weirdly grounding to my nervous system.
God.
Everything feels strange after last night.
Like the world tilted a few degrees and nobody officially acknowledged it.
A doctor walks past the waiting area holding a tablet and a half-finished coffee while trying unsuccessfully to suppress a yawn.
The vending machine nearby hums ominously like it contains classified government technology instead of stale crackers.
Hospital atmosphere.
Timeless.
Gwen stretches slightly in her chair before wincing.
"You okay?" I ask automatically.
"My back hurts."
"You slept here?"
"Sort of."
"That sounds irresponsible."
"I learned from the best."
"That's deeply concerning."
"You're literally bruised in the shape of bad decisions."
"…Fair."
Another small smile appears briefly at the corner of her mouth before fading again into quieter exhaustion.
Neither of us speaks for a minute after that.
The silence feels different now than it used to.
Not empty.
Dense maybe.
Like there's too much underneath it for either of us to unpack properly while running on caffeine and emotional damage.
Gwen eventually nudges the untouched coffee cup with one finger.
"I think this became legally classified as cold three hours ago."
"Hospital coffee was never alive to begin with."
"That's probably true."
"You want another one?"
She considers it seriously.
"…Maybe."
"Dangerous optimism."
"I'm trying recovery."
"Bold strategy."
She bumps her shoulder lightly against mine while standing up.
The contact's casual.
Automatic.
But it lingers in my head slightly longer than it used to.
Everything between us feels subtly different now.
Not dramatic.
Not romantic movie different.
Just… more aware.
Like some invisible distance quietly disappeared during the concert and neither of us knows what to do about it yet.
We walk together toward the vending machines and terrible hospital café area mostly because neither of us has the energy to move quickly anymore.
A television near the ceiling silently replays footage from outside the concert venue.
The volume's muted.
Still recognizable instantly.
Gwen notices me looking and reaches over without really thinking about it, lightly touching my wrist.
Not restraining.
Just grounding.
I look at her.
She doesn't say anything.
Doesn't need to.
I look away from the screen instead.
Honestly grateful.
The coffee ends up tasting exactly like hospital coffee always tastes.
Aggressively disappointing.
We still drink it.
Because survival lowers standards dramatically.
By the time we head back toward the waiting area, the floor feels a little more alive.
More movement.
More voices.
A kid rolling past in a wheelchair wearing dinosaur pajamas while his exhausted mother apologizes to literally everyone despite nobody caring.
Two nurses arguing quietly over shift schedules.
Someone down the hall unsuccessfully trying to open a vending machine with violence.
Normal hospital chaos.
Human chaos.
The kind that exists nowhere near gunfire or blood or slaughter.
And for the first time since the concert, being around ordinary people doesn't feel surreal anymore.
Just tiring.
Honestly progress.
When we turn the corner back toward the waiting area, I immediately hear familiar voices before I fully process them.
"…if you tell MJ I cried, I'll actually kill all of you."
"That sounds difficult legally."
"I'll make it work."
Liz.
Definitely Liz.
A second later Cindy appears around the corner carrying enough snacks to survive a small apocalypse while Betty follows behind her looking equally exhausted and caffeinated.
The second Cindy spots me, she slows down visibly.
Not fear.
Not uncertainty.
Just a momentary pause while her brain recalibrates after everything from last night.
Then she walks directly over and wraps one arm around me sideways without warning.
"You look less dead," she says.
"Strong start emotionally."
"I'm trying positive reinforcement."
"You're terrible at it."
"Thank you."
Her voice cracks slightly underneath the sarcasm.
A little fracture.
But there.
Betty notices too.
Nobody comments on it.
Because we're all too tired to pretend we didn't almost lose people last night.
Liz folds her arms immediately after reaching us.
"Okay. Group medical assessment." She points vaguely at me and Gwen. "Which one of you is functioning worse?"
"Emotionally or physically?" Gwen asks.
"That answer alone concerns me."
"Fair."
Cindy finally lets go of me enough to properly inspect my face.
"You seriously look awful."
"Again, mixed reviews."
"No, literally everybody keeps saying that."
"That feels biased."
Betty quietly hands me a bottled water from the pile Cindy's carrying.
"You probably need this."
Honestly?
Yeah.
I take it immediately.
"Thanks."
"You're welcome."
Simple interaction.
Simple kindness.
And weirdly enough it helps more than expected.
The group slowly settles into the waiting area afterward in the disorganized way exhausted people always do.
Bags dropped beside chairs.
Coffee redistributed.
Phones checked absentmindedly every thirty seconds despite nobody actually expecting updates that fast anymore.
Conversation drifting in broken directions.
Nobody has enough energy for sustained focus.
Which honestly makes everything feel more normal somehow.
Liz eventually looks toward MJ's hallway before exhaling slowly.
"She's really gonna be okay?"
The question lands differently now.
Not panicked.
Not desperate.
Just tired enough that everyone wants confirmation again.
Gwen nods first.
"Doctors are optimistic."
"Which is doctor language for?" Cindy asks immediately.
"'Please stop emotionally staring at us every five minutes,'" Betty answers dryly.
"That sounds accurate."
A weak laugh passes through the group.
Small.
Frayed around the edges.
But real.
And for the first time since the concert, the atmosphere around us loosens slightly.
Not healed.
Not fixed.
Just… breathing again.
The laughter fades naturally after that.
Not awkwardly.
Just exhausted people running out of energy at roughly the same time.
Cindy ends up stealing half the chair beside Gwen without asking while Betty leans against the wall near the coffee machine looking like she's operating entirely on caffeine and stubbornness. Liz keeps pacing every few minutes before remembering she's tired and sitting back down again.
Nobody's functioning correctly anymore.
Honestly kind of comforting.
The television overhead continues replaying sanitized coverage from the concert.
Carefully edited footage.
Police barriers.
Emergency vehicles.
Commentators speaking with the detached tone news anchors use when discussing tragedies happening safely behind screens.
No footage from inside.
No blood.
No panic.
No sound.
Just headlines and controlled language.
The machine's already smoothing the edges off reality.
Gwen notices me staring at it again.
"You okay?" she asks quietly.
"Yeah."
Not a lie exactly.
Just incomplete.
My brain still reacts strangely whenever I see the venue now.
Like part of my nervous system immediately starts scanning for exits and gunfire before catching up with the fact I'm sitting in a hospital surrounded by exhausted teenagers and terrible coffee.
Progress, probably.
Cindy follows my gaze toward the screen and grimaces.
"They're already calling it a 'contained extremist incident.'"
"Of course they are," Liz mutters.
Betty folds her arms loosely.
"They also said there's no confirmed information about how the mutant hostages escaped."
My eyes flick toward her briefly.
Neutral expression.
No reaction.
Betty notices anyway.
Not because she knows.
Because Betty Brant notices everything.
She doesn't push it.
That silence says enough on its own.
Gwen shifts slightly beside me.
"Dad said federal agencies are already crawling over everything."
"Yeah," Liz says immediately. "Because apparently New York can't have one traumatic event without fifty classified organizations showing up afterward."
"That honestly feels like an established city tradition at this point," Cindy mutters.
Nobody disagrees.
A nurse passes through the waiting area carrying fresh charts before slowing slightly near us.
"Only two visitors at a time once she wakes up properly," she reminds gently.
"We know," Gwen says for what is very obviously not the first time.
The nurse gives her a sympathetic look.
"You should all probably eat something that isn't vending machine food too."
Cindy looks down at the pile of snacks she brought.
"…I feel unfairly targeted."
"You brought six bags of chips."
"In my defense, emotional support snacks are important."
"That is not how medicine works," Betty says.
"Prove it."
The nurse actually snorts softly before continuing down the hallway.
For a few seconds the group settles again into quieter conversation.
Small things.
Broken things.
Half-finished topics that drift naturally into other topics because nobody has enough energy left for linear thought anymore.
It feels strangely human after the last twenty-four hours.
No dramatic speeches.
No emotional unloading.
Just exhausted people orbiting each other because nobody really wants to be alone right now.
At some point Liz ends up staring at me from across the waiting area.
Not subtle.
I notice after about ten seconds.
"…What?"
"You're being weirdly calm."
I blink once.
"That feels ironic coming from you."
"No seriously." She gestures vaguely. "You look like somebody hit the emergency shutdown button on your entire personality."
Cindy immediately points at her.
"Okay wow. That was aggressively specific."
"I spent all night worried and now my brain's filtering stopped working."
Liz looks back at me.
"I'm not saying you should be freaking out," she says more quietly now. "You're just…" She frowns slightly. "Different today."
The waiting area quiets slightly after that.
Not because anybody's shocked.
Because they've all noticed it too.
Gwen glances toward me carefully but doesn't interrupt.
I lean back slightly in the chair and think about the question longer than I probably should.
"I think my brain's still catching up," I admit eventually.
Nobody speaks.
So I continue.
"Last night there wasn't really time to feel anything properly." I stare vaguely at the untouched vending machine across the room. "Everything just kept moving."
Gunfire.
Blood.
Screaming.
Targets.
Movement.
The memories flicker through my head fast enough to almost feel disconnected from reality now.
"Now everything stopped," I finish quietly. "And I think my nervous system's confused about it."
That lands with uncomfortable accuracy across the group.
Because they all understand that feeling to some degree now.
Not the violence itself maybe.
But the aftermath.
The strange emotional whiplash once survival mode ends and normal life keeps going anyway.
Betty studies me carefully for a second.
"You slept at least?"
"Technically."
"That answer inspires zero confidence."
"It inspired very little confidence while living through it too."
That gets another weak laugh out of Cindy.
Good.
The humor helps keep everything from collapsing into something heavier.
A doctor finally appears from down the hallway holding a tablet.
Everyone straightens automatically.
The reaction's instant enough to almost be synchronized.
The doctor notices immediately.
"She's okay," he reassures before anyone can ask. "Still exhausted, but recovery's progressing well."
The collective release of tension afterward is almost physical.
Even me.
Especially me.
The doctor glances down at the tablet again.
"She'll probably be awake for a little while soon. Short visits only."
Cindy immediately points at Gwen and me.
"You go first."
"No argument there," Liz agrees.
Gwen opens her mouth like she might protest on instinct before visibly deciding she's too tired to waste energy pretending otherwise.
The doctor leaves a few seconds later.
And suddenly the waiting area feels different again.
Lighter maybe.
Not happy.
But no longer balanced entirely on fear.
Cindy stretches both arms over her head before wincing dramatically.
"Okay. I officially hate hospital chairs."
"You've been saying that for three hours," Betty points out.
"And I'll continue my activism."
Liz glances toward the hallway leading to MJ's room again.
Then toward me.
"You gonna be okay seeing her?"
The question catches me slightly off guard.
Not because of what she asked.
Because of how gently she asked it.
I think about answering automatically.
End up being honest instead.
"…Probably not."
The silence after that stays soft.
Understanding.
No judgment.
Just tired acceptance of the fact that everybody here got hurt somehow last night even if not all of it was physical.
Gwen's shoulder presses lightly against mine again.
Casual contact.
Automatic now.
And weirdly enough, that tiny bit of warmth helps steady something inside my chest that still hasn't fully settled since the concert.
Outside the hospital windows, late afternoon sunlight slowly starts turning gold at the edges.
The city keeps moving.
Traffic.
People.
Noise.
Life continuing stubbornly forward one exhausted hour at a time.
And sitting there surrounded by tired friends, stale coffee, and terrible fluorescent lighting—
For the first time since the concert—
The future feels possible again.
Fragile.
Complicated.
Heavy as hell.
But possible.
A little after five, MJ finally wakes up properly.
Not dramatically.
No sudden alarms. No movie scene miracle.
One nurse walks out quietly, spots Gwen, and gives a small nod.
That's it.
But the entire atmosphere changes instantly anyway.
Everybody straightens automatically.
Gwen's already on her feet before the nurse fully reaches us.
"She's awake," the nurse says gently. "Still exhausted. Keep it short, okay?"
Gwen nods so fast it's almost painful to watch.
"Yeah. Yeah, okay."
The nurse looks around the group with the calm patience of somebody who's dealt with emotionally compromised families all day.
"Two people."
Immediately everyone looks at me.
I honestly don't know why that catches me off guard.
Maybe because part of me still feels strangely disconnected from my own body.
Like I'm observing the aftermath of someone else's life from slightly too far away.
Gwen notices the hesitation immediately.
"Alex?"
Right.
Movement.
Human interaction.
I stand up slowly.
My ribs protest the decision.
Fantastic.
Cindy points at me immediately.
"You are making the face."
"What face?"
"The 'I forgot I'm injured because emotional damage was louder' face."
"That feels inaccurate."
"That's because you're stupid."
"Strong diagnostic criteria."
Betty snorts softly into her coffee.
Even Liz smiles faintly.
Tiny reaction.
But enough.
The nurse watches the exchange with visible relief probably because exhausted humor is significantly easier to deal with than crying.
"Short visit," she repeats gently.
"We got it," Gwen says.
Then she's already moving toward the hallway.
I follow half a step behind her.
The closer we get to MJ's room, the stranger my body starts feeling again.
Not panic exactly.
Something tighter.
More fragile.
Like my nervous system spent the last several hours functioning entirely through momentum and now suddenly remembers what almost happened.
The hallway feels quieter here.
Softer lighting.
Machines humming behind closed doors.
The distant rhythmic beeping of monitors somewhere farther down the floor.
Gwen slows slightly near the door.
Not enough to fully stop.
Just enough for hesitation to exist briefly between us.
I can see it in her shoulders.
The exhaustion.
The fear.
The relief she still doesn't fully trust yet.
Then she exhales once and pushes the door open carefully.
MJ looks small.
That thought hits immediately and unfairly hard.
She's awake, propped slightly upright against the hospital bed, pale from blood loss and exhaustion with wires still attached in enough places to make my chest tighten automatically.
But alive.
Alive.
Her eyes find us almost immediately.
And the second she sees me, something in her expression shifts so fast it physically hurts to look at.
Relief first.
Then emotion.
Then irritation.
Which honestly feels incredibly on-brand.
"There he is," she says weakly, voice rough from exhaustion. "The emotionally unstable psychopath."
My breath leaves me in something halfway between a laugh and a collapse.
Okay.
Okay good.
That sounds like MJ.
Gwen lets out an actual shaky laugh beside me.
"You literally got shot and that's your opening line?"
"I had time to prepare material."
"You were unconscious most of the day."
"I prepare subconsciously."
Her voice is still weak.
Still tired.
But underneath all of it—
MJ.
Still MJ.
And suddenly the horrible pressure that's been crushing my ribs since the concert eases just enough for me to breathe properly for the first time in almost twenty-four hours.
I move closer to the bed slowly.
MJ watches me the entire time.
Not scared.
Not uncertain.
Just… looking.
Really looking.
Like she's checking something silently for herself.
"You look awful," she says eventually.
"Everybody keeps saying that."
"Because you objectively look haunted."
"Encouraging."
"You like me because I'm honest."
"That's unfortunately true."
A faint smile pulls weakly at the corner of her mouth.
Then her eyes drift lower slightly.
Toward my ribs probably.
The bruising's apparently becoming aggressively visible through the shirt now.
MJ narrows her eyes immediately.
"Oh, absolutely not."
I blink once.
"…What?"
"You are injured."
"That feels like an overstatement."
"You're standing like an eighty-year-old war veteran."
"Emotionally maybe."
"Alex."
There it is.
The tone.
The one that means she's too exhausted to fully argue but still intends to win eventually.
Honestly reassuring.
Gwen quietly drifts toward the other side of the bed while I sit carefully in the chair beside MJ.
The room settles afterward into softer silence.
Not awkward.
Just full.
Machines humming quietly in the background.
Late afternoon sunlight filtering through partially closed blinds.
The city existing somewhere far below the hospital windows while all of us sit there emotionally wrecked and trying not to make it obvious.
MJ studies me for another few seconds.
"You slept?"
"Technically."
"That answer inspires zero confidence."
"Apparently everyone agreed on that today."
"Because your coping mechanisms are terrible."
"That's possible."
MJ's fingers shift slightly against the blanket.
Small movement.
Weak from exhaustion.
Without really thinking about it, I reach over and take her hand carefully.
The second our fingers touch, something inside my chest twists painfully tight.
Because for one horrifying instant last night I genuinely thought this hand was gone forever.
MJ notices immediately.
Her expression softens slightly.
Not pity.
Just understanding.
"You're doing the thing," she says quietly.
I frown faintly.
"What thing?"
"The emotionally constipated staring."
Gwen snorts hard enough she almost chokes.
I stare at both of them.
"This feels like targeted bullying."
"It's because we love you," MJ says weakly.
"Disturbing explanation."
A tiny laugh escapes her before she winces immediately afterward.
Both Gwen and I react at the same time.
"MJ—"
"I'm okay," she interrupts quickly. "Ow, but okay."
Still terrifying.
But okay.
I can work with okay.
The room quiets again afterward.
Softer this time.
More tired.
MJ slowly brushes her thumb once against the back of my hand.
Almost absentminded.
Still enough to hit harder than most conversations.
"You scared us," Gwen says quietly after a while.
MJ looks toward her first.
Then back toward me.
"Yeah," she murmurs. "You kinda went terrifying for a bit there."
Neither Gwen nor I answer immediately.
Because we all know what she means.
Not details.
Not explanations.
Just the shift.
The thing everyone felt when something inside me went cold after she got shot.
The silence stretches slightly too long.
Then MJ squeezes my hand weakly.
"Hey."
I look back at her.
"I'm not saying that to make you feel guilty."
"I know."
"And before your brain starts doing weird martyr nonsense—" she pauses briefly to breathe. "—I'm also not remotely surprised you reacted badly after somebody shot your pregnant girlfriend."
"That feels understandable," Gwen mutters.
"Thank you."
MJ looks back at me carefully.
"You don't have to explain everything right now."
The statement lands heavier than she probably realizes.
No demand.
No pressure.
Just quiet acceptance that a bigger conversation exists somewhere in the future.
God.
I'm going to marry this woman.
That thought appears so suddenly and naturally in my head it almost catches me off guard.
Apparently nearly losing someone reorganizes priorities aggressively.
MJ notices something change in my expression immediately.
"Oh no," she says weakly.
I blink.
"What?"
"That was a dangerous face."
Gwen immediately points at me.
"I saw it too."
"This feels conspiratorial."
"You were thinking intensely," MJ accuses. "That's always concerning."
"I literally do that constantly."
"Yes, and it's exhausting."
Despite everything, despite the hospital room and the bruises and the exhaustion hanging over all of us—
I laugh.
Actually laugh.
Small and rough around the edges from fatigue.
But real.
And the second it happens, both Gwen and MJ visibly relax slightly.
Like hearing it confirms something neither of them fully trusted until now.
That I came back too.
Not just physically.
Me.