The ICU at Esgaroth General sucked.
The ICU anywhere—Fí and Kí had reminded him unhelpfully—sucked. He'd said they could suck his cock. The Anesthesiologist said it must be the medicine talking. No, his cousins explained—again unhelpfully—it meant he was finally awake. "This is Gimmers in his usual state," Kí said.
"Thank Mahal," Fí added. "We were starting to worry."
Starting to worry? A week ago he'd been on the annual Ride for Life with Erebor's Angels, taking pics with cancer kids (there was something about a tough and tatted bearded Dwarf with a bald little girl on the back of his bike that the papers just loved. The bike had been parked, obviously. Just 'cause a kid is dying doesn't mean you take fucking risks.) and taking the slowest, most boring Ride of his life for Dís' kids charity when a tractor trailer jack-knifed in front of him and he had a split-second to choose between certain death and almost-certain death and no time to think.
He chose the latter.
And the worst part—the very worst part—wasn't that his bike had been ruined or his spine was broken or the pain was excruciating or that he was drowning in his own blood or that he could see the bones in his arms and his legs were turned backwards, no. The worst part was he'd stayed conscious just long enough to know the kid didn't make it.
It wasn't fair.
He wanted to die. He begged to die. "Please, please," he remembered bawling to Mahal, to the Red-head, "just let me fucking die."
Night time was the worst.
The hospital was quiet, but he was used to a Garage. It was eerie, it felt abandoned, lonely, lifeless. He could hear every whirr and every beep and no matter how much he tried he just couldn't fall asleep and there was nothing—no sunlight, no Fí, not even that idiot Kí—to distract him from the sheer, raw, dehumanizing pain of it. He tried to hold off, not beg, not give in, not swear, not demand but Mahal-Dammit he hurt, it hurt, every breath, just living just fucking hurt. And this button, this Mahal-damned button just wasn't enough.
"What are you doing?" Someone—the night nurse?—asked.
"This. Mahal-damned. Pain."
"It's not enough, is it?" He shook his head. Tried not to tear. Not to cry. But here he was, blubbering his eyes out to some stranger—some Elf, even!—just repeating "let me die, let me die, I just want to die—"
He remembered a hand on his forehead, a hand in his, no shhing, no it's okaying just the pain going away and a gentle voice saying "just cry it out, just cry it out."
He woke later. Grouchy. Unrested. Someone here again, damnit. He tried to roll over, but the lines and the casts and the pillows just swallowed him.
"Wharredoin'?" he managed to groan from under his mountain of pillows.
"We upped your pain meds," a familiar voice explained. "I'm just here to check your vitals.
"Hhhhngggggg."
"Gimli—"
"Go away."
"I just need a blood pressure then I'll let you sleep," the Night Nurse said patiently.
"Fight me."
A laugh. Then silence. He fell asleep.
Awake again. Still dark. Someone'd adjusted his pillows, at least. "S'cold," he said to no one in particular at all. Then there was a blanket, and some warmth, then sleep.
"Wharredoin'?" he demanded groggily.
The Night Nurse. Hot. Blonde. Leaning over him.
…Going to kiss him? Fuck him? Elf and male, but he liked that idea, liked it a lot, started giggling, giggling like an idiot. Oh, Mahal, these damn pain meds—!
"I'm only checking on you, Gimli. Go back to sleep."
"Mmph," he grunted, grouchy, tired, embarrassed, and hard. "F—" But the words never made it out. Coughing again. Can't breathe. Panic. Pain. Can't breathe, can't breathe—!
"Whasgoinon?" he grunted. Still dark. Still too quiet. Still here. But there was a—thing—coming out of his side that hadn't been there before.
"You collapsed a lung," the Night Nurse explained. "It happens."
"Hurts."
"Your breathing's better," the Nurse said. "But I need to know it's re-inflated. Let me listen?"
"Fight me."
"I don't think so," the Night Nurse laughed gently. "I'd be too afraid you'd win."
The boys were back. Been there for several hours, apparently. Someone'd called them back after some incident or something. Small talk. Chit chat. They tried not to ask about him, tried to talk about anything else other than him maybe dying here, never walking again. Felt good to be distracted.
"Well, the Ride got cancelled after that," Fí explained. "I mean, it wasn't your fault and all, and it's not fucking fair, but there it is."
"Yeah, but Smaug Shipping Industries say they're going to pay for the funeral and offered a scholarship and everything and Mom says they've given like, more than enough to make up for the Ride a thousand times over," Kí rushed. "So that's a good thing!"
He tried not to cry. He wasn't going to cry. Not again. Not in front of them, damnit. "Come on, Kí," Fí said suddenly. "Gimmers is tired. Let's go get some coffee?"
Good kid. He had his cry, and fifteen minutes later his eyes were dry and his throat was still sore, but there you go. He hated crying. He hated pain. He hated feeling humiliated. He slept.
The ICU at Esgaroth General sucked. And the worst part was the company. Fí and Kí had gotten a few weeks off work because Uncle Thorin pulled some strings and now they'd be with him 24/7 indefinitely. Oh, fuck.
Fí he didn't mind so much. Knew how and when to be quiet. But Kí—? Mahal bless and fuck the little chatterbox. But his pain was better controlled and his breathing was better and his family was here so for a crippled guy in a hospital bed with lines in his arms and casts on his limbs and a tube in his chest and a thing? poking out of his dick, he supposed he couldn't ask for much more.
The only good thing (good thing?!) to come from the whole situation was that Kí had run into the off-duty Army Medic who'd managed to save his life in the time it took for a fucking ambulance to reach him.
"She tied the tourniquets with her shirt," Fí explained. Kí had a dopey grin on his face.
"So?"
"She was braless," Fí shrugged.
"I think you mean flawless," Kí sighed. "I close my eyes and I can still see her tits bouncing."
"Aaaaand that's why you will always. be. single." Fí scowled. "You keep treating women and talking to and about women like they're pieces of meat and you act all surprised that you never get their numbers."
"But she was haawwwwt," Kí objected.
"She saved Gimmer's life!" Fí retorted. "And that took considerable skill. Of all her admirable qualities—and let's assume they're many more we don't even know yet—you complimented her on her tits? Pathetic."
A knock on the door. "Oh," a now-familiar voice said. "I didn't realize you had company."
"'S Fí'n Kí," he mumbled. "Cousins."
"I'm glad they're here, then," The Night Nurse said. "But you should really get some rest."
"Mmmph," Gimli grunted. "Fight me."
"Why're we even talking about this?" Gimli groaned once the door had closed again.
"She came in to check on you earlier," Fí explained.
"I said she could check me out anytime!" Kí boasted.
"You get her number?"
"She told me to piss off," Kí said mournfully.
"Good," Gimli grunted. "Serves you right."
"Speaking of numbers," Fí interrupted. "What's this?"
"What's what?"
…Oh. A coffee. And—
A number?
Fight me? XxX
"Who was that?" Kí asked, alarmed.
"Huh," he flushed. "The Night Nurse?"
"Gimmers, you absolute idiot," Fí said. "If you'd bothered to open your eyes at all you would've seen his scrubs were an entirely different color."
"So?" Gimli grumped, sipping his coffee with vehemence (and choking. And coughing. And hell.)
"My dear idiot," Fí laughed when the fit was finally over. "That 'Night Nurse' as you so rudely put it was your surgeon."
"Fucking Mahal," Kí breathed. "If that's all it takes to get an Elf's number then I'm going to get in a motorcycle accident!"
"Don't you fucking dare."