He was transferred just last week, into 5 U8 74B. Peter didn't need this. He was the charge nurse for Unit 8, and with the current MRSA outbreak and the sudden flu epidemic making them heavily understaffed, he really didn't need an extra patient under his care.

With a heavy sigh, and scalding gulp of his fifth coffee, Peter made his rounds, starting with the newer patient. Wade Wilson. Late twenties. Stage 4 mixed glioma. Terminal. No emergency contacts. To be taken off of life support within the next week if no recognizable improvements.

Peter ran his hand through his hair, rubbing at his tired eyes. He didn't even want to finish reading the chart. The only addition since last week, it seemed, was the comment on life support removal, and it was just too depressing. Especially since he was still dealing with the grief of his Uncle's passing only months ago. It was a hard time. A dark time. But his Aunt was still with him, and he needed to care for her, so distress aside, Peter plastered on his most encouraging smile, and walked in with a sunny attitude, because after all, his bills needed to be paid.

"Good morning, Wade!" he called

No response.

"Isn't this just a lovely day," he said, opening the curtains to let the sun in. "And I see that you have flowers again. Anyone special?" Peter knew very well that those had been the flowers he'd placed there himself just yesterday.

A feint hum from the respirator was the reply and nothing more.

Peter sighed, sitting on the edge of Wade's bed. "Dr. Banner's doing the best he can," he murmured. Wade's chest rose and fell in a slow, rhythmic pattern, in time to the quiet beeps of the machines he was hooked up to. Peter took his hand.

"You just need to keep fighting, you know? Just keep fighting it."

And just like those had been the words to unlock Wade from his lifeless daze, his fingers twitched, loosely curling around Peter's with the energy of a deflated raft, and he let out a low, raspy groan into his respirator.

Peter startled. With shaky fingers, he activated the voicera dangling from his uniform with his other hand. "Page Dr. Banner to 5 Unit 8, STAT," he gasped, standing up to lean over Wade, still clutching onto his hand.

"Wade. Can you hear me?"

Wade groaned again in response, louder this time around.

Peter let out a breath in relief, his exhale something of a cross between a laugh and a sob, restless and broken. He squeezed Wade's hand, new-found excitement flowing through his system.

"It was involuntary, a simple reflexive spasm. I'm sorry," said Dr. Banner

Peter shook his head, eyes pleading as they looked into Dr. Banner's. "No, you weren't there. He responded. He squeezed my hand and responded when I talked to him. It was not reflexive!"

Banner sighed. "Peter," he started slowly, gaze cautious, as though he was speaking to a distraught child. "You've been over-worked, taking on far too many shifts, especially as of late. You've suffered a tremendous loss. Consider the fact that you may have imagined the entire scenario."

"But Dr. Ban –"

"Code Blue, Emergency, ETA 5 minutes. Code Blue, Emergency, ETA 5 minutes."

"If you'll excuse me, I am needed elsewhere."

Peter stared at Dr. Banner in disbelief as he trotted towards the Emergency Department.

He turned back to Wade, the only sound coming from his direction the feint droning of the respirator.

"Good morning, Wade!" he called.

" . . guh … m'rnin … "

Peter dropped whatever he was carrying, just vaguely aware of something hitting the floor with a metallic crash. He rushed over to Wade's bedside, grabbing for his hand.

Wade smiled beneath the respirator, the heart monitor spiking up for a short moment before eventually returning to its normal rhythm.

Wade had fallen back asleep, smile frozen in place.

"Dr. Banner, I'm telling you, these are not hallucinations. You can't take him off the respirator, I'm begging you!"

Banner stopped in his tracks and turned to stare down at Peter, eyes tired and hollowed. "I've done all I can. I've increased his dosages, we've run tests time and time again, we've called in specialists against our better judgement simply because I was willing to bend my reputation on your word on account of how valuable a health care worker you are. They found nothing there, Peter. Nothing."

He started to walk off again.

"You of all people should know never to get too attached to a patient. In this business, there's no telling what direction fate will turn," he called over his shoulder.

Peter felt a helpless rage slowly taking him over. He crashed his fist into the wall, shutting his eyes and biting his tongue to hold back everything that was clawing within him to surface.

The next day, the room was empty. The bed was freshly made, the curtain drawn back and the window open. A fresh cool breeze washed over Peter, and he shivered. He was so close.

"Peter," he heard Dr. Banner calling him.

Peter straightened his shoulders, took in a deep breath to compose himself, and turned to face Dr. Banner with a smile. He had bills to pay, afterall.

Dr. Banner smiled down at him, amusement clouding his eyes. "Peter, there's a patient two rooms down who request to see you."

Puzzled, Peter nodded and started towards the room. That's strange, he though. As far as I recall, there was no patient in that room.

Laying in bed with a pillow propping his back, eating the mashed remains of hospital cafeteria Taco Tuesday Surprise through a wide straw, was his patient Wade Wilson.