Hospital Encounter, or; Why do I always feel like I'm being left behind.

1.39 a.m. Drunk. Smoking.

I am tired. It has been three hours since the open-heart but my scrubs are still on. I want to remove them, and yet- I am too exhausted; or lazy, I don't know- the only thing I've done the last hour has been to systematically kill my lungs through my third pack of the week. And it's only a Tuesday.

There is a bus running down the highway so I track it with my eyes. When it passed out of sight I track another. My throat burns and feel good at the same time and I toss the half-finished stick- the fourth- over the railings and rub my bloodshot eyes with sticky-feeling palms and try not to breathe in the depressing smell as I stride warily through C ward.

I despise myself, but I still turn it on. My newsfeed is flooded. Literally hundreds of notifications. Seven different conversations going on simultaneously. Three new headlines since seven o'clock. ScheiBe. Why do I give a fuck. My stupid fingers grope for the pack and I catch them before they are successful. I pull at my hair and seven strands come loose in my palm.

'Gaghh!'

Smash. Lovely smiling bee-head pen holder stare at me with a crack down its mutilated face from the floor. Claudette would be sad I did this to her Christmas gift. But Claudette is in Cologne, so it's alright. I punch the pad and the holo-projector dies instantly. The button is stiff and won't reset to its raised position. I... I might have broken it. The underside of my palm hurts. I am stupid. I do not know how to punch things. Fuck.

I breathe in.

Then I breathe out.

The exhale is shaky and disinfectant is too strong for my nose right now, really, they should do something about the smell of this place. As head physician I have a lot of weight I could throw around if I wanted. But I am tired. It gets harder to give fucks. Haven't sat down to rest since nine a.m. How I wish she was here...

I close my eyes and the silence of the hospital crashes down on my ears with deafening force. They are wide open before I am crushed by the black nothingness overwhelming my every sense. I hate this. I hate my life. Mein gott...

Two knocks.

The words 'Come In' die in my throat as I see the shadow through the opaque glass.

I pick myself up and shake my head to wake up as I seize the handle and swings it open.

'Mein schatz..?'

'It is late. You did not say you would be home late', she says matter-of-factly.

'I-'

'-seven missed calls.'

'-Fareeha I-'

'-what is this.' She stick a hand into the left side pocket and take my pack from me. '... S0000987?'

Finality in her voice. Not a question. She has a duffel slung over her. I remember she ends work at one. Helix to Baden-Baden is a half hour race at top speed, discounting traffic. Did she fly a jet here? Maybe she attached wings to the Harley? I half expected Verkehrspolizei to burst through the glass doors to a shocked Karl any moment. 'Miss. Please come with us. Do not resist. Danke.'

But no.

'Third pack of the week, Ang. It's Tuesday.'

'You memorize my cigarette pack serial numbers?', I am not good at disguising ridicule, so I don't. My pent-up annoyance roll off me in waves. I lack the ability to direct anger at people and it leaves me frustrated. I feel bitter. Angry. But why? I don't know. Stress.

Fareeha makes it matter nothing.

She hug- pull, actually- me and crushes me against her. Our bosoms press against each other and I feel her throat vibrate against my forehead as she speaks again.

'Stop this.'

I must smell disgusting. My hair is so frazzled. I can feel the split ends. She is freshly washed and smells sharp; clean. Like aftershave. Thick, calloused palms grab my waists and do not let go. Her touch is firm. Warm. Hard. And yet... gentle. My exhaustion announces itself. I caught myself collapsing against her.

'It's late. Let's go home.'

'-but-',

'Home.' She kiss me on the forehead and I don't argue anymore. I flick off the lights to my office.

She guide me down the hallway.

I wave to Karl the receptionist. He smile awkwardly at my Egyptian.

We leave through the backdoor.

...

I hold her.

Fareeha zips down the Autobahn at two miles below the speed limit. Wind finds a way into the helmet and I fall asleep as we pass friendly Polizei having coffee at the side of the road. Good men.

Fareeha unlocks the door. Drags me in. I'm too far gone to care.

She undress me and tucks me into bed. I am naked. Chilly. I grumble. Soon she joins me. Now I'm warm. It's... really nice, I suppose.

I forget the news and the keeping-ups with every online posts ever. The surgery. The hospital. Headlines. Whatnot.

I am very tired.

'Goodnight.'

She stare, propped up on an elbow. I am a sucker for her biceps. But I am tired. My eyes droop on me. I would love to stay awake and speak; say something. I would love to express all these emotions that suddenly well up in me. I want to tell her that I love her, to thank her. For being there for me. But I am tired. So very, very tired.

'Gute Nacht', I mutter, instead.

And darkness claims me.

Sometimes it's good to just let yourself forget everything, and drift away.

(break)

A/N: Thanks to bliss and Stephanie.