Well, we fuckin' did it children. We broke 40,000 words for this god damned abomination. If any of y'all are out there, be sure to rate and review this...thing. Don't be shy, I don't bite. Well, not much.
It's all downhill from here :)
Another fluffy ass one, and it's kinda short compared to the last few, but bear with me.
All he could hear was the frantic screaming of various machines. They were like nails on a chalkboard, the damn things, even though they were partially responsible for keeping him alive, if only for just a little while.
Light shined in his eyes at a blinding intensity. It felt like his corneas were searing in his fucking skull, but he still just couldn't see anything in his chest cavity.
And the smell.
It was that typical hospital smell, the one that always stuck to his clothes no matter how much or how little time he spent in that chaotic vortex of bleeding wounds and inevitable death. It didn't smell like anything specific. Medicine, maybe, combined with rubbing alcohol. Otherwise, it was just known as a distinct hospital smell.
God how he hated that smell.
Especially in the midst of a trauma, when it mingled with the coppery, overpowering smell of blood. Fresh blood, that always seemed to gush at an alarming rate in that ER. This time, he just couldn't seem to get it to stop, no matter how hard he tried.
It was almost all he could smell, even more so than the hospital smell, as he worked, tirelessly, desperately to save him.
"More lap pads! And quit blocking my light, would ya?! I need to visualize this bleeder!" He barked out to a nurse. He knew there were others in the room with him, others who were trying to help, but for the life of him, he just couldn't make out who they were.
Not to mention the open chest cavity in front of him.
"Damn it! I said I need more light! And more lap pads, I can't see a thing!" The bleeding was getting worse. So much worse. No matter how many of those damned lap pads they used, or how much one of the nurses in the room suctioned.
As blood began to spill on the floor, and splatter all over his blue scrub top, he began to panic.
"Come on! What's it take to get some more light in here?! And for God's sake aren't there more attendings down here to help me stabilize these bleeders?!" He figured any medical instruments were shot to hell by now. His gloved hands, sticky from the sickening red substance plunged into the boy's chest cavity, trying, searching desperately for whatever was causing him to bleed this much. And God damn it, why couldn't he see anything?!
He could feel his heart racing in his chest as he kept up the efforts.
A new sound filled his senses—the heart monitor.
It screeched perpetually, at a high pitched monotone that made a burning pit form in his stomach. Asystole.
He took his attention away from those bleeding vessels and raced to find the boy's heart, massaging the cardiac muscle, praying to God it'd get him back, at least for long enough to repair some of the damage.
"Come on, Jessie. Hang in there..." he pleaded, doubling his efforts. "Internal paddles! We need to shock his heart back into rhythm!"
Nobody moved.
"Come on, what are you waiting for?! We can still bring him back!"
"Peter, it's over." Kerry Weaver said, having materialized out of absolutely nowhere just in time. She stared him down with dark, unsympathetic eyes.
"Shut up Kerry! We can still save him!" He was shaking from his efforts now. His hands pumped Jessie's heart, over and over, but despite it all, the monitor still showed a flatline.
"Come on Jessie...don't do this to me." Tears choked him up, making him barely able to get the words out through them.
"Peter, it's over..." a new voice came into his perception. One he'd just heard not long ago...
"Just call it. It's been 40 minutes."
His shoulders shook as he wept, sobs wracking his body. He couldn't bare to look at the clock, couldn't bare to say or do anything more, or even look at the boy. The same boy he'd failed, the one he couldn't bring back no matter how hard he tried.
His shoulders shook harder as tears spilled down his cheeks. That voice came back to him again, persistent to keep his attention.
"Peter..."
He ignored it, too focused on his own misery to care.
"Peter!"
He woke up with a start, gasping for air. His labored breaths came out in sobs as he rapidly took in his surroundings, having absolutely no idea where he was. It was dark, kind of warm, and there were definitely some sheets and some pillows behind him.
He began to scramble around the bed, still in a daze. Palming around the soft surface, his hand hit something firm. An arm found its way around him, causing his incessant squirming to stop.
"Peter, it's okay. You're okay..." Robert whispered to the man, hoping to ease him out of his sleep induced delirium. He wrapped both arms around him, squeezing him around his broad chest, which still heaved with panicked, uneasy breaths. "It was just a bad dream. Just relax..."
"Robert?" Now he remembered.
His eyes flicked to the digital clock on Robert's nightstand. It read 2:47 a.m..
It had been the night after where the story of our two surgical heroes left off. With his sister Jackie's blessing (which was really just her insistence so she could spend some time alone without Peter breathing down her neck for only the second time in over a week) and her promise that she'd watch Reese again, he'd ventured off to Robert's not-so-humble abode, bearing roughly 40$ worth of Chinese food and a bottle of Riesling.
It had been another one of Peter's little low budget and underrated candle-lit dinners, one they had this time in Robert's lounge.
Needless to say after their ravenous appetites had been taken care of, and a hefty amount of the cool, crisp alcohol had been downed by our two surgeons, another discussion had inevitably taken place.
And they must have fallen asleep immediately after their discussion, because Peter couldn't remember much past that.
Well, at least until he'd been so unpleasantly awakened.
His heart still pounded in his chest as Robert held him, rubbing his back with one hand as he murmured sweet nothings against his temple.
"Everything's alright now. You just had a nightmare. You're okay." He pressed a soft kiss to the side of Peter's head. The man relaxed in his arms after another moment as his surroundings became more familiar to him, and his breathing evened out.
"Do you want to talk about it?" Romano mumbled against his head.
"I was trying to save him, Robert. I..." that damn nightmare. It felt so real. Even after a couple minutes or so of waking up and getting his bearings and those soft, whispered words from Robert, he still half expected to be dragged right back into that trauma room, to be thrown right back into watching his own nephew be taken away from him in front of his very own eyes. "I thought there was still time."
Slowly, the bald surgeon beside him began to understand.
"Oh, Peter. I'm so sorry," his arms tightened more around Peter's slightly trembling form. He pulled the man closer, tucking Peter's head under his chin. "You did everything you could, you know. This wasn't your fault."
"I know, Robert. I know...but I just can't help feeling like I still could have done something. Something different, in that trauma room, back at home..." Peter sighed, leaning his head against Robert's chest heavily. The bald man brought his hand up to run his fingers through the man's short hair, gently raking his nails against his scalp, trying to calm him.
"Peter, honey. You're an amazing man, and a brilliant surgeon, but you're not Jesus..." Robert murmured, still scratching the man's head. "There was nothing you could have done, nothing anyone could have done. And he sure as hell didn't see it coming."
They stayed quiet for a while, with nothing but the occasional car or two passing by on the street every now and then, coupled with the two men's breathing to fill the silence. And of course Gretel, who lie at the foot of Robert's behemoth of a bed, snoring away, blissfully unaware of their late night exchange.
Peter leaned his head lower on Robert's chest, listening to his slow, steady heartbeat. It worked like his own personal lullaby, the damn thing. A rhythm reserved especially for him. Slowly, the feeling of white-knuckled panic and heart wrenching sadness melted from him as his head grew heavier and heavier against the short man's chest.
The feeling of his fingertips against his head made the taller surgeon start to feel tired again, his eyelids slowly falling closed despite his determination to keep himself awake, to make this moment last just a little bit longer.
Noticing that Peter was getting more and more tired with each passing second, Romano gently pulled him by his shoulder to lie back down on the bed. The other man curled up to him even more, his head still resting on his bare chest.
"Everything's alright, love. I've got you..." he assured the man, still petting him. His other arm wrapped around him, holding him closer. "Go back to sleep. Try not to dream about death and destruction this time. Not to mention County of all places."
"I will if I can help it..." Peter murmured against Romano's chest, his arm draped over his stomach, which rose and fell with his slow, even breaths.
The bald man pressed another kiss to his head. "I love you, Peter. I'm not gonna let anything hurt you ever again. Not if I can help it..."
He was met with stony silence, the man in his arms already having drifted off to sleep. His hand just reached for the warm blanket that covered their hips, pulling it up to Benton's shoulders, tucking him in.
Robert fell asleep soon after, gazing at the man he loved, hoping his dreams would be a lot sweeter for the remainder of their night.
