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Two weeks.
Two weeks of agonizing days and sleepless nights. Two weeks of sitting at a bedside, waiting for the one in it to awaken. Or move. Or do anything more than lie there.
Two weeks of wilted flowers and hospital café food, which is eaten automatically, untasted and barely appreciated. Two weeks of closing his eyes only when he cannot force them to stay open; of nightmares in which he holds the love of his life, bleeding, in his arms, in which he stares at the unmoving body inside a coffin, in which he watches as it is lowered to the ground, in which he is curled up beside a cold gravestone, sobbing brokenly. Two weeks of bolting upright in the uncomfortable chair, pushing sweat-damp locks out of his face and scrabbling desperately for the limp - but alive - hand that rests on the bed.
Two weeks, and no change.
He's lost a lot of blood, they had told him when he had arrived, frantic and afraid, at the ER. His body needs time to heal, they had explained as he had sat there, day after night after day, waiting for some sign of life besides the steady beep of the heart monitor and the ever-so-slight rise and fall of Bilbo's chest. It's possible that the loss of blood has caused permanent damage, they had admitted after a week of no change. That Bilbo might never be the same - now such an option is the good diagnosis.
I'm sorry, Mr. Durin. I'm afraid you need to prepare yourself for the possibility that he may not wake up.
Thorin rests his head on the bed beside Bilbo's machine-driven body, and weeps.
The boys are devastated - well, they all are, are they not? Even gruff, I-pretend-I-don't-like-your-boyfriend Dwalin has been more somber than usual. Dis is stoic as she keeps her sons from bothering Thorin, Balin offers too many sympathetic smiles and shoulder pats, Ori can't even walk in Bilbo's room without sniffling, Bofur has left his hat on Bilbo's bedside table, and Bifur has had a spike in his PTSD attacks. Everyone already seems to be mourning in some way, and Thorin cannot stand their resignation.
He begs Bilbo to prove them wrong, one more time. He pleads and bargains and even shouts when he is at his most desperate, the nurses leading him out of the room even as he orders Bilbo to wake, tears streaming down his face and sobs blocking his throat.
He doesn't even know if Bilbo had heard him, that horrible, nightmare day. I love you, he had practically begged, once he had realized what was happening. Why had he never said it before, when it had been the truth for longer than Bilbo could even guess? And the thought that Bilbo never would know...Thorin clenches his teeth and digs his nails into his palms, which have already lost several layers of skin.
How many more times would he fail in life?
He dreams. Not always of death, no - sometimes of waking up with a warm body pressed up against his, of wrapping his arms around Bilbo's middle while the shorter man makes pancakes, of walking in the crisp autumn air together with their arms linked and their hands bunched inside their pockets. Thorin cannot decide if these are worse than the nightmares that plague his sleep.
This particular dream is of Bilbo carding his fingers through Thorin's hair - a secret, guilty pleasure. Bilbo's hands are deft and nimble, moving and scratching in just the way to make Thorin hum with appreciation (he does not purr, thank you very much). The dream persists even as bits of reality come through - the familiar beep of the monitor, the uncomfortable seat of the chair, the crick in Thorin's neck that is caused by his head resting against Bilbo's side. Sounds and smells penetrate the haze of sleep slowly, almost languidly, the feeling of fingers in his hair giving him the illusion of a perfect Sunday morning-
Fingers. In his hair.
Thorin's eyes open and he sits up quickly, staring at the spot where his head had lain. Where Bilbo's fingers are still subtly, barely twitching, as if ruffling the hair no longer beneath them.
Thorin stares, afraid to look away. Minutes pass, maybe hours - how would he know? Of its own accord, one of his hands reaches for Bilbo's, gently touching the back of it. Slowly, slowly, as if there is all the time in the world, Bilbo's hand turns over, fingers fluttering until they clasp Thorin's lightly. Thorin does not dare to breathe as there is a gentle, almost nonexistent tug on his arm; a tug that he follows as Bilbo's hand, still holding onto Thorin's, crosses to his chest, right above his heart.
Carefully, ever-so-carefully, Thorin uses his other hand to press the call button. He is half-leaning over Bilbo as the nurse comes in, sparing her little more than a glance.
"Mr. Durin?"
"He did this," Thorin whispered, gesturing carefully to his captive hand.
The nurse presses another button before methodically checking the machines - but is there more liveliness in her step than before? Thorin thinks so - hopes so - perhaps Bilbo is not gone after all.
Soon afterward, the doctor steps in. She and the nurse mutter to themselves quietly, but Thorin is distracted by a slight pressure on his hand - Bilbo squeezing lightly. Thorin reaches up to Bilbo's curls and softly brushes them to the side, overjoyed when Bilbo's head moves a fraction of an inch towards his hand.
The muttering behind him stops, and Thorin is aware of the doctor stepping forward. He turns his head around, not wanting to dislodge the arrangement his sleeping boyfriend has made.
"He appears to be showing signs of waking, though I cannot promise anything. We will have to wait more before we can know anything. He is not, by any means, out of the woods yet, Mr. Durin."
"But this is a good sign, yes? Movement is crucial for comatose patients?"
The doctor allows a small smile, and Thorin's whole world brightens. "Yes, Mr. Durin. This is a very good sign."
Two weeks, five days, eight hours, and forty-seven minutes since Bilbo had come out of the operating room. Thorin knows he looks a mess, haggard and unkempt, with stubble that is nearing a beard and less weight than he once had.
"You look terrible," the words zap Thorin like an electric shock out of his half-doze, his head automatically turning to the sleepy, beautiful, indigo eyes of his beloved. He can feel a smile - a real smile, absent for nearly three weeks - crack his face, his whole body straighten and his spirit lighten as if the world itself had been lifted off of it. He stares at Bilbo for an indeterminate amount of time, taking in the pale, but no longer grey, cheeks, the way his inhale is stronger than it was during his sleep, the eyes clearing the sleep away and regarding him with an amused expression, one eyebrow raised.
There are a thousand things he wants to say, all crowding to the tip of his tongue. But of course, all that comes out is:
"Says the one who looks half-dead." But he's not, is he? Not anymore. Thorin feels as though he could run a marathon, though he knows he's more likely to pass out from relief.
"I wouldn't know it, given your appearance," Bilbo quips back, though his speech is slightly slurred by tiredness. Thorin smiles, gentler this time, and looks again at his miracle boyfriend.
"What?" Bilbo queries after withstanding several minutes of staring.
He's alive. The knowledge sinks in, and Thorin heaves the biggest sigh of relief in his life. "I'm just glad I have the chance to tell you how much I love you."