Chapter Text
It’s Patrick who has the misfortune of being the only one up when Joe startles awake from a nightmare at three in the morning in their definitely overcrowded hospital room. All four of them are crammed into the one room because frankly, splitting up was out of the question. It probably wasn’t legal or ethical to let four horribly injured, clearly traumatized, codependent grown men bunk together after having been missing and presumed dead (or legally dead in Joe’s case) for a week. Patrick isn’t usually one to talk about wealth or fame but goddamn he has never been more grateful for having reached celebrity status. That, coupled with the whole missing and injured thing, had thankfully given them some pull. Which is why Patrick and Joe are in hospital beds and Pete and Andy are curled up on cots.
Joe had tried to convince Andy to just share the bed with him but Andy was hesitant. Said something about not wanting to hurt him in his sleep since he’d been out of surgery for less than a day. Joe had pouted about it. Patrick, and all of them probably, know that Andy’s just scared. Which is fair, Joe had been autopsied and stitched back together by someone less than careful. But this had essentially slapped a “FRAGILE: HANDLE WITH CARE STICKER” on the guy’s head. They all know that Andy doesn’t really move in his sleep. He’s like a rock. Stable. Like a lighthouse. Withstanding. Something to cling to both in life and sleep. Andy’s just scared. They’re all a little scared.
Idly, Patrick wonders if they’ll ever stop being scared.
Patrick has a feeling that Pete, had he been given the word, would have crawled into bed with any of them. He’s always been like that. He’s always sought out warmth and comfort, in them especially. Patrick wouldn’t be able to count the many, many times he’s woken up with Pete clinging to him like a koala to a tree. But as much as he probably wants that right now, he didn’t say anything. Patrick is endlessly grateful for this, thanking a god he’s now certain exists for not making him have to break Pete’s heart. Had Pete asked, Patrick’s not sure he would have been able to handle the look in Pete’s eyes when he said no. It’s not Pete, no it was never Pete. God knows Patrick himself is itching to hold any one of them close again. God knows he’s been wanting to do that since long before cults and bloodshed, long before talks of ending the hiatus, ever since he suddenly wasn’t allowed to hold them like that anymore.
But he’s not certain he could ever bring himself to do it again, not after what he’s done.
And so Patrick can’t sleep, plagued by these thoughts of past, present, and future. Plagued by the quiet pain that the meds don’t quite catch. Plagued by an itch on a finger that he doesn’t have anymore. There’s yellow light drifting into their otherwise dark room from the hallway beyond their doors. He can hear the quieted sounds of the hospital. Squeaky wheels and silent chatter. Hospitals don’t sleep. Patrick doesn’t much like hospitals.
He focuses on the breathing of his bandmates. Between the glow from the door and the neon lights on the machinery he can catch the steady rise and fall of their chests. How they can possibly sleep, he doesn’t know. He doesn’t understand why they trust him with their sleeping forms. He doesn’t even trust himself.
He’s paying such close attention to them that he catches the moment Joe’s breath hitches in his sleep.
Patrick watches with increasing concern as Joe begins to fidget in his sleep, as his lips move in a wordless language. “Joe?” he calls in a stage whisper, hopefully quiet enough so as not to disturb Pete and Andy but loud enough to get through to Joe. It doesn’t, so he calls out again for him to no response.
Joe’s breathing harder now, increasingly so. The rise and fall of his chest is rapid fire as he huffs out air, barely getting any in on the next inhale. So Patrick kicks off his shitty hospital blanket and crosses the distance between them.
He doesn’t think about it. He’s a fucking idiot for not thinking about it.
When Joe wakes up, wide eyed and panicked, his eyes quickly land on Patrick. It sends him spiraling. He makes this noise, something between surprise and horror, something guttural and terrified sounding. Nothing Patrick says or could possibly say gets through to him as he rips off the vitals monitors he’s hooked up to in order to effectively get out of bed and distance himself from Patrick.
Patrick can see the panic increase with every beat. Patrick. Hospital. Cords. Bed. It occurs to him that Joe is not here right now. He’s somewhere far away, in an abandoned hospital with a monster in front of him, seconds away from death. Joe is terrified. Terrified of him. And Patrick freezes.
The sudden loss of vitals sends nurses storming the room and the commotion wakes up Pete and Andy. The feverishly bright light being turned on does nothing to alleviate the situation and more so leaves him feeling like he’s been flashbanged than anything else.
“What’s happening!?” Pete yells, tripping over himself as he tries to stand, blanket tangled around him.
Patrick can’t get words out, he’s frozen too. He can hear his own pulse pounding in his ears and for a second he isn’t there either. For a second it’s party lights and a fading pulse that isn’t his own. He no longer feels the absence of a hand but the absence of something much worse.
This, consequently, panics Pete who’s now yelling “Trick! Talk to me!”
Joe is cornered, having jumped out of bed into the direction of the wall. He’s fairly certain he’s unaware of Andy’s presence behind him. Patrick is barely aware of the nurses behind him closing in on the corner too. Someone must be saying something, he can’t imagine that this is genuinely a silent standoff, but he can’t hear anything beyond the faint sound of party music that he knows isn’t actually there.
Joe continues trying to back himself into the corner, his eyes not budging from their stuck gaze on Patrick. So when he bumps into Andy he jumps so hard his first instinct is to turn around and shove him into the wall full force. Andy hits the wall, eyes screwed shut like he knew it was coming. He bounces off of it, stumbles just slightly, but doesn’t go down. The nurses move to swarm Joe for this reasonable action they’ve deemed incorrect and Patrick finds his voice again, “Wait, wait!” he yells.They hesitate. “Give him a second, please.” he all but pleads.
Joe’s eyes are now transfixed on Andy, like he’s actually seeing him for the first time. Joe tries to say his name, chokes on the words, and it comes out as “ndy?” instead. Like he doesn’t believe he’s actually there.
Andy nods, doesn’t move from his spot, leaves space between them, “It’s okay,” he whispers. “You’re alright, we’re alright, you’re not there. Baby, you’re not there. ” He stresses the last word, a whine getting caught in his throat. Patrick can hear the emotion in his words.
Something about Andy’s presence cuts through the nightmare, through the confusion clouding Joe’s mind. He knows this because Andy barely has the time to brace himself before Joe is throwing himself at him full speed. There’s a quick movement among the medical professionals in the room, no doubt thinking this would be another attack, but they pause when Joe is shoving his head into the space between Andy’s shoulder and his neck. Like that space was made for him. Patrick can’t imagine that this doesn’t aggravate the bandaged wound on Andy’s neck but if it does he doesn’t show it. Instead he clings to Joe with an iron tight grip, all injuries be damned.
Something shakes loose in Patrick’s chest. Something aches deep from within his soul. He doesn’t even realize he’s crying until Pete pulls him away from the scene with a gentle touch. No one dares to say anything as Joe’s body shakes with silent sobs. Nobody says anything at all until they’re resituated an hour or so later, back to their original positions having been guided back either by each other or nurses who are certainly sick of their shit by now. The only difference now is that Andy is in the bed with Joe.
“I’m sorry,” Joe says into the quiet of the night, voice totally wrecked.
“You shut your mouth, Trohman,” Pete says with absolutely zero malice behind the words. Instead they’re dripping with a honey sweet sadness and an exhaustion Patrick can feel deep in his bones.
Joe huffs. Not really a laugh, more of an amused acknowledgement.
Patrick clears his throat, “I’m really sorry, man.” he takes the risk and turns his head to look at Joe, “I’m so goddamn sorry.”
“It’s not your fault I overreacted.”
“You didn't overreact though,” Patrick insists, “It was totally reasonable. You were freaked out, I made it worse, I really didn’t mean to.”
Joe sighs. There’s a lull. “Can we just.. not do this right now? I don’t want to do this right now.” This is what he says instead of acknowledging any of Patrick’s words. This is likely because everything Patrick said was true. And what can he say to that?
“Yeah no, I was just.. I’m just sorry, that’s all.” Patrick says. He turns away because he can’t stand to see the way Joe refuses to look at him, even in the dark. Nobody says anything after that and Patrick wants nothing more than for the bed to swallow him whole.
He doesn’t fall asleep again that night. But if he closes his eyes hard enough he can almost imagine he’s in the back of a shitty van, sharing two equally shitty blankets with three decidedly not so shitty guys.
You know, for warmth.