Chapter Text
At the beginning, all there is to feel is cold.
It burrows deep inside of him, the kind you don't notice until you decide to try and move. His eyes are sticky and stay shut. No effort can be regained over his muscles.
There is a dull ache somewhere upwards of his body. He thinks it's called his head.
When you're cold, you shiver. You move. You stave it off any way you can.
He can't move.
When you force yourself not to shiver, for whatever reason, you don't end up warmer.
Just colder. A gentle cold that caresses you like a lover's hand on your cheek. You don't just feel cold, you are the cold.
He can't shiver it off.
In and out. In and out. It's like blinking, only with your consciousness.
There are beeps. The first time he heard them, he thought his mind was supplying him with something to pass the time. Maybe he's dying somewhere in the snow. He can't imagine snow. His mind is so blank it scares him, if he could stay awake long enough to feel fear, that is. He thinks the snow would be softer than wherever he is now. Wherever he is, it's... sharp and unpleasant.
The beeps stay longer. Machines, he thinks. It's too regular.
Then he just falls back asleep.
When he feels his fist close around consciousness he grabs onto it, knowing to focus his energy somewhere productive. He doesn't bother with his eyes.
His mouth opens slowly and he can feel the sick rotting in his mouth, the horrible way it must smell. He thinks he hears feet in the room. His mouth gapes open, shutting it again and again like a fish. He can't get over the sensation in his jaw. Someone rushes to his side and he feels the bed jostle but he can't see, can't hear anything but the machines.
"Water, he gasps, feeling like every push of sound through his vocal cords was akin to swallowing glass. "Water..."
He can feel his eyes drifting closed against his will. Holding on is a losing battle.
Wherever he is, it's softer, now.
"…Warren? Warren?"
He cracks his eyes open, having just woken up. He has no idea how the vague unidentified voice can know. Have they been saying his name the whole time in hopes that he would move?
He tries to conure up an image of who would be waiting at his side, presumably at some kind of hospital, but he comes up blank.
God. What a sad life this man must live.
Warren. His name must be Warren, who else could they be talking to?
Warren tries to crack his eyes open. He moves his eyes around, feeling the crust in the corner. All his attempts do is twitch his fingers, but the small triumph leaves him gasping.
"Oh my God," the voice is saying with some kind of laughter, "nurse- nurse! He's going to get up this time, I can feel it, look-"
They pace away, getting someone's attention, and Warren forces his eyelids to crack.
Petrifying white light pours in, burning, and he blinks, catching a glimpse of brown hair swishing as a young woman runs into the hall, sneakers squeaking against the white tile, her white shirt blending in with the wall. She looks like an overexposed photograph.
His mind conjures no name.
He cries out in pain as he begins to shiver and something in his mind knows to block it.
Even with his eyes open, everything in Warren's painfully limited world begins to go black.
All there is is pain. Different kinds, some sharp and some dull, some cold and some hot, some in his legs and some in his tors and some in his arms and some in his head. He tries to turn his head from side to side.
A nurse gives him a plastic cup of water. She helps him sit. The bed moves so he doesn't have to. Warren squints the whole time.
He feels like a child, unlearned and helpless. He is defined by what he lacks.
"Here ya go, love," she mutters in her thick Scottish accent, "ye've got to stay hydrated.
Despite how good the water tastes, his hands shake the whole while and he spills it all over himself. The cold is back in full effect. Even in the white light, he can see how utterly pale he is, pink in his joints and blending in with the white bed. The pale blue blanket is the only dash of cover.
He begins to shiver.
"Cold," he less says and more moans like a ghost and the woman pats him on the shoulder, pressing a button as his bed lies back. Command of his muscles return to him as he- Warren, Warren, a person has a name- curls into a ball, shaking so hard he doesn't know where the cold ends and the crying begins.
The woman coos at him, moving to the closet to get big puffy comforters, the same shade of hospital blue, and lays them out on top of him. Warren pulls his knees to his chest, trembling uncontrollably. She tucks it around the edges and he wonders if she's a nurse and also perhaps his mother. He leans into her touch as if he hasn't had anyone by him in years. The pain is unimaginable but he would endure it. Hair falls in front of his face and through it he can see red flowers on the bedside table.
This woman is not his mother, but Warren wishes she were here.
"Nurse," he asks, mouth dry once more, "who was that woman?"
"Who?"
"The, um- the visitor."
He rolls over on his back, the IV twinging in his arm. He pulls the blankets in close.
"Oh, I'm just a nurse, dearie. I can go getcher doctor, if ya like."
"I don't-"
"It'd probably be for the best. Ye look so damn cold.." she shakes her head, tsking.
Warren thinks she's something like a mother. Now that he's moved, the tuck of her blankets has shifted out of place.
She gets up to go and he wants to cry harder, to plead with her to stay with him. He's so alone. He hates feeling so- so helpless, so incompetent.
He closes his eyes, pulling the blankets up. The cold never fails to make him sleepy.
When he wakes up, the brown-haired woman is here again. He opens his eyes and he feels the few whiskers on his chin crinkle when he breaks out into a smile.
"Hi," he whispers, his voice horace and out of practice. She doesn't seem to mind.
"Warren! Warren freaking Godby, you son of a bitch, you're awake! They said not to wake you, I hope I didn't…" There’s a big grin on her face, the kind that splits your face apart, the kind that hurts to look at. And it does hurt to look at her. Like going right into the sun.
He blinks a few times, trying to focus in on her features. None of the make any sense.
He can't- there's no association with her face in his head. He doesn't know what's wrong with him.
"I'm sorry, I’m, ah… I don't quite- I'm having trouble remembering... who are you?"
She blinks a few times, appearing hurt. He wants to take it back. He doesn't want her to leave.
"Warren, it's- it's Karen. Karen Godby? Your wife?"