Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The scrub room was tense. It often was these days, with the rest of the surgical team walking on eggshells to avoid Hans’ fraying temper. 

Everyone but one. 

“You should have waited for pediatric,” Henry said, stopping at the sink beside him. The sound of the tap cut through the quiet. His voice was low, his shoulders tense the way they got when he was angry. Hans was well familiar with it, both from these last few months, and from the time before. He longed to reach out and soothe them, rub the tension away with his hands until Henry melted beneath him, letting go of the rage that sustained him and allowed himself to rest. But that wasn’t Hans’ privilege anymore. There were no stolen moments in the relative privacy of the scrub room, with everybody else gone.

Instead, Hans scoffed and scrubbed his hands a little harder with the carbolic soap to still the desire. He was still sweaty from spending so long under the OR lamps, his hands perfectly steady around scalpels and sutures as he pieced somebody’s child back together. “The Peds surgeon on call is an idiot,” he said sharply. “Besides, we didn’t have the time.”

Henry’s jaw clenched. “You just wanted the glory,” he accused, his eyes boring into Hans. Blue, like the sky; eyes that had once seen the worst parts of Hans and loved him anyway. A mistake on Henry’s part. Hans refused to meet them; he couldn’t. It would ache too much to remember what he lost.

“It was a judgment call,” he said stiffly, his gaze glued to the stainless steel sink. The room smelled of disinfectant.

“And if it was the wrong one?”

“Then I would be the one telling her parents that their twelve-year-old died,” Hans snapped, slamming his hands down on the edge of the sink with a pound. A small part of him begged to stop, to ignore the anger coiling like a snake trying to shield the hurt, but Hans was as helpless to it as he perpetually was to Henry. 

Henry met his anger head-on, as always. “You just wanted the praise, don’t pretend otherwise,” he growled. “Next time you want an adrenaline rush, go rock climbing.” He always seemed so much larger when he was angry. It made something flutter in Hans’ chest. Not fear, unfortunately, something far worse.

Hans hands itched, curling into fists. He wanted nothing more than to throw a fucking punch, than to feel Henry hit him back. It would almost be like making love.

He turned away and tore free a piece of paper towel. “Fuck off. If you care so much, go complain to the charge nurse and work with somebody else.”

“Can’t, nobody else will put up with you in exchange," Henry said, and didn’t that sting? Henry always knew exactly where to hit the hardest.

“Sucks to be you, then,” Hans told him.

Once, months ago, this conversation would have gone differently. Henry would have expressed his concern quietly, his voice low not with anger but with secrets. It would have happened in the small offices the surgeons used for charting. Hans would have reassured him. They might have argued a bit, things might have been heated—they often were with Henry, the two of them burning hot and fast—but there would have been no venom to it, no desire to hurt one another.

And then came the engagement, the months of pressure, his uncle breathing down his neck. The sneaking thought that maybe this would finally make Hanush proud. Becoming a surgeon certainly wasn’t enough. Besides, Henry deserved better than him, even if the place where Henry used to be ached like a wound Hans couldn’t staunch. It just bled and bled, invisible but spilling out over his hands, staining every inch of him. 

How were the two things Hans wanted more than anything so deeply opposed? He supposed it didn’t matter; in the end, he wouldn’t get either of them.

“You know what, Hans? This is exactly why you have no friends,” Henry said, lips curled into a snarl. “You think yourself so above the rest of us, and why? Because you’re a surgeon? You couldn’t do your damn job without the rest of us.”

Hans, Henry said. not Dr. Capon. Just Hans. That little bit of familiarity made Hans’ chest swell despite the vitriol.

“If you care so much, maybe you should have gone to medical school instead of nursing,” Hans replied, tilting his head to look down his nose at Henry. The sleeping monster in his chest curled in satisfaction. It wanted Henry to hurt the way Hans hurt, and damn the consequences. 

“Go fuck yourself,” Henry said. The sink turned off and he grabbed his own paper towel, rubbing his arms dry quickly instead of patting them like when scrubbing in. He balled it up and threw it into the trash, finally finished scrubbing out. “I’m going for lunch. Call me if another trauma comes in.”

“Sure, just run away,” Hans called after him. “That’s just like you.”

Henry flipped him off and stormed through the automatic door out into the bright hallway, probably to go get his phone and text Theresa. 

Hans checked the clock. It was late, nearing the time the bars closed; no use in trying to sleep, it would get busy, soon. 

He was supposed to meet Jitka for breakfast after his shift, and their fucking cake tasting was the day after. With the wedding five months away, they had planning to finish. Personally, Hans would rather get blackout drunk and forget the entire situation. Maybe he’d give it a try. If he was lucky, maybe he wouldn’t wake up. 

He tossed his paper towel into the trash. It bounced off the rim, because of fucking course it did. Grunting, Hans picked it up and shoved it inside. He had charts to do and still had to look over his residents’ work. It was more constructive than longing for Henry’s touch and knowing he would reach it.

Chapter Text

Hans clenched his jaw, staring down at his phone. It was one thing for Henry to ignore him on a personal level, but entirely another on a professional one. Fucking hell, they were expecting an amublance to pull up arrive any minute. 

The trauma room doors opened. Hans glanced up to see a pale-faced nurse enter before he scowled down at his phone again. Other nurses moved around the room, preparing whatever they would need for the incoming case.

“Dr. Capon,” the nurse—Anna?—gasped. “It’s Henry.”

He let out a frustrated noise, typing out another angry message. “I know, I’ve been trying to contact him. We’ll have to ask Lena to scrub in-”

“No, I mean the trauma‐ it’s Henry.”

Hans paused mid message. He looked up at her, staring. “What?” he asked. 

She didn’t have time to answer. The doors burst open behind her, a flood of people entering the room alongside the paramedics and their gurney. For a heartbeat, Hans stood frozen, his heart ceasing to beat in his chest. 

Blood had never bothered him before, but not, all he could think about was how much of it there was. It soaked through familiar blood scrubs and coated the skin where the fabric was split to reveal wounds beneath. It clotted in brown hair and streamed down the edge of Henry’s face--and it was Henry, Hans would have recognized him anywhere, even this scene pulled straight from his nightmares. A cerval collar kept Henry’s head and neck immoblized, just as the straps keeping Henry’s arm in place, the bone protruding from pierced skin. 

“MVA, single occupant, one of yours—had his badge on him,” the paramedic said as they pulled their gurney next to the one in the trauma bay. “GCS of eight, several fractures. Pulse is 150 and thready, blood pressure is 75/60 and falling. Chest and abdominal trauma. We intubated in the field.”

“Oh my God,” one of the trauma nurses said.

Hans shoved a similar reaction away; it didn’t matter that this was Henry, no, not Henry, it couldn’t be Henry, not right now. Compartmentalize. The patient, just like the dozens of others Hans had seen in similar states. He sprang into action. It was routine at this point. He fell back on that as he was sure they all did.

“OR is already prepping; I want ortho scrubbing in, and somebody alert neuro,” Hans called. “Eight units of O-, check his file for his typing, it’ll be quicker than cross checking. Let’s move him, watch his spine. On three. One, two, three-”

He had a knee up on the trauma room’s gurney, helping transfer the patient to it. The motion caused a grunt of pain from around the intubation tube, and the patient’s eyes fluttered, his hand curling. 

“Did you give him anything for pain?” Hans asked.

“4mg of morphine in the field,” the paramedic said.

“Give him another 2mg, IV push,” he ordered. 

Nurses moved around them in a well-organized flutter, attaching bags of lactated Ringer’s to the IVs and hooking the intubation tube up to oxygen. The resident and medical student cut away the remainder of patient’s clothes. 

“Henry,” Hans said, the name sticking in his throat. A different Henry, think of him like a different Henry. It’s just a name. “Henry, look at me,” he said, leaning over the neck brace. He dug out his penlight and shone it into the patient’s eyes. 

Tear tracks cut through the blood covering one side of the patient’s face. He tried to flinch against the light, thankfully held in place by the cervical collar, his eyes closing. Hans snapped his fingers in front of him. 

“Henry,” he said sharply, and once again, the patient’s blue eyes opened.

Hans managed to shine the light into them. 

“Pupillary response is even,” Hans called out, turning the light off. 

“Cap refill is slow,” a nurse said. 

“Dr. Capon- his abdomen is rigid,” the resident said. 

“Peritoneal lavage,” Hans ordered without looking back. He palpated lightly along the patient’s skull, searching his hair for the source of the bleeding and any indentation in the skull. The patient stared up at him through half-lidded eyes as more tears trickled free. Frightened, Hans thought, his chest clenching. “It’s okay,” he muttered softly, pausing long enough to cup Henry’s cheek. “It’s okay, we’ve got you,” he said. It was a moment if weakness, too close to the tenderness he wantes desperarely to show. Forcing himself to pull away and return to work hurt like a knife through his chest. 

He found the source of the bleeding, a laceration on the left side of the patient’s head, buried in brown curls. There was no immediate feeling of indentation, but they’d have to shave this portion of hair to stitch it closed.

How long had it been since Hans last had his fingers in it? 

Don’t think about it. 

“Get x-rays of his skull, neck, and spine; ortho will want some of that arm, and his leg doesn’t look much better,” Hans said, unable to help stroking the patient’s temple. It was unprofessional, but he couldn’t- he needed- the patient needed to stay calm. 

“Warmed fluids are here,” another nurse called, swapping the half-empty bags of Ringers for warmed ones. Anything to help keep the patient warm while they worked. Another nurse placed a Foley catheter and took a urine sample. They’d test for blood, proteins and signs of damage to the kidneys or bladder. 

Light flashed as the portable X-ray took the asked for pictures. Hans finally pulled away to feel along the patient’s abdomen as the resident prepared for the lavage. He eyed the patient’s expression and limited movement, trying to judge pain. The lavage was important to confirm, but Hans already knew what it would find: massive internal bleeding, likely damaging the patient’s internal organs; a ruptured spleen, if he had to guess. 

Hans pulled away and nodded to the resident who stood ready with iodine, but he couldn’t force himself to let go entirely. Instead, he kept a light hand on the patient’s less injured shoulder, hoping it comforted rather than hurt.

“Do it,” he told the resident, and watched closely as they disinfected the patient’s skin. They took a scalpel and made a small incision before dropping the blade into the waiting metal container. They then inserted a thin tube and began to empty a bag of warmed saline. 

“Got the X-rays,” the tech said, putting them up. 

The compound fracture in the patient’s arm was obvious even without the X-rays, but the broken femur was less so. Thank God it hadn’t hit the femoral artery, or the patient probably would have bled out before anybody arrived to help.

“Communiated break of his tibia,” Hans said, wincing. “Make sure ortho gets these, and send that-” he pointed at the x-ray of the patient’s skull showing a simple fracture, “to neuro; they’ll want it to compare it to an MRI.”

The chest x-rays were concerning, but not immediately so. Just broken ribs and a shadow that could have been a bruised lung.

“Dr. Capon, the lavage,” the resident said. 

Hans turned to see the tube filling with red. 

“Alright, that’s positive. Let the OR know we’re headed up now.”

“Ruthard is already scrubbing in for ortho,” Marika, one of the nurses, said. “They’re stocking the OR with B-.”

Hans nodded. “Let’s go then, we don’t have time to spare. MRI and CT will have to wait.”

They were already raising the gurney’s sides, moving IV bags and whatever else they needed. 

“Don’t worry, Henry,” Hans said quietly in the moment he had to spare. “We’re going to take care of you.”

Henry blinked up at him, his hand twitching. 

The gurney moved, hallways cleared. Hans followed to the OR. He wondered, distantly, who his scrub tech would be, with Henry-

The thought disappeared as quickly as it came, forced away before it could take root. 

He stood before the stainless steel sink, scrubbing his hands with carbolic soap—they didn’t shake. His mind was oddly calm, his focus narrowed to nothing but person’s body in the next room, just bone and flesh and blood.

Chapter Text

The surgery took hours. They lost Henry twice on the table, each time uncertain if they could get him back. He’d lost much blood between the broken bones and lacerated organs; Hans didn’t know how many units they went through; he didn’t want to know.  Already, the hours spent inside Henry’s abdominal cavity would haunt his dreams, clamping and cauterizing and suturing, working in tandem with the other surgeons to save Henry’s life.

They didn’t finish. Henry’s temperature was too low, and he wasn’t clotting properly. Hans stopped all the major sources of bleeding and then packed the rest of the abdominal cavity. It wasn’t a permanent solution, but it would hold until they could re-open him tomorrow morning--or earlier, if the tests showed something urgent they had missed. Henry needed a chance to warm up, with blood transfusions and platelets.

There would be more surgeries in the coming days, too. Ruthard could only do so much for his leg and arm today, piecing it back together with screws and plates. Moravský was able to scrub in, but they needed an MRI before’d know if they needed him, and there was still rest of the damage-

“Dr. Capon.”

Hans’ head snapped up at the sound of his name. He stood in front of the surgical board, not far from the nurses station, staring at the names. Radzig Koybla--Chief of Surgery and close friend to Hans’ uncle--stood nearby, his brows knitted together and his face lined with a frown. He looked older, more tired; Hans certainly related.

“Dr. Kobyla,” mHans greeted. His tongue felt heavy and unnatural in his mouth. What time even was it? What time was he supposed to get off work? 

“I came in as soon as I heard what happened,” Radzig said. “How is he?”

“Still critical but as stable as we can hope for,” Hans said. “They’re taking him for some imagining and then up to the ICU.”

Radzig let out a short breath, his shoulders relaxing. It wasn’t surprising; Henry was well-loved, from the lowest janitor to, apparently, the Chief of Surgery. 

“Good,” Radzig said. He gave a thin smile that didn’t fully reach his eyes. “I heard what he looked like when he arrived; you must have worked miracles to get him off the table.” 

Hans had never believed in miracles before, but he knew Henry’s survival today wasn’t his accomplishment. He’d been helpless in there, hearing the flatline of the heart monitor, counting rounds of chest compressions between pushes of epinephrine and atropine. If that hadn’t worked, there was nothing more he could have done. 

“You did well today, Hans,” Radzig said, dropping his voice so nobody could overhear the familiarity between them. “Operating on a colleague is difficult at the best of times, but you two have worked together for years. Your father would be proud.” He clappee Hans on the shoulder. 

Would he? Certainly not if he knew the truth. 

“He’s a good nurse,” Hans said; lied, really, because Henry was a good nurse, but he was also so much more to Hans than that. Hans’ throat squeezed like a fist tightening around it at the memories of Henry’s laughter and the warm brush of their lips. Fuck. His breath caught. “If you’d excuse me, Dr. Kobyla.”

“Of course, don’t let me keep you,” Radzig said, stepping away.

Hans nodded in thanks. He could feel the trembling in his hands picking up. They’d remained steady for the entire surgery, laser-focused on Henry, but now? Now the reality of the situation was crashing into him. 

Henry almost died. Henry, his Henry, and he still might, depending on how the next surgery went; the few days. Their last words were in anger, the cold bitterness that coloured their interactions ever since Hans gave in beneath the weight of his family’s expectations.

He could barely feel his body by the time he made it to the small, single-stall bathroom; the overhead lights flicked on automatically. It did nothing to ease the rush of blood in his ears, his breathing quick and ragged in his lungs. 

His pressed his back against the door until his legs gave in and he slid down its surface. Sitting on the floor, he tucked head between his knees. His hands twisted in his hair, pulling and pulling and pulling. The sparks of pain didn’t help; Hans couldn’t breathe. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Henry, still and lifeless on the operating table, abdomen sliced an open and blood covering every surface. It wasn’t far off from the truth.

What would he do if Henry died? It was bad enough living without him close. It already ached to wake up in an empty bed. If Henry was gone forever?

A sob clawed its way up Hans’ throat. He muffled it with a hand, refusing to let the sound break free. What would people think if they heard him? Nobody knew what Henry was to him, even when they were together. It was too risky, with Hans’ name and both of their careers on the line. It might not have been a legal reason to fire somebody, but Hanush would have found a way to make sure Henry never worked at one of their hospitald again.

Silencing himself didn’t stop the tears from overflowing, hot and stinging from his eyes and cutting rivers down his cheeks. It didn’t make it any easier to gasp ragged breaths of air. 

If Henry died, Hans would too; that’s all there was to it. He couldn’t survive in a world without Henry. 

His entire body shook from the force of his sovs, his stomach clenching painfully. His head poinded, his vision wavered, grey creeping in on the edges. Eventually, he lost his fight with the swelling tide of nausea. Hans scrambled forward, heaving into the toilet. Nothing came up, of course. It had abeen hours since he last ate, even before the surgery; his appetite was gone after their argument. 

He rested his forehead against the cool, white porcelain and stubbornly told himself to fucking breathe. It was less than effective.

Did Theresa know what happened yet? She was as close to family as Henry had left. Was she listed on his records? Hans would need to ask, would need to contact her himself if she wasn’t, never mind that she probably hated him after how things turned out with Henry. Not that he could blame her for that. 

By the time his breathing settled and numbness swept in to replace it, Hans only felt half alive. He stood like a puppet and ran the tap cold before wetting his face, hoping to ease the puffiness of his eyes. Then he left, the door clicking open to an empty hallway. Outside, the first streaks of dawn were illuminating the lightening sky.

The nurses station was busy, as expected. Hans glanced at the surgical board again as he passed. Henry was already scheduled for his next surgery, 7:00am tomorrow; the list of surgeons involved was large, Hans’ name chief among them. He’d demanded that, despite his scheduled shift being long over by then. Continuity of care and all that.

He paused in front of the charge nurse, knocking his knuckles on the nurses station out of habit. Henry always hated it when he did that.

“Barnaby,” Hans said.

The charge nurse looked up and raised an eyebrow. “Dr. Capon. Weren’t you supposed to be off at five this morning?”

Hans shrugged. “I was busy. Has anyone called Henry’s next-of-kin yet?” He was proud of the way his voice didn’t tremble. 

Barnby’s shoulders slumped and he shook his head, letting out a breath. “There’s nobody listed. His parents died before he started nursing school.”

Hans didn’t mention that he already knew that, he didn’t have an excuse to. Henry only spoke of his parents to those he was close with, contrary to Hans, who didn’t speak of his parents at all.

“What about that friend he has? The brunette he always talks about?”

“Theresa?” Barnaby asked, blinking in surprise. “We don’t have her contact information.”

“Well, where’s his phone?” Hans asked impatiently. “She’s probably in his emergency contacts there.”

It was against hospital policy to go through a patient’s personal effects like that, but Hans didn’t much care, not when it came to Henry. He suspected nobody else would either. Damn him for deleting Theresa’s phone number. He should have kept it, just in case. At least Henry never changed his phone’s securiity code, so Hans would have no issue finding Theresa’s phone number.

“It’s in the safe; I’ll have security pull it,” Barnaby said, already reaching for the phone.

Hans nodded in thanks. “I’ll be in the second office finishing my charting. Have them bring it to me.”

There were several offices that the working surgeons shared. Hans stepped inside one of them and let out a sigh of relief to be free of prying eyes. His laptop was still on the desk where he’d left it last night. He sat and logged in, tracking down Henry’s chart and pulling it up. 

Hans had spent his whole life learning to force his emotions away, pushing forward despite how much it hurt. It was a skill that served him well in medical school and residency, when he was still learning how to bear the weight of surgical training and his panic attacks were more common. He hadn’t needed that particular skill in a while; the distance usually came easily, but knowing how remained useful now. 

He made a mental note to compliment his residents. They did an exploratory job on their notes and charting. Numb as he was, Hans wasn’t sure he would have been able to remember some of the finer details without them, not when his memories were filled with a dream-like feeling. 

Security eventually brought Henry’s bag of belongings. Hans dumped them out onto the desk. Henry’s scrubs were gone, cut off by the paramedics and surgical team, but everything else was here. His hospital ID, watch, and cheap earbuds. It even had his house keys, an old keychain from their time in Venice still attached to it. Hans touched it, his fingers ghosting over the freshly cracked plastic. They’d had to stagger their time off requests, and decided on one location each to say they visited during the trip. For Hans, it was Paris; for Henry, it was Venice. 

He pulled his hand away and picked up Henry’s phone. It turned on despite the shattered screen, revealing splinters of several missed calls and angry texts from Hans about their incoming trauma.

His chest spasmed, and Hans slammed the phone face down on the desk, forcing himself to breathe. Fuck, he hoped he didn’t break it, but he wouldn’t cry again, he wouldn’t. Not now, when he had to contact Theresa, when he still had to check on Henry. He could break down later, in the privacy of his own home with a glass in one hand and a bottle of whiskey in the other.

When he steadied himself, he looked at the phone again. No emergency contacts were listed, so Hans unlocked it and scrolled through Henry’s saved numbers. He added Theresa to the ICE page, and then copied her phone number onto a notepad.

Somebody else could have called her, but pushing it off onto a resident felt wrong. Theresa was Henry’s closest friend, a sister more than not; she deserved to hear about what happened from Hans. 

He eyed the time, 6:12am. Theresa might be awake; she might not. He decided he didn’t care and picked up the hospital phone like a man awaiting execution, the dial tone like a flatline. His hands still shook when he dialled 9, followed by her number, though Hans didn’t know if the trembling ever truly stopped. 

It rang. Hans held his breath. 

“Hello?” Theresa answered. She sounded awake and energized.

The words shrivelled in Hans’ throat. He knew what to say; he’d said it a hundred times before, calling family members to deliver horrible news, but it stuck inside him now, like if he didn’t say it, it wouldn’t be real. Maybe this was all just a nightmare, some disjointed horror, and he’d wake up with a morning hangover wondering why he believed something so ridiculous was true. Maybe he’d go into work and see Henry, cold and angry but alive, and resist the urge to reach out, like always.

“Henry?” Theresa asked. “Is that you?”

Her question shattered the illusion. 

“This is Dr. Hans Capon from St. Mary’s General Hospital. I’m calling in regards to Henry Kovac; you’re one of his emergency contacts.”

Silence, the catch of Theresa’s breath in her throat. 

“Hans?” she asked. “What happened?”

He kept himself professional, refusing to crack even when each word felt like a chisel. “Henry was involved in a collision in the early morning hours. His condition is critical.”

“Oh my God,” Theresa said, her voice trembling. Hans could hear her moving around. “I’m visiting my family right now, fuck. How bad is it? I’ll book the first flight I can.”

How bad is it? “Bad,” Hans said. He leaned back and closed his eyes. “You should come as soon as you can.”

Theresa’s voice was more distant, like she was holding her phone further away. “The earliest flight lands tomorrow morning. It has a layover but that’s still sooner than a direct one.”

After the second surgery, then. Hans hoped he wouldn’t be delivering worse news. 

“Book it. Have them call me down when you arrive. He’ll be in the ICU, so I’ll take you up,” Hans said. 

“I can’t believe this- Henry-” she said. 

Hans certainly empathized, but he couldn’t hear it; he couldn’t remain on the call without breaking. “We’re providing the best care we can for him,” Hans said. “I have to go. Come as soon as you land.”

“I will.”  

He hung up and waited a long moment for the noose around his chest to ease. Unable to bear the wait any longer, he headed to the elevators and hit the button for the sixth floor, riding it up to the ICU. It was a locked ward, but his keycard scanned easily, as if nothing had changed from the last time he was here, twelve hours before. 

Henry was already situated among the Trauma ICU patients, tucked in a room with large observation windows. Hans slipped through the door easily, taking a moment to push through the pain rising like a tide in his chest.

It was awful. Henry was still ghostly pale beneath the light hospital sheets. Tubes and lines attached from various points around his body, pumping in fluids and medicine that Hans had prescribed himself until the Intensivist took over. The only sounds in the room was the steady beeping of the heart monitor and the mechanical breath of the ventilator. 

For a moment, Hans stood frozen, watching the scene like a nightmare. Then he stepped forward and reached out, his hand finding Henry’s, limp but warm. 

“Hey, Hal,” Hans whispered, his eyes watering despite his best efforts. He stroked the back of Henry’s hand with a thumb. 

He wished he knew what else to say, how to put the multitude of emotions swirling inside him into words. He wished he could force them out as easily as he had the news about Jitka, could say I love you, and, I’m sorry, and, please don’t leave me, but they died on his lips like withered flowers, unable to push past the grief.  

The door opened. Hans jerked his hand away. 

“Oh! Dr. Capon, I didn’t know you were still here,” Klara said, dressed in her nurse’s scrubs, her blonde hair tied back. She was pretty; Henry once told him of the ill-advised night they’d spent together. Hans had laughed, then, delighted at the colour of Henry’s cheeks. He didn’t feel much like laughing now. 

“Klara,” Hans greeted. He licked his lips. “I just came to see how Henry’s settled in.”

She eyed him with curiousity. Hans wasn’t known to take a personal interest in his patients, at least not enough to sneak past the nurses, but perhaps she understood that Henry wasn’t just any patient, even if not the whole story. 

“Of course,” she said. “Why don’t you sit down for a while? I’m sure Henry would appreciate it.”

He shouldn’t, he really shouldn’t. Hans was supposed to meet his uncle later today to discuss plans for the wedding. He was supposed to have dinner with Jitka tonight. He could do neither if he didn’t go home and go to sleep; try to put some distance between his life and the image of Henry’s battered body.

He nodded instead, not trusting his voice. Klara dragged the comfortable chair from the corner of the room to the side of Henry’s bed. 

Hans cleared his throat, averting his eyes with a muttered thank you. 

“Is his MRI back yet?” Hans asked as he sat. He laced his hands between his legs, his elbows resting on his knees to keep from reaching out. 

“Not yet, but we’ll make sure you get them as soon as they do,” Klara said. She rounded the bed to check Henry’s blood pressure.

He nodded sharply and picked up the chart at the foot of Henry’s bed. Klara glanced at him but didn’t comment. 

It kept track of medication and fluids. There were few expelled—Henry’s body was still retaining them, needing it fluids to boost his blood pressure. Getting his kidneys functioning properly was the first hurdle, or what was left of them, at least. They’d have to test his blood often to keep an eye on the toxins, between that and the damage to his liver. 

Hans returned it with a sigh. When Klara left, he reached for Henry’s hand again, gently pressing his fingers to the inside of Henry’s wrist. It wasn’t enough for him to hear the steady beep of the heart monitor; he needed to feel the life pulsing through Henry’s veins. 

Beneath the blankets, one leg was casted, the other splinted. Henry’s body was covered in bruises and bandages, the colours of which would only grow more vivid in the next few days. And then what? 

Another surgery tomorrow, more afterwards, Months of recovery, if there even was a recovery, if this wasn’t it, Henry dying in this bed from damage Hans couldn’t fix. 

Laymen had such faith in surgeons, believing them capable of miracles. Hell, most of the time, surgeons believed the same, but right now, sitting beside Henry’s bed, Hans couldn’t help but be reminded of how fallible he was, how easy it would have been to have missed something. Did he assess properly? Did his shock or fatigue get in the way of Henry’s care? Was there something deadly lurking that Hans might have found if he’d only been smarter, faster? 

The thoughts were a plague, the weight of them heavy in his chest and making it difficult to focus on anything but replaying each moment in the ED, each second in the OR. Only Henry’s pulse, steady against his fingertips, kept him grounded.

His eyes burned, whether from tears or exhaustion, Hans didn’t know. All he knew was that he couldn’t bear to leave Henry like this, alone in the ICU with no friends or family to visit. 

He must have fallen asleep, because the next time Hans opened his eyes, it was bright outside, sunlight shining through the large-paned windows.

Alise, the day shift nurse, pulled her hand away.

“Sorry to wake you up, Dr. Capon,” she said. “But Dr. Ruthard wants a CT of Henry’s knee.”

Hans blinked, his eyelids like sandpaper. His entire body felt like it was weighed with lead. His neck ached from sleeping slumped in a chair, still holding Henry’s wrist.

Fuck. 

He pulled his hand away. “Of course,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “Sorry, I only meant to sit down for a moment.”

“I understand; you must be exhausted after yesterday,” Alise said.

More like the last six months. 

“Something like that,” Hans muttered. 

She then brightened. “His MRI came in, by the way. I’ll let you read the full report, but he has a minor subdural hematoma. Dr. Moravský wants to insert an epidural sensor for observation but he expects it to resolve on its own. He’s ordered an EEG.”

Relief crashed through Hans, and a knot of tension he hadn’t realized he was holding loosened. A linear skull fracture and a minor subdural hematoma; chances were good Henry wouldn’t have any lasting brain damage, as long as there was nothing hiding. Further testing would provide a better picture, and they wouldn’t know for sure until Henry woke, but it was something to hold onto for now.

“Thank you, Alise,” Hans said. He stood, moving the chair back out of her way as he did. 

She nodded and began the process of unhooking Henry from several monitors so she could take him for testing. 

Hans saw himself out of the ward, dragging his aching body elsewhere. He glanced at the clock, 11:58am. He’d slept for nearly five hours, practically a record for being at the hospital. 

He needed to eat something, and track down his water bottle. He needed to check Henry’s charts and follow up on the consultations. He needed to get a fucking hold of himself before he lost it. There were the regular emails backed up in his inbox and voicemails on his work phone. At least he wouldn’t want for distractions until his shift that evening.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

There was strong evidence that people in a coma could still hear. Hans knew this; he’d lost count of the families he’d told, encouraging them to visit, to talk, to touch. He never expected to find himself clinging to the knowledge so hard. 

He spent most of his time in the ICU now. It was agonizing to be anywhere else. He was sure people were gossiping, but let them, he didn’t care anymore; caring was what got him here in the first place, holding Henry’s hand and praying to a God he hadn’t believed in since childhood that things would be okay. The hospital could fire him if they wanted, Hanush could disinherit him; none of it mattered if he didn’t have Henry. 

He held Henry’s hand, rubbing his thumb over Henry’s knuckles, and listened to the sound of the ventilator and heart monitor. Sometimes, when Hans was so tired he let the nurses bully him into sleeping in an on-call room, he would wake up in a panic at the silence, clawing at the sheets and blankets, desperate for those reminders of life. His heart would pound in his chest until he couldn’t breathe, the room somehow still spinning despite the darkness as he tried to remind himself that Henry was still alive. 

For the most part, he stopped sleeping unless it was in the chair at Henry's side. He had practice at it, years of medical school, residency, and fellowship led to the ability to sleep only in glimpses, too busy keeping up with inhumane hours. Some students dropped out of surgical residency, unable to keep up with the pace at which they were pushed. Hans coped the way many did, too much liquor on his few days off and waking up to vomit in the apartment of somebody he didn’t know.

The stubble on his cheeks was growing out, his hair and clothes becoming increasingly unkempt. Hans looked like a mess and he knew it. At least the nurses had the decency not to mention it. His other colleagues? Not so much. If Bartosch from Plastics gave him one more judging look across the cafeteria, Hans was going to strangle him. Maybe punching the arrogant prick would make him feel better while the rest of his world fell apart. 

Henry had many visitors. Surgical and ER nurses, attending, and friends came to visit, bringing cards and small gifts. Theresa visited when she could, usually while Hans was working, thank God, but she lived and worked on the other end of the city and couldn’t be there often. Radzig was only a few floors above and dropped by once or twice a day.

It was a little awkward. Hans had known Radzig for years, ever since his father’s death landed him in Hanush’s care. Radzig had advised him on universities, saw Hans through his medical school and residency. He also never played favourites—Hans earned his place at his fucking hospital and he’d make damn sure everyone knew it. But, despite that, they were never close. Then Hans started dating Henry, and, well. It was even more awkward, given that Radzig was Henry’s godfather.

“I thought I’d find you here,” Radzig said once while visiting, stepping into the quiet room while Hans pretended to work. 

Hans flushed and looked away, glancing towards Henry. The best part of being here was that nobody bothered him; it was an escape, soothing the anxiety itching humming inside him when Henry was out of sight for too long, like he might return to find Henry dead. Even now, the fear didn’t fade, paralyzing him where he stood until his breath came as choppy as after a nightmare and his hands tingled to his fingertips.

“Sorry, were you looking for me?” he asked. “My pager didn’t go off.”

“Nothing official,” Radzig said. He leaned against the wall and watched Henry for a moment. 

Each heartbeat made Hans more tense, his fingers frozen on his keyboard. Given his lack of focus, his laptop was mostly open only for appearances anyway.

“He’s doing well,” Radzig eventually commented. 

Hans swallowed dryly. “He is,” he agreed, longing to reach for Henry’s hand. 

There was good news, at least. Henry’s brain showed activity and his intracranial pressure never reached dangerous levels. The neurologist was optimistic that Henry would wake; the question was only a matter of when, and of what kind of damage there would be when he did. 

“Why are you here, Hans?” Radzig asked. It was a personal question, not a professional one. It was also the one Hans dreaded most.

“Do I need an excuse to sit with a friend?” he replied, perhaps more sharply than intended.

Radzig paused. “I suppose not,” he said mildly, but his eyes remained sharp, assessing. “I just wasn’t aware that the two of you were friends.”

It hurt, but it wasn’t exactly incorrect. 

“Well, we are,” Hans said, clenching his jaw. A part of him was tempted to blurt out the truth- that Henry was so much more than a friend; that Hans loved him. But he lost the right to say any of it a long time ago.

He returned his gaze to his laptop, stubbornly ignoring Radzig. Henry used to love watching him work, listening to Hans’ quiet muttering as he breathed out the words he wrote. He hoped it was still a comfort, even if Henry couldn’t see him. 

“You seem to be... struggling,” Radzig said, choosing his words carefully. “Have you considered taking time off of work? I’m sure our other surgeons can fill in.”

That might have been true, but without work, Hans was sure he would go bad. Sitting with Henry and the ache in his chest was bad enough as it was.

Hans raised an eyebrow. “Is there something wrong with my performance?” he asked. 

“No, but you do seem distracted outside the theatre,” Radzig said with a pointed look that Hans ignored. 

“Then no,” he said. “Is there anything else you wanted to discuss, Dr. Kobyla?”

Radzig sighed. “No, that’s all,” he said. He eyed Hans for another long moment, and Hans tried not to tense beneath his gaze.

His phone chimed, breaking the tension and Hans snapped it up to find another text from Jitka. It would go ignored like all the others, left unread alongside the voicemails from his uncle. Hans couldn’t bear to think of them, or the wedding hanging over his head like a guillotine about to drop. How could he when his world revolved about this room? Jitka knew what she was getting into by marrying him. He’d made it clear from the start that he would always love his work more than her, even if that wasn’t exactly true. He would always love Henry more; the hours in the theatre when Henry stood at his shoulder were more precious than any wedding.

Klara knocked on the door a moment later, effectively ending the conversation. She pulled a small metal cart behind her. Hans spotted a bottle of saline and a package of sterile gauze—she was changing his dressings, then. 

“Oh! Dr. Kobyla,” she said with a smile. 

Radzig returned it. “Klara. I was just leaving, but I hope you’re well.”

“I can’t complain,” she said. 

They exchanged a few more pleasantries before Radzig finally took his leave, pausing to cast one last weary look at Henry. Hans couldn’t help the way he relaxed when Radzig was out of sight. 

He and Klara didn’t talk. Hans pretended to be busy working, but he knew Klara was aware of his gaze on her. His hands itched to reach out, to demand to change the dressings himself, to say that he could treat Henry best. He didn’t; it wasn’t true, anyway. Klara was an experienced nurse, she could do far better at this than Hans could.

He tried to feel guilty for watching her so closely, but he couldn’t. He needed to see what laid below the sheets and dressings. He needed to see the damage. 

It was gruesome. The incision stretched across his abdomen; it had been necessary, the type of surgery where they didn’t know exactly what they were going to find. He’d done the best he could, but saving Henry’s life mattered more than the size of the scar left behind. At least he was able to stitch it up cleanly, the edges of his flesh perfectly matched, held together with tight black stitches. Hans could still see them, stark against the red of the healing cut. 

“It’s healing well,” Klara mentioned, the first words she’d said to him that day.

Hans looked at her, opening his mouth to speak, though no words came out.

She smiled softly and continued her work, using tweezers to swirl saline-wet gauze over the wound to clean it. “I know you’re already following his case closely, but I thought you might like to know that our respiratory therapist thinks he won’t need to be intubated much longer. Dr. Ruthard doesn’t think we’ll need to keep him sedated if he can breathe on his own.”

Which means Henry would wake up, and more than the almost-consciousness he had when they turned off the propofol for neurological checks. 

Hans’ heart clenched in his chest. 

Klara finished cleaning and dressing Henry’s wounds, pulling off the nitrile gloves. He smiled as she left, and Hans immediately reached out, carefully taking Henry’s hand in his.

“Hear that, Hal?” he whispered, stroking the back of Henry’s hand with his thumb. “Not much longer, now. They’ll probably move you down to ortho after that. Won’t that be nice? No more overly sterile ICU.”

There was no answer, of course, but Hans squeezed his hand anyway. 

“I’ll bring you flowers,” he said. “A dozen roses and one of those overpriced teddy bears from the gift shop we used to make fun of.” 

He just wasn’t sure if he would be there for Henry to receive it, not after all that happened. Hans might have loved Henry with all his heart, but he’d thrown away what they had in a futile attempt to please his uncle. There was no use pretending otherwise, this fantasy that Henry might still love him just as much. 

Hans let Henry’s hand go and turned back to his computer, the knot of hope in his chest becoming a noose he would one day hang himself with. 

Chapter Text

Radzig was there when they tested Henry’s breathing. The room held its breath for the long, awful moment as they waited for Henry’s lungs to remember how to function alone. Hans felt like it was his own lungs left paralyzed, like he would suffocate where he stood. And then Henry started to breathe. 

They removed the breathing tube, though they left the feeding tube threaded through Henry’s nose and taped to the side of his face. It was one of many tubes and wires still attached to him, monitoring every aspect of life. Hans watched each of them closely as they slowly lightened the sedation.

The benefit of Henry’s broken arm was that it left the other one bound in the soft medical restraints to keep Henry from pulling anything out. A year ago, Hans would have made a joke about seeing Henry tied up. Now, he only pulled the velcro free and took Henry’s hand in his. He was plenty strong enough to keep Henry’s arm still.

He leaned down and brushed his lips against the back of Henry’s knuckles. Henry’s skin wasn't as dry as usual, with IVs keeping him hydrated and having gone days without the continuous hand washing of a nurse. Hans used to force Henry to sit still while he slathered them in moisturizer to keep them from cracking in the winter cold. 

Time flowed and jumped around him. It was difficult for Hans to focus, as exhausted as he was; he stared ahead, feeling nothing. What little energy he had was saved for surgeries, where they needed him at his best. The joke was on them, Hans hadn’t been at his best for years. The tremble in his hands from too long without a drink was proof of that, though it had mostly faded now.

He couldn’t sleep anymore. It didn’t matter if he was in the ICU with Henry or in the on-call room. The closest he got was this half-daze, his mind blank but his body still moving. 

A jerk against his grip snapped his attention back. Henry’s brows were creased as he tried to move, his head tossed to the side, but Hans held firm. It wasn’t the first time. 

“Sorry, Hal. I can’t let you do that,” Hans said, squeezing his hand. It was easy to imagine that Henry felt it, because he calmed almost immediately. That was unlikely, though, given that Henry hated him now. Henry probably didn’t even want him here, but Hans was too selfish and weak to leave. All he could do was cradle Henry’s hand between his own and hope his touch was more comfortable than foam and fabric restraints. 

He looked at Henry’s face expecting to see it smoothed in sleep, but instead found half-lidded blue eyes watching him. 

“Hans?” Henry rasped weakly, and Hans’ breath caught.

He sat forward, his spine straightening. “Hey- that’s right, it’s me,” he confirmed around the lump in his throat. He reached up to quickly press the call button before letting both hands fall back to Henry’s and squeezing lightly. “It’s okay, you’re okay,” he said.

It was like in the ER, when Henry stared up at him, dazed and frightened. After that, Hans wasn’t sure he’d ever see those eyes again. He never thought he’d hear his name on Henry’s lips. 

Hans refused to let himself cry despite feeling tears gathering along his waterline. He didn’t want to distress Henry. Waking up after a coma was disorienting enough, better to smile and reassure him that all was well.

The nurse came, and then the neurologist. Henry fell back asleep sometime between the two, but they woke him for neurological checks, asking him questions to gauge his level of alertness and orientation. He knew his name, he recognized where he was, but he didn’t know the year or what happened. Not bad, considering he’d only just woken up. His condition would likely improve over the next few days, but chances were good that he’d never remember the accident.

More startling than that was that Henry didn’t let go of Hans’ hand, so perhaps he wasn’t as oriented as they thought. 

Hans stayed with him through the night, giving himself one last look at Henry’s face, the cut of his nose and the slope of his jaw, committing it to memory. He still had pictures of them, including the one tucked into his wallet, but it wasn’t the same as seeing Henry in person, alive and breathing. But at least Hans knew Henry would be okay now. He could content himself with that.

Outside, the sun rose, and the nurses came in for their shift change. The regular neurologist would do rounds in a few hours, and the same neurological checks as last night would be performed again. Hans wouldn’t be there to see them.

He kissed Henry’s hand again and carefully laid it on the bed, leaving it unrestrained. It was unlikely Henry would need it anymore, now that he was awake, but the nurses could replace it if they felt it was needed. He smoothed the blanket he brought from home once more over the bed, and then grabbed his laptop bag and his sweater. 

Hans had work today, but he knew he wouldn’t return afterwards. Henry was hurt and needed to recover, something he couldn’t do with Hans lingering like a shadow. The least he could do after everything was to grant Henry a measure of peace. 

Henry woke to two dozen roses in a vase beside his bed. He squinted, staring at them, trying to remember if they were there before. He didn’t think so, but his memories were a mess of half-formed dreams ever since he was transferred to the Orthopedic Surgery ward; he hardly even remembered the few days he was conscious in the ICU. Everything was a grey haze, and before that, nothing. The last thing Henry recalled clearly was working in the Operating Theatre, something that could have been any day. It was unnerving not to remember the accident that apparently put him here.

All of that was to say, he was reasonably sure that the flowers and the small, tan coloured teddy bear that accompanied them were new, and unless Henry had forgotten far more than anticipated, there was only one person in his life who might have sent them; it was the same person who brought the familiar blanket spread over his bed. The thought made his chest clench, and Henry tore his gaze away. He clamped down on the desperate hope that welled up inside him. It would suffocate him, if he let it, because if he let himself hope that somewhere, deep down, Hans still cared for him, and he turned out to be wrong, Henry would break. He couldn’t hang his hopes on a man who walked away once before.

He took a deep breath and relaxed against pillows, hoping that releasing tension would settle the ache his body now carried. It was distant rather than a sharp throb, muffled by the patch on his arm slowly diffusing painkillers into his body. It was usually enough; anything beyond it was temporary discomfort. Henry could live with that, he was lucky to be alive as it was.

Days passed. The nurses came and went; they caught him in a flare of pain and lightly scolded him for not telling them. The doctor added amitriptyline to the mix, which admittedly did help. He bore the discomfort of physical therapy with the same determination as he did everything, even when it left him too tired to think. He couldn’t walk with both his arm and leg broken, and the soft tissues of his other leg damaged. There was another surgery for that coming up too. 

At least his friends came to visit. The nurses were among the first, of course, and Radzig. Theresa visited as soon as she could. She’d spent time with him during his ICU stay, though she didn’t say much about it, just that she was glad he was well. Henry gave her a thin smile, the same he’d given everyone recently. He didn’t feel it, but that was fine. He was tired, that was all. Nobody could blame him for that. 

It had nothing to do with the blanket he absently ran his fingers across or the roses he couldn’t look at, or the lack of blonde hair in his doorway. Nothing at all. 

Even if Hans—Dr. Capon—didn’t visit, his charge nurse did. Barnaby snuck into his room late one night when Henry was still awake, his usual insomnia keeping him from falling asleep.

“Figured you’d still be up,” Barnaby said. He held up a white takeout container. “Fries?”

They ended up sharing. It wasn’t busy for the surgical nurses tonight, so Barnaby actually managed to take a real lunch break for once, with enough time to get fries from the cafeteria and sneak past the Ortho nurses. Henry suspected “sneaking” was code for “walked right in”, but he wasn’t about to call Barnaby out on it. 

“I’ll tell you, we’re already missing you,” Barnaby said. 

“Yeah, well, it’ll be a while before I’m back,” Henry muttered, his leg pulsing as in reminder. Nursing was a hard job; they were constantly on their feet. In many ways, surgical nurses had it easier than other types, but in other ways it was harder. Scrub nurses especially spent hours standing in the same spot, passing tools to the surgeons as requested. If his leg ached even after healing, if he struggled to stand for those long stretches of time, he might never be able to return to the specialty.

Barnaby groaned. “Don’t remind me. You know Capon made Maggie cry last week?”

Henry couldn’t help the way his heart clenched at Hans’ name.

“Did he?” he asked, hoping he didn’t sound nearly as interested as he felt. It was a skill he’d mastered over the years spent hiding their relationship.

Barnaby hummed. “He’s gone through every scrub tech we have but hasn’t been pleased by anyone.”

“He was hardly pleased by me,” Henry said flatly. They could barely make it through a shift without arguing. 

“Has he been by to visit?” Barnaby asked. He wasn’t looking at Henry, he was looking at the flowers. Oh Christ, he should have known Barnaby suspected something. Both gay and the charge nurse? There was no way they actually hid the truth.

“No,” Henry said, looking in the opposite direction of the bouquet. 

“Wait- really?” Barnaby asked, sitting up from his slouched position. “I though- he spent every day in the ICU with you.”

It was Henry’s turn to start. “He did?” he asked. 

Barnaby pressed his lips into a thin line and nodded. “Every chance he got. Klara said he only went home once, and that wss because Kobyla made him. He’d go from your bedside to work and back. We could all tell he was taking it hard. He’s been even more of a nightmare to work with than usual.”

Henry remembered waking up, the lights haloing Hans’ golden hair. He’d thought it was a dream. Now he wasn’t so sure. 

He swallowed dryly. “You thought he was upset over me?”

“He is,” Barnaby corrected, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back. “Anybody would be upset operating on their colleague, but this was something else.” His eyes were narrow, assessing in a way that made Henry’s skin prickle. 

In hindsight, it made sense. Theresa had explained what she knew of the crash; Henry’s apparent argument with Hans followed by leaving the hospital for lunch and being struck by a drunk driver. He hadn’t thought to wonder who did his surgery, but of course it was Hans. If they were both working, then Hans would have been the trauma attending on call. 

Maybe that explained the flowers. Maybe it was just guilt. 

Barnaby eventually left to return to lunch, and Henry laid in bed feeling even more awake. When his nurse visited on his morning rounds, he asked if he could take a look at the notes from his first surgery. She didn’t look surprised. 

A couple of hours later, Henry sat with a folder open on his small table. The nurse was kind enough to print off the files he wanted to see, and more. He thanked her profusely and flipped through. He found the original intake paperwork signed by paramedics, and his ER charting done by the ER residents. 

It took time to work through the documents. His head hurt when he tried to focus on anything for too long, especially reading. Eventually, though, he made it to the chart from his first surgery. 

He recognized Hans’ style of note-taking. Some of it was done by residents and nurses, but the majority by him. Distant and clinical, detatched.

Henry read the page more than once, imagining what it would have been like if their roles were reversed. How would it have felt to see Hans on that table, to see him go into cardiac arrest not once, but twice? 

His fingers ran over the blanket pulled over his lap. Then he looked at the roses still fresh at his bedside.

He picked up his phone and texted Barnaby. 

Is Capon working tonight?

Yes

Then I need your help

Henry sat in his wheelchair in one of the small offices on the surgical floor, scrolling through old photos saved on Hans’ laptop—he never did change his password. There were hundreds of them, copies of ones Henry had and ones he’d thought lost. Venice, Florence, Rome. New York, Prague; all the cities they’d visited. Pictures of them together, on anniversaries, dinners, festivals, days at the beach. Their whole life, saved and stored like it was something precious, like it mattered. It only made Henry more sure of what he was doing. 

The door opened and Henry looked as Hans entered. He… he didn’t look well. His face was creased with deep lines and his eyes were shadowed from lack of sleep. Even the way he moved was dazed, so exhausted that it took him longer than it should have to realize Henry was sitting behind his laptop.

Their eyes met. Hans stared at him for a moment before comprehension sank in. 

“Jesus Christ Henry, what are you doing here?” he asked with a scowl, eyeing the IV bag clipped to the top of his wheelchair. 

Henry raised his head. “I need to talk to you and I knew that you’d avoid me otherwise.”

“Fucking- you’re hurt,” Hans said, throwing up his arms in familiar exasperation. It almost made Henry smile to see the Hans he knew peeking through. “You were comatose a week ago, in case you’ve forgotten, and half your bones are fucking broken. How did you even get up here?”

It was an exaggeration, but not much of one. One arm, his leg in two spots, several ribs. And he was in pain. Sitting in a wheelchair was far worse than lying in bed, but to hell with all of that. The pain in his heart was worse than anything physical. 

“Barnaby helped me,” Henry said. 

Hans scowled. He couldn’t say anything about the charge nurse without making his own life hell, and he knew it. It was a mistake he’d made years ago, back at the beginning of his fellowship. 

“I’m telling him to bring you back down, for fucks sake,” he said. 

Henry clenched his hand on the arm of his wheelchair. “No, you’re not,” he replied firmly. “You’re going to talk to me. You owe me this fucking much at least.” 

If he could walk, Henry would have gripped Hans by the collar of his scrubs and forced him to remain. 

Hans gritted his teeth, his arms crossed over his chest and his shoulders tense, but he didn’t argue. “Fine then.”

Good, getting Hans to at listen hear hin out was the first step. “Barnaby said you sat with me in the ICU.”

“What, was I supposed to just leave you there alone?” Hans asked, rolling his eyes.

Henry knew Hans too well to be fooled by harsh, uncaring words. He knew the quiet care Hans gave. It was love in cups of tea and blankets smoothed over him, in holding Henry’s hand, in refusing to let somebody else perform the surgery to save his life. 

“Tell me then, do you send your future wife two dozen roses?” Henry asked. 

Hans glared at him. “I think you know the answer to that.” 

“Hans,” Henry said sharply. He saw Hans’ grip spasm on his arms and his jaw tightened.

“Fuck, fine,” Hans said. “No, okay? No, I don’t, because I don’t love her. Most days, I don’t even like her.”

Henry suspected as much, but finally hearing him say it… “Then why marry her?”

Hans scoffed. He looked like he wanted to start pacing the way he did when he was stressed, but the office was too small for that, like a cage. No wonder his breath was coming in shorter gasps. Hans never did like confined spaces. 

“Because what choice do I have?” Hans demanded. “I thought that if I agreed, maybe it would change things. Maybe Hanush and my mother would finally stop pestering me. Hell, maybe they’d finally think I’m worth something.”

“Do they?”

“Of course not,” Hans snapped. He was upset, the old rejection he’d felt since childhood flaring up and battering against the closest person--Henry, in this case. “I’m the failure; rhere’s nothing I can ever do that will be enough to convince them otherwise.”

Henry’s chest ached. It was difficult to stay angry when Hans spoke about himself like that, so obviously hurting. “Well, at least you recognize that about them,” he said. “But did you ever think that maybe you’re not the only one who’s miserable?” 

Hans’ shoulders slumped, his arms loosening to hang limply at his sides. It was like all the energy drained from his body. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, staring at the floor. “All I’ve done is prove how worthless I really am by throwing away the only good thing I ever had. By throwing you away.”

“Fuck off, Hans. I don’t want your damn apologies or your self pity, Henry said. “I want you; I’ve always wanted you, even after everything, but now-” his voice broke, the conflicting emotions knotted in his chest surging forwards—uncertainty, vulnerability, fear. “I don’t know if I can do this on my own,” he admitted softly. 

Hans stood frozen, staring at him. “You shouldn’t want me after everything, after what I did-” 

“We can fix it,” Henry said, and Christ, he sounded as desperate as he felt.

“I’m not worth a second chance.”

“I’m the one who gets to decide that, and I fucking need you, Hans.”

The words were enough to drive Hans forward like a puppet, but he stopped short of reaching out. “You shouldn’t,” he said. “God, Hal. Fuck. You deserve better than me.”

“And what,” Henry asked sharply, “gives you the right to make that decision for me?”

Hans looked down, his hair covering his face. He let out a choked sound. It took Henry a moment to realize it was tears. 

“I almost lost you,” Hans said, trembling. “You could have died- you coded twice and all I could think was that I’d never get to tell you how fucking sorry I am. Hanush is right, I’m so worthless. I’m an idiot; I just keep fucking things up.”

“Don’t say that,” Henry said, sitting forward, his heart pounding and his own eyes burning. “Please don’t say that. It’s nothing we can’t fix.”

Hans shook his head, still refusing to look at Henry, but the sound of his breathing and his heaving shoulders were enough to prove he was crying. “I can’t sleep. Every time I close my eyes I see you.”

Henry reached forward and pulled Hans closer until Hans buried his face in Henry’s shoulder. The sounds of crying morphed into muffled sobs. Despite the awkward angle, Henry gently stroked Hans’ hair, feeling the usually soft strands now greasy and unkempt. He wasn’t taking care of himself, that much was obvious. 

“Shhh,” Henry said. “It’s okay.”

“I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry. I’m an idiot. I love you so much I can’t fucking bear it. God, I hate myself. I never should have left you.”

“We’ll fix this,” Henry said. He closed his eyes, feeling tears running down his cheek. “Just please don’t go again. I can’t take it.”

Hans let out another sob, holding Henry’s hand like a lifeline.

“I won’t,” he promised, pulling back to meet Henry’s gaze. His face was wet with tears. “Fuck, Hal- I love you, I won’t leave you.”

Henry swallowed dryly. “Okay, good,” he said, his own voice trembling as he reached up his hand to cup Hans’ cheek. His thumb wiped away tears. “Because I really do need you, I can’t do this alone.”