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.

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