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Lance stared up at the ceiling light and thought, not for the first time in the past half hour, that that had not exactly been worth it.
Sighing, he switched hands on the dishrag he was holding to his upper thigh and tried to figure out where he'd gone wrong.
Somewhere between pulling his new knife out of the package and admiring its smooth lines, and ending up sitting on the kitchen floor with his pants around his knees and his thigh leaking blood onto the tile, no doubt - but the actual moment eluded him.
Peeking down at his leg, he slowly lifted the dish rag off to expose the rather large gash on the inside of his left thigh a few inches above the knee, hoping to see that the pressure had staunched the flow of blood. No luck; shortly after pulling the rag away the cut filled again, a thin trickle trailing its way from the bottom edge towards the already blood-dotted floor. Groaning he pressed the rag back to his leg, hard enough to hurt.
“Fuck.” Closing his eyes he let his head fall back to thump against a cabinet door. This was NOT how he had been planning to spend his Tuesday afternoon. He had the day off, and all the ingredients for chicken marsala waiting on the counter, and he had to fuck it up, like always. Of course he did. Wasn’t that just his shit luck.
He needed to get his med pack. He had butterfly bandages and gauze pads and medical tape and everything else he’d need to get himself patched up. The only problem was, his pack was next to his bed in the bedroom, and the bedroom was all the way across the kitchen from him. He glared at the doorway, chewing his lip as he tried to think of a way to get himself over there.
He needed to get off the floor, probably. Getting to his feet would make getting to his bedroom so much easier. Shifting, he looked around to see if there was anything he could grab a hold of. The cabinet handles could be useful, but first he’d need to get up high enough to grab onto them. Fine, he could do that. Just push himself off the floor and onto his feet - easy peasy. He’d need to drop the rag but, but that was fine. It was just a cut, he’d bled worse. Once he got on his feet he could grab the rag again.
Gritting his teeth, he dropped the rag and braced his hands on the floor, ignoring the sensation of the split skin on his thigh shifting as he tried to force himself up onto his good leg. His pants were still bunched around his knees though, hindering his movements, and his hands were slipping against the tile and his leg hurt as he tried to put pressure on it and...fuck...it wasn't going to work. He slid back against the cabinets again, whimpering pitifully to himself. He could move furniture around his apartment the day after a show, but he couldn't get up off the ground with a single cut in his thigh? Pathetic. Action heroes made it look so easy .
With a dejected huff of breath, Lance picked the rag back up and took a long look at the gash on his leg. He wasn't entirely sure but he thought that the way the blood pulsed it's way out if the wound wasn't quite…. right. Wasn't there some major vein that ran down the inside of the thigh? Fuck, he should really know his anatomy better, all things considered. Should definitely put that on the ‘to do’ list. Feeling the first flutter of anxiety cross his nerves as the blood pooled out of the gash, he pressed the rag back to his leg and tried to think .
He couldn't just sit on the floor, bleeding out for all eternity, after all. Well, it wouldn’t be for all eternity but still… Maybe, if he had a rubber band or something, he could strap the rag to his leg and try to keep the gash from bleeding too much AND free up his hands so he could get himself off the floor and to his bedroom without having to worry about too much blood gushing out of his cut. That - that , Lance told himself, was a great idea . It would've been even better if the junk drawer with the rubber bands around its handle was near him and not all the way across the kitchen.
He frowned at it, narrowing his eyes as if by some yet-unwoken psychic powers he'd be able to pull the rubber bands off the handle.
No luck. He was not a telekinetic, not yet , and he'd have to figure out a different way to get out of his predicament. It wasn't that far, he decided, and gritting his teeth he slowly began to shuffle his way across the floor, leaving a trail of smeared blood behind him. His thigh pulsed with each movement, and yes it hurt but Lance almost found it more annoying than it was painful. Almost. It hadn't hurt quite as bad when he'd cut, he was definitely sure of that, but right then he was more pissed about the fact that it was making it so hard to move.
He'd cut on his thighs before, inner and outer, multiple times and yeah, the cuts left him feeling stiff each time he tried to walk fast or exercise and yeah, they were annoying, but it had never been this bad. The cuts had never been this deep before, either, he admitted to himself. He really should've known better than to just...go at it as soon as he'd gotten the knife out and cleaned, should've been more careful when he'd seen just how easily the sharp blade sliced through paper, should've known it'd be bad news to just cut right there and then with his hands shaking from the eagerness of it when the lightest breath of a slice over his arm had left the telltale tingle of an unseen cut, tiny dots of blood prickling across its length within moments. He should've known.
But his blood had been rushing by then, and he had nothing else in mind as he slid to sit on the kitchen tile, pants dropped and knees spread, but the quiet repetition of just one time just try it once just once one time . The cool press of the blade made everything else around him disappear, the first cut shuddering the pain through him in a blissful wave of pleasure. Fuck, it was such a good moment, the first cut with a new blade, the first draw of ruby blood across its shiny blade. Lance took a moment to breathe, to memorize the way it all looked.
And then he'd cut again, just once just one time vanishing among the giddy headrush. He’d cut, bolder now and with fervor, and it had taken a few moments for him to realize that the blade had dipped deeper than he'd thought, that the blood welled up far faster than it should've, more of it than he'd been expecting. The pain, the pain was good , and it looked amazing - but slowly he realized that the blade was completely smeared in blood from top of the blade to its surprisingly sharp edge, that the cut in his thigh split wide in a way it definitely shouldn't be doing.
It was about that time that he'd dropped the knife with a strangled yelp and reached for the nearest dishrag to try and staunch the flood of blood.
And now… now he was shuffling his way across the floor in an entirely undignified fashion to try and reach the rubber bands on a drawer handle, all so he could tie a dishrag around his thigh so he could go get his bandages.
He was halfway across the floor when he heard the sound of the front door opening. Relief flooded him immediately - Keith was home. Keith was home . He didn’t have to deal with his shitty situation all by himself anymore. Keith would get him his pack and they’d clean up the kitchen and finally get dinner started.
“Lance, I'm home.”
“Hey babe,” Lance called back cheerfully, grinning so hard it almost hurt. “How was your day?”
“Fine,” Keith called back, his voice slightly muffled. Lance assumed he was putting his jacket in the closet, at least he hoped he was. It had taken Lance a long time to get him to kick the habit of just tossing it on the nearest available surface. Keith didn’t seem to respond to either threats or treats so getting him to relearn things was a challenge. For a guy who could wax somewhat poetic about his Garrison days, he sure had a hell of a time following even simple house rules.
Granted, sometimes he just didn't have the energy to, so Lance let him slide some. He could understand, after all, he'd sort-of been there once.
There was a pause before Keith responded, and the next time he spoke his voice was clearer, and louder, as his steps headed for the kitchen.
“How was yours?”
Lance looked down at the bloodied rag pressed against his leg. For half a moment he considered his response, then said with a shrug, “I've had worse.”
“That sounds…” Keith began, but Lance never found out what it sounded like because by that moment Keith had entered the kitchen and spotted him on the floor. His eyes tracked around the room, from the discarded knife laying on the countertop, the handle poking over the edge, to the blood drops and smears on the floor, finally landing on Lance where he sat in the middle of it all. One eyebrow lifting as he gave Lance a long, critical look, he crossed his arms and muttered a single, “Oh.”
Lance beamed a grin up at him, not quite sure if that ‘oh’ was an angry ‘oh’ or a disappointed ‘oh or possibly some mixture if the two. Probably that last one.
“So, uh, that knife came in.” He explained simply, shifting uncomfortably on the floor. The pain in his leg was, a little worriedly, throbbing in time with his pulse now. He wasn’t sure that was good but he was also relatively certain that if he got it wrapped up soon he could take care of it.
“I can see that,” Keith said, just the slightest hint of frustration coloring his tone. He stepped closer, not bothering to avoid the smears on the tile, and dropped to a crouch by Lance’s side, sighing. “Is it bad?”
“Nah,” Lance said, pressing the rag to his leg a little harder. “Just a little messy.”
“Let me see.” Keith spoke quietly, like he was trying not to spook him, which was stupid because Lance wasn’t about to be spooked.
“If you get me my pack I can take care of it,” Lance motioned towards the bedroom with his free hand. “I was gonna get it myself but since you're here already-”
“Lance,” Keith said in that low and stern tone of his that he only used when he really, really wanted Lance to do something, and Lance frowned down at his leg. With an irritated groan he muttered “Fine” and peeled the rag away from his leg. The gash was still there, just as long and deep as it had been before, and...yep, the blood was there too, leaking out in a worryingly thick trickle down his skin.
Fuck, it didn't look like it was any better, Lance realized with a start. It actually looked like it had gotten worse .
“So, as you can see,” Lance said, forcing a chipper tone to try and keep his nerves steady, “I've got this under control here, so if you can just get my shit-”
“Fuck, Lance,” Keith reached out a hand as if he wanted to touch the cut, but pulled it back sharply. His eyes turned to meet Lance’s, widening with worry. “That looks bad. It looks deep .”
“Don't worry,” Lance said, with more assurance in his voice than he actually felt. It was a but weird to see Keith looking so worried, considering all the times he'd seen Lance cut up and bleeding. Not that Lance was that surprised - he was a getting a little worried too. The blood was still coming, and the throbbing in his leg had gotten worse since he'd pulled the rag away, and he was kind of sure the cut hadn’t looked that deep or long before. Still, he bit back whatever anxiety was threatening to flood his nerves and forced a grin. “I just need to get it bandaged and I'll be good.”
“I think you need more than bandages for this one,” Keith muttered, pulling the bloody rag from Lance’s hand and pressing it to the wound himself. The pressure sharpened the pain for a moment. “I think you need stitches.”
A shudder ran through Lance at the thought, and he breathed in shakily. Stitches, the hospital - nope. Nope, not this time. His hands found Keith's on the rag, and he gripped at his fingers tightly.
“I don't,” He said through the forced grin, “It's not as bad as it looks, promise. It barely hurts.”
Keith didn't look convinced, but Lance pressed on further.
“Can you get me my pack? Just need some butterfly closures and - and some gauze pads… I'll get this taken care of and then we can clean up and make dinner,” Lance realized his words were starting to run away on him, falling from his lips as soon as they formed in his head, but he needed to keep talking, needed to, if only to stop Keith from talking himself because he knew he would bring up the hospital again and Lance couldn't have that - “I'm gonna make chicken marsala, you like that right? I got the mushrooms on sale and I think I'm going to try to make that garlic-butter sauce this time, you know, the one I found on pin-”
“Lance,” Keith cut in, his voice quiet but firm and Lance stuttered to a stop, heart pounding. Keith pulled one hand away from Lance’s leg and brushed his fingers along Lance’s cheek, his eyes still dark with worry though he grinned. “I'm going to get your pack now, okay?”
“Yeah, good plan,” Lance responded breathlessly, moving to hold the rag himself when Keith pulled his other hand away. With a last pat on Lance’s cheek, Keith stood up and headed for the bedroom. Lance stared down at the tiles, at the bloody smears, counting the seconds as he waited for Keith to return. It didn't take him long, and soon enough he was back at Lance’s side, opening the pack and pawing through the neatly arranged contents inside with purpose.
Lance pursed his lips in distaste at the way Keith just - disarrayed everything.
“Don't mess it up like that, it takes forever to get back in order,” Lance grumbled but Keith's only response was an absentminded grunt, a pile of gauze pads and a roll of medical tape already on the floor next to him.
“Here, can you lift your leg a little?” Keith said as he began pulling the packaging apart to reach the gauze. Was he just going to put the pads on without cleaning the cut first? A tremble began at Lance’s spine, shuddering subtly over his shoulders, a ghost of premonition because suddenly he realized what Keith was going to do and -
“Keith, hun, you gotta clean it out first. Get some water-” Lance said hurriedly, his voice wavering slightly, because Keith might not have said anything but he had that “survival mode” look in his eyes and ...fuck...fuck no…
“I'm going to patch you up to keep you from bleeding out,” Keith said, his voice calm and steady. He reached out a hand to turn Lance’s face towards him so that their eyes met, and Lance found himself unable to look away. “Okay? And then I'm going to take you to the ER.”
“I don't need the ER.” Lance snapped hurriedly, a spike of nervous tension drilling its way from his head down his spine. He didn’t - he breathed in, breathed out a few times, steadied his voice. “I'm fine, I just need to get patched up and it'll be fine…”
“Lance,” Keith said, though a frustrated edge was tinting his patient tone. Keith was not a patient person, not really, though he tried, Lance gave him that. He tried, and he was trying now, but Lance got the very distinct feeling that if he kept trying to stall and trying to fight it Keith would eventually just bodily drag him out of the house and into the car. It was inevitable, because Keith was just as stubborn as Lance and impatient enough to act instead of trying to wear him down.
So Lance bit back his argument, forced himself to accept that he was going to the hospital whether he liked it or not. Keith took his silence as acceptance, and without another word set to work on bandaging up the cut as best he could.
Lance braced himself for the inevitable stab of pain as Keith began pressing the gauze pads to his thigh, wincing slightly as it jolted through his leg and made his muscles shudder. It could’ve been worse, though, but Keith's touch was, as always, surprisingly soft. Lance hadn't really expected it the first time he'd asked Keith to help, so long ago now. He thought he'd be a little rough at it, and he was, but he'd also been gentle, trying so hard to keep his touches light. And that hadn't changed; even though each movement made the ache in Lance's thigh spike harsher, the gentle way Keith handled him was almost soothing. It was familiar, and Lance felt better for it, for having Keith there to help him as he was.
“All right, I think that’s the best we can do for now,” Keith said, patting down the last length of medical tape. He’d put down more gauze than Lance would’ve, but considering just how badly the cut was bleeding Lance wasn’t surprised. For a moment he mulled on the thought of whether Keith would be angry if he bled bad enough that it got on the car upholstery.
“You ready to try and stand up?” Keith asked, pulling him out of his thoughts, and Lance sighed. He was already standing, eyeing Lance with a concerned frown on his face.
“Now or never,” Lance muttered, and held his arms out. Keith leaned down and before Lance knew it he was on his feet, Keith’s arms supporting him so he didn’t put too much weight on his injured leg.
Wow, Lance thought quietly, the workouts were definitely doing something. Not that he hadn’t noticed already; Keith had been slowly toning up over the past months since they’d started going to the gym together. Lance had noticed it with no small amount of envy; no matter how much work he put in, he always remained sort of lanky (“Lithe,” Keith had called it, trying to cheer him up one day, “Like, you know, a panther. Slinky.” Lance hadn’t been sure being called “slinky” was all that much of a compliment). Keith, on the other hand, seemed to put on muscle by just thinking about working out. It was in no way whatsoever fair.
But hey, it definitely helped in this situation, so Lance could probably lay off the envious side-glances at the gym a little bit going forward. Just a little.
“Do you think you can pull your pants up, or do you want me to do it?” Keith asked.
“I’ll do it just… try not to let me fall over,” Lance said with a chuckle. His hands were shaking as he reached down for the edge of his jeans. He pulled them up gently, wincing when he had to shift his stance and put more weight on his injured leg. Keith was there, though, holding him up. Then he was there, helping him get to the living room and to put his shoes on, helping him up the stairs and making him lean on the railing to wait while he ran to get his car.
The hospital was a good fifteen minutes away on a good day. Lance couldn’t be sure if Keith was driving more erratically than usual - he pretty much always treated other cars as enemies and obstacles and driving as a mission to get past them - but Lance thought he was gripping the steering wheel tighter than usual. He was worried, no doubt about that, Lance got that, but Lance couldn’t help but wonder if there was more to it than that, couldn’t keep his mind from turning in that direction.
“Hey, you’re…” Lance started, stopped himself before he could say more, suddenly unsure if he should even ask.
“What?” Keith asked, slowing to a hard stop at a red light. He turned to Lance, expression flat. That didn’t mean much though, Lance knew, Keith just did that - either blanked out when he got emotional, or let it all out in one big burst. It didn’t help Lance’s nerves, however. It just proved that Keith was feeling...well, something, strong enough to not emote and that was a bit scary because Lance didn’t like being unable to read people, or to read people wrong, and this was Keith and he really liked being able to read Keith, and he’d really like to be able to read him right then, to get a feel for what he was thinking.
“You’re… not mad, right?” Lance asked slowly, hopefully.
“Uh…” Keith gave him a puzzled look, one eyebrow raising. “No? Why would I be mad?”
“Because…” Lance motioned at his leg. “I wasn’t careful.”
“Shit happens,” Keith said dismissively, as if Lance had burned a pan or fried the microwave and not, you know, injured himself in a really stupid and unnecessary fashion. He turned back to face ahead as the light turned green, gunning the engine. Lance still felt uneasy about it. He didn't think Keith was lying; Keith was a horrible liar and usually tried deflecting rather than answering outright as he had just done. That alone should've been enough to quell Lance’s unease but it didn't.
“Are you sure?”
“I'm sure,” Keith said, adding distractedly, “But we’re going to have to like, disinfect the whole kitchen floor now.”
“I was trying to get to the rubber bands,” Lance responded defensively, wincing as he shifted in his seat. The throbbing in his leg was painful and it felt like his pulse was pounding in his ears. No, it sounded like there was white noise in his ears. No, both, it sounded like both. He grimaced and lay his head back against the headrest, staring up at the car ceiling.
“Rubber bands?” Keith asked, puzzled, and Lance sighed.
“To keep the dishrag on so I could get the pack,” He explained, wishing that weird fluttery feeling in his head would just stop.
“Keeping the rag in place and putting pressure on the wound,” Keith said it slowly, like he was mulling it over as he spoke. “Smart.”
“Yeah, well, I am a pretty intelligent guy, if you haven’t noticed,” Lance shot back, turning his head to shoot a smirk his way. Keith must’ve caught it, even if his eyes were on the road, because he rolled his eyes and grinned.
“You know, I hadn’t,” He said with a chuckle. After a moment he pulled one hand off the steering wheel and held it out to Lance. It was reflexive, really, the way Lance reached for it without a second thought, only belatedly realizing what he’d done. Keith’s fingers curled around his tightly, and he tried to ground himself in that touch, in that warmth.
‘It’s going to be all right,” Keith said, firmly, like he could make it true if he just stated it confidently enough. Lance’s nerves didn’t quite agree; being in the car with Keith was familiar and it should’ve been soothing, but he knew what was coming, even if he tried to avoid thinking about it, and the thought had his skin prickling and his heart racing. He swallowed thickly, trying to beat down the flutter of nerves.
“Yeah, I know,” He said, but his voice sounded weak even to him.
Keith held his hand all the way to the hospital.
.
They pulled into the parking lot next to the ER entrance just shy of thirteen minutes after getting into the car. Lance knew because he’d been watching the minutes flip on the dashboard clock, his anxiety growing incrementally with the growing numbers. Still, he found himself moving mechanically, automatically, to loosen his seatbelt once Keith turned the engine off.
“Stay in the car,” Keith said as he opened his door. “I'm going to get a wheelchair.”
“What?” Lance said with an indignant gasp, turning to give him a horrified look, “I don't need a wheelchair, Keith, I can walk just fine. I mean, if you’re helping me, I can. I’m not an invalid .”
“Yeah, putting pressure on an injured limb is exactly what they teach you in first aid classes,” Keith said, sarcasm heavy in his tone, as he got out of the car. He leaned lower to look inside, fixing Lance with a stern look. “Stay right here.”
Lance let out a frustrated groan as the car door slammed shut. A wheelchair, what the hell? He didn’t need a wheelchair he just needed assistance. But Keith was going to get a wheelchair because apparently in Keith-land that was necessary for some reason. Even though Lance said he didn’t need it. Why was his boyfriend so stupidly stubborn?
“Why are you so stupidly stubborn?” Lance asked bitterly once Keith was back and opening his door.
Keith gave him one of those looks that meant he was either trying to do calculus at one in the morning (they had some fun nights, to be sure) or trying to keep himself from strangling Lance like he probably wanted to. Considering the circumstances, Lance assumed it was the latter.
“Get in the fucking wheelchair, Lance,” Keith said, but his tone held no bite. Grudgingly, Lance got himself into the wheelchair, as demanded, and resigned himself to being carted into the ER as if he had a real and serious injury. As much as he wanted to complain, the fact was that the throbbing in his leg was slightly less worse when he sat than when he stood, and despite his adamant insistence that he could walk he was grateful that he didn't have to.
Keith headed straight for the desk once they were inside, rolling Lance right up and stepping up next to him. The security guard at the check in counter, an older man, gave them a quick look and opened his mouth to probably run through a standard greeting protocol that he never got to deliver because Keith apparently did not have the patience to wait long enough to hear it.
“My boyfriend cut himself accidentally,” Keith stated, short and to the point.
“It’s just a little cut, really,” Lance interjected, shooting the man a bright smile.
“He’s bleeding pretty bad.” Keith continued, ignoring him and focusing on the guard.
“It’s really not that bad.” Lance said, and Keith shot him a sharp look, then pointedly nodded towards his lap. Lance glanced down, frowning, only to find several spots of dark red on his jeans that might not have been there before they got in the car.
“Okay, it might be slightly bad,” He amended himself grudgingly, idly wondering just how much blood he’d lost as compared to his shows, and whether he’d start feeling the effects of it any time soon. Whether he was feeling them already. He couldn’t be sure - he felt a little woozy, but it was just the barest hints of it at the edge of his awareness. That weird throb of white noise in his ears was still there, just rising and falling in some weird tempo. His pulse was definitely racing - but that wasn’t surprising. He didn’t really like hospitals that much, he didn’t want to think about what was going to happen once he was checked in, he didn’t want to… He breathed, realizing he’d started going off somewhere he didn’t want to go, and glanced up at Keith as if Keith would somehow be able to stop him from going there. Keith was watching him, looking even more worried than before.
“You okay?” Keith asked, reaching out to lay his hand on the side of Lance’s neck. Lance pressed into the touch, trying to ground himself with his warmth.
“Peachy.” He responded, smirk in place. Keith didn’t stop frowning that worried frown, though.
“Let’s get you two inside, one of the nurses will get you set up in a room and check you in,” The security guard said, getting up to lead them through the ER doors. Lance couldn't be sure but he thought that might not have been standard protocol. He caught the guard glancing back at him with a curious expression on his face a couple of times as he led them down the hallway to the nurse's station. Puzzled, he looked himself over and only then realized that his shirt was streaked with blood stains from the whole ordeal. He almost looked like a horror movie extra. Almost.
“Why didn't you tell me my shirt was all bloody?” Lance asked trying to shoot Keith an accusing glance. It failed because Keith was behind him and there was no way Lance could turn far enough around.
“I kind of had other things on my mind,” Keith grumbled back.
The security guard was talking with a nurse by then, too low for them to hear. After a moment she turned to them and the guard headed back.
“Right this way, I'll get you set up in a room,” She said with a smile. Lance returned it easily, though inside he was starting to feel like a bowl of jell-o, all wobbly and prone to melting at higher temperatures.
The room wasn't much of a room, but moreso an area curtained off from the rest of the ER, with a couple more curtained sections to either side of it. The nurse - Lance hadn't even caught her name, how embarrassing was that - helped Keith assist Lance onto the bed, then with practiced speed entered Lance’s info into the computer terminal.
“Now, let's see that cut. Where is it located?” The nurse asked, pulling on a pair of latex gloves.
“O-on my thigh,” Lance winced at the stutter. Fuck, the place was getting to him already, he could feel it in the shudder in his joints, in the uneasy twist in his gut.
“I'll need you to take your pants off in that case, would you prefer if I waited outside?” She asked courteously, but Lance shook his head.
“If it doesn't bother you, you don't have to…”
It didn't, so he fumbled with the button and zipper, and let Keith help him pull his pants down past his knees. The nurse motioned they could stop then, and stepped up to Lance’s left side. It wasn't the most flattering moment for Lance. There he was, in his boxers in front of a relatively cute woman in one of the worst situations he could've imagined. Well, there could be worse, and more embarrassing moments, but he hoped he never experienced them because this one was bad enough.
The nurse peeled the bloody gauze off his leg - and fuck it was bloody, bloodier than he'd expected. His head swooped slightly as she peeled the layers off, and he wasn't certain if it was blood loss or the sight of the gash again, so deep and angry looking.
The nurse poked at his leg a bit, the prods deepening the ache in it, then peeled off her gloves and turned to put on a fresh pair.
“That is quite a deep cut, it’s a good thing you came in. We’re going to have to get a doctor in here to get that stitched up, but I'm going to place some more gauze on it for the time being,” She said, pulling open drawers and arranging materials with efficient speed. It was obvious she was a seasoned nurse, none of her movements wasted or unnecessary. She turned back around and started arranging gauze pads on his leg again, her eyes lifting to meet his as she asked, “Has anything like this happened before?”
Lance had tried to ignore it, but he'd seen the way her eyes had traveled over his legs, he knew what she saw - multitudes of scars of all sizes ranging up and down both the inside and outside of his thighs. Some of them were old enough to be nothing more than paler lines, but some were fresher, newer, even still healing in places from last week's show. It had sent a chill down his spine, he could feel her judging - fuck, maybe she wasn’t judging him but it felt like it, to him. It sure felt like it.
But he’d known this question was coming, and he was prepared as he locked gazes with her and responded in a steady voice, cheerful grin plastered across his face,
“Nope.”
She didn’t look convinced, but he hadn’t expected her to be. He was surprised, however, when she didn’t push the issue, nodding after a long moment.
“All right, this is still bleeding pretty badly so I’ll get the doctor in here immediately to get this stitched up,” The nurse said, her mouth a firm line as she turned to exit the curtains “We’ll be right back.”
“How’re you holding up?” Keith asked once she was gone, leaning on the bed as there was no chair there, and brushing Lance’s hair out of his eyes. His bangs were getting long again, he should get them cut soon.
“I'm fine,” Lance replied with a grin. There was a barely-there twitch of Keith's jaw, like he was gritting his teeth, and Lance was reminded that Keith didn't like it when Lance said he was “fine”. He had no idea when it started, or why, but Keith always got that look on his eye, that closely calculating, quiet look, like he was trying to piece together what he thought was a lie behind Lance’s words.
“I'm okay, really,” Lance insisted. “Yeah my leg hurts like a bitch but that's it.”
“All right,” Keith said, but still looked uneasy. He eyed Lance quietly for a moment longer before asking, “Nervous?”
“Pft, me, nervous?” Lance rolled his eyes. “Please...this is just, awkward.”
“Awkward.”
“Come on, I already had one cute nurse see me in my boxers for like, the worst reason ever, and now there’s gonna be a doctor too and fuck knows what they’re gonna look like,” Lance said, diverting his full attention to the conversation and not to the thought that some moment extremely soon he was going to be faced with more than a nurse, and would possibly have to field some very uncomfortable and unnecessary question and- “Like the one that was heading into the room on our right when we rolled up?”
“Oh yeah, she was pretty.” Keith agreed, rolling with the conversation like he understood that Lance needed it right then. He could be oddly perceptive sometimes. “And there was a guy with stethoscopes, that tall black-haired one?”
“Hot.” Lance replied, though he barely remembered him. If he was even thinking of the same guy.
“What if one of them comes to stitch you up?”
“Oh my god, no,” Lance groaned.
“What if both of them do?” Keith asked, and Lance laughed as he reached out to slap his shoulder.
“Shut up Keith,” Lance tried to glare, but it was weakened by the grin that was forcing its way onto his face. Fucking Keith, Mr. “I don’t know what socializing is”, and his surprising ability to lighten Lance’s mood exactly when he needed him to. “That's not funny.”
Their chuckles subsided into silence after a moment, however, and whatever lightening of his mood that had come from the laughter quickly dissipated. All Lance could feel was the creeping approach of inevitability, all he could remember was how last time... last time… His heart was picking up again, his pulse pounding so hard he could practically feel it at his jaw. Turning to Keith he met his eyes desperately, reaching out to grab hold of his hand.
“Okay this is probably a stupid question but… can we go?” He asked, voice cracking. “Can we go home now? Like, right now?”
He could see Keith's resolute calm breaking before him, his carefully smoothed expression falling with worry. He gripped Lance’s hand tight right back, looking suddenly so helpless, like he knew that Lance was going through something, inside, in his head, and he had no idea how to fix it.
“It’s gonna be okay, Lance,” He tried to reassure him, “The doctor’s gonna come and do the stitches and then we’ll head out of here, all right? Just… just a little longer…”
“O-okay,” Lance replied, but he wasn’t feeling it. There was a horrible pressure building somewhere between his shoulderblades, tightening his chest, and he couldn’t breathe properly for some reason. Keith leaned towards him, his other hand cupping Lance’s cheek as he kissed his temple, holding him close. It should’ve helped, but Lance couldn’t seem to relax, couldn’t seem to do anything but shudder and watch the opening in the curtains before him with desperate trepidation.
A few minutes later the curtains parted, and Keith pulled back as a couple of people walked in - the nurse from before, and a young dark-haired man in blue scrubs. He looked younger than them, actually, and Lance wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not.
“I’m Dr. Iber, I’ll be taking care of you today,” He said directly to Lance. The nurse pulled in a wheeling cart from outside the curtains, then closed them tight, while the doctor put on gloves.
“Let’s take a look here,” He said, moving to Lance’s left side and beginning to peel away the gauze. The nurse set the cart up next to him, several instruments and items lined across the top but Lance couldn’t identify them - he couldn’t look at them - he had to look away, somewhere, anywhere else. His eyes traveled across the curtains, they were all identical and it was almost too much, stifling, pressing in on him. His gaze darted to Keith, the doctor and nurse’s voices fading into the background.
“It’s all right,” Keith said when their eyes met, “You’re doing great.”
Lance didn’t feel like he was doing great - he felt like he was five seconds away from letting out the loudest whimper of his life, five seconds away from jumping off that hospital bed and trying to make it for the door, every single memory he’d pushed away and hid so deep inside was slowly coming back in vivid detail. It wasn’t this hospital, he told himself - but it was a hospital - and it wasn’t this doctor - but it was a doctor - and, and… he was alone the last time but he wasn’t this time. He wasn’t alone this time. Keith’s hand was steady in his own, he was brushing Lance’s hair back again, and Lance focused on that contact, held to it like a lifeline while the stitches tugged at his aching leg.
The doctor seemed to work fast, though maybe that was just the desperate detachment distorting time for him. Even the pain receded to a dull throb, barely noticeable behind the pounding of his heart. Keith’s touch couldn’t keep his mind from racing, though it helped - the thoughts were just too strong, the memories too weighted. He’d been here before - and - and - he knew better, than to put himself back there, didn’t he know better? He should’ve known better. But he didn’t, he fucked up, like always , he fucked up again he fucked up - he tried to breathe, it rattled in his throat, and his fingers tightened around Keith’s until his hand shook. Keith said something, Lance registered that much, but he couldn’t hear the words because the doctor was done and they were cleaning up and then he was turning to Lance with that heavy look in his eyes, like it was tiring him out just being there.
“In a case like this ” - and there was the emphasis that sent an icy bolt down Lance’s spine - “I have to ask,” He said, not ungently but still clinically, “Are you experiencing thoughts of suicide?”
Lance tried but the forced grin from before wouldn’t come. All he could do was hold the doctor’s gaze steady as he answered, quietly but honestly, “No.”
The doctor held his eye a moment longer, as if he was considering the simple response, weighing it against the marks he’d seen on his body.
“Would you like to see a counselor?” He asked after a moment.
“No,” Lance responded a little more forcefully that time, his eyes darting to Keith, and Keith patted his hand reassuringly.
“He isn’t in danger of doing anything like that,” Keith sounded a lot more composed than Lance felt, meeting the doctor’s eye with little hesitation. “This was really just a bad slip up.”
For a moment longer the doctor eyed them both, then nodded.
“Okay, but please remember if you need any assistance at all, we have trained staff on hand,” He said, but his eyes were already on his clipboard, his pen scratching at the paper. “It’ll be just a few more minutes while the nurse gets you checked out in the system, and then you’re free to head home.”
“Thank you,” Keith said, the doctor giving them a tired a grin before heading out past the curtains.
Lance watched him go in slight disbelief, his heart still racing.
“We can go?” He asked quietly, turning to Keith. Keith gave him an odd look in return, slightly puzzled.
“Uh, yeah, that’s what he said.”
“So they’re not making me stay?” Lance asked, even quieter. Keith’s expression softened at that.
“No, they’re not going to make you stay,” He said, and then he grinned softly and pulled his hand out of Lance’s so he could put his arms around Lance’s shoulders. “Come on…”
Lance didn’t need to be told twice; he leaned into Keith, shifting around on the bed so he could tuck his face up against Keith’s neck and wrap his arms around him. His heart was still racing but the pressure in his chest was gone, he felt light again. He gripped Keith tight, tighter than he should, just happy because it wasn’t like last time. It wasn’t like last time at all. It wasn’t like last time and he was going home .
“You know I wouldn’t have let them keep you anyway,” Keith sighed, pulling away enough to be able to kiss Lance’s forehead. Lance could’ve melted, right then, he could’ve cried but he didn’t because that was stupid. Crying in the ER. What the fuck.
“What, you would’ve busted me out of the ER?” Lance laughed, and maybe he was crying a little bit because his voice came out wavery.
“Thrown you over my shoulder and ran out of here,” Keith affirmed, and Lance laughed, pulling him down so he could kiss him. They were going home. They were going home .