#jamosfic

[jamesholden]

23. “You left me with no one, sorry doesn’t change that." Jamos

The sounds reach him first. The consistent beeping. Muffled voices. He knows this sound. He knows it intimately. But he can’t place it. The second thing he notices is that he’s uncomfortable. Deeply so. His arm aches. His head too. But he isn’t sure why. Or where he is. But he does, right? He knows this. He blinks his eyes open. It takes a few tries to keep them open, to clear his vision. Even then, he can’t see.

No glasses then. But he doesn’t need them to see where he is. He’s been here before.

He’s in a hospital bed. In a hospital. How did he get here? He’d been pacing, practicing a lecture... and then nothing. Something creaks beside him.

“You awake for real this time?”

Amos.

Holden turns his head, fixes his eyes on the big man in the uncomfortable hospital chair. He’s blurred, but Holden would know him anywhere. He could find him in a crowd without his glasses. 

“What happened,” he croaks, coughing as the last syllable ends. Amos is beside him in a heartbeat, a glass and a straw with it. Holden is grateful for the drink, the cool water soothing his dry throat. He’s more grateful for the sharper view of his boyfriend, the proximity a comfort anyone else could barely fathom. A comfort that slowly fades when the look on Amos’ face comes into focus. The tension, the anger there... anyone else might miss it. But not Holden. The comfort morphed into anxiety. “Amos—”

Amos ignores him. “You passed out.” He sets the glass on the little table, beside items Holden can only just identify as a couple of cards, a book, and his missing glasses. “Hit your head on the way down. Doc said a few of your levels were... elevated, lowered. I couldn’t keep it all straight.”

“Amos, I—”

“See, I thought that was strange, given when I asked if you were really okay, you said yes. I told the doc that you had said that, when he asked me. And that didn’t track with what he observed. So you lied.”

Holden swallows. “I’m sorry, I just didn’t want you to worry, and—”

Amos smacks a hand down on the plastic rail of the bed, loud enough to startle Holden, to make his heart rate monitor beep with a little more urgency. But not enough to call any nurse’s attention to the conversation going on in the room. 

“You were lying on the floor, white as a sheet, bleeding everywhere. When I saw you... Jesus, Jim. I thought you were dead. That I was too late to get to you.”

Holden almost can’t bring himself to meet Amos’ gaze, but he does. It’s less anger now. It’s concern. Or what concern Amos can show. Holden sees it. That’s enough.

“You could have left me with no one,” Amos states, casual tone still carrying over from everything else he’d said so far, not at all matching the topic, but that’s Amos. “Sorry doesn’t change that, Jim.”

Guilt gnaws at his stomach. He nearly apologizes again. If not for the look on Amos’ face. An almost unreadable mix of worried, angry, scared. Holden swallows again. He did this. Words can’t undo it at all. So he blinks away the itch in his eyes and nods. 

“I know. I know.”

Amos’ eyes search his face. It’s a long, tense moment. One in which Holden worries Amos might say more. Might end things. He knows what Amos has been through, how he feels about Holden’s health and any kind of downplaying he makes about it. He should have been honest. Should have been. Amos must see that recognition in him, for he nods too. Smooths a hand over his hair.

“You’re staying here until the docs clear you, understood?”

“Yes.” 

Amos pulls away, and Holden feels the loss of his warmth deep in his chest. Until he comes back to slide Holden’s glasses onto his face. Everything comes into focus, but he waits to look at Amos. Too scared to find what he’ll see there.

“When we get home, you rest. Practice from a couch or a bed or something. Not near table corners. And you tell me if you’re having a bad day. Hear me?”

Holden nods. “I do.”

Holden takes a deep breath, looks right at Amos’ face. It’s relaxed, eyes trained on him for any sign of weakness. Not for hunting or hurting, but for helping. For care. With another nod, he leans in to press a kiss to Holden’s head, right near where the pain radiates from.

“I’m sorry,” Holden whispers.

Amos sighs. “I know.”

“I love you.”

A pause. Another sigh, but different. More a laugh. “I know.”

And with that, Amos pulls the chair closer, takes the cards off the table, and settles in to read them to Holden. He’ll accept the well-earned guilt trip. As long as Amos keeps reading to him, talking to him, he’ll take it. It means Amos is there. That’s all Holden wants. The only thing in focus, even in the chaos of the hospital. The only thing he knows. 

Hell. If he’s lucky, Amos will let him practice his lecture on him. Maybe. Once they get home.

send me a prompt!