Patience

“OK, James, we’re going to have to admit you – at least overnight, but probably for a few days. Someone will be down in a minute to take you up.”

Bucky grunted a vague acknowledgment at the nurse and sighed, shifting his shoulder and wincing immediately. He’d been sitting in the emergency ward for 9 hours being variously poked and prodded and scanned, all to confirm what was patently obvious from the swelling and the heat rising from his skin: his shoulder was infected, and the weight of his metal arm was aggravating it.

He shivered and pulled his hoodie tighter around himself, curling into as much of a ball as he could manage in the elderly vinyl armchair that was one of a dozen lining the waiting area of the ward. He tugged the hood down as far as he could. It was so bright in here, and it felt like a vice was tightening around his eyeballs. The television had been a constant and incongruous bubbly chirp the whole time he was there, a mild but distracting irritant. It wasn’t quite loud enough to hear over the other hospital sounds – beeps and bells and alarms; laughter and teasing; nurses at the nearby station, hushed murmuring – the other patients waiting in his area, and occasional snores and moans from behind the curtained-off beds ringing the rest of the ward, but closed captions were on if anyone wanted to follow the drama of whatever reality show was on.

“Mr Barnes?” An orderly was standing behind an empty wheelchair, clipboard in one gloved hand as he scanned the patients in Bucky’s area.

“Here,” Bucky croaked, unwinding stiffly to his feet.

The orderly was next to him with the chair ready even before he’d picked up his red backpack. Experience told him it wasn’t worth the argument to resist getting in the chair, so he sat himself down and let the porter check his feet were secure before wheeling him off. Thankfully the orderly made no attempt at conversation, treating Bucky like an inanimate object he was transporting. In the lift they met up with another orderly who was taking a semi-conscious patient in a bed surrounded by wires and IVs to the same floor. The two of them chatted over their patients as if they were invisible. Neither patient was in any state to care.

They parted ways at the first corridor and Bucky was wheeled into a share ward. It was peaceful this time of night, and banks of food trolleys near the elevator were piled high with detritus-covered trays: he’d missed dinner. The orderly stopped at the nurses’ station to get his human cargo signed in, then pushed Bucky into a four-bed room on the other side of the station. The lights were off, though only one of the other three beds had its curtains closed and he could see the other two elderly patients were watching their TVs. Bucky’s bed was near the door; in heavy shadow, though the bright lights from the reception area shone straight in.

The orderly, still ignoring Bucky, fussed about lowering the bed so Bucky could climb on, then turned to leave without a word, Bucky just managed to call a hoarse “thanks”, after him and received a surprised wave in response, as if the man truly had forgotten he was a live human.

Bucky stayed perched on the bed. He was still fully dressed, though he’d managed to grab some spare clothes, toothbrush and toothpaste before leaving the house. A nurse bustled in almost immediately and reassured him that he could either wear the hospital gown or stay in his own clothes. She checked his details then told him to settle in while she prepared an IV.

God he was tired. And cold. And he ached. He was twitchy in these surroundings. Too many people for him to be able to relax in the room, but the other option of drawing the curtains to give himself privacy meant cutting off his sightlines. The tension drew his shoulders up and the burning pain on his left flared. He looked up and saw the old man opposite glancing his way. Judging by the paraphernalia surrounding his bed, he was unlikely to be much of a threat. To his other side the elderly woman had fallen asleep with her TV still on and her glasses askew. Probably not much danger there, either. He dropped his feet heavily to the floor and got up without making eye contact with his wardmate, carefully drawing the curtains all around his little space. He left enough of a gap at the corner that he’d be able to see anyone entering their ward, but otherwise decided he would rely on the shadows and silhouettes cast by the light outside. He kicked off his sneakers and, after a moment’s thought, switched his jeans for his sleep pants, then tucked himself into bed. It was uncomfortably narrow but even the too-thin mattress was a welcome respite from the even more uncomfortable chairs that had forced him upright all day.

The blanket, tucked tightly over the crisp hospital sheets, offered little in the way of warmth and he shivered just as the nurse whipped the curtain open again and appeared at his bedside with the ever-present clipboard and a tray holding a sad-looking packaged sandwich, plastic cup of water, and sealed juice cup. She brandished the sandwich at him: “You’ve missed dinner, I’m afraid, but hopefully this will tide you over.” He pulled a face at the thought of food, even as she continued, “I’d really like you to eat something before we give you any more meds.”

“Could I maybe get a coffee?” His teeth chattered as he asked and she made a note on her chart even as she was shaking her head. “I can get you some tea, though? And perhaps another blanket?” She got him to pull his sleeve up and wrapped a cuff around his right arm, deftly dipping the thermometer into a sterile case and slipping it under Bucky’s tongue. She frowned at the final numbers on the screen, but made no comment as she marked up the chart and stood over him until he’d managed, shakily, to peel back the seal on the sandwich and take a token bite of rubbery bread.

“Good man.” She gave him a half smile and nodded at the hoodie he’d taken off when he was getting changed. “You pop your sweater back on and I’ll be back in a minute. Finish that sandwich.”

It wasn’t the worst food Bucky had eaten – pretty much anything was better than MRAs. In fact, for a food item that had been sitting for goodness knows how long in a refrigerated vending machine, it was pretty good. But the layer of margarine was far thicker than he would have used himself, and had a faintly salty chemical taste. He was reasonably sure ham wasn’t meant to be that shade of grey, either. His stomach churned and another rush of heat burst over his skin, followed immediately by a wave of shivering. He forced another two bites past the bitter flood of saliva in his mouth before giving up. A swig of orange juice was all he managed before he simply collapsed back in the bed; a darkening aura pushing at the edges of his vision. A rumbling clatter brought not only the nurse with an IV on wheels, a fresh blanket – “hot, straight from the cupboard!” – and a cup of pills; but also another bed.

Bucky vaguely recognised the orderly as the same one who had been in the lift and wondered if it was the same patient, too. He still couldn’t see, though he caught a glimpse of sandy blond hair as the orderly whisked the patient behind the curtain at the end of the room. Bucky pulled himself to sitting and let the nurse connect the IV to the cannula he’d had put in while he was in emergency. “I’m going to have to put another line in too – you’re a bit dehydrated. This one is your antibiotics.” She pointed to the cup of pills on the table. “That’s just some Tylenol to get your fever down and help you feel a bit better. Hopefully that will let you get some sleep while the drip kicks in.”

Bucky managed a grunt of thanks in reply, but the light from the hallway outside was grinding pain into his head and all he really wanted was to lie down and sleep. He downed the pills with a swig of water, clenching his teeth to make sure it all stayed down.

The nurse gave him a sympathetic smile as he winced himself back to reclining, barely paying attention as she threaded another needle into his veins and attached a second bag and set of tubing. There was a cold rush of fluid into his arm. “Someone will be back for obs in a few hours but hopefully they won’t disturb you too much. Do you want this shut?” The nurse indicated the curtain as she stepped back. Bucky nodded, collapsing completely as she jerked the curtain to a close with a swish.

Two hours later, Bucky realised that leaving his hoodie on when they’d attached the drips had been a bad idea. He was burning up. His clothes were soaked through. His hair was wet and sticking to his neck and he couldn’t BREATHE. He tore the sheet and blankets free; just managing not to throw them to the floor. He hauled his hoodie off, but that left it as an unbearable hot, damp weight around his right arm, pressing on the cannulas. He tried to pull the neck of his T-shirt away from his throat, but misjudged and tore it instead.

The air on his sweat-damp skin was a blessed relief.

He was freezing. He was drowning. He was gasping. He flailed to pull himself up into the air, dimly aware of pinging machines in the background and pain ripping through his left side.

He couldn’t see.

He was choking.

Everything went silent.

*

When Bucky next woke up his headache had receded to a low throb. His throat was sore. His shoulder still ached, but it felt more like it was bruised than as if someone was twisting hot knives in the socket.

He was wearing a hospital gown.

He ran his hand over the fabric, confused, and blinked his surrounds into focus. Pale blue curtains blocked his view on all sides and he swallowed a spike of adrenaline so he could continue to take stock. It was bright, much brighter than it had been before, and he could hear chatter from outside merging with the muffled tinny sounds of patient TVs. Daytime then.

He twisted to see if there was anything near him to give a clue of day or time and instead found himself off-balance – his left arm was gone, his gown sleeve hanging loosely over thin air. Sheer panic bloomed in his clenched chest and his vision sparked in and out as he fought the tidal wave of memories. There was a thundering drone and the distant sound of gunfire and someone was screaming…

*

When he next came to, the light had dulled. Not quite night time, but the lights were off. His jaw ached and his eyes were gritty. He lifted a hand to rub his face and felt the brush of overlong stubble – and caught a whiff of stale, foul sweat wafting from his own skin. Now he’d noticed that, he realised he felt grimy and itchy…. And weak. He couldn’t even contemplate sitting up. His throat felt like it had been flayed. He rolled his head on the pillow, checking his immediate vicinity. There was no clock, but there was a jug and cup with a straw on the table next to him. It took three goes before he managed to haul the table across the bed, and only barely managed to pour some water without getting it everywhere.

Nectar of the gods. He forced himself not to gulp.

…The sound of approaching voices alerted him, just before the rattling swish of the curtain being pulled back heralded the entrance of a nurse. He gave Bucky a warm smile and showed him how to use the remote to raise the bed. He’d been too foggy to think about that, but appreciated not being stuck flat on his back.

The seated position reminded him his arm was gone. He was careful not to look this time but the nurse was quick to catch his concerns. Bucky had been out of it for several days, he explained. First when the infection took an unexpected turn and then when he’d blacked out during his flashback. They’d removed the arm to relieve the weight on his left side. It would be put back just as soon as the tenderness had eased and the infection was one hundred percent cleared. He’d been moved to a quieter ward, only sharing with one other patient now. He’d need a few more days of observation before they would consider letting him leave.

*

“Do you want the curtain pulled?”

The doctor’s voice was kind, but given the questions she'd just asked about his mental health, Bucky hesitated… was this a test? The truth was he was starting to feel trapped rather than protected behind the flimsy privacy curtain. He hadn’t heard a peep from his wardmate, and he was getting desperate for a view of something other than his ceiling, the curtain and the TV.

“No… thanks… if you could open it a bit, please?”

He had a moment of anxiety as the doctor pulled the curtain all the way open, leaving him vulnerable on two sides – the other two being the head of the bed against a wall and his left side alongside a window. But he shouldn’t have worried. His wardmate had their curtain pulled across, so Bucky still had some level of privacy, but now the air was circulating a little better, and he could see out of the window. Admittedly all he could see were commercial building rooftops, another wing of the hospital and, probably, if he got up to look out, the carpark. But he could also see the sky and a little green, and the shot of daylight lightened his mood almost immediately. He pulled himself awkwardly and stiffly to sitting. He’d had his catheter removed and was temporarily free of the drip as well. The nurse had promised him he could take a shower this morning and he’d made it a priority. His shoulder was a mass of bandages – but he was assured this was to pad and protect the metal connection joints and not a result of any wounds. The nurse had taped what looked like sandwich wrap over the top, but while they’d prefer he not get it wet, it didn’t really matter.

His bag was on a chair by the window and he dropped his feet to the floor before gingerly standing and picking it up. He still ached, but now it was more like the stagnation of muscles rather than the fierce burn of illness. There was a shared shower room near the entrance to this ward and he half staggered, half hobbled in before locking the door and surveying his surrounds. It was an open plan wet room with a basin on one wall, a toilet in the corner, and a shower suspended over a drain in the other. There were grab rails along each wall as well as a shower chair, and there were pump bottles of soap and shampoo on a built-in shelf by the shower faucet. Thankfully, there was also a set of towels by the basin, as he’d forgotten to bring one in. He hung his bag on the hook behind the door and tugged open the zip so he could retrieve his toothbrush. He’d been giving the rails a wide berth, but by the time he’d cleaned his teeth he was undeniably wobbly. He managed to untie his gown and hang it over one of the hated rails, before hauling himself over to the show and, resentfully, dropping into the chair. This was a hospital. Hopefully they cleaned the chair – and the shower – regularly. The faucet was a lever and as the first warm rush of water hit his skin he had to bite back a moan of contentment. He’d had to argue for permission to shower alone, however, so it was likely the nurses would be on watch if he took too long. He made extravagant use of the soap and shampoo and scrubbed himself down as best he could while seated and single-handed. There was a hazy moment midway through as the scent of the soap took him back to his army hospital stay, but he managed to breathe through it. It got him to hurrying the rest of his ablutions, though.

Using the chair had given him enough rest that he was able to dry himself off and remove the plastic wrap himself, before locating some lounge pants and a T-shirt in his bag. He’d forgotten a comb so he had to use his fingers to deal with the knots in his hair. He also discovered that after a couple of years with the arm, he’d lost the knack for tying his hair up single-handed, so he had to leave it hanging wetly around his face.

By the time he made it back to his bed, he was shaky and his vision was getting fuzzy from the exertion. But he was clean.

He dozed for a little while, until the regular doctor rounds. Bucky was declared on the road to recovery, but they needed a specialist to deal with his arm – apparently he’d come in specially to remove it in the first place and wouldn’t be back again for a few days – and then Bucky would still need a special appointment for the procedure itself. Bucky resigned himself to more tedious waiting even as a nurse came in to hook him back up to a drip and the doctors moved on to his wardmate.

They tried to keep their voices low, but it was a small room and the curtain wasn’t designed to block sound. Bucky was easily able to deduce his roommate was a cheerful young man who nevertheless sounded extremely ill. It was clear from the tones of everyone’s voices that they all knew each other and Bucky wondered how long he’d been stuck here.

When the doctor and her cohorts left, this time they left the other man’s bed’s curtain open.