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Sorry about the small delay with this one - I really had to write more than I thought I would, resulting in 1,300 extra words for the extra half an hour polishing this story. Hope this makes up for the extra wait!

Enjoy the read!

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I'm not sure whether it was the morphine, the tranquilizers, the bang in my head, the anesthesia or simply being fucking exhausted after a day of misery, but after Peter wished me goodnight and left the hospital for the time, I slept all the way until gentle shaking and whispered words woke me up from my sleep.

My eyelids felt heavy and my vision was somewhat blurry, and I had to blink a couple of times until I focused on the narrow muzzle hovering above me. The nurse this time was a fox wearing scrubs and currently being busy re-arranging me pillow, no matter that my head was resting on it.

"Mister Gliese, good morning!" she spoke while looking down at me. "How are we today?"

Why the hell did they always use "we" when I was supposed to give my very personal opinion that had nothing to do with her. It wasn't the nurse lying on this bed with tubes stuffed up her body orifices. She probably had had a nice breakfast, read the news online, commuted to work, and then put a happyhappy smile on her muzzle before entering my leonine den of misery.

"Thirsty," I rumbled.

They still hadn't given me anything proper to drink, only another cupful of ice last night, which Peter had fed to my ravenous muzzle in little bits, until most of it was simply dripping around his fingertips. Surprisingly, I didn't feel much hungry, but that was probably because of whatever they were still dripping into my blood vessels from those bags hanging by my bed.

"The doctor will see you during the morning rounds and he'll decide when you are allowed to consume liquids and solids by mouth," the nurse replied, her eyes and paws already more busy on the medical equipment to my left, all the while she spoke to me in a calm, professional tone.

Oh well. She obviously wasn't going to bring me a nice cup of coffee to start my Sunday. Was it Sunday, anyway? My mind felt hazy when it came to time.

"What's the time?" I asked, even.

"Eight fifteen," the nurse replied.

I wondered whether they really had to wake all the patients at this time - weren't sick furs supposed to sleep a lot of recover their strength? I wouldn't have minded slipping back into sleep for a bit longer, considering that I wasn't going to get anything to eat or drink, and Peter or my parents plus Justin would only come later on, as prompted by the staff yesterday. I felt thankful for that, in a way. I didn't feel like I could put up a brave face at the moment, not for any of them. Well...less for Peter, of course, but he had his other issues. He could hardly even step into this hospital anymore, let alone spend extensive time here sitting by my sickbed and willing me to get better as soon as possible. Forcing him to do that made me feel sick my stomach. Hadn't he already had enough?

The nurse checked my temperature from my ear, marked down something to the writing pad after checking the IVs, sloshed around my infamous piss bag, and then lifted my blankets to check out my leg. It was a rough sight. All of my leg was bandaged into some sort of a splint and secured into some odd foam pillows, so that I could not move it away from the slightly arched posture they'd put it into. The nurse asked me to wriggle my toes and felt up my ankle for some reason, and generally patted her paws over the bandages.

"Good movement, sensation, pulse and temperature, good!" the nurse declared once she was folding the blankets back over my lower body. "Any pain?"

"It just feels...heavy, I guess," trying to put words into the odd feeling that throbbed in my injured leg. "Not really painful."

"The doctor will discuss pain management options with you later," the nurse spoke, now standing on the foot of the bed and rubbing paw wash onto her black paws. "He will probably be deciding whether you can be transferred as well."

My ears jumped a little, and I gave her a surprised look.

I swallowed to get my voice going again and then spoke: "What do you mean, transferred?"

"Your condition is quite stable, Mister Gliese, "the fox said, "If the doctor decides that you are well enough, you will be transferred to the standard surgical ward for further care."

Transferred...that meant getting out of this joint, which didn't sound like a bad idea, but nonetheless, her statement also caused a jolt of tension course through me. What if Victor still remained in care here at the ICU? Me being transferred away from here meant that it'd be even more difficult to try and find out how he was doing, let alone maybe go and visit him, when I could and the rigorous staff would allow such a thing. That said, I wasn't even sure that he was being treated in the ICU to begin with, but hadn't Peter mentioned meeting Cobb? That must've happened here, meaning that somewhere nearby, Victor was lying on his own hospital bed, hopefully not fighting for his life, while I'd be taken awat from his vicinity. I really had to know how he was doing.

"What about my friend?" I spoke up.

The nurse whom had looked like she was about to leave, stopped, and her tail swished the air behind her curiously.

"Yes?" she spoke amiably.

I cleared my throat.

"I was brought here after a car crash, and I was in the car with Victor Holden," I spoke as steadily as I could, despite the jolt of nerves the mention of Victor's name caused to me at this point. "I was just wondering if I could ask anyone here how he's doing. I think he's being treated here at the ICU."

The nurse's nosepad wrinkled a little, but she stood fast.

"Are you next of kin?" she asked.

Fuck.

"No," I snuffled. "Just a...friend."

"I could check whether we have a patient of that name, but unless he has personally signed an agreement to give out information about his medical condition, I cannot give you any information."

It's not like I was expecting any.

"Can't you ask his brother?" I said. "His brother, Jacob Holden should be here, can't you ask him to come and meet me and tell me how he is doing?"

The nurse seemed less sure now.

"I will have to discuss this with the department nurse," she replied. "The doctor will be here soon. Good morning, Mister Gliese."

"Yeah," I grunted from my slumped position on the pillows.

Shit.

*

Eleven PM.

Let's be honest, it certainly wasn't the first time I was spending the time away in the glorious pastime of staring at a clock and waiting for its paw to turn over the next digit. I had done plenty of that during my time at the Albrecht Brothers, keeping watch of the big industrial-looking clock on the opposite wall, while my paws mechanically moved books over the bar code reader, tapped the cash register, or searched for red carrier bags from under the counter. Whenever another minute passed, the paw would move and make a loud enough a clicking sound that made my ears flick sharply. Here, the clock seemed even sharper.

Someone coughed behind the curtain separating my bed from the one to my right. I snuffled and rubbed my chin, mindful of the tube that was still taped onto it. That I could still handle, considering that my transfer had also come with the loss of the tubes in my nose, and even better, the removal of my catheter.

I'll never disclose the details to a living soul, mind you, but let's just say that I was happy over the fact that I had gone from pissing in a bag to pissing a plastic bottle. The nurse had only mentioned that yet, and I wasn't looking forward to the first time I would have to enjoy that courtesy, but mentally it was something much easier to take. Maybe the nurse could wait behind the curtain while I did my business.

The decisive lack of intruding tubes and cables made me feel a little bit better, but what I lost in my transfer I gained in two roommates, thankfully hidden from the view by the curtain. I knew that one of them was a lion whose leg was attached to some sort of a wire contraption with weights hanging on it, which didn't look so fun, and the other one was a bear who not only had stolen the TV remote controlling the only TV in the room, also had metal spikes protruding from his arm. I could kinda see the bear's shape through the curtain, and I could definitely hear him as he laughed at some horribly bad jokes being made by Ellen on TV.

Yeah, I think I could have easily gotten used to a private room, but I guess this was my place now, and I better do with what I had.

It still didn't change the fact that I still hadn't heard from Victor. The fox nurse did come back with the doctor, but she said that since she had not reached any immediately family of Victor Holden, she could not disclose any information to me. Pleading that I was a friend didn't seem to help. I daren't declare myself Victor's boyfriend to the nurse, though, because the possibly of her going to ask Cobb or even Victor himself about whether to give information to BOYFRIEND Rory Gliese was something that made me shudder on the inside. I didn't want any other drama to fall upon myself, or anyone else either, and giving dubious information to the medical staff probably would not help at all.

Being this worried probably didn't help with my own recovery either. I wanted to toss and turn on the bed and somehow relieve the tension in my body, but the nurse had given me express orders not to apply any uncontrolled movement to my hip that was still well packed and immobilized, meaning that pacing for the purpose of thinking this through was out of the question - let alone sneaking out to actually ask about Victor, or even better, find Cobb.

What a thought...who would've guessed that at some point in the future, which was now for now, I would be so keen to get in touch with that infamous Dobie and talk with him. It sounded just like something Peter could tease me about, really. 'Getting into good terms with the family already, are we, Rowreeh? That's pretty fast from you, Rowreeh!'

I missed Peter, I missed Victor, and I missed Cobb, too, for in his own bizarre way, even he was somewhat missable at the moment. I needed information, I needed closure, and I needed to know what the hell was going on, and I seriously needed to see a familiar face. I could only wonder how Peter used to do this for all those years. How did he cope with the loneliness when I didn't have the time to go and sit by his bed and keep him company? He was such an outgoing cougar in his time, a far cry from what he was today, and while I still loved him for who he was, there was still that knowledge that some things were coming back.

If only he WOULD come back and make things a bit easier. I wondered idly whether he'd already come to the hospital and was now searching from the ICU. I could only wonder his reaction if he'd wander to my room and find it empty, or with another fur in there, and with no sign of me. I shuddered at the prospect of scaring Peter even further, and bit down my teeth as I let out a discontent huff.

I rubbed my chin with my tubed paw and yawned. I was still tired and felt restless in my state, with nothing to do on this bed but be alone with my thoughts. I wasn't being particularly entertaining either. The Inner Moanings of Rory Gliese were hardly going to rule over the Nielsens at the 28 to 28 year old gay lion target group. I was also starting to feel somewhat unpleasant with my furs that had not been washed since last morning, and who knows what I had gone through in the past 24 hours, and what kind of fluids had had the chance to spill all over my furs? I snorted at the thought and inhaled a lungful of hospital air. It stank of disinfectant and with a hint of something I didn't want to think about, considering that I'd heard the teenaged lion on the furthermost bed vomit into a plastic pail earlier on.

Fantastic.

The clock had the audacity to flip its hand all the way up to number 5 before the door to the room opened, and someone dressed up in surgical scrubs limped inside, tail flicking and swishing behind him.

"Peter!" I yelped, and got a twinge of pain in my leg from the surprised tension going through my body.

I bared my teeth in a hiss which Peter must've seen, for he was drowning even while he pulled down his surgical mask and stopped by my bed. A plastic bag was hanging from the handle of his crutch.

"Good morning to you too," he rumbled, looking me from the bandaged toe to the flicky eartip, before he pulled out the solitary plastic chair by the bed and sat himself down.

I looked at him hungrily, pleased by the presence of someone familiar, finally. He sat there and looked quite calm, with his paws folded over his lap, over that green cloth that made it look like he was wearing a very strange dress, but for once, I didn't mind. He looked tired, but then again, Peter always looked tired, and his eyes found mine effortlessly, or so my instinct told me, and it made me smile. He was here, I was here, and now that he was here, it was a little bit easier.

"You found me," I spoke, glad that I actually had some saliva production going on for once.

"Sure," Peter flicked a thoughtful ear at me. "I went to the ICU and they told me that you'd been taken to number 6, and I just took the elevator. You're looking much better now too, I think Rowreeh."

I nodded carefully.

"Yeah," I huffed. "Got out of the ICU. Lost my tubes, and they even gave me some breakfast. Well, it was oatmeal but..."

Peter snuffled.

"That's a start," he mused. "Next time they might even bring you thin soup and a piece of bread."

I frowned.

"Where's the real food?" I rumbled.

Peter lifted his plastic bag from the floor and gave it a pat.

"I brought crackers," he smiled, "and some low fat non-lactose chocolate, and I also brought Cosmopolitan, the Oprah magazine, National Geographic, Reader's Digest and Fur magazine. Apparently it has a really good article about Denzel Washington's ass."

He rustled the bulging bag a little. No wonder it looked so full, if he had packed it with such entertainment. I smiled.

"Wow, thanks," I felt almost sheepish at all this attention.

Peter smiled back and patted my arm, careful with my tubes, of course.

"I know how it can get," he rumbled, his ears flicking as he spoke. "How many others?"

The bear behind the curtain laughed and coughed.

"Two," I replied.

"Not so bad," Peter said. "Worst I ever had was six, including one with his brain turning into a mush because of liver malfunction."

I grimaced.

"Oh well," Peter's fingertips rubbed my bare arm. "All cripples here like you?"

"Yeah," I rumbled. "I think so. I suppose this is where they take all the cripples."

I wondered whether Victor counted as a cripple.

Peter chuckled.

"I haven't seen this part of the hospital before, I must say," the cougar mused. "More of the internal medicine floors."

I had a feeling that he didn't lament this earlier lack, or the fact that he wasn't at the internal medicine floor at the moment. I frowned a little as I watched him and wondered whether the soft smile was a genuine one, or something put up for my benefit. I sure as hell had fakesmiled all the way through last night with mom and dad and Justin.

"You ok?" I breathed.

Peter snuffled.

"I'm fine" he said. "Didn't sleep much, but that's not so unusual. It happens."

I frowned. That didn't sound good.

"And..." I started but then stopped, briefly, to make sure that I knew the right words to say, and not accidentally make him feel bad about himself, or anything else. "...otherwise as well."

Peter puffed out his cheeks with his huff. His tail made a sound as it tapped against the legs of the flimsy chair he was sitting on.

"I cried a bit, but then I slept the whole night without a hitch," he replied, not looking very happy with himself, or me, for that matter.

My ears dropped.

"I'm sorry," I didn't know what else to say.

Peter patted my arm and took a deep breath.

"There's no need for that," he said. "You know this is my place."

I breathed out deeply.

"I still wish we weren't here," I tried.

"So do I," Peter grunted. "But I'm simply too busy being glad that I'm here and not identifying your body at the morgue that I really can't be bothered to care."

I wasn't sure whether that was meant to try to make me feel better about his precarious state, or my own gloomy existence, but I didn't really know anything else to say about it. Peter was nothing if stubborn, and while that quality had helped him get through a lot of things, it also meant that trying to argue with him was always a wasted effort.

"How's the leg?" Peter seemed to be intent on changing the topic, too, and I decided not to push it.

I shrugged.

"Tied down, "I said. "Splinted, I guess. The doctor told me that they're going to see about getting me back to my paws after they adjust my meds."

Peter's eyes wandered between the oversized lump on the covers that was my immobilized leg and the now limited amount of medical equipment around my bed.

"Are you still on morphine?"

I reached out with my paw to grab a small plastic object from the bedside table, one that was connected to a box on the IV stand with a thick white cable. I presented that to Peter.

"Patient controlled pain medication," I stated, showing him the small push button device the nurse had taught me how to use only an hour earlier. "If I get too uncomfortable, I just hit this button and in goes the fentanyl."

Peter nodded quietly.

"Yeah, I've been hooked up to one of these things," he mused. "Any side effects?"

I rumbled.

"I'm really tired, but I guess that's just inevitable with that kind of drugs," I replied.

Peter scratched his arm with his gloved paw, and once again I wondered how the hell he could pull that particular stunt off. He had to have some strange connections with all of the hospital staff, I suspected. Maybe I'd ask him about it later.

"It made me packed up," Peter said. "Didn't crap for a week."

I snuffled. Typical Peter information.

"Oh really?" I quirked a brow.

"Really," Peter snorted.

"Looking forward to that then," I huffed at the ridiculousness of the whole situation.

Peter nodded quietly.

"Heard anything about Victor?" he said.

My fledging mood took an instant swing turn for the worse. I'd just been about to ask Peter whether he had heard something, perhaps ran into Cobb or something like that. Heck, maybe he could've even sweet talked the nurses into giving at least a small hint about what was going on with Victor. Judging by the question, this wasn't the case.

"Nope," I grunted. "Nothing. They tell nothing if you're not next of kin or immediate family."

Peter nodded.

"That's how it goes," he said.

I huffed.

"It's ridiculous," I snorted. "We were in that same accident together, shouldn't I be allowed to know how he's doing?"

"You're not next of kin," Peter replied, but at least he wasn't shrugging. "Guess that honor goes to Cobb."

Peter was right, of course. I didn't know what I was to Victor at the moment, if anything, anymore, after the incident. Shit! It made my skin crawl to think about it again. My life as of recent was an endless series of fuck-ups that had hurt a lot of good furs.

"Yeah," I huffed and tried to adjust my head to a more comfortable posture on the pillow.

"HAHAHAHAH!"

The bear behind the curtain laughed so loudly that it almost sounded like Cobb. The very same Dobie whose eyes would probably fill with bitter tears if he heard what a jerk his beloved brother's friend Rory had been behind Victor's back.

The mental image made my chest tighten. I snarled.

Peter looked alarmed, and caught my paw.

"Rory?" he said, looking at me carefully for any signs of distress. "Does it hurt anywhere?"

Where didn't it hurt?

"Everywhere," I hissed.

Peter's ears flattened.

"I'll call the nurse!"

I caught Peter's paw and squeezed his wrist, searching his eyes with my own.

"No," I hissed, quietly so that the bear wouldn't hear. "No."

"Rory?" Peter's voice was low, almost a snarl hissing between his bare teeth.

It couldn't get any worse, could it now?

I shook my head and squeezed my eyes closed, willing the uneasy feeling to pass.

"It's about Victor," I said.

I could hear Peter's breaths and felt his paws on my arm, and that was the extent of my connection to the cougar at the moment. Odd sparks of light floated through the darkness under my closed eyelids. The pain throbbed in my chest again.

"What is it?" I heard Peter's voice.

I couldn't bear to look at him. I didn't feel like I deserved his concern, not at this moment. Not for this reason.

"I screwed it up," I breathed.

A small silence.

"What do you mean?"

Oh, fuck.

I released a sharp breath.

"Rory?"

"I told him."

I still couldn't look at him, fearing those eyes.

"Told him what, Rory?"

There was no way back.

"About Colin," I hissed. "About the kiss."

I felt a change in the pressure of Peter's plastic-covered fingerpads on my arm, but they remained there, not moving away, as I could have feared they might do after hearing about my crime.

"Ok," I heard Peter speak.

That face...those eyes with only one emotion in them, staring at me across the car...probably moments...seconds, before the world almost ended for us in a flash of screeching tires and blinding pain.

I sighed, and kept my eyes closed still.

I swallowed.

"I told him that I kissed Colin," I repeated, and it sounded even worse. "I told him that I..."

"What did he say?" Peter's voice was a quiet one.

My eyes burned.

"Nothing," I grunted. "I...he didn't have the time to say anything before...before...God..."

That face...that screeching sound.

Peter's fingers squeezed my arm.

"Look at me, Rory."

I didn't want to look at him. I wanted to put the pillow over my head and be left alone to my own misery. I wanted to howl and and wail and complain and let it all out. If only I could.

"Rory."

Another squeeze.

I carefully opened my eyes. The light seemed oddly bright now, and made me squint. Peter's face was hard to read, as he looked down to me.

"Rory..."

I growled.

"What if..." I breathed, "what if..."

Peter bared his teeth.

"Don't go there," the cougar grunted. "Don't."

"But what if I..."

Peter hissed viciously, harsh enough that it rubbed my instincts the wrong way, and made my furs bristly. I bared my teeth too.

"Rory," Peter husked. "I talked to the cops, and you remember what we talked last night, and what the doctor told me at the ER. There was nothing you or Victor could have done to prevent the accident."

I wouldn't have it. The pain wanted to get out.

"If he'd been looking at the road or at the car, maybe he could have got us out of the way!" I snarled.

Peter shook his head and kept on squeezing my arm.

"That car so fast that there was nothing anyone could have done," he said. "There was nothing either of you could have done."

"But what if..."

"No," Peter growled warily. "It wasn't your fault."

"I told him," I breathed. "I told him that I did it."

"You did," Peter replied. "But it didn't cause the accident. It couldn't have caused it, not in any way."

Tears wet the corners of my eyes.

"I really..." I rumbled. "I really...really need to talk him...Peter..."

I sought his eyes. Peter's were serious, and mine were wet, and they met across the space between us...only a few feet, that felt such a rift. It felt harsh. My breaths were harsh and almost convulsive.

"I need to talk to him," I said. "I need to...apologize..."

Peter shook his head first, but then, he nodded, and let go of my paw. He put down his gift bag and grabbed the aluminum crutch from its place leaning on the bedside table. He looked down at me with impassive eyes.

"I'll do my best," he said. "You try to rest, Rory, please."

I nodded and bit my teeth together to prevent any louder sounds from escaping from my tortured throat. Peter gave me one more look and then disappeared through the door.

"HAHAHAHAH!"

The bear kept on laughing, and I wondered whether they could ever figure out that it was I using a pillow to smother his face until he was no longer laughing. Not much relief was had in that thought, anyway, considering that by all means, I was unable to get out of the bed, and had been told not to try it, either. Fuck!

I squeezed my good paw into a fist and was careful not to try the same with my splinted one, too, and bat that newly made first against the mattress of the bed. I tried doing the same with my tail, and did manage a couple of bounces against the metallic footboard of the bed. I blinked the tears away from my eyes and stared at the acoustic tiles at the ceiling. They were an ugly shade of gray, and for a moment I hoped that my mind could be like one of those tiles, gray, without color, and most of all, without pain. I was feeling a lot of pain, and it was of my own doing, and it was my fault. I might've been deserving of this pain, based on the amount of pain I had inflicted upon others, but that didn't mean I wanted it. It hurt under my skin, in my chest and in my throat, an it made my eyes burn. I was breathing harshly through my muzzle, and made my whiskers bob up and down with the flow of air. I wanted to pace and scratch myself all over, and I wanted to shout, and curse, and most of all, I just wanted to tell Victor that I was fucking sorry.

I wallowed in my pity for who knows how long, until the door opened. It was Peter again, walking with his crutch, and wearing the surgical mask over his muzzle. I only saw a flash of his eyes as he stepped close to the bed.

"Here, hold this," he said, and showed the crutch towards me.

I caught the walking stick into my paw and watched how Peter moved to the head of the and fiddled with something on its base.

"What is this?" I asked.

Peter stood up and looked at the bank of medical equipment by my bed. Then he proceeded to grab the hanging plastic bag from its hook and placed that over my chest. I almost jumped, alarmed by his sudden behavior.

"Hey!"

"Hush, we don't want the others to notice," the cougar rumbled.

He walked over to the foot end and then again leaned down to do something that caused metallic clicks to course into my ears.

"Peter?" I snuffled, my voice rough from the silent crying I'd been doing.

"Go to sleep," the cougar rumbled once I saw his head pop up again, and his eyes peer at me between my footpaws.

I frowned.

"Peter..."

Peter stood up to his full height and grabbed the shiny steel bar on the end of the bed. I suddenly understood what he had in mind, and my eyes widened.

"Peter!"

"Sleep," he said.

I had no idea what he was planning, but I decided to obey, and closed my eyes. I'd barely had the time to do that before I felt the whole bed move on its wheels.

Oh, shit...

I heard the sound of the door opening, and I felt the rush of air over my face when the bed moved, propelled by Peter, apparently, and going backwards, too, since he was still pulling it from the foot end. I could hear a phone ringing somewhere at the distance, and judging by the echo, Peter had now taken us to the corridor. The bed moved sideways now.

"What is this?" I hissed from the corner of my muzzle while I still kept my eyes closed obediently.

I heard the sound of pawsteps, and suddenly felt a rush of breath against my forehead.

"I'm taking you to him, just don't move, you're supposed to be unconscious," the cougar hissed, his voice quieting while he moved to stand upright and push the bed along the corridor.

My heart jolted.

"What?" I husked, reminding myself to stay still and keep my good paw around the IV bag, so that I wouldn't end up splattering it all over the corridor.

"I walked around the ward and peeked into each room until I saw one with Victor in it," the cougar rumbled, sounding just a little breathless from the effort of pushing my bed as if it was an extra big shopping cart and nothing more.

I cracked one of my eyelids to catch the sight of Peter's chin, covered by the white surgical mask.

"You did what?" I hissed.

"Don't worry," he didn't look down as he spoke. "I pretended to be a doctor checking that everything was alright."

I snorted.

"You're going to jail if they catch you posing as a doctor!" I mumbled, with my eyes closed.

"Only to the patients, not the other staff," the cougar's voice echoed into my ears.

Oh, God...

I couldn't really say just how far Peter did haul me on my bed on wheels, but I did feel our speed slow down after a moment. I dared to open my right eye just a little to see what was going on, and I realized that Peter had stopped us by a door.

"Oh, crap..."I rumbled.

Peter pushed the door open with one paw and then began to reverse us into the room. My heart began to race. Oh my good grief...what was I going to say...what would...what would Victor say...how would he be...

I opened my eyes as the bed slid through the doorway into the room, and tired my best to turn my upper body a little, so that I could actually see what was going on.

"PETER?"

There was no mistaking the voice that filled the whole room, and my ears.

"Got a very special patient here!" Peter replied behind me.

I tried to turn some more, to see where we were headed, but then the bed came to a half, and I realized that I had arrived to my destination.

Cobb stood there, tall, massive, and wearing the same clothes I had last seen him, by a chair, that stood by a big hospital bed, upon which his brother lay. He was covered by a blue blanket, he had tubes going up to his nose, he had a set of IV bags hanging off the stand by his bed, and unlike me, he was still hooked up to the heart monitor, showing the zigzag of Victor's heartbeat on that display unit currently almost hidden from the view by his brother's sheer bulk. His head was covered in bandages and some weird net-like covering that made his brown furs oddly patterned even in the places that didn't have thick white gauze over it.

"OH MY GOD RORY!" Cobb explained as soon as he realized just who was lying on the bed. "YOU OKAY?"

He tumbled towards the bed.

"LOOK VICTOR IT'S RORY!"

I looked, and Victor looked back at me, with bright, sharp eyes.

Too sharp.

Victor coughed.

*