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Hello, everyone!

While Hockey Hunk still has eluded me for the weekend, I decided to brush off the dust on an old piece I had in store, and refurbished it into a workable tale. There's been some call for a story like the one I'm presenting here, so I do hope to raise some questions, answer a few earlier ones, and continue telling my story. This is a tie-in to Hockey Hunk, so I hope it will give everyone a due fix, it sure gave one for me : )

As always, your comments are very welcome. All feedback helps me to get along, and don't forget that all votes, faves and watches will help others to find these stories to enjoy as well.

Please enjoy y'all, and a cheers to everyone!

*

As soon as the German Shepherd in the traditional white coat stepped into the room, Peter knew that his diagnosis had been confirmed.

"Good morning, Mr. Sinclair" the canine greeted as he walked over to the foot of the bed.

"Doctor Bellick," Peter, secured to the bed with tubes running onto both of his arms, scowled at the canine's presence.

"And how are we doing now?" the doctor grabbed the chart from its slot on the end of the bed and gave it a cursory glance.

"A little bit better now, I guess," Peter snorted. "I've got this stuff here and not feeling too bad. It doesn't hurt so much."

"That's the pain relief working ,good," the doctor put the chart down and squirted some ugly-smelling paw wash onto his palms. "And according to your chart, your fever hasn't gotten worse."

"Do you already know what it is?" Peter interjected.

The doctor's ears flicked, briefly, as he watched the bedbound patient.

"Your creatinine, urea, protein and albumin are within the limits of your kidney function and your dialysis regime, but the culture from your port did test positive for staphylococcus aureus," the doctor rumbled.

Peter snorted.

"Shit."

The doctor's ears flicked again.

"However, the strain is benign and we can start you immediately on high-dose IV oxacillin to flush it out. But you will have to stay in the hospital for several days for the treatment."

"I got as much," Peter grunted. "How about my dialysis?"

"We have to set it up with the Shepherd Center, but since you have an active infection, you cannot go to the outpatient unit as of present. We'll arrange a machine brought up to you to internal medicine once you are transferred there."

"I see."

The canine doctor gave a brief smile.

"We'll take good care of you, Mr. Sinclair, you have nothing to worry about. You will be fine in a few days' time, and we'll sort you out good."

Peter snuffled and let his head collapse onto the pillow.

"Thank you, doctor," he coughed.

It seemed to take an awfully long before the orderlies took Peter's bed to the elevator and then through the dull, white corridors lined with doors, down a badly lit hallway that stank of hospital. The room where his journey ended was like most of the similar rooms Peter had known during the past years of illness. The grey ceiling, spotlessly white walls and the plastic, green floor were complimented by curtains that hung like shrouds, separating the three beds to give a semblance of privacy to their occupants. The light coming out of the single window was as welcoming as the sight of the brick wall on the opposite side of the hospital complex.

The medical orderly was a burly, ripped Doberman wearing loose scrubs, a fact Peter might have appreciated in other kind of mindset, when he wasn't feverish ,or fearing for his life because of a bug having a grand old time inside his belly. There was little pain now that the drugs had kicked in, but the fact that he had been wheeled in on a gurney and then lifted straight off the bed by a burly Doberman and deposed to a hospital bed and then tucked in was more than enough to set the mood into a gloomy constant. At least the room seemed empty, which was fine for him. Peter preferred his peace, and maybe he might even be able to get some sleep when there weren't others in the room, always calling for the nurse or hallucinating or something. He had not really slept a wink down in the ER observation room.

The Doberman fussed around with his pillow and his blanket and his IV bags, for a moment, before he then pointed at the few buttons on the side of the small night table.

"The call button is here if you need it, and the nurse will soon come to set up your IV," the Dobie explained with a cursory demonstrative wave, indicating the night table and the stainless steel IV stand.

"Alright, thanks," Peter snorted.

The Dobie chuffed and was off without another verbal reply, leaving the cougar to fend for himself. Peter grunted to himself, tugged on his covers and tried to put his tail into a comfortable position, something that was difficult while he was wearing the ill-fitting hospital gown. It was still very early in the day, around 10 in the morning or so, he found out from the wall clock, which meant that it was still all too early to call Rory and ask him to bring some clothes and objects of amusement to the stricken cougar. He had told the lion that he had to stay in the hospital for a while, likely, but Rory had to work from early morning on at the newspaper, and Peter really didn't want to be any more of a burden. He could keep busy until that, maybe ask the nurse to bring a newspaper or turn the television on...but he could not see a TV remote anywhere within a paw's reach.

"Shit..."

The telltale sound of a toilet being flushed told Peter that there was someone else in the room after all, a moment before the bathroom door flew open and a thin, young coyote emerged. The boy was wearing a white hospital gown and leaned heavily against his IV stand on wheels as he walked, with short steps, over to the bed next to Peter's and flopped down.

Peter cursed the curtains for being undrawn, but decided to try politeness for once, even if he felt so damn tired and feverish. Being sick wasn't an excuse for being a prick, after all, or so Peter liked to think. Sometimes being a prick could offer distraction from contemplating the imminent possibility of death, though, but not being a prick could have the same effect, under the optimal circumstances.

"Good morning," Peter tried.

The coyote, now lying down on the bed, tugged on some tubing from the little shelf above the bed and Peter watched how he pushed some tubes into his nostrils and then operated a switch on the wall, one of those that Peter had never touched himself. A sharp hiss told him an oxygen valve had been opened.

Peter frowned a little.

"You sure you're allowed to touch those?" Peter spoke, wondering whether patients really were allowed to operate medical equipment on their own like that.

The guy did look pretty young, too, after all.

The coyote turned his head at the speaking cougar and flicked a last ear.

"I'm not gonna ask Harry to come over just to switch on my oxygen when I know that he's busy changing some diapers or something," the coyote drawled in a raspy voice. "Besides, I've done it a thousand times."

Peter gave a short nod, but wasn't completely convinced.

"Well, okay," he said, his own head slumping on his pillow.

They both lay quiet for a little while, before the coyote spoke again, suddenly, not looking over to Peter, but as seen by the cougar, he was staring up to the unimaginative ceiling.

"So, what're you in for then, huh?"

"Huh?" peter's ears perked, curiously.

The coyote chuckled briefly, roughly.

"Come on, you know these things," the coyote said. "What's your diagnosis and prognosis? What're you in for? Come on, it's like the prison. First you tell what you're in for, and then you tell how many years you've been sentenced to suffer. You stink, by the way."

Peter's brow knit at the sudden, not so polite burst coming from the young male on the next bed, but he decided that getting into an argument or a fight while running a high fever and having a real risk of septic shock was not something he really wanted to do.

Peter snuffled before he spoke.

"I've got something called peritonitis, do you what that is?" Peter replied, trying not to sound patronizing.

The coyote clicked his tongue.

"That's the inside of your belly, right, and I guess yours is inflamed."

"Year," Peter snuffled. "It's gone nasty because I've got a catheter in there."

The coyote's ears flicked, but his eyes remained fixed on the ceiling.

"Is it for chemo, or dialysis, maybe?"

"Yeah, dialysis," Pete replied, not feeling that the truth should be put in any more decorative terms. "My kidneys are pretty trashed."

"That's a bit shitty."

"Yeah," Peter rubbed his face, tiredly.

"What're they going to do about your belly?"

"Antibiotics. I'll be on oxo-something."

"Think they know what they're doing with you?"

"I guess," Peter snuffled.

"Do you have to come to the hospital often?"

Now wasn't this such a talkative canine...

"I come for regular checkups," Peter snorted, "but this is the second time in two years that I've gotten an infection in my stomach from the catheter."

"Have you been on dialysis for two years?"

"Two and a half now," Peter snorted. "Since 2003 or so."

There was a strange, quiet pause, before the coyote spoke again.

"Guess you're lucky then."

"How?" Peter scowled at the outrageous statement.

"You've only been sick for two years," the coyote's tail flicked against the side of the bed as he spoke.

"And how about you then?" Peter asked hazily.

The coyote chuckled hollowly.

"Well, I guess, if I'm frank, there never was a time when I wasn't sick...so, sorry, can't really compare."

Peter frowned.

"So what are you in for?"

"A sex change operation."

Peter's eyes widened, and he lifted his head and turned off to the side, a little, to better look at the coyote. The young male looked over to him, across the space between their beds, and chuckled, and showed his tongue, between his lips.

"Heheh," the bastardly canine smirked.

Peter snorted, batting the side of the bed with his heavy tail.

"Very funny."

The coyote coughed a little and lifted his fisted paw to cover his muzzle, as he coughed a few more times.

"I'm in for tests," the coyote continued once he was calmed down. "They're pretty much checking how sick I am and whether they have to start considering putting me on the UNOS list. I guess you're already on that?"

Peter gave a quick nod.

"For a year now, " he replied, quickly.

"Any luck yet?"

"A rare blood type or something," Peter snuffled absently. "Might take a while yet."

The coyote chuckled.

"Well, at least you are in the UNOS club now, you can start hoping for lots of rain and bad weather."

"What?" it really didn't make much sense to him.

The coyote chuckled annoyingly.

"Well, you know, slippery roads, tough, leather-clad cougars on motorbikes, flipping over in a bend and getting their head smashed while preserving a nice pair of kidneys just waiting to be picked up.

Peter couldn't help but chuckle in reply, although it sounded more like a bark. He shook his head.

"That's just awful!"

"It's the truth," the coyote replied.

Peter shook his head again, but he was still smiling.

"So, which part of a motorbike-loving coyote you'd be keen on having?"

"The ultimate, of course," the boy snorted. "The heart. My own's fucked up."

Peter sighed.

"I see."

"Yep."

Peter wasn't so sure whether the coyote was up to talking any more about it, but then again, it was very early, there was nothing to do, the coyote might have the TV remote hidden somewhere, and he was really left to his own devices, he was in pain, and a bit thirsty, and there really was nothing else to do.

"Nothing else they can do for your heart besides trying to find a new one? Any surgeries they could try?"

The coyote shrugged.

"It never was a really good heart, you know."

"How come?"

"Ever heard of something called the Tetralogy of Fallot?"

The strange words rolled off the coyote's tongue with all-too practiced easy, prompting a brief frown and an ear flick from Peter.

"I can't say I have, at least not properly," Peter replied, truthfully.

"It's when a cub is born with a heart in a total mess. Blood vessels connect to the wrong places and blood flows through holes in the heart and it's all mixed up and going backwards and whatever, but it fucks it all up," the coyote detailed. " You just faint and wheeze and turn blue-lipped, and that's how I was like when I was a baby."

"Ugh," Peter's not too grand mood took another little drop at the description.

"They tried to fix it a couple of times when I was a kid and it worked pretty well for a few years but after four open heart surgeries it's caught me up again," the coyote said. "Now I've got this...what do they call..."

The coyote rubbed the side of his head.

"...yeah, constrictive cardiomyopathy, because my heart's scarred or something after all the surgeries, and it's not pumping blood too well anymore. That pretty much means that I've got congestive heart failure and that means that either I'll get a new heart or die a really horrible and slow death because my heart isn't just good enough..."

He coughed a few times, seemingly breathless after his long tirade, and lay still for a long time, breathing deeply through his nose to catch more of the healing oxygen from his tubes.

Peter frowned and wondered whether he should call the nurse, but the young male seemed to be alright after a few more moments, since he turned his head again, to look over to Peter, curiously.

"So that's the story of my life. I'm George, by the way. Sorry I don't shake your paw."

"I'm Peter," Peter smiled a little. "Hello."

"Hello, inmate Peter. Not so nice to meet you."

Peter chuckled.

"You always refer to the hospital with prison terms?"

"Why not?" George grunted. "The only thing it's missing are the bars from the windows, and they have those on the psych ward."

Peter snuffled.

"You're not too wrong on that I guess."

George began to get up to sit on the edge of his bed again, sparking a certain amount of concern in Peter. The coyote might have been talkative, but he didn't seem very healthy, and he did confess to having heart problems...

"Are you alright?" Peter's bleary eyes followed the coyote, as he grabbed onto the stainless steel beam of the IV stand.

"Yeah," George's tall ears flicked. "I just need to take a piss. Lasix makes me need to go all the time."

"Oh, okay."

The coyote wagged his tail a little and struck a little pose, tipping his head down as he looked over at Peter.

"Yeah, I'd love to say something cool like, 'oh, I'm going to go and have a smoke', but no, it's more like, 'oh, I'm going to go and have a fucking huge piss, and I'll have one in half an hour again', so yeah," he snuffled, leaning heavily on his IV stand.

"Smoking isn't too cool you know," Peter snuffled.

The coyote winked.

"I couldn't even buy any, I'm seventeen, lol."

He turned around and made his slow way over to the bathroom again.

*

The phone went off a couple of times before the familiar voice answered.

"General Interest, copywriting department, Rory Gliese speaking, good morning."

"Hi, Rowreeh!"

"Oh, Peter, hi! How're you doing? I didn't recognize the number."

"I've been taken to internal medicine, I'm on a hospital phone" Peter snuffled into the mawpiece.

"Is it like you thought it was? Was there infection?"

"Yeah, it's got staph," Peter replied.

"That's crap, I'm so sorry about it."

"I know," Peter snuffled.

"Are you getting drugs for it?"

"Yeah, but I have to stay in for a while."

"Damn."

"I know, but at least they'll flush it out, I hope. Sorry I spoiled your lunch hour with my puss-filled belly, Rory. Thought you wanted to know as soon as possible."

"You know you could have called as soon as you could, I wouldn't have minded."

Peter smiled softly.

"I didn't want to bother you before it was necessary."

"You know I was worried about you. Graham kept telling me that I should just come over but...well, you know."

"Yeah," Peter rubbed his chest, idly, as he held the phone up to his ear, resting his head against his pillow.

"Do you want me to come over in the afternoon? Is there anything you need? I can go by your place and get you anything you want."

"Well...uhh...maybe...I've got some books on my nightstand, I might like those, and there's a couple more in the kitchen, next to the...the....well, you know where I keep my drugs and spare tubes and stuff, right?"

"Yeah, I know."

"There're some books in the basket I haven't read yet, so maybe you could bring those, and...lemme think..."

"How about the woolen socks? Notebooks? Toothbrush? Furbrush?"

Peter chuckled.

"You think of everything practical, Rory, what could I do without you?"

Rory snuffled.

"You'd have a really bad-smelling breath and look like shit."

"I already look shit," Peter snorted as he scratched his itchy side. "Though I look slimmer than in years, since I don't have the stuff sloshing around my belly. No more pregnant male look for a couple of weeks."

"That's terrible!"

"I know," Peter chuckled.

Rory chuckled too.

"But I'll try to get out of work a little bit early so that I can come by before the visiting hours are over," the lion continued on the other end of the line. "Any food I can come over? Any snacks allowed?"

"Something low on sugar and low on protein and low everything would be nice," Peter snuffled.

"I'll see what they have in the low-on-everything shelf at the supermarket. Anything else you need?"

"I'd just really like to see you ," Peter spoke, softly.

"I want to see you too, Peter, to make sure you're alright."

"Thank you, Rory."

"No, thank you, Peter. I'll be around as soon as I can, okay?"

"You needn't do that if you can't make it, Rowreeh, don't worry about it," Peter said, tiredness creeping into his voice, from the fever, and the effort of sounding all brave.

"I want to do it."

"Alright. Thank you, Rory."

"See you in the afternoon, Peter, you okay until that?"

"Of course I will be alright, I'm taken care of here."

"Just checking."

"I know."

"Well...see you, Peter."

"See you, Rowreeh. Bye."

"Bye!"

Peter closed the phone and sighed, deeply, and snorted.

"Who was that?"

Then there was the question of the boy, sharing his room and all too keen to chat with the cougar, it seemed.

Peter turned his head a little to be at the line of sight with the coyote.

"Just my friend, I wanted to tell him how I was doing. He was a bit worried about me being in the hospital. He's going to visit today."

"Woo," the coyote snorted. "Can we share?"

"Huh?" Peter frowned.

The coyote gave him a look.

"Well it's not like anyone remembers me back in my school, so nobody ever visits anymore," the coyote's tall ears flopped. "I was asking if I can pretend that he's visiting me too."

Peter felt a pang of compassion in his strained heart.

"Rory's a really friendly guy," he managed after an uncomfortable pause. "I'm sure he won't mind if you talk to him."

"Yay...."

*

Here we go! Did it leave you curious for more? Did it come to the level expected? Did it leave even more questions open? Drop a comment, and I'll see what I can do. *chuckle*

Thank you for reading, and a cheerio to you!