A/N: Written for day seven of the rarepair week. I picked the theme "Pretend I didn't just say that" for this one.

The first night is not so bad, not really. He's still high on adrenaline; his heart is still beating madly. He can taste death in his mouth, still; it keeps coming up, despite himself, coming out in bursting coughs, staining the white sheets… but he really can't let that stop him. He thinks about that iron taste in a positive way: it's something good, something nostalgic, something that will fuel him, and make him better, so he can go back out and complete his job.

His job… that's what he has to do; it's what he was let out for; it's his mission, his responsibility.

He can't go out like this.

The night is more bad than Kimblee wants to admit.

Pathetic… useless… good-for-nothing… do you know how to do anything right?

It's irrational, oh, so irrational, but he can't stop the voice from saying what it will.

Pain will occasionally flare through him, without warning, and he tries to think of it in a good way; he tries to enjoy it, but he's only deceiving himself; the rhythm of it all, which becomes more evident with every pang, is the footfall of Death, coming closer, ready to drag him down to Sheol...

What if he doesn't make it?

It's too soon to say; tomorrow night, he'll know for certain.

The wind blows in through the window, ruffling his hair, but it's warmer than he would expect from the North; it combs through it, quite gently, teasing through the tangled strands with clumsy care; it whispers quiet, unintelligible words, and the pain starts to dull, ever so slightly.

In all probability, he could actually sleep now…

The second night, it's less thrilling, and Kimblee's hanging on by a thread.

He'd faded in and out of consciousness the entire day, and now he's somewhere in between in and out, standing in the doorway of clarity; to the point that he can hear and vaguely understand the arguments that the nurses are having, about how nobody has his blood type and there's no available donors, and that he might not make it through the night.

He hates to think that they might actually pity him. To be pitiable is the worst offence.

The stabs of pain are gone; or, rather, they're continuous; it's as if there's just a steady burning. It's infection, a trait that people used to attribute to him, how he'd spread his disease wherever he went.

The wind blows across him again, this time cool against his burning cheek (but he needs to stop deceiving himself now; it's obviously not the wind, not this time; it's somebody, and he's too weak to see it).

"What's wrong with you? What's taking so long?" The slender fingers stroke at his cheek all the more gently, despite the harsh tone of voice that he hears from the end of the tunnel. "I never thought you'd be so useless. You're a disappointment, that's what. Disposable wretch. I should have gotten rid of you long ago."

Such harsh words.

It's exactly what he's always striven for- to never hear these words.

"You're useless," says the whisper, and lips that are somehow warmer than his fevered face press hastily against his temple.

And then he's alone again; alone and useless.

"The doctor's coming, okay?"

It's the third night, and Kimblee thinks that things are improving. At least, he's able to focus on what people are saying. He's not going to die; he's sure of that.

"It… just took some convincing Father," mutters the sylph perched on the edge of the bed. "'Cause he didn't really think that you were worth it. But… you're not completely useless. Not entirely. But you're still foolish, and pathetic, and weak, and if you do this again…" A chuckle. "Well, I don't know. I can't get you out of every scrape you get into, I hope you realize."

Kimblee doesn't say anything; there's nothing to say. He'd like to argue, he'd like to protest, to say that he's not useless in the least, that he is an asset to the cause, but there's no way that he can protest such a thing; it's obvious that he is human, far too human to be of any use at all.

He doesn't have the strength, in any case.

Envy (yes, it's Envy, his greatest fear and deepest fascination) goes silent, and all that he can hear is his heart beating in his ears, and the sound of Envy's rapid breathing, in and out. Finally, he feels them slip off of the edge of the bed, crawling along the floor beside him, leaning up, and whispering into his ear. "Kimblee? Are you awake?"

It's funny; he is awake, but he doesn't feel like he is; it feels like a dream.

"I should have known better," they mutter. "They're all the same. Every single one. They're all the same. I was a fool to think that you were any better than that."

He could be useful to them; he knows that he could be useful, but unlike these immortals, Kimblee has no room for mistakes. That's what hurts most of all; that shocking, tearing blow to his fragile pride. He's more of a liability than anything else, isn't he?

"Just hold on 'till tomorrow, 'kay?" Envy whispers. "Our doctor's coming, and he's got a stone; you'll be back on your feet in no time. I've gone through an awful lot of trouble for you, so you'd better be grateful, useless. I wouldn't do this for anyone else, so-" They stop dead, and Kimblee hears their breaths speed up, shakier than before. "I… I hate you. F… forget that I said anything. I… I've got things… things to do…"

Their feet slap clumsily against the floor; he can hear every step as Envy flees. And then he's alone again.

Alone and useless.

But not forgotten.

A/N:Distant Glory wrote a meeting between Kimblee and Envy at the hospital, named "Visiting Hours;" it's the story that got me into this ship, so I'd highly recommend it! Of course, after reading that, I had to do my own take on hospital!Kimvy. I had a lot of fun writing this one- it's probably my favourite out of all of the things I wrote for this week. It's fun playing around with an unreliable narrator.

Kimvy is, out of all of the Envy ships, and probably the Kimblee ones as well (I think) one of the most equal in terms of power; in fact, that's one of the reasons why I originally considered the ship. Kimblee's a talented alchemist, Envy's an immortal artificial human; they're both nasty, sadistic, evil people who can have evil fun together. But, as I worked on developing their relationship over these last several months, I realized that it's far from equal. Kimblee is still a human, and Envy hates humans- their failings are so easily apparent, as compared to a homunculus who can heal instantly, for example... Envy's instant reaction (to anybody, not just to Kimblee) is to belittle and to mock, in order to boost their own easily-bruised ego. There is still a long way to go before Kimvy resembles any kind of "healthy" relationship, I think- it will never happen in canon. The only point that it could have happened would be just before Envy died, when they realized that humans are useful, and precious, in their own ways.

...now I've made myself sad. But they're still a wonderfully fun relationship to explore, and maybe, in some 64K-AU in the far far future, I'll manage to make them take some steps towards equality...

Thank you so much for reading!