There was a beeping, an annoying beeping sound. It reminded me of the color red; I don't know why. Twitching my limbs, I felt the constriction of sheets, stiff sheets. The kind that makes you feel like you have to make an extra effort to cover or uncover yourself. I shifted, then tensed and hissed under my breath. My hand felt numb as ice and my face felt pierced with a thousand thorns. I struggled to raise my eye lids and then realized where I was: the LA hospital, the last place I wanted to be right now. I had way more important matters to attend than lie here and nurse petty battle scars, although I can't deny I missed having all ten fingers.

With eyes scanning my private room, I sat up in bed, which wasn't all that much higher since the bed was propped up already. I paused when my eyes pointed at a figure almost as bloodied up in the face as I was, with hair matted, and looking exhausted. He must've caught me moving because he straightened up in his chair and combed his hair down pretty quickly.

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

"Besides the fact my colleague put the world in front of me, just to keep some bloody information that's hardly important, to himself and, in the process, have my finger chopped off by a guy who thinks it's cool to be called Floso, absolutely fantastic."

He stepped from the chair to my bedside, looking down at me with apologetic eyes.
"I'm sorry, Simon. I just did what was best for everyone. I...didn't mean for you to get hurt." His glance sunk from me to the tiled floor.

"Whatever, Lloyd," I replied. I didn't much care for Lloyd's sympathy or guilt trip; neither would better our predicament and the latter just made me sick.

Holding out his hand he stated, "Let me have a look at it."

"There's nothing to see. The doctor patched me up fine, or are you striving for a degree in nursing?"

I smiled seeing Lloyd becoming worked up with his face creasing around his eyes and forehead.

"Just give it here." He proceeded to pull my sheets down in search of my bandaged hand but I stopped his venture with my other one by grabbing his wrist.

I didn't speak, only stared hard and long, to illustrate my point: I didn't need to be bothered with or fussed over, especially not from the person guilty of landing me in this mess to begin with.

His hand retreated back to his side.

"I'm truly sorry. I didn't mean for any of this." He gestured the room with his head.

Lloyd parted his lips to continue when my apparent doctor, Olivia Benford, strolled in clutching a clip board. Despite knowing who we both were outside of the hospital, I could tell she didn't want to breathe outside the doctor/patient atmosphere so I went along with it, as did Lloyd.

After jotting some notes, she marched to where Lloyd stood, nudging him over as if he was a mere house cat, and swung back my covers in one foul swoop. She lifted my injured hand, ignoring my cries of pain, and inspected it.

"Uhh—"

"Sh-sh-sh," my doctor hushed Lloyd just before releasing my hand and moving to my face.

I winced under her diligent fingertips that prodded at my injuries.

"Keep still," she ordered.

"Would you like to switch places? Ow!"

She answered my question by pressing her latex gloved hand hard against a bruise on the side of my cheek. Turning her back against me to face Lloyd, she said, "He'll be ready to leave in the morning. Are you staying here?"

I butted in, "The morning? And, no, he's—" but Lloyd jerked his head in a nod that was all too curt.

"Then make sure he rests, especially his hand. He's lost a good amount of blood and his body needs time to regenerate. The nurse will be in from time to time to check up on him. Feel free to ask her any questions. Have a nice day, gentlemen." She turned on her heels and made a B-line out the door, then out of sight.

Lloyd watched her leave, longingly, but quickly shook any ideas he had from his inventive mind. Lloyd's feelings for Olivia were becoming more apparent by the day. I could see it stressed him but he wasn't doing anything to help his situation either. With a sigh, he pulled his chair to the bedside and sat down.

"You let her get away." I smirked.

"Leave it."

I shrugged and nestled into my covers, closing my eyes. It wasn't until now that I realized how tired I was and slowly I began drifting from the world. A warm touch on my sheltered, battered up hand brought me back to reality, and then a whisper:

"I'm sorry."

Looking at Lloyd was like looking at a sorry puppy. His intelligible eyes were on the edge of tears. He splintered my barrier against his emotions and it collapsed; I felt his pain, his anguish, his suffering. I wanted to reach out to him and tell him it was okay, tell him he was still the closest friend I'd ever had, but I couldn't. I was the proud, egotistical, stubborn, genius, physicist called Dr. Simon Campos, PhD. And that part of me always dominated such thoughts of passion.

"I know, Lloyd. Just...forget it, all right?" I attempted a reassuring half-smile and kept my hand under his.

Lloyd returned the smile and wiped his eyes. I think sometimes he can read me better than he lets on.

He looked at our hands, his atop mine, and asked, "May I?"

I rolled my eyes but nodded. He proceeded by gently pulling my sheet back and lifted my sore hand into his. Blood had seeped through the bandages, making Lloyd flinch inwardly. Like my hand was made of glass, he inspected it with the lightest touch. Every so often he'd ask me if something hurt and I'd shake my head 'no.' I had to tell him this little white lie. He was too worried as it were, plus he needed the satisfaction and reassurance that he was doing his part in making sure I was healing.

Lloyd was one of the few people I trusted in the world. He was always there for me, despite how abusive I was to him. He cared about me when no one else did. We understood one another in a way that could never be translated to another human being. We shared a bond.

Please review if you enjoyed. It helps me to write more :)