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To say your first date was in the Intensive Care Unit isn't entirely accurate. Not from a standard point of view. But, all the same, it kind of was. After all, that's when you fell head over heels in love, whether he knew it or not, and you'll stick to the damn story. It sounds a lot better than what he thinks your first date was, a horror movie you wound up leaving halfway through because it sucked so badly you swore the director was subconsciously giving you a horrible blow job, and wound up theater hopping through four other movies you'd both seen to death before even meeting.
His name was Dave Strider, and he was working the emergency room the night you came in with one hell of a concussion and a leg so badly broken you were terrified it would get removed. Both were courtesy of a douchebag in a tricked out jeep running a red light, then swerving drunkenly to play 'tag the pedestrians'. You knew how lucky you were to get off with just a concussion and a leg that looks like it was made mostly with broken bits of spaghetti noodles. The blanket below your waist was crooked and you were too afraid to peek underneath it.
“Hey, your dad said he'd get here in a few hours. Was gonna get together some things for ya and get your insurance company on the line to see what you're covered for and what you'd need for court,” a voice said over the blur of machines and panic. Soothing. Warm and mellow, with a twang you couldn't quite place. “You ARE goin' to court, right?”
Between pain and confusion, half from injury and half from the fading dose of low grade painkiller they'd given you upon arrival so you'd be able to speak and not fall asleep from the effects and risk coma from the concussion, the voice made no sense. You squawked a “Huh?” and squinted, wishing you even had the broken remnants of your glasses on your face. Fragmented vision was better than none at all.
Yet, the voice was gone already with a swish of a curtain. After tests, blood work, x-rays and a thorough scanning, the c-collar was removed and you were allowed to sit upright with praise. No bleeding in the brain or internally, no broken pelvis or neck or back, and aside from a hell of a lot of bruises, scratches and the slinky of a leg? Things were looking up. Just a lot of prospects for physical therapy, whether the leg would ever be the same or not. You were just thankful to be alive.
Dad came and left after visiting hours were over and you made your way from Emergency to Intensive Care Unit. You needed supervision for the concussion, and monitoring of the left leg to be sure the blood was still properly circulating down to the toes. Surgery was scheduled for a few days in the future since there was no major bleeding, wanting him more stable and recovered before planning where to put the metal rod and screws. You wondered, occasionally, how many sets of tinker toys it would take to make a current model of what your leg looked like. The sheet was still in place, and you'd refused to so much as peek when the nurses moved you into the fresh bed.
Looking would make it real. So. Yes. No looking. Nope. No thanks.
The thing you WANTED to look at, you couldn't. No magazines. No television. Your Dad didn't know to grab your mp3 player, and the laptop would be useless. What he brought were a few novels, but.. without glasses, looking at them that closely was just asking for a migraine from the special section of Hell reserved for people who eat the last ice pop from the freezer in too big of a hurry.
Squinting or straining, trying to see in any way beyond the blur you were left with until your father could call in a spare set of glasses for you when the optometrist confirms nothing has changed since the dance with the car, was just asking for trouble. Which was why you were left guessing when the mellow voice from before came into your room in the evening.
“Not interested in the local cardboard, huh?”
It was a man, you could tell this for certain now. It looked like he was either wearing scrubs, or horribly bright, clashing clothes. You could only pray it was scrubs. There seemed to be blonde hair up top, too, very pale. Almost white.. Or maybe it was just the overhead lighting.
“The what?”
“The food. Well. What they call food. Or are you on a tube...? I didn't see that on your chart or anything,” he drawled, stepping even closer. There was indeed a rainbow of colors speckling his sides, his hips, all set against black so they'd pop even more. They looked neon, and thanks to the morphine running into your veins and the shit vision, like they were dancing.
“Oh. Yeah, I'm.. I'm not really interested in that. You know? It tastes really bland, and I can't see what I'm eating. I don't think I'd want to see it, actually.”
“You a vegetarian?”
“No?”
“Diet things?”
“Aside from peanuts, no, nothing here.”
“Mm. Alright then. Hang tight, alright? Try not to conk out on me, John.”
“How did yo-”
“Chart. I'm capable of reading, surprisingly, and pretty damn well. Just chill, I'll be right back.”
You waited. At least, you think you waited. One minute you were staring at the oddly wobbly paintings across from your bedside, and the next a warm hand was shaking your shoulder.
“Hey. Dude, wake up. Salvation has arrived. Hope you like nuggets.”
The man had apparently made a McDonald's run and made off like a bandit. He pulled up a chair and the over-bed tabletop to set out two bags of heavy foods upon before laying things out. Among them was a twenty piece chicken nugget meal for you, a line of different sauces, and some well positioned fries. He also sat a cup to the side before rummaging and unwrapping some dollar menu burgers, taking a bite and chewing before beginning to talk.
“Wasn't sure what sauce you'd want. Sweet'n sour at six, ketchup at three, barbeque sauce at noon, and ranch at nine. Nuggets are all yours, same with the fries. I've also got a kings ransom in apple pies, and a Frappe if you want it. If not, that fucker is mine along with the one I put in the freezer,” he chimed off without even taking a breath. He sat and lifted his feet to rest them against the base board at the foot of the bed, taking another bite from the crinkly wrapper of his burger.
“Uh.. Why'd you get all this? I think my wallet's in a bag somewhere, it was in my jeans but they had to cut them off..”
“Got it 'cause I was hungry and you looked like you needed some comfort food that industrial re-heats can't quite offer. And your wallet's in the blue bag with the pants I cut off earlier.”
“The pants yo-”
“Name's Dave by the way,” he continued, taking another bite and finishing the burger before wadding the wrapper and throwing it into the bag. He picked up a second and unwrapped the top in preparation. “And not to be unprofessional... Ah, hell, it's past my shift anyway. Fuck it. You're packin' a nice package, man.”
The heart rate monitor had begun to beep erratically, to the point you were worried people would come running in, fearing you were in cardiac arrest instead of wibbling in shock with an open mouth, looking at a man who you couldn't even properly SEE. Who had seen you entirely naked.
“In case you were wonderin', your piercings had to be removed. But if you were ballsy to get the ladder put in in the first place, shouldn't be too bad to get it done again if it heals over before you can wear them again. We didn't wanna risk ruinin' your junk permanently because of possible swelling and the tubes.”
You were still flapping your mouth, before grabbing for a nugget and slamming it into some sweet and sour sauce till it splashed your fingers, deciding to stuff your face before you could make any kind of squeaking noise in retort like a loser. Okay. Someone you hadn't seen who had seen you naked and removed your hardware to boot. Fabulous.
Halfway through the nuggets and you finally realized how starved you actually were, devouring the mystery meat and the fries till you were reaching blindly for the drink. It was half empty when he handed it over, and you didn't care enough to ask for a second straw before draining it to a thin coating of residue on the bottom. The kick of calories and sugar made your head spin dangerously, a rush in your bloodstream, but it seemed to be just what you needed. The next time you sat back, it was with a satisfied sleepy look glazed across your face.
Dave crinkled the bags around and threw away the trash, wiping down the crumbs and surface of the table with a damp cloth to get the sauce tidbits. He also helped himself to your jello cup and a spoon full of mashed potatoes, mixing the food around so it looked like it had definitely been eaten from.
“Here. Half the treasure is yours. I'll put it in the fridge and re-heat them for ya tomorrow. It's just the pies, they taste plenty fine reheated. Or even cold, in my honest opinion. My shift should end about the same time, so wait up if you can.” He moved the chair back and bent away the table before fluffing your pillows, making sure your wires were connected right and checking the levels on your IV bag. “I'll just write that I spit on everything in the bag. They'll believe me.”
You snorted and let your eyes close. “Will you?”
“Wouldn't you like to know?” he asked, a multi-color angel traipsing out of the room, leaving the scent of cooling McDonald's french fries in his wake.
True to his word, Dave came back the next night. And the night after that. He came by after your surgery for moral support, by then holding your hand and offering to do little things whenever he wasn't on call. He joked and said he was making sure you got the good pain killers instead of something that wouldn't be strong enough.
Dave was there when you got your new glasses, letting you see the brightly colored puppets spangling his scrubs and the freckles tracing lightly down his arms, his bright eyes set in his thin face, the crooked nose. Broken too many times as a kid, he said.
Dave was there when you were moved to a normal hospital room, and there again when you started physical therapy, arriving at a jog as soon as you got up out of the chair on crutches and walked a few feet before sitting down again.
He was there with his number when you were discharged, and proved to be quick to answer text messages whenever he had time to spare. When the cast came off months later, you'd already been dating for quite some time, and knew how talented he was at blow jobs and the rare joking strip tease before leaping onto the bedding to put a different DVD in so you wouldn't have to. He held you steady as you confronted your scars, the strange bumps and lumps and aches that the freedom afforded you now.
Physical therapy was easier with a surly guardian angel from Texas shouting that zombies would eat you at the pace you were going, that he was sure he'd seen grannies race along faster. Turtle grannies, complete with the shell warmer and matching false teeth. Trips to the park to walk, or the indoor pool to swim and lounge in the hot tub were more fun when Dave did cannon balls, or swam like a shark beneath the water that was hot enough to almost leave you breathless.
He says you're kind of weird for falling in love with someone over junk food in a hospital, especially when there was no way to even see him. You'll never get him to admit he fell in love with the broken, confused man on the stretcher hours before then, that he'd picked up the food in the hopes of flirting properly.
What you both admit to, however, is that it literally took getting hit by a car to fall in love.