Just Friends (Rory Campbell x Fem Reader)

Chapter 38: Arrangements

~Luna~

I can't believe this is real.

It feels like a dream, almost, lying in a bed in the emergency ward between Y/n and Rory. The only thing that's wrong with me is a bit of smoke inhalation, but they've given me an oxygen mask to help. Y/n wasn't as lucky, having burns up and down her arms and fainting after she came back out, but poor Rory took the worst of it by far.

Both legs were broken from when that beam fell on him, but one was crushed so badly that the operation they did lasted past midnight. We all waited up for news, but it would've been hard to sleep anyway with Y/n right next door, screaming like she was being skinned alive. According to her, being skinned alive and being treated for second-and-third-degree burns aren't very different. When Rory came out of surgery, his crushed leg had what I can only describe as a metal cage built around it, and I can't imagine that it'll feel too pleasant when he comes to. I have to remind myself to use "when" instead of "if" whenever I'm thinking or talking about him. The doctors say that it's unusual for someone in his condition to be out for so long after surgery, but that it's too soon to tell if anything's wrong yet. They say that if—no, when—he wakes up, it'll take a long time for him to heal.

They also say that he could've died a hundred different ways if it hadn't been for Y/n and I, and I agree. Y/n burned herself by lifting a flaming, two-foot-thick ceiling beam that most grown men wouldn't be able to lift by themselves. She dragged dead weight almost all the way to the door even though she couldn't see anything, burning herself more and breathing in smoke all the way. He would've died for certain, and I would've too, if she didn't run back into a burning building for us both. Me, however? I'm the reason why all three of us are in the emergency ward.

~Rory~

You know, I've never really thought about how I'd die. Always thought it was a long way off and that it'd be cancer or old age to do me in, so I would know I'm dying and I'd have time to get my affairs in order, or whatever it is people say. They really shouldn't say "affairs", it sounds like I'm about to make a deathbed confession to my wife about all the younger women I've been shagging on the side for years. I'd rather call it "making arrangements", but what arrangements will be made for me now? I don't have anything of value, nor a will dictating who I'll leave it to. My power of attorney is probably my parents, and God knows I don't want them combing through my belongings, seeing what they want to keep. I picked a great time to die, didn't I? Here I am at the ripe old age of sixteen, with five pounds to my name and no arrangements to be made, and of course everything's falling apart once again.

Typical.

~Y/n~

"You're doing quite well," the nurse said. I braced myself, but the pain came anyway as she peeled yet another layer of charred flesh from my arm. I bit down on the rolled-up towel she gave me and forced myself not to scream, but a strangled whimper came out in its place. I couldn't move my arm as it was stretched out to my side and strapped down to a small table, but every primal instinct I had wouldn't let me stop struggling, even though I was exhausted. She'd done the same to my other arm, which was now bandaged and still aching. She started the horrible peeling process hours ago, and I told myself it wouldn't hurt as much once she got started. About halfway through that arm, I started to realize that this isn't the type of pain you get used to.

The sun was beginning to rise now, and we still weren't done. My back arched and I couldn't stop the tears from running down my face, even though it was embarrassing for Ced, Cora, and the twins to see me like this. It shouldn't have been, since we all looked a mess from being up through the night. Cora had laid down next to me with her head on my shoulder, and the boys got angry once I grabbed her wrist so hard that she yelped in pain.