bits of my mind

dispatch (gerpol)

sorry, got sidetracked talking about crystals/minerals, poetry, and calling tall and/or buff men bbgs (e.g. 6 feet tall OCs, mw2 ghost and finland) with a friend

gerpol police au!!!1!!!1!!!! enjoy

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Everything hurt.

Poland lay, his back against the hospital bed. His focus drifted in and out, and he stared at the ceiling fan. It was mostly fleeting musings that came to mind when he felt clear headed, but it would turn to muddled, unclear thoughts after a while.

There was blood under his nails. It bothered him slightly, but he made no move to clean them. Neither did he try to lie on his side so he could free his cramped up wing. It just hurt too much to move.

"Poland? Oh mein Gott, I got here as quick as I could. They called and said you were shot while on duty and I—Polen, mein Gott, you scared me, are you okay?" Germany asked, kissing Poland on his forehead.

There was terrifying silence for a while, as the latter grappled with his words.

Finally, he croaked out: "Pierdolić... I feel like I've been hit by a car."

Then he laughed weakly, wheezing and groaning as pain wrecked his body. "Why are you laughing?" Germany asked, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards. "Scheiße, you could have died! It's- it's not that funny."

The German man dabbed the sweat off his partner's forehead gently, furrowing his brow. "Shouldn't you be administered narcotic pain medication? You're really pale," he murmured.

"They wanted to put me on morphine, but I said no," Poland replied, his voice not much louder than a whisper. "Why'd you do that? You must be in a lot of pain right now," Germany replied, concerned.

"The meds make me feel... strange, I guess," the Polish man muttered, picking at the IV needle. "This thing itches."

"Stop messing with your IV," Germany chastised, glancing at his lover. "You were shot, what, four or five times? Wouldn't it be better if you took something to manage the pain?"

"Three times," Poland corrected, "It's not that bad, don't worry."

"Quatsch." Germany scowled. "I've only ever been shot once, and it hurt like hell. Why don't you give the morphine a try? It hurts me to see you in so much agony."

"Fine, if you stop worrying about me," Poland huffed. "We'll have to wait for the nurse to walk this direction."

Almost on cue, a nurse walked past his bed, and Germany approached them, asking for the administration of the painkiller.

"I have to get his consent before I can—"

"I consent, don't worry about it," Poland interrupted, straining his voice. The nurse, looking a little stunned at such a quick response, nodded and walked off to take the opioids.

"I don't want to go for any more surgeries," he mumbled, watching the nurse leave. He had on a pained expression, one that was rarely seen on him now. "Well, you weren't hit anywhere else vital, right? I don't think there'll be any more," Germany comforted.

"Can we go home?" he implored, locking eyes with the other man. "No, not yet. You need a few more days here," Germany replied, stroking his hair.

"But I'm fine," Poland insisted.

"You're not, you nearly died a few hours ago."

Silence.

"I'll bring you books," Germany offered.