Bts imagine

Fluff Project One-( Yoongi)

Third Person P.O.V.

                It was four o-clock in the afternoon; your favorite time of day.  Especially since today was Tuesday.  Tuesdays at four o-clock were the best part of your week.  For some reason, visiting hours were restricted to the afternoons during weekdays.  And, well, weekdays were all you had.

                Typically you would be the person to not care for visiting hours—truth be told, you used to be the person that hated them.  In the hospital was where you were least comfortable, but you didn’t really have any choice to be anywhere else.

                Before I get to why your favorite time of the day is during the afternoon in the middle of the week, I’ll tell you why you’re in the hospital.  Last year, on December 27th, you had been hit by a car that slid off the road during an attempt at a right turn.  You weren’t hurt badly, but the car’s front bumper hit your lower back and practically shattered the bones in your upper legs and hips.  You had been walking to your friend’s house so you could watch a movie with him and your other friends—like you guys do every week on Tuesday afternoons.

                When the Mazda slipped off the road and into your life, all you could feel was a small tingling sensation in your back and—oddly enough—a faint cloudiness in your head that was just like the cloudiness outside—soft and hazy with a little bit of frosty sunset color.

                The vehicle slammed into your lower half and your world was black (except for that little bit of winter sunset).  You were three houses away from Yoongi’s house when it happened.  Somehow, some way, he must have heard something, felt something, who knows how he knew, but he knew that something was wrong.  He knew you weren’t okay.  So what did he do?  He snatched his phone, threw on his shoes, and ran out the door.

                When he got outside his house, he tried to call you, but you didn’t respond.  He called your cell twice as it went to voicemail and he quickly strode down in the direction in which you normally come from.  He swept his eyes up and down the streets, seeing where you could possibly be.  But when he saw a car—slightly beat up—on the side of the road, he knew.  He knew that’s where you were.  He couldn’t see you, but he knew he’d be able to as soon as he got past the car.

And sure enough, he was right.  When he arrived, the owner of the Mazda, a small and frail fifty year old woman, was on the phone while her similarly aged husband was trying to get you to respond.  The last thing Yoongi heard from the outside world was the man on the other end of the phone.

“We’ll have an ambulance there in seven minutes.”

So here you were: in a rehabilitation hospital, waiting for Yoongi’s arrival.  He always came three minutes and forty-something seconds late.  It always depended on his mood, how late he was.  You were just thankful that he was there on a weekly basis.  Tuesdays were the only days he was available; because of his career.  He was actually supposed to only have weekends off, but he was always working overtime on the weekends to where his manager begrudgingly allowed him Tuesdays off, just for you.

You had lost control of your legs in the crash, but over the past year, you had gained some of that control back.  It was about as much control as a toddler would have over their own walking skills, but it was control nonetheless.  You had to have someone walking with you at all times if you decided to get up, but you never did.  Not unless Yoongi was there (or during your therapy sessions because you weren’t that difficult of a person to refuse walking just because of one person).