Work Text:
Leon’s eyelids flutter as he swims slowly back to consciousness, blinking blearily at the harsh white ceiling above him. There’s a figure hovering over his bed, a young woman who seems to be fiddling with something above his head, a computer that's revealed to be one of his monitors when he shifts slightly enough to look. Hospital, then—Leon fights down the urge to sigh. She notices him awake, offering a sweet smile.
“Hi again, Mr. Kennedy. Still feeling alright?” Her voice is gentle, animated, and for a moment Leon wonders if she’s patronizing him or just strangely upbeat for a nurse. He groans, the ache of his injuries revealing themselves full-force.
“Just great,” he rasps, mentally taking stock of the bandages he can feel wrapped around him as his brain comes back online. There’s gauze around his upper arm, a stiffness that's probably another patch secured around his abdomen; a plasticy nasal cannula fitted into his nostrils that snakes behind his ears and curves down his jaw. He sighs, lifting his head dazedly. Frowns. The room around him is strangely colorful for a hospital, all blue couches and polka-dotted green curtains hanging around his bed, the walls decorated in unobtrusive shades of white and teal. Little sea creatures decorate the walls in places, rotund, smiling seals playing with happy crabs and fish. "Where… am I?”
The nurse smiles lightly, checking the brightly-colored connectors of his IV drip. “Sorry, we’re a bit overfilled at the moment. They didn’t have room for you in the adult ward, so you get to stay down here with us!” She gestures, and it’s then that Leon realizes his bed is in line with two others, a second row across from him on the opposite wall. He blinks. Four of the five other beds are occupied by small figures of varying ages, some with parents hanging around them.
“You put me with the kids?” He huffs what could be a laugh, wincing when the muscles of his injured abdomen tense. “Go figure.”
The nurse smiles again, offering him a cup of ice from the bedside table. “Go slow. I’ll be back to check on you in a bit, ‘kay?” She disappears in a rustle of unicorn-patterned scrubs and matching blue hijab, leaving Leon to shake his head and reach for one of the cool chips of ice to slip into his mouth. It's cold on his tongue, soothing, helping to drag Leon out of the hazy detachment that still lingers in his cotton-filled mind. The room is quiet except for the distant sound of medical equipment and rolling carts, soft voices murmuring at the other end as Leon glances at the chair beside his own bed. Empty. He wonders with a pang whether Chris is still stuck in debrief or not, shaking it away as he glances out at the room again. If these kids can handle being in the hospital by themselves, then so will he.
To his left, a young boy no more than eight or nine stares at him with wide eyes, two broken arms secured in bright plaster casts. He doesn't stop even when Leon offers him a nod, unblinking gaze still fixed on Leon’s face. Leon’s wondering how badly bruised his forehead is for a reaction like that, when the boy narrows his eyes.
"How old are you?" he asks accusatorily. "You look like a grown-up."
"Thirty-eight," Leon says, caught off guard. The kid's eyes widen further.
"You're older than my dad!"
Leon winces internally, doing his best to smile. It comes out as more of a grimace. "Yeah?"
"Uh-huh. He's here with me, he can tell you he's only thirty-two."
"I see." Leon can't help but be amused. The kid's astonishment at his age still stings slightly, but he supposes it could be worse. His gray hairs are still too few to show through the blonde, though if he stopped dying it, his natural color might make them more noticeable. At least the kid didn't outright call him old, and anyway, he's not, really. It still makes him feel that way; all long limbs and broad shoulders amidst these tiny figures in their little hospital gowns. Something pangs in his chest.
“Who’s the military guy with you?” the kid asks, already distracted. “He was really big.”
“Uh…” Leon trails off, head still slightly fuzzy from whatever medication is being pumped through his IV as he tries to process the question. The boy tilts his head.
“Are you a soldier? My dad’s friend is one, but he doesn’t really look like you, he looks more like the guy who was sitting by your bed. Not that strong, though. Do you fight bad guys?”
“I think you’re talking about Chris,” Leon says faintly, caught off-guard by the rapid-fire interrogation. “Dark hair, looks like the Hulk?”
“Yeah!” The kid says brightly, sitting upright. “He had a bulletproof vest. Have you ever shot someone?”
“That’s classified,” Leon says, smoothing out his features to hide his flare of amusement. He leans over furtively, making a show of glancing around the room. “I like to keep my profession on the down-low, if you know what I mean. Chris, though, he’s definitely military.”
The kid eyes him with no small amount of judgement, though he looks slightly surprised. "Oh. So you're like a secret agent or something?"
"Or something."
The kid stares for a long second. "Oh," he says finally, unimpressed. "But you work with the military."
"More or less. It's complicated."
"Do you have a gun?"
"Yes," Leon says. For some reason, he feels compelled to clarify, "it's not for killing people with, though. It's just in case of an emergency."
It's enough of the truth—he doesn't kill people, per se. The kid eyes him for a long moment. Leon tries for a smile. He's about to open his mouth to change the subject, sensing the conversation's approaching end, when the kid interrupts in his high voice.
"Do you use a SIG Sauer or a Beretta gun? Or an M-17?"
"What?"
At that, the kid launches into a stream-of-consciousness style explanation of the different types of handguns and assault rifles used by the United States army, speaking so quickly that Leon barely catches any of it. Caught off-guard as he is by the unexpected question about the model and make of his gun, Leon can only listen and nod as the kid spills reams and reams of information about different tanks and planes and military transports. Shockingly, most of it is completely correct.
"Where the f—where did you hear all that?" Leon asks once the boy pauses to take a breath, his own fuzzy brain spinning with the onslaught of information.
"Library," the kid says simply, shrugging. "I have a book about soldiers right now, but I can't read it 'cause of my arms. They both broke when I fell off the trampoline, and now my dad'll never let me get my own. Do you like trampolines?"
"No," Leon says, but the kid isn't listening—instead he's quoting statistics about trampoline accidents in North America with easy precision, rambling on about his dad's worries regarding such dangerous equipment. Where his little brain stores all of this information, Leon doesn't know, but he seems to have a lot of it.
Leon lets his gaze wander as the boy rattles on, taking in the smooth blue of the walls, criss-crossed with flowing impressions of seaweed and fishes. It's cute. He's reminded suddenly of his own childhood bedroom, a hazy memory from a long, long time ago. Baby blues and muted greens, swathed in soft blankets and cheerful stuffed animals his mother had given him before she died. Leon knows he was only six when he'd gone to live with his aunt in the city; knows his memories of that time are weak as under-steeped tea, so it's ridiculous that the remembrance makes his chest hurt. The strange wistfulness feels like it's alive in his sternum, curling through his lungs and making it hard to breathe.
Maybe that's just the broken ribs.
The sudden shuffle of footsteps and rustling clothes in the hallway jerks him from his thoughts, eyes slipping away from where they'd been sightlessly fixed on the colorful walls to scan the doorway. The large figure looming there gives him pause for only a split second before his muscles are losing the tension he didn't realize was present.He knows those broad shoulders; those dark, warm eyes.
"Chris," Leon breathes, sitting upright despite the stinging pang it causes. In an instant, Chris is at his side, those big hands cradling his face and soothing the anxious itch beneath Leon's skin. Their lips meet, and Leon sucks in a desperate breath, fighting to control himself. Chris is gentle but firm by comparison, kiss much softer than Leon would like it to be but infinitely more steadying. He feels himself trembling and takes a long moment to pull away and press their foreheads together. The kid makes a shocked noise in the background.
“You guys kiss?” he asks with a trace of confusion. “Aren’t you both boys?”
“We’re married,” Leon answers with a shrug, already leaning into Chris’s calming embrace. He smells like chemicals and hand sanitizer, but his clothes are fresh with the detergent he likes to use at home, the scent of it comforting as Leon closes his eyes and inhales deeply. He’s warm, too, arms steady and gentle as he rubs up and down Leon’s back with a broad hand.
“Yeah,” the kid says consideringly, not seeming to care that Leon is no longer paying him any attention. “My aunty has a girlfriend, and I guess that’s kind of the same thing.”
"I see you're making friends down here," Chris murmurs against his cheek, smile audible. Leon huffs a laugh, letting his head fall to rest on Chris's shoulder. It's strange how quickly he can relax when Chris is nearby, every remaining bit of tension leaving him in a dizzying rush that's replaced only with drowsiness and calm. Every rational thought disappears, the careful guard he holds so tightly around himself turning to water that slips through his fingers. It's freeing.
"He was very impressed by your muscles, Chris," Leon says, a shiver running through him when Chris begins to stroke his hair. "And the fact that you're military."
"Makes me feel like a superhero."
"I already told him you were the Hulk."
Chris snorts, shaking his head. He leans back slightly to plant a kiss on Leon's forehead, guiding him back down to the mattress—but he leaves a warm hand on his shoulder, dark eyes concerned as he carefully takes stock of Leon's appearance.
"How are you doing?" He runs a gentle touch over the bandage on Leon's upper arm, the action leaving butterflies of some unidentifiable emotion in Leon's stomach.
"Fine." Leon reaches for Chris's wrist, gently squeezing. "What's the damage?"
Chris sighs, fond exasperation on his face. "Fine, he says. All things considered, you made it out alright—three broken ribs, sprained ankle, the abdominal wound they had to operate on, and assorted contusions and abrasions. The knife—" he gestures to Leon's upper arm— "managed to avoid tearing anything too important, but you'll still need rehab."
Leon hums consideringly. "That is pretty good, you're right."
"I guess if you like walking around with a ribcage crushed to dust. You're still in rough shape, so don't go thinking you can skip the recovery." Chris's lips twitch into the ghost of a smile. "You'll have some interesting company down here."
"Hey," Leon says with exaggerated brightness, still mentally stewing over Chris's ribcage comment. As if he'd try to skip recovery—he knows how to take care of himself, thank you very much. "At least it's not the ICU."
Chris grunts grimly and leans back in his seat, arms crossing in a show of seriousness. Leon resists the urge to roll his eyes at the act, reaching up to scratch the itch that's formed on his temple with his left hand to avoid upsetting his bicep. Chris freezes.
"Are those… teddy bears?" he asks in a slightly strangled voice, gaze fixed on Leon's hand. Leon frowns. He opens his mouth to ask what Chris is making that odd, constipated face for, only to realize that his broad shoulders are shaking in silent laughter. He lowers his hand and glances down—only to scoff, a grin stretching over his lips.
"Yeah. Yeah, they are." Leon pokes at the IV embedded in the back of his hand, the sticky bandage-like covering colored baby blue instead of its usual transparent. Little, fluffy brown bears in bow ties dance across the entirety of its surface, Chris's giggling finally audible as Leon huffs out a soft laugh. "At least they didn't give me crocodiles or something. These guys are sort of cute."
"Crocodiles would suit you though," Chris muses. "Snappy and fiesty."
"Ha. Funny, Redfield."
"Did you know your blanket also has fish on it? Cute, colorful little fishies?" Chris poses the question innocently, but Leon can see the mischief in his dark eyes, the same little gleam Claire always gets when she's about to do something risky. He gives Chris a Look, then shakes his head with a snort.
"They've kinda got an under-the-sea thing going on down here," he says, "it matches the theme. Don't knock it."
"Oh, I'm not. It's adorable, and I'll be taking a picture."
He's already digging out his phone. Leon flips him the bird and levels an unimpressed stare at the camera on the back as Chris presses the shutter several times, then leans back on his pillows with a sigh. He fiddles with the oxygen tubing looping across his collarbone, suddenly exhausted and uncomfortable. His hair still feels gross and stuff with sweat, his body likely similarly disgusting without having showered since the start of the mission the day-and-a-half before. He meets Chris's searching gaze as he tucks his phone back into his pocket, settling in the chair and placing a large, warm hand on Leon's shin. He smiles when he sees Leon watching, a wry edge quirking his lips.
"How are you feeling?" he asks, tone softer now, almost intimate.
Leon shrugs. "The usual. At least my back isn't aching, for once."
Chris's lips turn down just slightly, his warm eyes almost sickeningly molten with sweet concern. Leon tries to ignore the shiver that radiates from a hot point in his stomach and spreads outwards to trickle down his spine. He's not used to being worried after. Even now that they've known each other for forever and been together even longer, the weight of Chris's gaze still sometimess catches Leon off-guard with its intensity.
"I'm fine," he insists, lightening his own voice. "I promise."
Chris hums, reaching up to casually squeeze Leon's forearm. "You know you don't have to be, right?"
Leon huffs, fondly resisting the urge to roll his eyes. If he were to rewrite the dictionary, he'd put Chris's picture under the definition for 'bleeding heart'. It's almost nauseating, how kind he is—or it would be if Leon didn't find it so damn endearing.
"I love you," he says instead of answering. “Now let me up, I need to pee.” He’s already pulled off the pulse monitor clipped to his finger and is reaching to pull the cannula away from his nose, dipping his head when Chris goes instinctively to stop him.
“Leon,” he warns disapprovingly. He stands to round the bed as Leon slides his feet out onto the cold tile floor, already bending down to wrap his arm around Leon’s waist before he even has to ask. His voice is laden with exasperating scolding. “Don’t strain yourself.”
“I won’t, I won’t,” Leon says, suppressing another eyeroll. He braces himself with his good arm, and in one quick movement, launches himself upright—only to clutch at his side, bumping into Chris as the wound stretches painfully. “Ah.”
“You ass,” Chris mutters, then clears his throat with a glance at the little girl across the room. “Idiot, sorry. Can you walk?”
“Yup,” Leon says tightly, reaching for the IV pole Chris slides towards him. He’s already sweating, dizzy with exhaustion and the heavy ache of his wound, but it’s far from the worst thing he’s ever walked through. His legs tremble, coltish, as he makes his way across the room, one hand gripping the IV stand and the other held in Chris’s firm grip as he slowly guides Leon toward the small bathroom in the corner. His ankle aches, but not too bad—nothing like the time he'd broken his leg and been forced to walk on it for hours as it swelled and bruised angrily. It's downright heavenly in comparison.
He’s out of breath by the time they get to the bathroom, leaning almost completely against Chris—whose grip has grown stronger with every step, a furrow of worry between his eyebrows. Leon can tell he wants to say something berating, bracing himself, but it never comes. Chris helps him all the way inside, letting go with one hand to reach for the bathroom door, and Leon frowns.
"What, you want to hold my dick, too? I'm fine on my own."
"Don't be short," Chris says, pulling the door shut and meeting Leon's gaze in the mirror. "The last thing any of us needs is for you to crack your skull falling in a bathroom of all places, and I can tell you're dizzy. I would feel better if you let me help."
Leon sighs, resisting the urge to grumble. "Then help me sit. There's no way I can do this standing."
It is a relief to take the weight off his injuries, but Leon would never admit that to Chris, finishing quickly and washing his hands in the sink while Chris supports him with broad hands wrapped around Leon's waist. He leans into Chris's body with a sigh, relishing the warmth in the coolness of the bathroom. His gown doesn't do much in the way of insulation.
"Alright," he says, wiping his hands on a piece of paper towel. "Mush! Homeward."
Chris shakes his head but does as he's bid, escorting Leon across the room like a good samaritan assisting an old lady across the street. Leon's panting by the time they get back to his little nook, sweat collecting on his neck. He ignores the pointed glare he can feel burning into the side of his head and shifts to place his hands on the edge of the mattress.
He lets himself collapse the rest of the way with a gasp once he's gotten into a close enough position, leaning limply back on the pillows as Chris lifts his legs back onto the bed one by one. The movement pulls at his stitches, and he flinches involuntarily, swallowing. Chris pushes the IV back to its place by the bed, a tangible aura of exasperation surrounding him. He grabs the oxygen tube before Leon can roll over it, pressing it into Leon's nostrils and smoothing the still-sticky medical tape over his cheek before he can protest. Chris's hands are deft as he hooks the remainder over Leon's ears, far too familiar with medical equipment after so many years of battle.
“You okay?” he asks with no small amount of concern, dark eyes unreadable when Leon looks up at them.
“Good,” Leon huffs, reaching for the blanket. “Fine.”
“You sure?”
“Yes,” Leon promises, quieter. He tangles his fingers loosely with Chris’s, tilting his head up for another careful kiss. Chris cups the back of his head in a warm, callused palm, expression soft when he leans back to put their foreheads together. “I’m okay.”
“Okay."
Chris settles back into the chair with a huff, wincing when it creaks. Leon becomes suddenly aware of the sensation of eyes on him, turning his head lazily to the left on instinct. The boy with the casts is staring at him with a little frown on his face. Leon quirks an eyebrow of his own.
“You’re not supposed to get up,” the boy says seriously. “You’re supposed to ask the nurse for help in case you fall over and get hurt worse.”
“That’s right, isn’t it, Leon?” Chris chips in before Leon can respond, smiling faintly when Leon shoots him a glare. He nods at the boy. “The kid knows the rules. You should listen to him more.”
The kid nods. "They always say that, even for people like me with not-leg injuries. Didn't they tell you?"
"Can't say they did," Leon answers wryly, fully intent on defending his honor. Before he can, though, Chris's phone rings loudly in his pocket, the same hijabi nurse from earlier entering the room and heading for Leon's bed.
"I'm just here to re-evaluate your vitals," she says, not bothering to wait for him to respond. Leon waits as she checks over the computers and swaps out his IV drip, trying and failing to keep his breaths even. That little walk did a number on him, it seems, the pain that had been waiting in the wings now sauntering on to take centre stage. The nurse frowns at his monitor.
"Are you sure?" Chris is saying into his phone, standing to pace beside the bed. "I thought we—"
"How are you feeling?" the nurse asks, checking the attachments of his leads and tubes. "Your oxygen sats are a little bit low. How's the pain?"
Leon's immediate instinct is to lie and say he's fine; avoid the fuzziness that comes with pain relievers, but Chris has told him time and time again that he's being silly for not taking care of himself and ugh, the guy might be right. Leon's chest is starting to throb. "It's gotten worse," he admits, looking away from Chris. "Broken ribs are a bitch to heal."
"You might want to mind your language," the nurse reminds him lightly, before leaving to grab something from the cabinet on the wall. She returns with a clear syringe and quickly screws it into his IV line. "I'm just going to give you some more medicine, okay? It might make you feel a little sleepy,"
Leon nods as the cool fluid enters his IV, sighing. This is familiar. He lets himself lie still as she proceeds to check his dressings and stitches, glancing over at Chris as he finishes his phonecall and turns back to Leon. His eyes are apologetic.
"Duty calls?" Leon guesses, smiling half-heartedly. Chris steps forward to squeeze his hand, nodding.
"Yeah. Cleanup and debrief. I was supposed to go straight there but I wanted to make sure you got out of surgery okay."
"Alright," Leon says, holding back a heavy sigh. He squeezes Chris's hand. "I'll see you in a bit?"
"See you in a bit."
Leon lets his eyes slip closed as Chris murmurs a goodbye and kisses his forehead, and he's out before he even feels the pain fade.
-~-
He dreams of blood. Fire. Pain.
The same things he always runs through in his sleep; the various horrific situations he's experienced over the years all jumbled together into a toxic, terrifying slurry of wicked claws and grotesque limbs. Bloodshot eyes meet his own with cold malice in their gazes, large hands reaching out to squeeze the life from his body, constricting his throat until he can't even breathe, the darkness encroaching at the corners of his vision as he claws and kicks and fights not to give in—
He wakes to the sound of his own gasping breaths, the darkness of the room around him sending a jolt of fear straight into his gut. He's helpless here, held down by tubes and wires and monitors that'll take time to remove, body sick and hurting too much to run. Leon whimpers sharply. Fuck, he's going to—
"Shh," an unfamiliar voice murmurs, startling Leon to its presence. "It's alright, I think you were dreaming. You're alright."
Leon can't help but sob, the voice shushing him gently when he curves forward and plants his face in his hands. There are already tears spread damply over his cheeks, some dim awareness telling him he was probably crying in his sleep again. He can't quite remember where he is, doesn't know who's talking to him, but his chest is too tight to focus on anything else.
"Deep breaths, sweetheart, it's okay."
A soft hand brushes against his shoulder, and Leon flinches, groaning. He can't help it, the sound of his own heartbeat drowning out everything but his ragged breaths. The person shushes him again.
"It's okay, you're okay. Do you need me to get the nurse?" Then, to someone else: "Honey, get the nurse, see if he's still at the desk."
"No," Leon chokes out, wiping his face with the back of a hand and forcing his trembling body upright. "N-no, I'm okay. Don't."
There's a woman beside his bed when he looks, dark eyebrows creased in concern. Tight, coiling curls hang around her face in a cloud, the lines around her mouth and forehead suggesting that she's maybe close to his age. She looks a bit like one of the little girls Leon had seen in the ward earlier, and he can only assume she's a parent. She smiles sadly, the dark hand wrapped around his forearm squeezing lightly. Her palm is warm. "Are you sure you don't want us to call someone? You're looking a little pale."
Leon shakes his head, swallowing against the dizziness it causes. "No, it's okay. I have—bad dreams." In the corner of his eye, he can see the boy in the bed next to him sitting upright in the dim room, another figure behind that standing at attention. He feels his neck warm with embarrassment. "Did I wake everybody up?"
"No, sweetheart. Don't worry about it." The thumb on his arm swipes over a nasty burn scar from a couple years ago, stuttering over the uneven, partially-numb flesh before correcting the rhythm and completing another few arcs. Leon can't help the way his breath hitches and shudders, legs instinctively curling up to his chest as he sits up and presses his hands to his face. His chest and abdomen pang painfully enough that he almost collapses back down, but Leon is an old hand at fighting through pain. The bed moves slightly beneath him, the whirr of machinery bleeding in over the ringing in his ears, but it's not until someone presses him gently back into the mattress that's now at a forty-five degree angle behind him that he realizes it's been adjusted. The woman is watching him concernedly.
"I'm fine," he says, hushed. "Sorry."
"Sweetheart—" the woman begins again, sadly, only to be interrupted by a little shape at her elbow that pushes past. The little girl that looks like the woman—or no, this kid is dressed in civvies, must be a sister—approaches Leon's bed with wide eyes, curly hair a cloud around her head.
"It's okay," she says, mimicking her mother's soft tone. It makes Leon smile a little despite himself. She hefts the large stuffed alligator she's clutching in her arms, a textured thing that looks like it came from a zoo or museum gift shop. "Do you wanna hold Gator?"
"Oh, that's okay, kiddo," Leon says, only to find his voice choking up. "You can—you can keep her, I'll be—"
"She's good at making people feel better," the little girl insists, stepping forward to tuck the animal beside Leon's hip. She looks up at him again, pensive. "Just make sure you give her back, okay? I can't sleep without her."
Leon doesn't trust himself to speak, so he just nods. The woman smiles and presses a kiss to her daughter's forehead, murmuring something to her in an undertone. The kid gives Leon and her toy one last lingering look before heading back towards her sister's part of the ward. Leon feels his heart clench.
"I'm—it's really okay," he manages, hand coming to rest on the stuffed toy's plush fur. It's warm from the girl's body heat. "She doesn't have to—she can have it back, I'm—"
A soft hand strokes through his hair, and Leon flinches faintly before feeling gentle fingers tuck the sweaty strands behind his ear. He's aware that his heart is still pounding, prickling heat coming to his cheeks, and fuck does he hate hospital drugs. All it takes to make him cry like a baby is a regular civilian child showing kindness the way she knows how, sharing the love that her mother must sprinkle on her daily. The love that she's now decided to bestow upon Leon, for some reason, careful hands offering comfort to a complete stranger.
"We all need a little help sometimes," the woman says as if reading his mind. "You seem like you're usually the strong and silent type." Her voice is so very gentle. Leon sniffles like a child and wipes a tear from his cheek, wondering when he last felt this small. His memories of his parents are foggy at best, and his aunt had never been the most affectionate person during his childhood.
"How can you…?" he begins, but trails off when words fail him. "You don't know me."
"No," the woman says simply, "but I know you're hurting."
Leon's fingers curl into the animal at his side, and he laughs wetly. "She's a sweet kid. You should give this back to her." He nudges to indicate the alligator, recalling Chris's words from earlier. A snappy, feisty creature, just like him. The woman smiles and shakes her head.
"No, that's alright. There's a whole bag of them over by her sister." She laughs. "Besides, she'll be happy to know it helped."
Leon pulls the plush into his lap, unable to tear his eyes away from the little animal patterns on the back of his hand and the blankets. He huffs. "The children's ward, huh? They saw a guy like me and figured I'd fit right in."
The woman strokes his hair again, but doesn't say anything else. She lets her hand fall to cover Leon's own, squeezing them both around the alligator.
"Close your eyes," she says. "I'm here."
Leon can't help but oblige. The sensation of a hand in his own feels almost like a sedative, soothing him back down to the threshold between waking and sleep. He fully expects to stay awake all night, pulse pounding in his throat, but miraculously, it calms.
He doesn't even realize he's fallen asleep until he wakes up to the nurse checking his vitals the next morning, the little alligator in his hands replaced by a soft brown bear labelled with the hospital's name.