When Logan woke up, he instantly knew that whatever painkillers he was on was not enough.
Quite frankly, he was just a little surprised he woke up at all. The last thing he remembered was pain in his chest and not being able to breathe while he laid alone on the debris covered track staring at the sky. That would've been a pretty awful way to go, although not as awful as it would have been had he been stuck in the car. Man, imaging he hadn't managed to squeeze through the halo. That would have been such an awful sight for people to see once the fire went out.
But he survived. Not just the fire and the escape, but he clearly made it some time after because he was most definitely not on the track anymore. He was also not in transit because he was very still.
He could hear some kind of beeping — most likely a heart monitor — and could feel scratchy sheets beneath him. The bed was certainly much softer than the track, but it was still distinctly a hospital bed. Great.
He was slow to wake up, although shocking amounts of pain filtered in immediately. It steadily grew from there the more aware he became.
His entire body felt like one big bruise, although his hips and shoulders seemed to bear the worst of that ache. There were sharper pains along his body, the pull and itch of stitches. His chest hurt a great deal, confirming for him that he had multiple broken ribs. He wasn't lying flat on his back, which was good because it already hurt to breathe. He can't imagine how much worse it would be if he was completely horizontal.
He had in a nose cannula, although he could only feel the tubing on one side of his face. The other side of his face hurt immensely. He didn't even want to try to move his mouth; he vaguely remembered a tearing feeling on the left side of his face all the way from his jaw to his cheekbone when he'd pulled off his balaclava. He must've pulled off his balaclava. He must've burned at least part of his face and the fabric had melted into it.
He could feel the bandages on his face prickling against the raw wounds. It burned and itched, but it wasn't the worst part of the pain he'd woken up to. It was still worse than the scrapes and minor lacerations he could feel elsewhere.
Both of his hands were covered in dressings. All there was was pain. It was impossible to pinpoint where it was the worst, it was just one big sore. He couldn't even feel his fingers. He wouldn't have thought his hands would be that bad because the gloves were thicker than the balaclava. But he also had to use his hands to squeeze himself out of the car and then pull his whole body across the track. Despite the gloves, he shouldn't be that surprised that they were a bit shredded. He just hadn't expected how much?
Tears slipped out from his closed eyes as he involuntary trembled and shivered. The pain wracked his system and his breathing picked up. The pain wasn't completely unbearable; he wasn't about to start throwing up or having a seizure. But it was agony all the same.
He hadn't really been hospitalized for anything major before, and he was suddenly very reminded that his doctor had once mentioned his reaction to painkillers and sedatives would be different. He was really feeling that now.
He couldn't move. He could barely peel his eyes open. All he could do was lay there, helpless and in pain. It wasn't so different to what he was used to — this level of immobility — but the pain was a step up.
Blinking his eyes open blearily proved that his assumption about being in a hospital was correct. It was day, and he was in some kind of trauma wing. He'd watched enough medical drawers to vaguely recognize things but it was still all so foreign.
He shred at the ceiling, a small pained whine escaping his throat. He had no idea when someone would be coming. The room he was in was oddly silent but it was well lit and clearly daytime. He had no hope of reaching some kind of call button. He didn't even want to twitch his hands let alone lift them.
By some miracle, he only existed in a limbo for a small amount of time (although , he'd lost time before while in pain so it was impossible to say how much time had actually passed) before a nurse walked into the room.
"Oh!" she startled upon seeing him awake. She was short and dressed in light coloured scrubs, her hijab tucked into the neckline.
"Hurts," he managed to rasp out between gritted teeth.
The woman frowned for a moment walking forward and looking at a very thin binder on the end of his bed. "You are in pain?" she asked in heavily accented English. Another tear slipped down his cheek. That was apparently enough for the nurse because she moved and fiddled with something behind his head.
"I will get the doctor," she said, and then she was sweeping out of the room. The nurse from before walking at the doctor's heels. The woman was tall, wearing light makeup and an elegantly done hijab draped over her chest and shoulder. She had on the typical white coat that TV had taught him to expect from medical professionals.
He let himself unclench his teeth, testing the waters with whether or not the bandages and burns on his face would let him talk.
"How bad?" he rasped, internally wincing at his comprehensibility.
The doctor approached the bed, the nurse moving forward and delicately beginning to check some of his injuries.
"You were brought in 2 weeks ago with very severe trauma," she explained. "your heart resuscitated. You had two punctured lungs from your broken ribs that we were able to repair easily. You have several minor lacerations that he cleaned and sutured. You also have a moderate concussion and severe bruising over 45% of your body. Our biggest concern is the burns, but so far you have avoided infection so far which is a very good sign. You've been in and out of consciousness, but this is the first time you've been so coherent."
Logan squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. It wasn't like he'd expected anything else when he'd woken up and realized just how much he hurt. He hadn't expected that his heart had stopped, but the rest made sense with how bad the crash was. He'd hurt so bad even with the adrenaline that he was honestly surprised it wasn't worse. Sure, the doctor didn't get into the exact details of the cuts he'd gotten from car debris, but she didn't seem overly concerned about them. Then again, maybe that was just how doctors were supposed to talk to people. Surely they don't want the patients to panic.
But holy fuck. He'd died.
He'd been resuscitated on the scene, but his heart had stopped and he'd died on the track. He didn't know what to do with that. Like at least he wasn't dead now? The doctor sure seemed to sound like that could change.
"Burns?" he asked.
The doctor pursed her lips, eyes flickering between him and the charts in her hands. "There are several minor burns on your extremities; mostly areas like your shoulders and upper back as well as hips and outer thighs," she explained. "Those are relatively minor as it was not skin exposed to open flame. We are mostly concerned with the facial burn and your hands."
Okay, more burns than he would have thought, but not as bad as it could have been. He hadn't really been paying attention to how much of him had touched the car on his way out, but it made sense. He couldn't really feel those so they must be minor.
He swallowed thickly, aware of how dry throat was. It had apparently been two days since he'd been brought in.
"Scarring?" he asked.
The doctor nodded, her face softening slightly. "Facial wounds heal quickly, but we still expect that there will be noticeable scarring extending from your jaw and reaching to just under your cheek bone. They should fade over time and be less noticeable, but they won't fade completely," she explained to him.
He flinched slightly, glancing downward and catching sight of the veritable mits that were the dressings on his hands. "How bad are the hands?"
The doctor sighed. "We can't say for sure yet," she said. "It was a bit touch and go for a while. They aren't infected, but it will affect your dexterity."
That… that wasn't good. "I'm a race car driver," he said. "Will I be able to drive again?"
His crash was different than Grosjean's or even Lauda's, but they'd both returned to racing. His scarring wouldn't be bad enough to hamper him that much would it?
The doctor looked at him with a serious look in her eyes, but also one that was a bit calculated. "You're in for a long recovery," she said. "That will be a question for a physical therapist. As of now, all I can give you is a maybe. The wounds on your hands weren't just burns and scar tissue can be unpredictable."
Well, it wasn't a great answer, but it was better than a definite 'no'. Maybe he was crazy to be so eager to get back in the car, but pain had always been a part of his driving. Driving was all he knew and all he had. He didn't know what he'd do if he couldn't drive again. He probably wouldn't be able to take it.
"You're a racing driver?" the nurse asked him.
His head twitched over toward her slightly. "Yeah. Well, I was." It left a bitter taste in his mouth, but if he was going to be honest with himself, he still hadn't figured out what he was going to do for 2025. If he was really in for a long recovery, then the 2025 season was basically out. It gave him more time sure, but it added another element of uncertainty that made him nervous.
"We don't really have a lot of information about you," the doctor explained, pen poised over the papers in the binder. "You were airlifted in, but we got the information about your condition and then they rushed away."
Logan's lip quirked downward slightly. That didn't sound right. That shouldn't have happened.
And he'd just been about to ask about his team. It seemed strange that he was aching up in the middle of the day practically alone. "My name is Logan Sargeant," he said. "I'm American, but I work for Williams Racing in England."
The woman nodded. "Do you have anyone we can contact for you?"
For a moment, he almost said his team. But they weren't really his team anymore were they? They weren't even here now. Did that mean that he was just left there? Was he even still in Abu Dhabi? It'd been 2 weeks (holy shit, he'd basically been in a fucking coma; why hadn't he focused on that earlier?) and they didn't know anything about him?
"You haven't been contacted about me?" he asked quietly.
The doctor looked a bit sad, like she felt bad for him. "I'm sorry, but as far as I know no one from Williams Racing has contacted us."
He squeezed his eyes shut. They hadn't even looked for him? Surely there were only so many place he could have been transferred to. It shouldn't have been that hard to find him. He could only assume that that meant that they hadn't been looking. Or some intern had really fucked the dog here. That one seemed less likely.
It had been 2 weeks.
There probably wasn't anyone in Abu Dhabi any more.
"Hm," he said awkwardly, his voice cracking. "My… my friend? Oscar Piastri? I can give you a number but he'd probably in Monaco now…"
He didn't want to bother Oscar, but he didn't know who else. It was winter break, but Oscar loved him. Logan just wanted Oscar. He was scared and he was by himself and he hurt. He wanted his boyfriend. Oscar said he loved him so surely he'll come? Logan really wanted him to come.
The nurse took down the number he rattled off, assuring him that he would call. Hopefully Oscar still had copies of his important documents.
"We'll be back for a check in and to change your dressing in a few hours," the nurse said gently. "Hopefully we'll be able to get in contact with your Oscar," she gently squeezed his shoulder.
"Okay," he said. He didn't really know how else to respond.
In the next few days, that had probably been the most awake he was. They'd gotten better at handling his pain management so the shock of his nerves hating him didn't pull him away. The nice nurse assured him that it was expected, as were the various mood swings he'd encountered. He'd been through a serious trauma and he was healing.
He was at least reportedly healing well.
Still, he was mortified the one time his nurse had walked into the room expecting to change his dressings and check his progress only to be greeted with him ugly sobbing while curled a bit on his side. She'd just cooed at him and handed him tissues, wiping the tears from his face and removing the bandage from his face.
"We'll let that breathe now," she said.
"I'm sorry," he mumbled.
She shushed him. "It's alright. We have waiting for this."
"Were you able talk to Oscar?" he asked shyly. She'd avoided talking about it every time he was conscious, and now he was honestly a little scared to know why. But he had to ask.
"Don't you worry about that," she said gently. "You just focus on healing."
That answer only served to make him feel more miserable and alone. She'd either not gotten through to him or he'd refused to come and she just didn't want to tell him. He cried a bit more.
"Are you in pain?" she asked gently. He shook his head.
"Nobody called about me?" he knew that he shouldn't ask. There wasn't really a good answer. Either way he would just be sad. Either someone did call for him and he'd be sad that it wasn't Oscar or that they weren't here. Or no one would have called and Logan would be devastated that no one cared about him.
Was that fair? Not really, but it wasn't like he was all that rational. He'd almost died — technically he had died — and then been in a coma for 2 week.
He had facial scaring! And couldn't use his hands properly. Logan wouldn't say he was the most vain person ever, but he'd caught a glimpse of his face sans bandage once and he'd maybe gotten a bit upset about it…
It was just a big change even if the scarring was less than a quarter of his face. He'd already been insecure about his looks in relation to Oscar.
Maybe it was a good thing Oscar wasn't there even if that made him want to cry more.
The nurse winced. "I'm sorry," she said. "There were no calls."
Logan just nodded, sniffling weakly. The nurse smiled sadly and continued checking his wounds. Then she left and Logan went back to sleep because it was not like he had anything else better to do. He didn't have a phone or any of his shit including identity papers. All of his shit was somewhere either with Oscar or Williams.
Hopefully they didn't think that he was dead.
(At least his will was up to date.)
The nurse turned up the next time he woke up holding something small in her hands.
"I bring you a cactus," she said. "To keep your company because you are lonely."
This of course made him burst into tears again. It was a small little thing, no larger than the nurse's hand. It was green and prickly and in a small blue ceramic pot. It had a tiny off shooting leaf that made it look like a mitten.
he cried even harder.
He'd been treated well by the staff of the hospital, but this was such an unnecessary kindness. The nurse needn't have gone out of the way for him but she did. He still didn't even know her name.
"Thank you," he sniffed.
"Don't be so sad," she told him. "You are young and beautiful. It will get better."
Really the only thing he had ahead of him once he got out of the hospital was fighting with the American Embassy to get back to the States, and then once he had actual papers, then contacting Oscar and hoping that he still loved Logan.
"Not much of a looker now," he argued, watching as she pulled the bandages from his hands and lower forearms where his suit had pulled up in his escape. The burns looked better now than before, but he could feel the pull of the scar tissue already.
"Nonsense," the nurse said. "Scars do not make you ugly." She said it so simply and matter-of-factly that Logan didn't want to argue. It seemed rude. He just let her do her thing.
He smiled at her before she left, thanking her for the help. His smile was crooked now, but at least his eyes still scrunched up like he used to. She gave him a genuine smile in return, and then ducked back into the hallway.
The cactus was a nice gesture, but it still left him lonely. At least it added a spot of colour to the sterile room. It at least made his surroundings slightly less depressing.
He'd been awake for 2 hours when he heard a bit of a commotion outside of his room. He'd been sleeping less and less, but still the hospital had always been quiet and he never saw anyone but doctors and nurses after he'd been moved rooms upon waking up that first time. So understandably, his attention was focused on the doorway as he heard steps thunder up the hallway.
The door flung open, and Logan stared wide-eyed as Oscar all but tumbled into his room.
He looked horrible.
he was dressed haphazardly in shorts, a t-shirt, and what looked to be one of Logan's non-Williams Jackets. He normally had the complexion of a sickly Victorian child, but he looked almost as pale as the walls. He had horrendous dark circles too, like he was doing his best raccoon cosplay.
His hair was disheveled and windswept, like he'd ran all the way here. His eyes were glassy, the moisture only multiplying when he laid eyes on Logan.
(He took a small second to be grateful that his left side was further away so Oscar couldn't see it right away.)
Oscar stumbled forward, dumping a backpack on the ground as he came to a stop at the edge of the bed. He didn't take his eyes off of Logan even for a second; Logan wasn't even sure that he was blinking.
"Oscar!" he said, the relief palpable in his voice.
Oscar slowly sank to his knees, his fists clutching at the blanket covering Logan's lower body. He pressed his forehead against the side of the bed. He let out a shaky breath, like he was trying to suppress a sob.
Logan wanted nothing more than to reach out and touch Oscar's hair, but he was hesitant to touch Oscar with his hands.
"You're here," Logan said.
Oscar looked up at Logan, not rising from his kneeling position. "Logan," he whispered, his voice cracking. Tears slowly dripped from his wide, unblinking eyes. He seemed to be staring obsessively at Logan's face. Like he was scared that he'd vanish. "Oh my God."
Logan smiled, trying to ignore how it pulled at the scarring skin on the side of his face. "Hey," he said gently. "They didn't tell me they managed to contact you."
Oscar inhaled sharply, his upper lip trembling despite his clear battle for composure. "I thought you'd died," he whispered and Logan's heart broke for him.
(He didn't think it would be a great time to mention that technically he had.)
"I'm okay," he assured him. "I mean, I'm going to read on hell of a PT and I'm not exactly pretty anymore, but I'm alive." He couldn't really tell whether the sound he let out was a laugh or a badly disguised sob.
"Logan, you're alive," he said. "You're here. You could've burned 90% of your body and I'd be thanking gods I don't believe in."
Logan giggled softly, careful with how much his diaphragm shook. "I didn't know if you'd come," he admitted.
Oscar shook his head slightly as if in disbelief. "Logan, of course I'd come," he said incredulously, his hands clenching even tighter. "It felt like my world ended when I saw the crash. I love you."
Logan winced. He'd kind of forgotten the public part of his (former) job. Of course there was a video feed. "Saw the crash?" he asked hesitantly.
"It was broadcast," Oscar confirmed. "I saw it when I got back to the garage. It ends with the car catching fire. The martials were delayed. Everyone in the paddock thought you'd gotten stuck and hadn't made it out."
Logan huffed a small, sardonic laugh. "I managed to crawl out."
Oscar winced. "Saw that too," he admitted. "A fan had a better angle."
Great. That probably meant that the video of him dying had gone viral.
"Williams—"
"Lost you," Oscar hissed, darkness settling over his expression. "I've spent the last 3 weeks arguing with him and basically all the hospitals in Abu Dhabi."
Well. At least it seemed like Oscar had been looking for him. Logan hadn't realized just how sick the idea of him not having been looking for him made him. He'd probably been given the runaround by hospital staff due to confidentiality policies or something. It wasn't like the hospital had had all that much information about him.
"Williams—"
"Are the most incompetent team I have ever encountered and I was a reserve driver for Alpine," Oscar replied.
"I missed you," Logan said. He didn't want to think about Williams anymore.
"I missed you too," Oscar replied. He unclenched one hand and reached out as if he wanted to touch Logan. His hand trembled as he hovered over him.
"I have, um, a few burns," he said, shifting his hands slightly. They were still covered for now, although that was supposed to change soon according to the nurse. The burns on the rest of him were less severe and already had pink new layers of skin covering the majority of the wound.
"Where's it safe touch you?" Oscar asked without hesitation.
Logan shifted over slightly, doing his best to not aggravate anything. Oscar, always on the same wavelength, was quick to climb into the bed in the space Logan made. He eased himself down onto his side, situating himself so he was slightly lower than Logan. He'd be able to tuck his face into Logan's neck if he just pressed a little closer. Still, he left a careful space between them, clearly still scared of hurting him. Logan turned to meet Oscar's gaze.
Oscar reached upward, his hand still trembling, but he gently caressed the unburned side of his face. "I was so scared I lost you," he whispered.
"I'm still here," Logan said.
Oscar nodded. "You're still here."
Logan leaned into Oscar's touch.
