#i really do feel for the clinics and how understaffed they are | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

kammartinez · 6 months

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I seem to find a reason to go to CVS several times a week. Sometimes these reasons are medical, but much of the time, I am tracking down some household item or another—especially when I need something faster than it can be delivered, or I don’t want to be party to the low-level violence of same-day delivery, and I don’t feel like subjecting myself to the psychic keelhauling of a Target run. There is a unique air of desperation to most CVS locations. This is probably because CVS, as a health-care company stapled to a convenience store chain, blends the special emotional terroirs of the hospital and the gas station snack aisle. It could also be because the stores are often seriously understaffed, presumably in part due to the corporation’s recent move to slash pharmacy hours at thousands of locations. The decor is what you might call austerity-core. It is both corporate-loud (garish displays of next season’s decorations) and minimalist-clinical (pilled gray carpeting, fluorescent lights). People in pain and in search of relief, people picking up the prescriptions they need to live, and people who really want a soda all stalk the aisles.

The one unalloyed delight of CVS, though, is the soundtrack. One of the first things you notice once you start paying attention to the in-store music is how much whoever is in charge of programming loves Rod Stewart. “If you want my body and you think I’m sexy, come on, sugar, tell me so,” Rod demands as you ponder the locked cases of flu medicine. “Young hearts, be free tonight,” Rod bellows while you compare the prices of soap. Sometimes he hides behind an additional layer of mediation, as in Sheryl Crow’s version of “The First Cut Is the Deepest,” a song also notably covered by Rod. These are not the sexiest Rod songs. In fact, they are the songs where he sings from a place of impotence or regret. His lover threatens to crush him; she is too impossible to talk to; love will tear them apart. Like the shoppers whose attention the in-store loudspeaker announcements periodically try to seize, she is to be guilted, cajoled.

Big feelings reign on the CVS soundtrack. Sometimes they are overheated. Other times they are gushy, like the Sixpence None the Richer cover of “There She Goes,” the heroin anthem by the La’s, jacked up a treacly minor third from the original. (There are lots of covers on the playlist.) The emoting has a tendency to ambush you. Earlier this week I was picking up trash bags when, all of a sudden, I heard the distinctive plunk-plink-plunk-plink-plunk-plink-plunk-plink of the sad-sack opening guitar riff to “Chasing Cars” by Snow Patrol. The song depicts a couple, secure, or maybe trapped, in a bubble of self-sufficiency: “We don’t need anything or anyone.” While Rod sometimes sounds like he is delivering his come-ons with a campy wink, “Chasing Cars” contains no prophylactic against its own sentimental excess. It is an almost unbearable song to hear in CVS, regardless of the circumstances that bring you into the store. “If I lay here, if I just lay here, would you lay with me and just forget the world?” the chorus goes. Here?

The basic experience of shopping at CVS is one of doing something desperate at worst and banally unpleasant at best while swimming in a warm bath of muted musical intensity. No other retail chain is so committed to the power ballad as a musical form. A Spotify playlist of “CVS BANGERS,” apparently sourced from hard-won knowledge, features a stacked lineup: Foreigner’s “I Want to Know What Love Is”; Cutting Crew’s “(I Just) Died in Your Arms Tonight”; the Cars’ “Drive”; Toto’s still-inescapable “Africa.” One song on that playlist that I absolutely have heard in my local store is Paula Cole’s “Where Have All the Cowboys Gone?”—the nineties adult-alternative equivalent of a power ballad, a spoken/sung tale of a marriage crumbling under the weight of too much gender. Some philosophers claim that the emotions artworks evoke are really “pseudo emotions”; we feel them at one degree of remove. I can think of no better support for this thesis than the experience of listening to Paula Cole in CVS. The hopes of young love, the disappointments of middle age, the curdling resentment that ensues: I feel some inkling of it all. But mostly I’m just tapping my foot as I wait to pick up my prescription.

If you spend enough time shopping at CVS and listening to CVS-inspired playlists, you may begin to wonder if some rogue programmer is introducing subversive material into the mix. One Kinks song in the rotation tells of local cultural institutions being turned into supermarkets, and then parking lots. Domestic frustrations figure prominently. On the subreddit dedicated to the store, where overworked employees compare notes, one of the most discussed and most reviled songs is Mary Chapin Carpenter’s very nineties cover of Lucinda Williams’s “Passionate Kisses.” It’s a song about wanting more than the basic necessities—in other words, more than convenience store stuff. The chorus is a question: “Shouldn’t I have all of this, and passionate kisses from you?” Desperation creeps in as the song lopes along. The last verse finds the singer shouting, “Give me what I deserve, ‘cause it’s my right.” The consensus among CVS veterans seems to be that all this is “vapid and irritating,” if unintentionally funny at times. One employee reports that a coworker with an unrequited crush on her manager stares wistfully at the object of her affection for the duration of the song whenever it comes on. Another shares a vignette: “I vividly remember being violently hungover on a cold winter morning in New England, passionate kisses playing loudly in the background as someone’s grandma slowly searched her purse for coupons, fluorescent lights inescapable as I prayed for a swift end to my existence. Hell is real and I’ve lived it.”

Hell is other people’s music. But whose music is the CVS soundtrack? The store’s music vendor is Mood Media, formerly Muzak. While that company made its name with what we’d today call original content—light instrumentals composed for background listening—it eventually pivoted into the playlist business, curating “channels” of already-existing vocal pop music for their clients. It’s easy to imagine each major chain laying claim to its own channel to create its distinct emotional climate, whether they use Mood or one of its few competitors. Trader Joe’s is peppy and lightly eclectic: Motown, tasteful eighties hits. H&M is corporate hipster: late-period Jens Lekman. Ditto Urban Outfitters, which used to put out a yearly mixtape: “Halloween Head” by Ryan Adams, “Slow Me Down” by Emmy Rossum. Breezy yacht rock diffuses through the faux-Egyptian catacombs of the Cheesecake Factory. Whole Foods is largely silent.

CVS’s musical identity is harder to pin down. It is not subcultural-aspirational like Hot Topic or Starbucks back when it sold CDs. Functionally, it comes closer to the genre-agnostic mishmash of feel-good tunes that play in most supermarkets. And yet the feel-good tunes resonate differently in CVS. The anonymous employee on the subreddit is surely right that the store’s music produces its effects by way of contrast: earnest voices singing about tenderness lost or gained over sparkly guitars, piped into an impersonal, overlit, understocked place where absolutely nobody wants to be. The whole situation is a perverse joke.

CVS is the negative image of the club or the theater. There is no coordinated pulse of the crowd, just individual people shuffling around. The music is inflicted on you against your will rather than offered up as a kind of gift or “experience.” But the existential emptiness of this setting allows the music to sound with a special liveliness. In the wasteland, you can better hear what the pop song wants from you. The pop song demands your investment—positive, negative, ambivalent, it doesn’t care. It refuses to be ignored, and it won’t settle for a minor role as a manipulator of moods. In the harsh fluorescent light, we can hear the pop song say, “Give me what I deserve, cause it’s my right.” Who are we to refuse?

#music

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kamreadsandrecs · 8 months

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#music

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tabby-shieldmaiden · 9 months

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Two more weeks til graduation. Or at least, til I hear whether or not I'll be graduating. I already recently had a bad run of days. I really hope I don't screw up worse in the upcoming two weeks.

I haven't told people irl about this, but yeah, I do feel really nervous and worried about this. All I really want to do is pass and graduate at this point. And I think all the time like, whether or not I could have worked harder at this. Whether I could have put in more effort into doing this or that.

If I'm gonna be honest, doing my clinical placements has probably been one of the hardest things I've ever done. My very first one in 2021 I ended up having a meltdown in the storeroom and I didn't even pass the clinical. So I think I have improved, I guess. But largely because I started out at the very, very bottom of things.

A lot of things made this uniquely difficult to be honest. Besides the pandemic, and the resulting understaffing, there were all the little specific things too. I did get sent to more difficult placements first because of weird post-pandemic scheduling. I didn't really get properly orientated the first placement. This is something I'm completely new at; I had literally never done this sort of work before. For some patients there's a language barrier I'm not adequately equipped to traverse yet. Add the neurodivergence, the autism and the social anxiety and the obsessive compulsiveness, and I know that I am basically playing the game on hard mode, so to speak. It has been an extremely rocky journey, and I am trying to put on as brave a face as I can about it.

And so I really do want this to be over. I know that once I finish, I will be working and it will be more of the same, except I am expected to be a real professional about it and the expectations are higher. But like, I do want to do this. Because it is a useful job where I will learn useful, helpful skills. Because while I can work as a nurse and I can provide this service, especially when healthcare is so understaffed, I think I should do this. Because I think it would be important, if I want to do something helpful and reparative for my country/the world, for me to understand some systems in play and how to navigate them and how we can do better from there.

And also admittedly because I do want to come out and say that I can do something. Because the thought of trying this hard and coming out admitting that I can't do something feels like it would hurt more than anything. Because I need a job. Because I want to make myself useful.

I think my Mom is proud of me. At least, she says I am. She likes to hold my brother and I up as autism success stories I think, especially me. And while I kind of have increasingly complicated thoughts on my family and how I want to associate with them, I guess I also don't really want to disappoint her either.

But like, doing this has really made me realise, vividly, that I am a disabled person. It's as clear as when I was trying to study for major exams back in the day. This whole experience has really made me realise, I have clear limitations. But it feels like I can't really talk to people about it and have them understand. People do kind of have a limited perception of autism as a disability, I'm not super open about it at work. I'm not open about my anxiety, or my history of stuttering either. I can't help but feel like I either have to be the model autist, or admit to my limitations and alienate myself from other people, fail at attaining my goals.

And I know a lot of this is likely just the internalised ableism talking. But yeah.

I should probably go to bed now.

#tabby says something #vent #bad brains

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grave-gift · 1 year

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Hi 👋🏼!!!!! I seen you were an ultrasound student. I was wondering if you could tell me about what it’s like and if you like it?

Hi!

That's a really broad question but I will do my best to answer! I am Canadian and can't speak at all for what schooling is like in the US or elsewhere in the world.

In short: It's very interesting school work, the course load is absolutely insane, and the job is rewarding in the opportunities it provides.

For scope of topics, my classes are split into what I call:

four "main" courses that focus on scanning, normal findings, and pathology (OB/GYN, abdominal, vascular, and cardiac)

"theory" classes (ultrasound physics - which includes instrumentation and machine function, anatomy, pathophysiology, etc)

"people skills" classes (human behaviour, patient care, and some interdisciplinary teamwork classes alongside the nursing/x-ray/medrad/etc students at my school).

Then there's practical labs, which are split into cardiac (heart) and abdominal (everything else). In those labs, students preform ultrasound exams on each other. Obstetrical scanning (babies), endovaginal scanning ("internal exams") and genital scanning (yes we do that) are done on dummies, not real people.

As for the amount of work... My ultrasound program is a 2 year diploma program. Some places in Canada run it as an undergraduate degree where you get a BHSc along with your Diagnostic Medical Sonography diploma, but for most it's just the diploma and it takes 2-4 years depending on how crammed your schedule is. Mine is 120 credit hours in 3 semesters, plus a full semester and change of clinical practicum, all for a total of 2 years (for comparison, my undergraduate degree was 120 credit hours in 8 semesters). So it's a LOT of schoolwork in a very compressed time frame.

I've done a few weeks of clinical so far and the job seems... repetitive by its nature, but also every exam is different in terms of what you find in someone! Ultrasound, along with nursing and a few other professions, has ample travel/relocation opportunity as we're in extremely high demand pretty much everywhere. If you choose to work in a rural, isolated area, you can get signing bonuses up to $50,000 CAD. You can pretty much go wherever you want and specialize however you want.

The downside is that like all health professions, we're chronically understaffed and under supported, we're incredibly susceptible to burn out, and we also like... don't make that much, especially compared to other professions? Minimum wage here is $15.65/hr and starting wage for us is $33/hr, and it caps at about $45/hr after 7 or so years of experience. You can find trades professions that require the same level of expertise and training that pay double that easily.

As for if I like it... I'm not sure. If I don't think about it too deeply, yeah! Sure! I like it. It's interesting and I like how niche a skill it is, it makes me feel proficient and useful.

But also... It's school, to get a job. Which will be a job. Not to be kinda a downer about it, but work is still work for me... it's a way to get money so I can afford food, comfort, and the ability to support my loved ones. I went into health care because I wanted to make a difference in people's lives if I had to work anyways (which, obviously, I do). But as an ultrasound tech, you don't get to tell patients pretty much anything related to what you see while scanning (that's a radiologist's job - which is a 6 year residency after med school). So... I find I feel a little unfulfilled in clinical, sometimes. But that's a problem for later me. Healthy obstetrical scans for wanted pregnancies are always fun, though :) if that's what's drawing you in to the profession

Anyways! I hope that sheds some light on it for you? Feel free to ask specific questions, I'm so deep in the weeds I never know if what I'm saying makes sense to someone outside of an ultrasound program anymore ^^;

#tate.txt #medical #sonography

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ukrfeminism · 3 years

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EXCLUSIVE

The midwife exodus: ‘We just can’t give mums and babies the care they need’

Every day before Emma Gasking clocked on for work, she would brace herself for the day ahead.

With each step taken towards the door of the NHS community clinic where she worked as a midwife, she could feel the adrenaline pumping harder. She’d desperately make mental ‘to do’ lists of the different ways she could support the women and babies in her care that day.

Knowing the challenges that she and her short-staffed team would encounter, as an ever-refilling room of prenatal and postnatal patients waited to see them, would often leave the 27-year-old feeling overwhelmed and burnt out.

After three years, it was something that eventually broke Emma and saw the young midwife leave her job.

‘I just couldn’t do it anymore – I was really, really exhausted,’ she says simply.

‘We would have to see so many people in one day and you just can’t spend proper time with anyone. Everyone suffers – midwives, mothers and babies.’

So stressed by working within an environment that often relied on one midwife to do the job of what should have been three, often caused Emma to wake in the middle of the night, panicking about paperwork she hadn’t done – ‘because if you don’t write it down, it didn’t happen’ – or the thought that she’d cut a conversation with a patient too short.

‘Perhaps I’d missed making a referral, or just couldn’t give the full care that the woman needed,’ Emma recalls. ‘It impacted every area of my life as a midwife.’

Although it’s been three years since Emma left her job, statistics released this week have revealed that the NHS is now in the grip of a ‘midwife exodus’.

The findings from the Royal College of Midwives (RCM), discovered that a massive 57% of midwives are considering leaving the NHS in the next year.

This is in part due to understaffing and fears that they cannot offer safe care to women in the current system: Eight out of 10 midwives who have left or were considering leaving are concerned about staffing levels, while two-thirds were not satisfied with the quality of care they are able to deliver.

Meanwhile, a report published by NHS Digital in July revealed the number of midwives working in England in May had fallen by almost 300 in two months – the fastest drop in over 20 years.

‘Every midwife and maternity support worker goes to work to provide safe, quality care,’ said RCM Chief Executive Gill Walton in a statement released alongside their findings. ‘That so many feel that understaffing means they are unable to do so is deeply worrying. What these numbers suggest is a midwife exodus, which will leave already-struggling services on their knees.’

Emma explains that as well as being worried about the impact work was having on the wellbeing of herself and her colleagues, the main concern was how staff shortages would affect the mums and babies in her care.

‘You could miss a deterioration in a mother’s mental health that could lead to postnatal depression,’ she explains. ‘Because it is when you sit down and build a relationship with a woman that she will divulge she isn’t mentally well. Or if a baby was jaundice and you forget to do a referral, it could have a serious impact on their liver.’

After three years working in the clinic, Emma received a phone call from a family shouting abusive language at her for a protocol referral she made to social services.

Sure she’d made the right decisions, she had expected support from her managers. ‘But managers are often pulled onto the floor to a delivery suite, postnatal ward, antenatal clinic, or wherever they are needed,’ Emma says. ‘This means that their roles become really stretched and things like internal support fall by the wayside.’

Feeling that she wasn’t going to get the help she needed was ‘the straw that broke the camel’s back’, and desperate for change Emma left her job to start a Master of Business Administration, eventually setting up an information hub for families.

‘I wanted them to be able to pick and choose the support they need, rather than having to ask a midwife and waiting weeks before getting an answer or referral.’

According to Leah Hazard, an NHS midwife in Scotland, ‘The main impact of the shortage is safety.

‘If we don’t have the correct number of midwives to serve our population and their complex needs, then care does directly suffer. That can be anything from a women’s labour being delayed, long waiting times at antenatal clinics, or a midwife not getting to know a woman well enough in order to make the appropriate plan of care.’

Leah believes that midwives in her country are trained to provide ‘an excellent, gold standard of care’.

‘When you can’t do that because of the limitations of the system in which you work, it’s incredibly frustrating, demoralising, and scary,’ she adds. ‘It leads to things like vicarious trauma, work related anxiety, and burnout.’

A few years into her career, Leah was scheduled for a night shift in triage – the A&E for pregnant women – when the pressures of the job caught up with her.

‘The incredibly overwhelming workload triggered a panic attack and I had to leave work in the middle of the night,’ she remembers. ‘It was something I felt a lot of shame about.’

‘I ended up spending a lot of time in tears with no support’

Ella Jones had to go to hospital when she was 32 weeks pregnant due to reduced foetal movements, but says that staff shortages forced the antenatal ward to be shut down.

‘I had an emergency scan and it was found that the baby was much smaller than expected for gestational age and the placenta blood supply to the baby was causing a big concern,’ she explains. ‘Things moved quickly and I was given steroids to mature her lungs.’

Ella’s doctors informed her that if things didn’t improve, the baby would need to be delivered within 10 days and that’s when she was admitted. However the following morning the antenatal ward was closed.

‘We were told this was due to a lack of midwives, compounded by annual leave and sickness,’ she remembers. ‘We had already heard the hospital’s birth centre had been shut for the same reasons, meaning that all women arriving in labour were to give birth on the labour ward.

‘The antenatal and postnatal wards were merged and while this was logical to stretch care, the reasons weren’t fully explained to us ahead of time, nor was our mental wellbeing discussed – I don’t think anyone had time due to the constraints.’

With the two wards together, Ella and other women could hear the sounds of gurgling babies and excited family meeting the new arrivals.

‘This was incredibly difficult for us,’ Ella says. ‘Two women with me were having miscarriages. One was being monitored for a threatened miscarriage. For women trying their very best to keep their own babies inside their bodies, it was torture.’

Ella says it was clear how busy the midwives were as they struggled to cope with the amount of women on the merged wards.

‘I wanted to ask more questions and seek support, but I felt a lot of guilt about calling a midwife to discuss what was happening because I felt it would be unfair to pull them aware from situations more urgent than mine,’ she admits. ‘I ended up isolated and spending a lot of time in tears with no support.’

Midwives have been begging the government for years to allocate funding for midwifery services, and their requests have occasionally been met with additional funding. However, the amount pales in comparison to the amount needed to employ more midwives.

Back in 2016, The Royal College of Midwives had already warned what was coming, when they released a report on the ‘gathering storm’ in English midwifery services, which outlined that the profession was 3,500 midwives short and the risks that these numbers posed.

Two years later, the RCM continued to document their concerns and reported seeing a trend where there was only one NHS midwife entering the profession for every 30 or so newly qualified midwives that had graduated.

‘It’s not that new midwives aren’t getting jobs, they are. The problem is that so many existing midwives are leaving the service that the two things almost cancel each other out,’ the RCM’s Gill Walton said at the time.

In recent months, Kent, Shropshire, Perth, and Essex have all raised concerns over staff shortages and birthing centres and maternity units in Oxfordshire and South Wales were forced to temporarily close their doors with to few midwives to staff wards.

‘We are at a crisis point and the Government needs to stand up and take account for the dire situation UK maternity services have found themselves in,’ says Abbie Aplin, Regional Head for South-RCM Services for Members.

‘More investment is urgently needed, so more midwives and maternity staff can be employed. Let’s make sure we value midwives, support their mental health and wellbeing, and pay them what they deserve.’

While the RCM have given the Government solutions and advice on recruitment and retention, Abbie adds that ‘it seems to have fallen on deaf ears with almost all of our members. It’s simple – we need more midwives in service now.’

‘I have never worked a shift where we have been fully staffed with midwives,’ says Katie*, a 27-year-old NHS midwife working in the East of England.

‘There’s been numerous times with only five of us rostered to work on a labour ward with 11 labour rooms and a 10 bedded triage. Last week, I worked 52 hours and had only one day where I was able to get a half an hour break.’

‘The shortage of midwives impacts the care the women receive from us,’ Katie adds. ‘I have had verbal abuse from women and their families due to their understandable frustration in delays to their care, but delays are almost always due to lack of midwives on labour wards.’

Katie used to enjoy her job, but now says she is ‘glad to be wearing a mask so that families cannot see the panic and exhaustion on my face.’

Several times, she has sat in her car and cried in the hospital car park, while her days off are spent worrying if she missed errors. ‘I resigned from my full time post over a week ago as I could not see myself continuing to work like this,’ she says. ‘I’m still passionate about being a midwife, but for now, I am only going to work bank shifts.

‘Maternity services have continued to function for so long because of the good will of its midwives. But we are all fed up and burnt out now.’

Anna* has been an NHS midwife for over two decades and says that most of her colleagues now feel hopeless about the situation. ‘In 22 years I’ve never felt so much pressure to achieve the impossible,’ she says.

‘We have lost so many midwives that just can’t or aren’t prepared to put up with the strains on their lives to work under so much pressure.

‘We should have at least 10 midwives per 12 hour shift on a delivery suite alone to cope safely with the workloads. It is now not uncommon to have between four and five on a shift.’

Even with low numbers, Anna’s staff just about manages, but they often forego any breaks for over a 12 hour period. ‘If we have two subsequent emergencies, we literally have to make split second decisions in life threatening situations,’ she admits.

As the impacts of the job catch up, Anna doubts how long she can continue. ‘I love being a midwife and can’t quite imagine doing anything else, but it is wearing me out emotionally and physically,’ she says. ‘This can only go on so long before there is a physical or mental breakdown. You can’t just keep coping.

‘I think if we could see an end to it, there would at least be a light at the end of the tunnel.’

’Lack of supervision meant I ended up giving birth in the loo’

It was on a Thursday, at 9am sharp, that Rebecca* arrived at the hospital fully prepared for her second baby to be induced.

‘I was put on the ward with three other women awaiting inductions,’ she recalls. ‘Midwives kept popping in and out saying I was next in the queue and apologising for how busy there were.’

As the staff rushed around, Rebecca could sense that everyone was ‘stressed and in a hurry’. However, she’s keen to point out, ‘they were all doing their absolute best – there just weren’t enough of them.’

Finally, mid-afternoon, a midwife came to do an initial internal examination of Rebecca and found she was 3cm dilated. The plan was to break her waters and if that didn’t kickstart full-blown labour, they would put her on a drip. She was told there would be no other internal examination that day to check her progress.

At about half eleven that night, with contractions heavily and steadily kicking in, Rebecca ‘waddled over to the midwife’s desk’ to let them know she was in labour.

‘I was told to go back to bed and they would come and check on me,’ she remembers. ‘So I called my partner to come back in and he arrived at half 12 in the morning.’

By the time he was by her side, no one had come to and check on Rebecca, despite her contractions coming thick and fast.

‘When he got there, I told him I really needed to go to the loo and asked him to help me,’ she remembers. ‘I sat down on the toilet and my waters broke. And then I reached down and could feel the baby’s head.’

Rebecca stood up – her trousers around her ankles, shoes on, still holding the baby’s head – while her husband ran for a midwife. ‘Three seconds after the midwife arrived, the baby was born,’ she says.

‘The midwife looking after me said she had worked there 30 years and never not got anyone down to delivery before the baby was born,’ Rebecca says.

‘Normally, if you give birth standing up, it’s very controlled, but mine wasn’t and I was torn badly. I can’t help but think that if I had been examined earlier, someone would have been able to tell I was close to giving birth.’

*Names have been changed

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starfleetbotanist · 3 years

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Physician, Heal Thyself (But Not Always)

🌹

It had been stupid, even he would admit that. Academy students were typically supposed to avoid bar fights. But Cupcake had been talking smack, and he'd had a few too many, so he had allowed the inevitable to happen. What he hadn't expected was for six other cadets to decide to use him as a punching bag. More surprising, though, was Bones.

He'd vaguely heard Bones trying to reason with his assailants before the roar in his ears drowned him out, but a fist to the stomach is a much more pressing matter than a pacifist doctor trying to tell you logic you don't want to hear, so he'd more or less written him off. That is, until he saw a cadet fall at his feet and turned to see his friend wading- and punching- through the crowd towards him.

He leapt at one of Cupcakes cronies as he landed a solid punch to Bones' face, causing the man to stumble back, a protectiveness he hadn't felt since Tarsus rising in him. But Bones regained his footing and gave as good as he'd gotten, before finally reaching Jim. Then he grabbed him by the collar of his uniform and dragged him from the bar, much like a mama cat with her errant kitten.

He stared at him, stunned, the entire way back to their room, Bones loudly scolding him about safety and rules the whole way, wiping blood from his now evidently broken nose. A sick feeling overcame him. What happened now? Was Bones going to leave, like Sam had?

He found himself dumped on the couch in an ungraceful heap as Bones' angry footsteps carried him to the bathroom and back. He sat on the coffee table, and Jim was relieved to see his medkit resting on his knee. He was (mostly) a model patient as Bones scrubbed at his cuts with antiseptic before using the portable dermal regen.

"You've got too damn good a brain, Jim, to go and get it knocked around by fools like that, y'hear me?"

He blinked. No, he hadn't heard him. Upon realizing that, Bones rolled his eyes before reaching over and lightly slapping his head- a move too gentle to actually hurt, and which he immediately followed with an affectionate ruffle of Jim's hair.

"This, your brain. Use it."

With that, he got up and headed back to the bathroom. Jim followed on his heels.

"That's it? You're not... More angry?"

"Jim, I knew when I signed up to be your friend there'd be risks. If a bar fight's the most danger we get in together I'd be surprised."

"But you got hurt!"

"Yeah, and you owe me for that."

He stopped in front of the mirror, opening his case again and finding the regen and a hypo. He reached up and, with a grunt, popped his nose back into place. He swore as he turned the hypo on himself, eyes watering.

"Scratch that, you really owe me," he said through gritted teeth.

"Sorry," Jim replied. He meant it. He hated seeing Bones hurt.

"Just-- use your head next time. Okay?"

"Yeah-- yeah, okay, Bones. I promise."

"Good." He washed the blood on his face and hands before turning back to face him. "Then we can forget about it."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that."

"Okay. Thanks, Bones."

"Anytime, kid."

🌹

Nyota held her wrist to her chest, waiting in the academy clinic. She had hurt it in combat class that day, but thankfully not too badly. The clinic was understaffed that day, and she had told Christine she was fine waiting. It was just her and two other cadets in the waiting room, after all. Not everyone was quite so patient, though.

One of the others, a command cadet, was complaining loudly, drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair, and bouncing his leg in agitation.

"How much longer is this gonna take?" He asked when Christine opened the door to call another patient back.

"Doctor McCoy or Doctor M'Benga will be able to see you soon, sir," she answered. "We will get to you as soon as we can."

Nyota prided herself on her ability to read people, and what she saw from the other cadet was not encouraging. He jumped up to his feet, crossing over to Christine with surprising speed.

"You can't just come back here!" She said, positioning herself between the cadet and the door.

"Watch me!" He snapped, grabbing her shoulder and shoving her out of the way.

Nyota rose, but she didn't need to interfere. Just as he was stepping into the hallway, he ran face first into Doctor McCoy, summoned by Christine's shout.

"Didn't you hear the lady? She said you ain't gettin' in here!" He snapped, though Nyota could see him running a clinical eye over the cadet. "Easy now. Looks like you're in withdrawal. How many stims have you taken?"

"None of your business!" The man snapped, and before anyone could stop him, caught McCoy on the side of the head with a right cross.

Christine leapt in, then, getting him into a safe hold and grabbing his arm to pin behind him as McCoy called for M'Benga to bring a sedative.

"Dammit," he swore as the other doctor handed him the hypo. "Sucker punches harder than he looks."

Once he was sedated, security called, and a treatment plan discussed for the over-use of stims to get him through the command courses, the cadet was taken to Starfleet Medical for a proper detox.

"You okay, Chris?" McCoy asked. Nyota had come to Christine's side as the cadet was taken away. The two had been friends since their first year.

"Just fine," she promised. "Didn't even fall. What about you?"

"I'll be fine," he shrugged. "Happens sometimes. Nothin' the regen can't fix."

"You might want to get on that before it swells too much, Len" M'Benga said. "I can finish up here."

"It'll hold," McCoy insisted. "But you can take that patient we just called back. C'mon, Ny, I only need one eye to see the swelling in that wrist."

"Only if you fix your eye, too," she threatened, following him back to one of the rooms.

"Wrist first," he said, taking out his tricorder. She answered his questions, let him strap the regen unit to her, and stared him into submission until he began treating himself while they waited.

"Are you sure you're alright?" She asked once they had both finished.

"Ain't that my line? Any residual pain?"

"None, thank you. Now answer me."

"I'm okay," he promised. "Not my first rodeo with someone hyped up on stims, and it won't be my last."

"Can't say I envy you."

"Yeah, well, it happens. Now, you be careful in that combat class, okay? Stretch right, and be careful which moves you use on which partners."

"I will. Thanks, Len."

"Sure, Ny."

🌹

"Scotty."

He looked up from the manual he was reading at the sound from the bathroom door.

"Ah, Doc! What can I do for you?"

"You can take a break from straining your eyes and come have some coffee."

He laughed, lowering the PADD he was reading from.

"Aye, that sounds good. What're you doin' up so early?"

He followed him into his room, where he could smell fresh coffee brewing. Like many things, McCoy seemed to prefer real coffee, and while Scotty tended to be more of a tea man, he never turned down real foods or drinks.

"Haven't been to bed yet- don't tell Jim or Spock."

He poured them both a cup, handing Scotty one of them and motioning to the sugar and creamer he'd set out.

"Aren't you the one always telling the crew the importance of a good sleep schedule?"

"Yeah, and that's why I'm askin' you not to tell on me," he grinned.

"Can you not sleep?"

"No, not really. I've been goin' over that last accident in Engineering. I've written up a few training proposals, and wanted you to read through them and tell me which you think'll work best before I submit them."

"Have you been working on this all day?"

"Since my shift ended, yeah."

Scotty saw him take two tiny pills from a bottle on his desk and take them before rubbing his eyes.

"Sorry, headache. Ibuprofen. Been at this a little too long, I think."

"Why push yourself like this, then?"

He scanned the proposals, an interdisciplinary first aid course specific to Engineering and the various injuries and accidents that could happen, a triage proposal to better prepare medical staff for what to expect when an accident is called in, and new safety guidelines and equipment inspection schedules.

"Well, every second counts, you know that. The sooner we get this smoothed out, the better. It could be life or death, and I'm not about to play games there."

"You never do," Scotty grinned, picking up a stylus and making a few notes. "I like this so far. I hope you made a lot of coffee, because I have a few ideas, too."

"I hoped you would," McCoy grinned, and the two sat down to begin work.

🌹

"You called me, Doc?"

"Mr Sulu, perfect timing!"

Doctor McCoy was standing by a selection of plants, studying them intensely.

"The botany department sent these up. They're medicinal. But the labels got mixed up, and we don't really know what's what."

"That's unusual," Sulu grinned, looking down at the selection. "She's usually more organized when making deliveries."

He began to catalogue the plants, calling to mind their uses.

"Fever few, plantain... Several of these are for stopping bleeding."

"Yeah, that's what we're hoping for. We're training our medics to learn other ways to heal in the field."

"Good idea," Sulu nodded, fixing the lables.

"Thank you for the help," McCoy grinned. "Oh, Lieutenant Lyle brought another plant, but I'm not sure what it does. It was bigger than the others, so I set it in the office. Little bastard scratched me, too."

Sulu laughed, plucking a plantain leaf and handing it to him.

"Chew on that for a minute and put it on the cut, that will help."

He heard McCoy's thanks as he went into the office. He gasped. On the desk was a rare Andorian Passionflower- spiked where its Earth counterpart was not, and blue instead of purple. In place of a label there was a note, and he recognized the handwriting.

"Ben?"

"Surprise," McCoy said, stepping in. He had the chewed leaf against his finger. "We were asked not to tell you anything."

He opened the envelope. It was handwritten anniversary card. He smiled, warmth filling him.

"Happy anniversary, you two," McCoy said, patting him on the shoulder. "There's minutes on my computer for subspace communication. He's waiting for you to call."

"Thanks, Doc," he answered, wiping sudden tears from his eyes.

McCoy patted his back again before leaving him to his call.

🌹

"Doctor?"

"Mhm?"

"Why did you do it?"

McCoy looked at Chekov, who was eyeing wound on his arm with deep concern.

"Reflex," he lied, finishing ripping his uniform shirt into bandages. He turned his eyes away, focusing on tying off and tending the wound until the ion storm ended and they could contact the Enterprise.

"Captain Kirk is right. You are a terrible liar, sir."

He snorted, tying off his makeshift sling. He'd taken a rather severe cut from a spear from one of the inhabitants of this supposedly uninhabited planet. The spear had been aimed at Chekov, but he had managed to push the kid out of the way just in time.

"Captain Kirk can mind his own business."

"Doctor..."

McCoy sighed, leaning back against the cave wall. Chekov joined him, still looking at him with wide-eyed worry.

"You remind me of Joanna."

"Huh?"

"I did it because you remind me of Joanna."

"Who is Joanna?"

"My daughter. My whole world. I don't get to see her often, but she's my pride and joy."

"And I remind you of her?"

"Yeah. Can't explain it. It's probably because you're so young, or some misplaced guilt about not being there to protect JoJo that makes me want to look out for you instead that the psychologist really doesn't wanna think too much about."

He shrugged, closing his eyes.

"That, and I'm a doctor, and your senior officer. Not gonna let you get hurt if I can help it."

Running for their lives had worn him out, it seems. Chekov studied him for a moment before placing his head on his shoulder.

"You are very much the papa I always wanted. My grandmother, she told me stories about him. He was a good man. If he was... If I had known him longer, I would have liked for him to be like you, Doctor."

He felt a strong hand ruffle his hair.

"Get some rest, kid. I'll keep watch."

Chekov smiled, allowing his own eyes to close. He fell asleep wondering if McCoy would laugh or be angry that he had become, as the captain said, a "mama bear."

🌹

Spock stood beside Captain Kirk's hospital bed, arms folded behind his back. He had come to check on the progress of McCoy's serum on their friend. But, also, he was here to check on McCoy. Nyota had expressed worry over him that morning after visiting.

"You want a seat, Spock?"

He turned as the doctor entered the room, a cup of coffee in one hand and a PADD in the other.

"No, thank you, Doctor."

McCoy set the coffee aside, moving to the bed to compare the data on the PADD to the biobed readings. As Spock watched him, he began to really notice the state the doctor was in. His eyes were bloodshot, ringed in dark circles, his hair sticking at odd angles, as though he had run his fingers through it many times. He hadn't shaved, and was looking rather gaunt.

"When did you last sleep, Leonard?"

"Does it matter, Spock?"

"I think it would matter to the captain. And... I admit to a concern, as well."

"May miracles never cease," McCoy muttered, and they both knew what miracle he was praying for.

"Doctor, you must rest. The captain's status is unlikely to change in the time it would take for you to eat and sleep."

"I can't, Spock. Not right now."

"Why?"

"Because he needs me."

"He needs all of you, Leonard. Not a shell of yourself."

McCoy's shoulders sagged at that.

"I don't want to leave him," he admitted. "I promised I wouldn't leave him."

"You do not have to leave him. You could bring a cot into this room, perhaps. Shower in the en suite, and eat the meals Nyota has been bringing you."

"When I try to sleep, Spock, all I can see is him in that chamber. In that damn body bag in my medbay. It... It hurts, Spock. In a very human way, it hurts. It- this grief, it's like a wound, Spock."

"As you so often tell me, Leonard, you are a doctor. You treat wounds, better than most. You are healing the captain. The best way to heal that grief is to continue to do so. But if you damage yourself with overwork, you will not be able to care for him to the best of your abilities."

McCoy was silent for a moment before nodding.

"You're right... Thank you, Spock."

"It is... My pleasure, Leonard."

When he visited again that night, he found McCoy asleep on a cot not far from Kirk's bed, PADD still in hand. He had showered and shaved. The plate Nyota had sent him was now empty, and someone, presumably nurse Chapel, had covered him with the knitted blanket that he usually kept on the couch in his office.

Spock allowed himself to feel relieved, and quietly retreated, turning down the lights as he did so. The next morning, Kirk woke up.

🌹

"He may be a little disoriented when he wakes up," M'Benga told the assembled officers. "It was touch and go there, and we nearly lost him a few times. But I do believe he will make a full recovery."

"You are sure?" Chekov asked, his face pale. Sulu had his hand on his back for support.

"Yes. He is stable. Now all he needs is rest."

"Thank you," Kirk spoke up, gripping one of McCoy's hands from his place beside his bed. "Bones couldn't have been in better hands."

"You remind him of that when he wakes up," M'Benga laughed quietly, his calm manner helping ease the tension in the crowd. "You can talk to him now, too. Even if he doesn't hear you, it'll help him to have friendly voices around."

Scotty coughed to hide a relieved sniffle, and patted Kirk's shoulder amiably.

"Why don't you start, Captain?"

Kirk nodded, thinking.

"Bones, you know we all love you, right? So you've gotta come back to us. It's not the same without you here yelling at me."

"Indeed, Doctor. Your colorful metaphors are... Missed." Spock looked down the line of visitors expectantly.

"Da, and you promised to let us talk to Joanna next time she called you!" Chekov watched the sleeping man eagerly.

"Yeah, she and Demora are going to space camp together," Sulu pitched in. "If you don't wake up soon, who's gonna tell them how dangerous it is?"

Nyota laughed at that, and everyone (save Spock) grinned.

"Aye, Len. And you're gonna have to be the one to tell Jaylah what happened, you know," Scotty said. "Otherwise the lassie's likely to steal a ship and come all the way from Earth to make sure you aren't still hurt."

"What about you, Uhura?" Kirk asked. "You know how he likes to hear you sing. Why don't you sing one of his favorites."

"Good idea," she nodded, thinking. "I know just the one."

Soon the medbay was filled with her soft, comforting voice.

"I'll keep you safe..."

🌹 This was a long one! Thank you for reading! This was based on a prompt by @hlabounty96 ! I hope you enjoyed! 🌹

#leonard mccoy #james t kirk #jim kirk #spock #nyota uhura #scotty star trek #pavel chekov #hikaru sulu #star trek aos #star trek #my writing

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fuck-customers · 3 years

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I think this would be considered triggering. No violence but comments that are pretty much run of the mill ignorance. Comments about ableism, fatphobia, and transphobia.

We recently had a co-worker quit (I'm gonna name her Becky. It's not her real name but it seems to fit her). And her being upset of our stoic attitude about it is kind of weird. Mostly because from what I understand, she doesn't like anyone of us. In fact the reason she's quitting is because the one person she does like was also quitting (I'll call her Lulu. Again not her real name).

Becky and Lulu, both vet techs, worked mostly overnights on the weekends together. Lulu was already working part-time at another vet clinic and they recently offered her a full-time job, which is why she quit at our clinic. Apparently she put in a good word at that clinic to hire Becky as well.

Some of us really liked Lulu. Whenever someone leaves, individual co-workers would give little gifts like sweets or a stuffed toy. Lulu did get a few gifts, but Becky didn't. We didn't full out hate her, but we did find her annoying at times. It was mostly because, she was very passive aggressive.

A few examples.

While she doesn't call anyone the r-word, she usually says around the line of "this way is re*arded, do it this way". She been called out before. When she let the word "slip out" she'd give out an apology in a very annoyed voice.

A lot of days we're extremely busy. Some days we're understaffed with a full house of patients. Restocking supplies tend to get pushed back. When Becky comes in, she would complain about her and Lulu having to do it on their overnight shift. People would explain how busy they were throughout the day but she would say "I understand, but it's not fair that I have to do it".

I swear to god, every week. The first thing she would do when she comes into work. Weigh herself on the dog scale and then complain about the weight she isn't losing or weight she's gaining. And she's skinny. She probably have self-image issues and I can empathize that struggle. But why does she have to do it at work? Does she not own a scale at home?

Another vet tech (I'll call her Hazel) was showing us a picture of her son, looking adorable wearing a girl's jacket, which he loves. When Becky saw the picture she scoffed and rolled her eyes. Hazel didn't want to start trouble, so she just went ok whatever, especially since she'll be clocking out in an hour. Her mood did drop drastically after that. It also didn't help that Becky was saying to Lulu "if my son wanted to wear girl clothes, I'd wouldn't encourage it" while Hazel was in earshot. Their interaction remained strained with no more than a "hey how are you doin" between them. Now that Becky's gone, Hazel's happily showing pictures of her kids putting barrettes in her husband's hair.

So she's somewhat tolerable, but unlikable. But from what I understand, the feeling is mutual. We wished her luck on her new job. But like I said, nobody gave her any gifts. She was so upset by this that she left crying on her last day.

We're a pretty tight-knit group. We share our good and bad times with each other. Becky would talk about her struggle about being a single mom and feeling like her son loves her ex-husband more than her. Maybe that feeling of being unloved is an insecurity of hers.

I don't know.

Has anyone ever dealt with that? Where you know someone didn't like you, but then they act surprised when you didn't like them either? Am I right to feel confused by this situation?

#trigger warning #submission

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oriun · 2 years

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It's been difficult to keep up with work the past couple of weeks. It keeps getting busier and busier, it's a constant uphill battle and I feel like a lot of time is spent on fruitless constant complaining from some people while the rest of us run around trying to get things done. I can't, I literally can't, get everything done. There's not enough time in the day, and my main role has slowly become large enough that it should really be a two people job. I don't know how they'll manage when I leave in a few weeks. I don't mean that as in what will they do without me, but what will they do with one less person who's unlikely to be fully replaced any time soon.

Not getting everything done has always bothered me, but it's also always been easy for us lab people to unconsciously and unintentionally detach ourselves from the patients. You mostly see numbers. Depending what job you're doing that day, numbers may be the only thing you see attached to the piece of human being you're working with. It's always "can you get case 1347 done asap," no name, no history.

Moving towards admin there's still numbers, but there's always a name and often clinical details. There's no way you can forget there's a person behind them. Now it's "can you get Smith's case done asap, they have metastasis and need results by this date to proceed with treatment."

A few weeks ago I had a man on the phone with only one treatment option left, who was waiting for our results which kept getting delayed for various reasons, some completely avoidable, others unavoidable due to being continuously understaffed. He was tired of things not getting done so he decided to chase the results himself because his care team wasn't doing enough. Coming from a job where we don't ever see or talk to patients, this really hit me.

In the lab I always felt that sense of failure when we couldn't get everything done, and I'd go home feeling bad and disappointed, but it was along the lines of "we have 50 blocks we couldn't cut today." Now it's not just "there's this many cases we haven't sent out for testing" in my mind, but actually knowing their names and ages and medical needs. It weighs on me. Their illness doesn't pause when our working day ends.

One of the most frustrating parts of the job is all the things we don't get to do because there's just not enough people, and you have to prioritise the work, but the patient at the bottom of your list is still a person with cancer.

I almost feel bad leaving because I know it's very likely they won't replace me. They rarely fully replace anyone when they go. But this has been an ongoing issue for years and it never gets any better.

I know my new job will bring the same frustrations because I'll be dealing with departments like my current one that are constantly under pressure and struggling to get everything through within the target times.

I think I'm coping well with it. I can leave work at work for the most part. I'm not burning myself out with endless extra hours or getting drunk when I get home. I can only do so much. I’m glad I’m at a point where I can handle working under this pressure. I do enjoy the fast paced work and all the problem solving involved, but it’d be nice to have enough resources to not be constantly behind no matter how hard you try to keep up.

And I’m glad in terms of mental health I’m in a headspace where I can handle the frustration and sadness and sometimes anger that I experience, and do it in healthy and constructive ways. I can feel these things for what they are, rather than them just becoming yet another thing contributing to a mental illness episode.

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unfunny-quips · 4 years

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Snippets from The 22 Deaths of a Fool (an akeshu fic that I’ll eventually write more for).

Makoto’s week started far too early Monday morning with a call about a body being fished out of the bay.

It was supposed to start with a nice breakfast with Haru. Makoto had been looking forward to testing the latest scone recipe her wife had come up with for the cafe and enjoying the freshly roasted coffee Haru had made special just for them. Their schedules had been hectic recently, not leaving them with much time to see each other outside of curling together in an exhausted heap on the couch for a bit before shuffling off to bed.

There was no helping it, unfortunately. Between Okumura Industries’ newest restaurant branch Grand Opening pulling most of Haru’s time not spent at the cafe and the precinct being critically understaffed there was little time left for each other. Makoto’s captain had promised that at least a few more detectives were going to be pulled in from other precincts around the city - and apparently one all the way from Osaka - but until they actually were transferred Makoto was stuck handling the casework of three people. She didn’t even have a partner anymore to share the workload with since her last one had quit to pursue a career in writing romance novels.

She couldn’t even be mad. Not really. Himura’s novels were a delight to read and Makoto had bought every last one he’d written over the past three years and even had him sign them for her. He never seemed so happy as he did the day of his retirement party when he was loudly recounting all the time he would have to focus on his next series.

So, overworked and underprepared, it was to the bay she went. Dark circles under her eyes from not enough sleep and her wife’s coffee on hand as she trudged her way through the chill autumn morning. Haru had been nice enough to drag herself out of their warm bed and make a thermos for her while she showered and got ready. Makoto didn’t know what she’d do without her. Probably walk into traffic in an exhausted, uncaffeinated daze.

She arrived at the scene almost awake just as the body was being carefully zipped up and placed on a gurney, the coroner finishing up her notes as Makoto donned the last of her appropriate crime scene gear and carefully picked her past where the the forensic techs were scouring the area for evidence and towards the perpetually hunched form of the coroner.

“Dr. Ito.” Makoto greeted, only just managing not to yawn. The Coroner worked nights and by all rights should have already gone home by now rather than dragging her exhausted self to an early morning crime scene. She didn’t need Makoto yawning to remind her of how long she’d been on shift.

“Detective Niijima. Nice to see you this beautiful morning.” Ito said flatly, looking more dead eyed and exhausted than usual. A feat in and of itself, especially with her wild mess of hair tucked back under the hood of her clean suit and her tired eyes half hidden behind a pair of safety glasses. Ito nodded towards the bodybag now being loaded up onto the transport. “Won’t be able to tell more til I get him back to the office, but so far it looks like you have an interesting one on your hands this time.”

Makoto tilted her head, “Oh?” She asked. Ito was good at her job, exceptionally good, but had an air of apathy to her that rarely was shaken. Makoto had come to learn over the past few years that the coroner wasn’t actually indifferent to the victims she encountered or the cases she helped work on, but rather just worn out. Fifteen years on the job could do that to a person.

That Ito looked so interested now spoke of one thing for the case: trouble.

“Yep.” Ito said, “The call reporting the body came in a bit over three hours ago from port security. Me and the techs have been on the scene for about two hours.” Ito jabbed a gloved finger over her shoulder towards transport, “Everything I’ve seen in the report so far shows sightings of our victim drifting around since 2:06am. That’s four hours. And it’s very likely based on what the tech’s told me about the currents here in the port that our friend was probably pushed in from the bridge over the course of several hours,” Ito spread her hands wide, “So in the water probably since midnight and yet our victim looks fresh as a daisy. Barely any sign of decomp on him at all. Hell just you and me talking and not official? Looks like he could have died minutes ago.”

Makoto blinked. “That’s….”

Unsettling. To say the least.

“Yeah, I know.” Ito nodded, “Like I said, I won’t really know for sure until I get him back at the office and really start digging into things. But that’s not all.”

Unease pooled in her stomach at that. A faint warning at the back of her mind she couldn’t quite name just yet. Frowning behind her face mask. “What else is there?”

Ito glanced over her notes, “For the most part he looks fairly normal. Male. Black hair. Appears to be in mid to late twenties in good shape. 175cm tall. No apparent injuries or cause of death. Then there’s the tattoo.” The coroner pointed up at her covered head, “Right dead center of his forehead he has two Xs. Like roman numerals. And that’s not even getting to his eyes. Never seen anything like it before. Bright gold.”

“Gold?” Makoto found her mind, still a bit foggy at the edges, snapped wide awake at that. “What do you mean? Like contacts or?”

Ito shook her head. “I checked and nothing. I thought it was a trick of the light first but my assistant confirmed it and we double checked the pictures the photographer took.” Ito shifted, “Certain diseases can be known to cause a copper ring in the eye, I’m thinking it might be something similar. Certainly will make it easier to identify him.”

“Right,” Makoto said, feeling far away from her body. She watched blankly as Ito finished up her notes and climbed into the coroner’s van.

Golden eyes.

Apprehension crept at the back of her neck, a faint dread she couldn’t quite explain settling on her shoulders as she thought of a world long gone to her. A world of shadows and monsters and gods. A world of golden eyes.

A world that shouldn’t exist anymore.

—

Ren Amamiya stood still and quiet in the doorway of Sae’s office, eyes hidden beneath a tangle of dark bangs as he stared at the floor before him.

Sae hadn’t even noticed him arrive, so intent on making sure she didn’t drop the oversized pile of paperwork in her arms as she hauled it over to her desk. She’d just made him out in her periphery as glanced down, and nearly jumped out of her own skin as she did so. She very nearly flung the files in her arms across the room - which would have been a nightmare to gather back up and get back into order.

She should have never let Tae talk her into watching that horror movie the other night, she’d been jumpy ever since.

Swearing under her breath as she realized just who it was lurking there she sighed, “Ren, god, you scared me half to death.” Adjusting her hold on the folders in her arms she added, “I always thought Makoto was exaggerating when she said you needed a bell on you. Here, give me a second to put these down.

Turning away from the boy in the doorway she dropped the files onto her desk, glancing at the clock that ticked away next to her computer, the soft clicks of the mechanism turning slowly turning the hands the only sound in the still office. Last minute before midnight, no wonder she was so wired. The files could wait until morning when she could recruit the legal secretary to help her pour over them.

“What are you even doing here so late?” She asked her unexpected guest absently. Her attention was on shuffling the file folders into a neater pile - exhausted or no, there was no need for clutter. Once some semblance of order was in place she looked up at him with a small smile. “Don’t tell me you need a lawyer.”

Ren was no longer in the doorway. Only empty air and the reception area beyond with it’s expansive windows that overlooked the glittering city beyond.

She paused, brows furrowed in confusion. She hadn’t heard him leave. Well, she supposed she hadn’t heard him arrive either - and something buzzed faintly at the back of her mind at that thought. A warning that she’d missed something.

Frowning she shook it off and strode across the room to the open door. Knowing Ren, he’d likely seen the chance for a prank after seeing how spooked she’d been earlier. Maybe even had come in the first place for that exact purpose, Sae had mentioned he’d swung by the clinic recently. Sae didn’t doubt the doctor and the thief might hatch up a plan together to try and rattle her in the wake of the horror movie debacle.

The reception area was empty when she leaned out, no sign of Ren at all.

She frowned.

While her office only had her desk lamp on, lengthening the shadows and giving her eyes a rest from the fluorescent overheads, the reception area was still brightly lit. There were now dark corners for Ren to hide behind, and from where her office was she could see behind the reception desk. The other offices were locked up tight, and though she didn’t doubt that the thief could open one and slip inside in the sparse seconds it took her to cross the room, she doubted that he would just to pull a prank on her.

“Ren?” She called, leaning to see if he had tucked himself behind one of the plants by the elevator. He wasn’t there. Her frown deepened. Had she imagined him there after all? She hadn’t thought so. For all Ren tended to blend into a crowd when he wanted to go unnoticed, his presence was a difficult thing to ignore once you knew him. He had that kind of charisma, even back when he’d been in highschool. Bruised, beaten and drugged half out of his mind and still able to convince her to help him. He’d only grown into himself more in the ten years that followed.

There was no answer to her call. Her frown deepened.

She’d call him, she decided. If he was playing a prank on her, whatever cheerful sugar-pop ringtone Futaba had set him up with this week would give him away. Mind settled she turned -

And came face to face with Ren, a scant few inches behind her.

With a swear she jumped and stumbled back, catching herself on the doorframe so that she didn’t tumble to the floor entirely.

Ren didn’t make a move towards her, no attempt to reach out and help her, no offered apologies for scaring her so badly. Just stood there, still as a statue with shoulders hunched awkwardly up around his ears. His head was dipped down towards the floor, chin nearly to his chest. His face was obscured by the odd angle and the wild mess of his dark hair. His clothes, too, were wrong. A frayed and thin jumpsuit, black and white stripes, a shackle on each wrists as they hung limply by his sides. There were heavy chains hanging from them, pooling at his bare feet.

Something was wrong.

The thought settled coldly in her stomach, made the hair at the back of her neck prickle and heart hammer in her chest. She felt cold, looking at him, her hands shaking and fingers numb. Ren wasn’t speaking, wasn’t moving, wasn’t breathing.

That gnawing thought from before, that sense that she missed something from just moments ago. Seeing Ren now, awkward and strange and wrong, it made the pieces click in place.

She hadn’t heard the elevator. Hadn’t heard the squealing of the stairwell door being pulled open either. Ren had always been light on his feet, a cat’s grace with the same tendency to get in trouble, but even then he would have had to slide in through a window in order to not have been heard arriving on the floor. A tricky thing to do twenty stories up.

“Ren?” She asked, cautious, voice wavering slightly in the sudden stillness of the room. Her throat felt tight.

A distant echo at the back of her mind, some ancient instinct shivering in warning. Not of danger, per se, but of something. She felt as if she was something very small and very helpless standing in the shadow of a giant about to collapse. Rooted to the spot despite knowing that the crash of the colossus might kill her.

Something dripped from his face to the floor. She thought, for the briefest of seconds, that it was a tear. That Ren might be crying but as her eyes flicked down she saw that no. Not tears. Blood. Thick and dark, sliding from his hidden face and collecting in a horrible constellation at their feet.

“I’m sorry.”

Her body trembled at his voice, cold fear icing her veins. Soft and thready, more whimper than whisper. It was not his voice that made her shake, not exactly, but something in it. A high clear note she couldn’t identify that made her ears ring and her bones throb. She felt it in her chest, felt her breaths struggle beneath the weight of it. She thought that her knees might buckle beneath the weight of it.

His head, slowly, began to lift. The movement was wrong - it was all wrong - too slow, too fast, too at odds with the way a human’s body was supposed to work.

She saw his eyes first.

Gleaming and golden, shining all the brighter against the dark blood that covered his face. No, not covered. His face was simply gone. The flesh around his eyes torn away grotesquely, it looked almost like a mask.

Her feet were rooted to the spot, body locked in place by the horrible desperate expression he held. She wanted to run, wanted to flee, but her body wouldn’t obey. Even as he took a shambling awkward step, body still not moving the way it should, the way someone as graceful and languid as Amamiya Ren was meant to move. He shambled and stumbled, hands raised - and they too were red, fingernails torn and hand stained, god it looked like he’d torn his face off. The thought made her want to scream, everything about the situation made her want to scream.

“I’m…I’m so sorry.” He collapsed into her, hands - cold, cold, cold - desperately clung to her. She felt the chill of his skin down to her very bones, felt the weight of fear and oddly grief choking her. Not her own, not entirely. “I’m sorry…I’m sorry…”

He whimpered it like it was a prayer. His words looping on each other again and again, apologies she couldn’t understand crashing over her, drowning her. That sound that tainted his voice worsened, making her head spin and her stomach churn. He sagged into her hold - when did she move? When did her arms reach up to catch him, when did she become the one keeping him in place? - and they both collapsed to the floor.

She was crying. Cold tears sliding down her cheeks and landing on his torn and tattered face. His eyes were so wide, so frightened that she felt sick as his terror crashed and entwined with her own.

And then she felt the solidness of his body give.

His shoulders, his back, crumbling beneath the weight of her hold as if he was no more than wet paper. Inch by inch he collapsed into himself, black cracks appearing over him - not just his skin, but his eyes and even his clothes - the splintering spidery lines of cracked porcelain. Where he’d already crumbled was only black ash, flaking away and falling apart in her hands.

His mouth, half deteriorated already, opened.

“I’m so sorry.”

Sae jerked awake at her desk, nearly knocking over the cold cup of coffee at her elbow. Her heart pounded in her chest and she panted as her gaze darting around the dark corners of her office.

A dream. Just a dream.

She’d fallen asleep while pouring over her files and had another nightmare from the horror movie Tae showed her. That was all.

She’d should just go home and try to get some actual rest, maybe watch a comedy to settle her mind. And tomorrow, tomorrow she’d call Ren and see if he wanted to meet up for lunch. Just as a reassurance, just to see a friend. And maybe - Her hands stilled where she’d been gathering up her things, eyes wide as she stared.

The clock read midnight.

There was ash staining her fingertips.

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anotheronechicagobog · 4 years

Text

Back In Chicago Part 5 Jay Halstead x Choi!reader

written by @anotheronechicagobog

warnings: mention on canon violence, Choi can be an ass sometimes so he isn’t OOC in this, mention of death

A/N: Sorry it’s so short

Also, Caskata is a Brazillian name that means like a waterfall- strong and persistent. I like unique names with deep meanings (probably biased cause my name is unique with a deep meaning lol)

Heated sunrays irritated you awake. You hated closing the curtains before you went to bed, but hated waking up to the sun blasting you in the face, making you all hot and sweaty before the day had even begun. Your pillow vibrated and shook underneath your head, you noted that you probably fell asleep on your boyfriend’s chest instead of your pillow again, but couldn’t bring yourself to care. You knew how much he loved it. “Good morning gorgeous.”

“Flattery will not get me out of bed.”

“No, but the reminder that the sun is about to make it even hotter in here might.”

“... Fine. I’m getting up. You shower first, I’ll start breakfast.”

“Okay. Hey, I love you.” You smiled as he gave you a quick kiss. “I love you too.”

Once both of you were showered and sitting down to eat, you noticed that Jay really looked like he wanted to say something. And you had an inkling as to what it was about. “I’m not going to talk to my dad, Jay. I know that you think you’re what came between us, but that’s not true. He pulls this traditionalist sexist stuff on me all the time. I am always the one to apologize and mend our relationship, but not this time. I want to be on good terms with him so, so badly, but it will do nothing coddle and enable him to keep up his behaviour. And I have gained too much self-respect to let that happen. I want Caskata to have it better than I did, and I’m going to do what I can to make it happen.”

“I know, I just don’t want you to regret it if something happens.”

“I appreciate that you’re thinking about me, and I get where you’re coming from, but I am really proud of myself. I have never stood up to him like this before, and I feel... Strong. Powerful. And it feels good.”

“It looks good too.”

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Work kept you busy, a steady stream of patients flittering into your schedule all day. Some needed to see you, some just needed you to do the pre-doctor questions and measurements. It was a nice change of pace, compared with what you were used to. Imagine working at the ED but in underdeveloped, overcrowded, underfunded, and understaffed hospitals and clinics. It was nice to get a doctor because they had a patient waiting for them, alive, as opposed to needing them to declare death. Still, you tensed and prepared for the worst when you were asked “Choi, get the doctor.” It didn’t have the same implications as it had at your previous jobs but you couldn’t just drop a reaction that had been ingrained in you. In the way you perceived your work. “Y/L/N, someone’s on the phone for you.”

“What? Who would call me here instead of my cell?”

“I don’t know, but can you make it quick and ask them not to do it again?”

“Sure thing. Hello?”

“Am I speaking to Y/N Choi?”

“Yes, who is this?”

“I am nurse Gertrude Marsh, I’m calling from the Gaffney medical centre, you are the emergency contact for detective Jay Halstead, correct?”

“Yes, oh my god, is he okay?”

“I cannot give out his condition over the phone, how long will it take you to get to the emergency department?”

“Twenty-five minutes.” You didn’t wait for a response, hung up, and ran to find your boss.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You weren’t sure how you did it, but you got to the ED in fifteen minutes rather than twenty-five. “My name is Y/N Choi, I’m here for Jay Halstead, I’m his girlfriend and emergency contact.”

“Doctor Bekker? She’s here.”

“I am doctor Ava Bekker, please come with me. Jay is in dire need of surgery but we need you to approve it.”

“What’s his condition?”

“Minor concussion, stab wound in his lower right abdomen, nicked his large intestine. The bleeding was expected to stop on its own and then we’d just stitch him up but it hasn’t, we suspect there’s more damage-”

“But you won’t be able to find the other source, or sources, of bleeding unless you operate. Do it. You have my consent.”

Then suddenly it was like Dr. Bekker had never been beside you in the first place, as she turned into a blonde blur giving orders and running to the OR. You managed to kiss Jay on the forehead before they took him away.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Will was also, understandably and visibly, distraught. You sat in the surgical waiting room, side by side. Natalie had come by with deli sandwiches and coffee when it became apparent that it would take a small army, or Maggie, to move either of you. The surgery wasn’t done. It was running longer than it should. Both you and Will knew it. You hadn’t gotten an update in a while, and you were trying not to think about the implications of that.

Ava exited the surgical room and entered the waiting room, no longer in her surgical scrubs. “Y/N, Will. There were some complications, but Jay pulled through. We repaired all the damage. You both will be able to see him in two hours in post-op. I would recommend getting something to eat. I have it on good authority that you haven’t eaten since yesterday and if you don’t take care of yourselves now I’ll sick Maggie on you.” And with that she turned on her heel and left the waiting room.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You’d gone home quickly to shower and change before coming back, only killing half an hour. You sat in the waiting room again, alone this time, when your dad approached you. “Here. I know it’s junk food, but you need to eat something and nothing else was open this late.” He handed you a pizza box which undoubtedly contained a small deep-dish pizza. You took the box gingerly and placed it on the tray table next to you. “Y/N, I am sorry. You were right, I had no right to treat you, or any woman, that way. I was wrong. The way I have been behaving and acting just as wrong. I didn’t realize it until recently, but I felt entitled to your decisions, which isn’t okay. I shouldn’t have done that and I know that just saying ‘I’m sorry’ won’t fix everything. So I would like to earn your trust and affection back. If that’s okay with you, of course.”

“I would really like that dad. Though I wish I’d had a camera to record you saying you're wrong...”

“Haha, very funny.”

“Seriously? I had to get stabbed for you apologize to Y/N?”

“Jay! I’m so glad that you’re okay. How are you feeling?”

He chuckled and held your cheek gently “Like I just got stabbed and pushed down a flight of stairs.”

“Isn’t that what Sergeant Voight said what happened to you?”

“Yes dad, it is. He was trying to make a joke.”

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izaswritings · 4 years

Text

Title: building trust

Fandom: RWBY

Synopsis: Oscar and Oz stage a prison break. Qrow… complicates things.

(Or: in which Oscar takes over as the voice of reason, Oz is Guilt, and Qrow is just having a very bad and emotional day, and these two are not helping. Rebuilding trust is harder than it looks— it’s all about the small steps.)

Notes: This fic is kind of an unofficial sequel to this story here, (or here) but you can still read this one on standalone if you want. Shoutout to the anon who told me I had to write the prison break fic-- this is for you, anon.

AO3 Link is here.

“This is…”

There is little left to say between the two of them, looking down and out over Mantle’s ruined and smoking streets. It is three hours after Oscar fell from Atlas, and now he is back again on the floating city, standing at the edge of the drop. From this height Mantle is a depressing sprawl of smoke and ruin. On the ground, the situation had been gruesome, but their view of the destruction had been limited. One house burning on a street corner, a few empty streets of rubble, and all the people vanished from sight, huddling away in the shelters. Any bodies slowly being buried by the snow.

As terrible as it sounds, in Mantle the Grimm had been the only trouble, and even then, not much. As Oz had put it, when Oscar had asked— evading Grimm is child’s play after almost a few thousand years of practice.

Ah, Oscar had said, at that. Well, when you put it like that…

Even finding an airship managed to be a far easier task than assumed. Oz knows where the military base is. Oz knows how to hotwire a ship. Oz knows… a lot of weirdly illegal things, actually.

“Your judgment is unappreciated,” Oz had said.

It’s just, this is the second time I’ve helped steal an airship, Oscar said back, and sighed. I can’t help but feel like we’re just going to end up facing a giant robot again.

“Deeply improbable,” Oz had begun, and then a soldier had started shouting and Oz dropped the conversation to yank back the controls and put them in flight.

And now, here they are: Atlas, again, in a private sector cordoned off, as close as they can get to the military custody cells without being detected. Getting off Mantle was, hilariously, the easy part. It is this next part that makes Oscar hesitate.

Oz is still in control—still bearing the pain of exhaustion and bullet wound bruises both, because in all this cascading disaster Oscar has yet to get either proper healing or an actual nap, and their aura is all focused on blocking out the cold—and it is Oz who looks away from the sight of Mantle, hands clenching tight over the knob of the cane, gripping the Long Memory like a lifeline.

This is awful, Oscar whispers, feeling thin. There is no surprise in his voice, in him. No horror. Just a quiet, seething sort of anger, a frustrated ache that this happened at all. That it has come to this.

Oz, for his part, can hardly seem to face it—he closes their eyes and turns their face away, breathing in slow and shaky. Oscar goes quiet, watchful. He can feel Oz’s thoughts as his own, which is why he knows what the other thinks of all this. The tangle of emotion is sobering. Regret, grief, anger… and a bitter taste all across their tongue, the awful bite of betrayal, because deep down they’d both thought Ironwood better than this.

This time, it is Oscar who offers the words they both need to hear. It… it isn’t your fault.

Oz exhales out a shaky breath, but his laughter is soft and bitter. “No?” He drags their eyes back to the ruined landscape below. When he speaks, his voice is distant and wondering. “How far Mantle looks from here. How shrunken. A failure on our part. A sign of neglect, really. A sign to do better.”

Oscar considers him. Doesn’t speak.

“I wonder if he ever saw it the same way,” Oz observes, clinically. He stares down at Mantle as if there is an answer in the smoke. “Perhaps, when he stood up here, looking down upon them… maybe he just saw Mantle as small.”

Still. Oscar is stubborn. How were you supposed to know what he thought about it?

“You are turning my own words against me,” Oz murmurs back, and finally turns away from the ledge. He walks them back to the building, their alleyway. The stolen airship sits half-hidden by a building, and with any luck, it’ll stay undetected. Oscar is praying the chaos is enough to confuse the sensors. “And on the same day, no less.”

Doesn’t make it less true.

A few blocks down, the military holding cells await. They’ve moved swiftly enough Oz doesn’t think Qrow will be at the prison yet—the hope is that he is here, for holding or interrogation or both. And given that this is the highest-priority military cell, and Ironwood called for Qrow’s arrest personally… the chances of him being here are high. Now, they just need to find him.

Oscar looks up at the barbed-wire walls and the very tall building, and sighs. More breaking and entering. Well, all right. Let’s steal a military scroll.

Oz hums, already scanning the entrance, walking up to the gate. “I thought you disliked stealing.”

They only bring out the giant robots for airships. We’re fine.

Despite everything, that actually gets Oz to smile again. “Hm. Sound logic, I suppose.” He turns and surveys the gate, then lifts his hand to wave at the officer stationed by the entrance. “Hello! Can you help me?”

“A kid? But what are you...” The guard’s gun lowers, and then she stills. “Wait. Your face. Aren’t you—!?”

The officer doesn’t get a chance to finish. Oz knocks her legs out from under her, calmly whaps her over the head, and then handcuffs her as she groans. He takes the scroll and opens it, surveying the device. The gate clicks open without any further issues. Oz looks out over the military holding yard and sighs. “Well. And now for the hard part.”

Everything else wasn’t hard?

“Stealing the airship didn’t require breaking and entering, I’m afraid. And this was just sense. Getting in the actual building will be just as hard as getting out.” Oz sighs a breath through their teeth, and glances down at the handcuffed officer, still looking woozy. “Especially if we do not want to be caught. I did not think about that. Hopefully, we will be gone before she gets out of the handcuffs.”

We could… wear a mask?

Oz considers this. “…No.”

But—

“No.”

Well, do you have a better idea?

Oz clasps their hands behind their back, looking up to survey the building. Oscar waits for him to think it out. Oz had explained some of it on the way here—it’s not as guarded as a prison, but it’s still a place designed to hold higher-ranking criminals, enemies that Ironwood places on top priority.

Oscar doesn’t like the look of the place. The sleek walls. The shiny surfaces. The glint of the barred windows seems cruel. After all that walking through Mantle, to stand in Atlas and witness the sheer wealth of difference between them makes something in him harden.

Oz must come to a decision—he lifts the cane and spins it in their hands before tapping it down hard on the snow. “The old fashioned way, then, I suppose,” he says. He heaves a heavy sigh. “We are a bit too small to believably steal any armor, unfortunately.”

I don’t think physically breaking our way into a prison is a...very good idea? Also, um. We are still… injured. Won’t that—hurt?

“Usually, it is not.” Oz starts for the door, cane by his side. “But if there is any bright side to this situation—” Oscar mentally makes a face, and Oz sighs again. “Yes, I know, and I agree—but again. Atlas is on high alert. Grimm are converging on the city. And Salem…”

That old bitterness, half-memory and half just Oz rises up, like static in Oscar’s soul, and together they both glance back at the shroud of dark storm clouds slowly moving in on the city. In the past hour, the wind has picked up to a howl. It won’t be long, now. The thought makes their aura shudder in dread and fury.

“Well. Salem is, currently, a far larger threat. I have no doubt that Atlas’s sensors have picked up on her invasion by now. If there was ever a time this prison would be understaffed and vulnerable… now is likely it. It is, too, why we were able to land the airship up here in the first place. Two days ago, I suspect we would have been shot just getting in the sky.”

They’re nearing the door, now.

“But… yes. We are still injured. Fighting will… likely aggravate the injury, regardless of our aura.” Oz hesitates. “If—I understand if you would rather not—”

No. It’s fine. Oscar settles back, shifting through the information. We need to get Qrow out. And if this really is the best time to do it—and the best way… His thoughts firm, steady and cold with determination. We can’t hesitate. There’s no time.

“…Very well.” Oz turns their eyes back to the door, and hefts the cane in hand. Though not in control, Oscar can still feel it—the shift in emotion, the cool blanket falling over their thoughts. The turmoil, the grief, the anger, the lingering fear Oz won’t acknowledge about seeing Qrow again—all of it, buried beneath a laser-eyed focus. “I will be quick.”

Just… try not to push us into passing out?

“Hm, yes, that would be unfortunate. Not to worry—I know our limits.”

I thought you just said you were out of practice.

Oz calmly holds up the officer’s scroll, unlocks the front door, and walks through. “Well. That was an hour ago.”

That’s… not comforting.

This—with the door open and the two of them already inside—is about when the guards finally notice them.

The ensuing fight is rapid-paced, and terribly one-sided. For someone who claims to be out of practice, Oz is swift and brutal in a way that runs entirely counter to his usual manner—he strikes the guards with merciless force, leaving crumpled and groaning bodies lying still on the floor behind them as they push their way into the prison. It never goes too far—no bones broken, no bruises that will lead to unfortunate death—but it is definitely impressive, and Oscar would be awed, if not for the looming sense of resigned doom that he’s definitely going to be feeling this fight for a while. Bruises for days. He’s not looking forward to it.

Oz, currently in the middle of slipping a scroll from the highest-ranked guard’s pocket, pauses at this. “In my defense,” he says mildly, standing them up to limp towards the next door, “we were already in rather rough shape. You would be feeling it anyway.”

I’m just… not looking forward to facing a full-scale invasion like this.

“…An understandable worry,” Oz admits, after a pause. “But you do not… have to feel it alone, as it were. I am happy to take on the burden should the aftereffects be—unpleasant.” He lifts their head. “And once we have a moment to breathe, our aura should start easing some of the pain. We will be okay, Oscar. We simply must hold on until we can rest again.”

Oscar hums a quiet agreement, watching through their eyes as Oz takes them up the hall. He’s frowning, slightly, brow furrowed. They’ve gotten in, but from here on out Oz is uncertain of where to go.

Oscar leans in, not so much taking control as sharing it, and ignores the rising ache of pain as he flickers their head to the side to look up at the front desk of the precinct. Do Atlas personnel keep records?

Oz blinks. “…Yes, actually.” He beelines for the desk, tapping at the computer keys. “A sound idea. Atlas is keen on efficiency. They should be—” He makes a noise. “Ah-ha. B-block.”

Second floor, holding cell 4E… doesn’t seem far. We should hurry.

“Agreed.” Oz spins the cane through their hand and heads for the stairs. Somewhere, an alarm starts to sound. Oz presses a hand to their side with an uncharacteristic curse, and sprints for it.

They make it to the second floor with only minimal resistance, and Oz heads right for the door half-way down the hall. “Here. This room.” He takes up the scroll and presses it to the scanner. The light clicks green. Oz closes the scroll and takes the handle, as if to push the door open—and stops.

There is a long pause. Oscar waits. Oz stares down at their hand for a long moment. There is the slightest of trembles through their fingers before he forces their hand to still. He takes a breath—tightens his grip—

Oscar gently pushes Oz out of the way, and then he is here again, he is himself again, in control once more. Physicality slams into him, the pain sharp and sudden and impossible to ignore, a stitch building in his lungs from the overwork. Still, this switch in control is almost too easy, which is telling enough, but Oz fumbles in something like shock.

Oscar—

And wow, okay, ow, that fight really pushed all the limits he didn’t even know he had, okay. Oscar grits his teeth and rides out the sudden wave of pain, spots dancing behind his eyes. Beyond a brief and pained hiss through clenched teeth, he manages to swallow it back. “It’s fine,” he whispers, once he feels he can breathe again. “It’s fine.”

Oz hesitates. I should…

“We all need to talk.” Oscar straightens with a pained exhale. “And we will. But there’s too much happening. One thing at a time. Prison break is—” He exhales again, smile twisting wry. “Is, um, probably a bad time.”

Oz is quiet for a very long moment. Oscar waits. They have very little time to lose, perhaps—already he can hear alarms beginning to ring, orders shouting out—but Oscar sets his feet and waits, calm, for the answer.

…Thank you. Oz sounds tired.

Oscar tilts his head and doesn’t bother with a reply, just turns the handle and pushes the door open into the holding cell. Light casts through the open door. Qrow is sitting on a lone bench in a dark cage, his head bowed and shoulders slumped. He doesn’t even look up when the door opens—but the person sitting next to him does.

“A kid?” Robyn Hill looks surprised. “Who the hell… wait. You’re the one from the dinner. With Ironwood.”

“Um,” Oscar says, mentally backpedaling for all he’s worth. What? Robyn? Why? “H-hi?”

Well. This is certainly a surprise. I don’t recall Ironwood putting out an arrest for her.

Yeah, neither does Oscar. Was she arrested with Qrow? Did they take her in just because? That seems... shitty.

At her comment, though, Qrow’s head snaps up. His eyes fix on Oscar and go wide. He straightens like he’s been shocked. “Wh—Oscar!?”

Oscar stares at them, trying to get his mind back on track. Oz chooses this moment to be unhelpful and go utterly silent, which is. Okay. Fine. After a pause, Oscar works his jaw and manages a weak smile. “Oh, um. Yep. That’s me.”

“How did you get here?” Robyn asks, still looking bewildered, but it is Qrow who jumps to his feet and heads towards the bars. “Kid,” he says. “Kid, I thought you were dead!”

“What?” Oscar says, and Oz says, The report, the officers must have told them, and Oscar snaps his mouth shut. “Oh, right. Right.” He pauses, a sinking feeling in his gut, a mingled dread from Oz and Oscar both. “Um.” He doesn’t want to tell them about Ironwood just yet. Not if he doesn’t have to. This just… isn’t the place for it. “It’s a long story.” He moves for the cell doors, holding out the guard scroll. “Let’s get out of here, first.”

Qrow passes a hand down his face, looking ragged but relieved, laughing quietly in a way that doesn’t make it sound like he’s laughing at all. Robyn just shakes her head. “No, wait,” she says, as Oscar unlocks the cell. “I don’t understand. How did you even find us here? This is a military facility!”

“They’re distracted with other things, right now,” Oscar says absently, pulling open the grate. His side aches. He bites back the wince. “They were undermanned. Um, I found keys.”

Robyn scowls at him. “You broke into a guarded government facility all on your own?” She sounds half-way between incredulous and impressed, and turns to shoot Qrow a glare, as if asking for an explanation. Qrow, too, is looking at Oscar oddly, his brow furrowed. He’s holding something tight in his hands, Oscar realizes suddenly—a small object, something reflective, that he’s flipping absently through his fingers.

Oscar meets Qrow’s gaze, calm, and offers a pale smile. “Not… entirely on my own,” he says, careful, and when Qrow goes still, he flips the Long Memory so he’s holding in it in both hands, a silent answer to the question he sees on Qrow’s face. He waits. Qrow doesn’t respond.

Oz is silent, too—a tangle of something like guilt and a pale regret, exhaustion—but all Oscar does is nod, and collapses the cane to clip it on his belt again. “It’s just me right now, though,” he says. Shouting drifts up from the floor below. Oscar turns to Robyn. “Can you fly an airship?”

She looks at him with narrowed eyes. “You gonna explain what the hell that cryptic-ass statement was?”

Oscar actually grins. “Sure.” The shouting grows louder. “Just, um, later?”

She considers him. Then she nods. “I can fly a ship.” She claps Qrow on the shoulder, and for a moment her voice goes awkwardly gentle. “Come on, asshole. Time to run.”

Qrow seems to jolt back to himself. His fingers clench around the thing in his hand. “Right. Right.” He shakes his head, turns to Oscar—and then shakes his head again. “Lead the way, kid.”

Oz murmurs in the back of his mind, muted. He seems shaken.

Oscar looks Qrow up and down. He does seem shaken. Oddly disconnected. There’s blood flecking off his sleeves, his hands. Oscar doesn’t like that look of it—it gives him a bad feeling.

His lips press. There’s no time.

“Let’s go,” he says, and rushes from the cell.

Escape is marginally easier than breaking in—Robyn seems almost too keen to bust some heads, and once they pick up their weapons she fights with gusto. She seems angry, and more than happy to take that anger out on the guards who’d locked them up. Oscar supposes he can’t really blame her. After everything she did for Mantle, the last few hours were probably like something from her own personal hell.

Qrow’s weapon is bloody all the way to the hilt, poorly cleaned. Qrow actually flinches when he sees it. Oscar is getting such a bad feeling about this.

Oz, too, is quiet. This isn’t good.

Yeah, obviously. But Oscar swallows it back.

They are running through the halls now, only slowed by the continuous stitch in Oscar’s side. He’s limping badly, and his cane is getting more use as a crutch than a weapon right now. Ow, ow, ow. He gets the sense Oz wants to offer to take over again, except they both know that’d cause too many problems right now. Oscar tilts back his head, looking at Qrow from the corner of his eye. “What do you think happened?”

…The object in his hand—it looks like a badge, don’t you think?

Oscar almost trips. Oh. Oh, no. “Do you think—?”

I am not sure. I wasn’t aware for a majority of those moments, and you only met him once. But… General Ironwood’s men are—incredibly loyal. It would not surprise me if…

Oscar presses his lips in a thin line, chest aching at the thought. He hadn’t known Clover Ebi well to have much of an opinion, but if Oz’s guess is right—that must have hurt.

“All good, kid?”

He looks up to see both Robyn and Qrow looking back at him, Robyn’s face creased in worry and Qrow’s blank in a way that makes him want to hide. Oh, shoot. He manages a smile. “Um.” How to salvage this?

We are still running for our lives. A rather more pressing issue at the moment, I would think.

Ah, right. “The airship is behind the building?”

Robyn shakes her head, looking exasperated, but turns back around to run. Qrow stares at Oscar for another long moment and then looks away so quick his neck snaps, and doesn’t look back again.

That… is not a good sign.

“Too late to worry about it now,” Oscar mutters back, and shoves out of the prison doors, side burning, breaths wheezing. The stitch in his lung is starting to become something agonizing. To Robyn: “It’s—t-there, that alley, it should be—still running—I hope—”

She is already turning the corner. “Got it. Get on!”

“T-trying!” Oscar wheezes out, and pushes forward. Pain flares up his side like the stab of a hot poker. His leg buckles again. Oscar makes a strangled noise and tips sideways, arm snapping out for the wall—

A hand grips under his arm and drags him upright. Qrow. He catches Oscar mid-stumble and pulls him forward, dragging them up the ramp and turning just in time to raise his weapon. The sharp ping of a blocked bullet rings out. “Close the damn doors!”

“On it!” Robyn is already in the pilot’s seat, flicking on the controls. “Hold on!”

The ground shudders and Oscar lunges for the airship wall, leaning heavily against the seats and gripping the seatbelts for support. His side is splitting in pain. His head spins, his vision going blurry. The bottom drops away, his ears popping from the pressure; outside the window, he watches as Atlas slowly fades into the clouds, the airship rising up into the sky. They’ve made it. They’ve made it!

He can’t breathe. Every inhale feels like it isn’t enough. Oscar curls up over his side and fights the urge to throw up.

Oz’s voice snaps in the back of his mind, sharp and calming. Oscar. Breathe.

“I—can’t—”

A moment of pause. Then: Let me take control.

Oscar grits his teeth. “But—”

You’re on the cusp of hyperventilation, and with our injuries as they are, such a thing will not be pleasant. I appreciate your concern, and I am grateful, but your wellbeing is far more important than my insistence on avoiding my problems. Let me help.

Oscar bows his head and struggles for one lingering second, and then drops control all at once. It’s one of their rockier switches—for a moment their head dips forward and they almost blackout, and then Oz snaps to awareness and inhales sharply, fighting to get their breathing back under control.

He sits them up straight and places a bracing hand to their side, leaning heavily against the side of the ship. He closes their eyes and slows their breathing, taking deep breaths despite the panicked burning in their lungs.

Oscar, dizzy and distant, his head clear now that he’s away from the pain, takes scope of their state and winces. The little strength they’d regained from their rest in Mantle’s pit is all but gone now. The weariness drags at him.

I… I’m sorry.

“Nothing to be ashamed of,” Oz murmurs back, and their aura flickers up, focused solely on their side. Thankfully, the airship has heating, which means their aura’s healing properties can now be fully utilized. “We, ah… perhaps pushed our luck too soon.”

“That so?”

They still— their shock two-fold, the flash of surprise belonging to Oscar and Oz both. In their exhaustion, they’d forgotten where they were. Across from them, Qrow is standing against the airship door, looking down at them with an expression turned cold and hard. “That isn’t exactly like you, Oz.”

…Oh, crap.

Oz doesn’t reply. For a moment he is very still, and then he forcefully relaxes, clenching and unclenching their fingers. His ache for the Long Memory is so strong that even Oscar can feel it, but Oz doesn’t reach for the cane, just pushes them to sit up straight and leans back against the wall, hands still pressed to their side.

“…Perhaps,” he says, finally, with slight strain. “But it has been a—rather tiring day. Even for me.” A pause. “We… all make mistakes.”

Qrow’s face darkens, a flash of anger like a storm. “Yeah, that’s an understatement.” His fingers are white-knuckled on his sleeve, his jaw tight. He straightens, looking ready to snap—

“Okay,” says Robyn, from the front. She turns back to look at them. “I’ll bite. The hell is going on? What the fuck just happened to the kid?”

Oz visibly winces. In the back of their mind, Oscar sighs. Oh, geez.

Oz speaks very quietly, under their breath. “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to—”

At this point, switching might make things worse, Oz. He pushes back, for once—hilariously—refusing control. Rebuilding trust, remember?

Oz sighs, but seems unsurprised, and Oscar suspects he perhaps just wanted to hear someone else say it. He straightens, then winces again when the pain in their side flares, bad enough even Oscar can feel it, though it’s muted by the distance.

“That is…” Oz exhales, hard. “I am Professor Ozpin. It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Hill. I have heard… good things about you.” He manages a smile. “To make a long story very short, I am—paired with Oscar through an old curse that has had me reincarnate again and again, until Salem is defeated. Oscar is my most recent incarnation. He is also, in fact, still here—I am just briefly taking control.”

Robyn blinks fast. She stares at them for a long moment, as if waiting for the punchline, and when one doesn’t come she sits back in the pilot’s seat and turns her face to the window, looking bewildered. “That’s… okay, then.”

Argh, we look so weird…

Oz’s expression twitches into a wan smile, but Qrow shifts and the smile drops, stone cold. Qrow does not look at all pleased. His eyes are bright with fury. “But why bother introducing yourself, anyway?” Qrow sounds icy. “Let me guess. The moment you give up control, snap! Gone away again, right?”

“What?” Robyn says.

Oz doesn’t react. For Robyn’s benefit, he says, reluctant and forced, “I… also have spent these last few months— mostly unaware, as it were. I have only just returned.” His eyes flicker to Qrow. He takes a long breath. “I… I want to say that I am—”

“Save it.” Qrow’s voice snaps. “Why now? Why today? Why the hell are you back?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Oz stares calmly back, but Oscar can feel his exhaustion, soul-deep and aching. They are both of them at their limit. “I… I am here. To stay. Even after Oscar takes back control. I am simply in control now to manage—the damage.”

Robyn’s eyes flash back, her hands tight on the airship controls. “The kid’s hurt?”

Qrow straightens at that. “What happened?”

Oz—

“They will find out sooner or later,” Oz says simply, cutting Oscar off. “Best to know now.” He closes their eyes and takes another breath. “Oscar sought to convince Ja—General Ironwood to change his mind about Mantle. Ironwood… did not take well to this.” He pauses, then sighs. “He shot us off a cliff.”

There is a long, awful silence. Qrow looks pale. Robyn’s hands are white-knuckled on the controls. “So that’s it,” she says, voice tight. “That’s it. That’s—where he stands.”

Qrow stares. “…Are you serious?”

“…It broke our aura.” Oz presses their hand against the wound, breathing shallowly. “Only a bruise, thankfully, but… if Oscar’s aura had been any more depleted, we would not have survived the bullet, let alone the fall.”

Nothing. Qrow is still. Perhaps it is the shock about Ironwood, or whatever happened that bloodied Qrow’s weapon and left Clover Ebi’s pin in his grasp, but all his anger seems abruptly drained. He slumps against the door, hand covering his face. For a moment the only noise is the rattle of the airship, battling against the storm.

Oz looks away. “I understand if you cannot forgive me,” he says, in the silence. “And I will not ask you to. But Salem is coming. And if we do not act soon, then Atlas will meet a fate even worse than Beacon.” He lifts his head, but still, cannot seem to bring himself to look back at Qrow. “I… understand if you don’t trust me. I have not, after all, proved myself trustworthy.” He hesitates, longer, and then, quietly: “But please. Whatever the plan… let me help.”

Qrow breathes in. Breathes out. Straightens against the door. “I don’t trust you.” Blunt. Sharp. Oz doesn’t flinch, but his eyes close, and Oscar would cringe if he could. “And forgiveness isn’t even on the table, frankly. But.” Qrow scrubs a hand down his face. “Fuck, if James has really—well. We could use all the help we could get.” His hand lowers. His eyes are sharp. “Hey, Oscar.”

Oscar brightens in interest. Me?

Oz says, cautiously, “He’s listening.”

Qrow stares at them, as if trying to see Oscar past Oz’s eyes. “Do you trust him?”

Oscar’s response is immediate. I’m willing to try.

Oz winces. “Oscar—”

Like I said before. It’s never too late to build trust. Not if you’re willing to mend it.

Oz hesitates. Takes a deep breath, then pauses again, unsure of how to voice it. “Ah, he—”

“Stop.” Oz’s mouth snaps shut. Qrow closes his eyes. He looks tired again. “I can tell. Kid’s face is an open book, even when you’re the one wearing it.” His eyes open. He lifts his hand and looks at his palm. Oz was right—it is Clover’s badge, small and silver and flecked with drying blood.

Qrow looks at the badge for a long time, then gently closes his fingers around it. He tucks the badge away in his inner coat pocket, where his flask used to sit. “Well,” he says, to the wall. “If Oscar’s willing to give you a chance… fine.”

Oz falters, obviously taken off-guard. His surprise is tinged with something sharp and golden, a rush of relief. “I—that’s—thank you. I will—”

“I’m not done.” Qrow’s stare bores into them. “I don’t forgive you. At the moment, I’m too angry to really consider it. The kids… who knows. Maybe they’ll be a different story. But whatever happens. Whatever comes next? You’re not in charge. And if you step out of line, if you lie—again?” Qrow leans forward. “This is it, Oz. One last chance.” His voice rasps. “Try not to fuck it up, yeah?”

Silence, again. Qrow leans back against the door. He seems drained. Tired. He closes his eyes.

“I understand,” Oz says. He looks down. “Thank you.”

Another pause. The silence stretches. Oscar nudges him, and Oz takes a breath. “Qrow. I am sorry for your loss. He seemed like a good man.”

Qrow’s jaw clenches, and he looks up, livid—but Oscar is already in control again, blinking fast from the blood rush and pulling a face at the floor. Qrow slumps. “That—!”

“He meant it.” Oscar presses at his side, closing weary eyes. He feels tired, but—pleased, too. Oz is a quiet sigh in the back of his mind, but his emotion is a tangle of guilt and bone-deep relief. A chance. It is more than Oz feels he deserves, but that is what he’s been given.

Still. I wouldn’t exactly label that conversation as having “gone well,” Oscar.

“No,” Oscar agrees, “but it’s a start.” He lifts his head and gives Qrow a weak smile. “Thanks for hearing him out.”

Qrow sighs again. “The things I do for you kids.”

Oscar laughs at that. Then he trails off. “Oh.”

“Oh?”

“Oh, shoot. The others—” He tries to sit up, and hisses when his side twinges. The pain is fading under the focus of their aura, slowly and surely, but it’s still seizing. “Salem is coming—and they think I’m dead or, you know, that you’re in prison—we need to—can we—?”

“Calm down, pipsqueak.” Robyn. She’s already flicking through the controls. “Finally, something I can do. That conversation was dramatic, don’t get me wrong, and it did explain some stuff, but wow that was awkward to sit through. Give me a sec.”

Qrow puts a hand back over his face. In the back of Oscar’s head, Oz is a momentary burn of embarrassment.

I’ll admit. I forgot she was there.

Oscar snickers once, smothers it at Qrow’s glare, and gives Robyn a smile. “If you can reach them—”

“Got it.”

Static crackles through the airship. A voice bleeds through. No-nonsense and sharp—Maria. “Who is this?”

Oscar sits back, eyes half-lidded, exhaustion lingering, listening to the sound of his friends’ voices. Jaune. Ruby. Nora and Ren and Weiss and all the others. He closes his eyes with a smile, calls a weak affirmative when they demand after him, and lets their relief wash over him, warm, welcome. They’re all alive, they know he’s alive—Qrow is as willing to work with Oz as he can be, and sooner or later they’ll have a plan.

Salem is coming. The storm is almost upon them. But there is a warmth, Oscar thinks, in knowing he won’t face it alone.

Maybe Ironwood never saw Oscar for Oscar, and maybe he never saw Mantle as a place worth saving—who can know? But the people here care, the people here see him, and together, he thinks, they can at least give Mantle a chance.

Oscar.

He pries his eyes open. Qrow and Robyn are talking with the others—hashing out a place to meet, to plan. Soon they’ll all be together again. Soon they’ll figure it out.

Thank you. I know I have said that numerous times today, but… truly. Thank you for giving me a chance.

Oscar hums, and closes his eyes. “Had an advantage,” he mumbles back, exhausted. “Knew you meant it.”

Oz feels lighter. Almost as if he wants to laugh. True. Oscar’s head dips. Oz’s voice is warm. Rest, Oscar. I’ll wake you when we land.

He knows Oz will. There is a peace in knowing that—in having Oz watch his back. Oscar tips his head forward and lies down on the airship seats, and lets the crackling static of his team’s voices and the rumble of the airship carry him to sleep.

#rwby #oscar pine #ozpin #qrow branwen #qrow #robyn hill #rwby ozpin #ozma #rwby7 spoilers #rwby 7 #rwby7 finale #rwby fic #iza fanfic #please reblog if u liked it!!!

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whumpywhumper · 4 years

Text

Waking Up

Tagging: @0idril0 @captivity-whump @castielamigos-whump-side-blog @walkingchemicalfire @untilthepainstarts @comfy-whumpee @imagination1reality0 @whatwasmyprevioususername

This directly follows: Humans Part 2

See the Master Post which needs to be updated

I really just want to get to the next parts I have written *shrugs*

Edit for Masterpost

~~~

Everything felt slow and heavy when he woke up for the first time.

Like he’d simultaneously been filled up with cotton stuffing, his muscles and organs replaced with fuzzy numbness, and like he’d been swaddled in pain, his limbs connected to him with tenuous spider webs, his bones like fractured, spun glass.

Instinctively, he tried to move, even though there was a bone deep fear that he would shatter all over the floor into a billion tiny pieces. But his eyelids refused to obey his desperate command to open, impossibly heavy, weighted down. His body was no better, and he felt a desperate whimper lock up in his throat, caught there like a burning coal.

His ribs moved on their own, every forceful expansion puncturing through the lethargy that has draped over him in a velvety cocoon, and god, fuck, it hurts so much. Everything hurts so much, and he doesn’t understand, why does it hurt so much?

Confusion made his anxiety spike in his chest, his heart picking up its pace as it tried to crawl up his throat, a previously unnoticed beeping picking the rhythm that sent his heart dancing. He didn’t know where he was or how he got to wherever here was, and he’s scared. He’s so fucking scared.

Other noises started to trickle in past the panic, past the whoosh of blood in his ears, but god, he was suddenly so fucking tired. Darkness was eating up what little awareness he’d gained, and he can’t fight it back, and it was so-

-damned-

dark.

~~~

The next time he drifted toward consciousness, things were a little clearer.

He was still in a lot of pain, still exhausted beyond all reason, but the fear had been muted somehow. Finally, finally, after a few tenuous moments, he managed to drag his gritty, dry eyelids open. The room swam and blurred as his eyes filled with tears, his vision refusing to really focus on the room. It was dark, the dim pinpricks of light effervescent to his weak sight, the dim lighting creeping under the closed curtains doing little to reveal his surroundings.

His mouth was cottoned and dry. His throat raw. He was still so tired.

An attempt at turning his head only bought him an overpowering blanket of fatigue, and he flinched as something brushed against his hair. The muscle jerk caused a chain reaction of pain, falling like dominoes through his body, every nerve lighting up and making him want to cry out. His throat worked, wanting to make some noise to indicate his distress, but the noise refused to come out.

A voice started murmuring to him, soft words accompanying the tender touches to his face “ . . . Shhh, Shhh, don’t try to talk, darling. Shhh. You’re being taken care of, just rest, beautiful. It’s okay, it’s okay.” A face came into view over him, long fingers carding through his hair, over his cheeks, and Markus felt his heart tripping in his chest, recognition stripping away the comfortable, muted fear.

Lucien was leaning over him, his pale skin the only thing that Markus could make out in the near darkness and tears. He wanted to bring his arms up to push the vampire away, but he felt a sour wash of adrenaline as he realized he couldn’t move his arms more than a few inches. Soft straps encircled his wrist, the cuffs holding him easily, plastic buckles knocking against the bed rails as his heart monitor started to trill frantically. The rapid fire beeping drilled into Markus’s ears, covering Lucien’s quiet voice as he continued to try and soothe him.

The noise caused another anxious wave of fear to roll through him, and Markus started shaking his head weakly, refusing to listen as Lucien continued to soothe him. Panic was sucking him down as he tried to pull a breath in and was unable to do so. He’s choking, tears overflowing onto his cheeks as his chest bucked, fighting the restraints with all of his remaining strength.

Sudden lights blinded him as numerous footsteps thundered into the room, voices incomprehensible as they spoke over each other, layering their words into a cacophony. Hands pressed on his shoulders and legs, holding him down as a new face replaced Lucien’s over him. His eyes rolled away, searching for an escape, a way out, a way to fucking breathe. Anything.

“Markus, hey, sweetheart. Look at me, I need you to calm down, okay?” A small, delicate—warm— hand cupped his cheek, guiding him to concentrate on the blurred face above him. “There you are, sweetheart, just keep looking at me. Listen to me, Markus, you’re intubated, that’s why it feels like you can’t breathe, cause you’re fighting the machine, okay?” A thumb caressed under his eye, the gentle touch over the bruised skin making his eyelids flutter and more tears course down his temples. “I need you to let the machine do its job cause you can’t breathe very well on your own, okay? So try and settle down, sweetheart, try to relax.”

Her voice was calm and steady, a mantra that had his exhausted mind trying to fold like a cheap house of cards. His hands dug into the sheets, white knuckling the material, throat working to try and breathe.

“Paulie, give him that sedative, please.” Her tone shifted as she addressed the warm body that sidled up beside him, but it returned as it felt like something cold was slowly being poured on his chest. “Okay, baby, that’s gonna take just a second to work. Just relax, I promise you’re getting air, and nobody is trying to hurt you.” The delicate hand carded through his hair, so different from Lucien’s, her graceful fingers finding a settling rhythm that started to lull him into relaxing against the pillows behind him. “Just let the ventilator work for you, you just need to rest. Lucien’s not in here right now. You’re safe.”

Air pressed into his lungs as the fight left him, every muscle shuddering as fatigue more than hands pressed him into the mattress, the relief making his eyelids slide closed. Warmth started its journey through his extremities, pain masking itself under the disguise of numbness. “There you go, sweetheart. Shhhh, shhh, shhh, just rest.”

Celeste watched as the witch slipped under, not quite able to stop herself from continuing to smooth back the dark locks of slightly greasy hair. The potent sedative took affect quickly, and she looked away from him when it was clear Markus’s red-rimmed eyes had sealed with sleep. The frantic vitals that had caused the machines to send in the herd of nurses had quieted, returning to not normal, but safer ranges.

Sighing, she nodded over to Paulie to take over as she stepped away. The plump, matronly woman pulled the disturbed warming blanket back over the witch’s chest and shoulders as the others cleared out. A final look at her patient, and Celeste exited the little understaffed clinic, suppressing the growing whine of her magic when she saw Lucien lingering in the hallway. The vampire was calm and collected to the outside eye, but Celeste could see the tell-tale fractures in his façade.

The glare on her face, however, must have been magnificent because Lucien flinched when he saw her, raising his hands in a placating gesture. “Celeste, I—“

She didn’t give him the opportunity to finish the sentence, both hands meeting in the middle of the Elder’s chest to shove him into the wall, his back meeting the drywall with a solid thunk. “I told you not to come here, Lucien. Did I make myself clear, or not?”

The whine of her magic was an audible ring through the hallway, and she made a physical effort to restrain her self, hands shaking. She was just so angry with Lucien for taking the witch, and now this happened.

“Celeste, I can explain—“

She raised her hand, eyes flashing silver as her anger mounted. “I don’t care what you have to say, Lucien, I don’t care how you want to explain this. You promised me that you wouldn’t take supernaturals into this nest, that you wouldn’t keep them like this.”

Her voice trembled, and she could feel the glass vibrating in the hallways. “You lied to me, you don’t listen to me about how to treat your addiction, you let this happen—“ she gestured to the poor witch in the other room, “—and then you don’t even listen to me when I tell you not to come here.”

“I couldn’t just stay away!” he started, and she slapped a hand over her mouth to stop the indignant scream from leaving her lips. Lucien lowered his chin, fangs dropping, an answering black invading the white’s of his eyes. “Celeste. . . “ he growled, low and apprehensive.

Shaking, the banshee stepped away, her back meeting the opposite wall. She slowly removed her hand, looking up at the Elder, all of her energy rushing out of her. Leaving her cold.

“I’m done, Lucien.”

His eyes widened, and he lifted a hand toward her, lips parting. “What—what does that mean? Celeste?”

“I don’t know why I’ve stayed this long,” she murmured, eyes searching the hallway for answers. She laughed hysterically. “I don’t even know why you haven’t brought in someone who’s fully trained to run this farce of a clinic. You could bring in anyone! You don’t need me here!”

“I trust you!” Lucien blurted, hand still reaching for her. “Celeste, please, I do need you.”

Celeste took a step to the side, hand sliding into her curly hair. She shook her head. “You don’t. Not anymore. You’ve changed, Lucien. . . maybe I’ve changed too.”

She’d been with Lucien for going on decades, since she’d been kicked out of medical school for being a supernatural, angry and disenfranchized. They’d worked together for years without trouble, each accomplishing their goals in harmony.

But, now, she was done.

I can’t watch that witch die, she thought, those wide, terrified green eyes searing across her brain.

Lucien wouldn’t give the witch up, and she wouldn’t be able to fight off the entire nest for him. (She wasn’t even sure the poor man would survive even if she were able to.) But she could decide to not be apart of this anymore. She could decide to be better. To help people again. To start over.

“I can’t be a part of this anymore,” she voiced aloud, “I’m done.”

A wounded noise followed her declaration, but it didn’t change her mind. Lucien may be possessive about his nest, but he knew better than to try and keep her where she didn’t want to be.

Slowly, she turned, making her way out of the clinic.

She wouldn’t be going back.

#Markus/Lucien Series #whump #hurt/comfort #strapped down #aftermath of injury

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