sixthiterationlogs | Don't You Fret My Dear, It'll All Be Over Soon; I'll Be Waiting Here For You

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Don't You Fret My Dear, It'll All Be Over Soon; I'll Be Waiting Here For You

WHO: Jax Teller, Neil Mackay, Peeta Mellark, and anyone who wants to visit them, doctor them, or look after them
WHERE: The hospital
WHEN: The days after the Obscurus rampage
OPEN TO: Anyone who wants to visit the patients, anyone who's hurt, or anyone who's got any reason to be in the hospital at all. Tag each other! Mingle! Commiserate!
WARNINGS: People got hurt, so injuries and wounds, presumably blood, at least one head injury, probably nightmares, and various medical things could all crop up here
STATUS: Open (please state who the tag is for and a general idea of a timeframe in the subject line of your comment!)

The doctors in this place were as quick as they could be with limited supplies or trained personnel. Within a very short time of the smoke monster smashing through one man and slamming a few others aside, they had the injured moved into the hospital, cleaned up, and attended to as best they could. The lack of supplies and technology across the entire village was felt more in the medical field than any other, but all the members of that little group were resourceful and determined, and at least while some of the injuries had been severe no one had been on the doorstep of death. It was easier to treat a person when you were sure they would keep breathing.

Still, a lot of it had been improvised, and no one could be healed in an instant; they'd all have to do it the old-fashioned way, letting time and rest mend their wounds. Neil, Jax, and Peeta had all been placed in the same room in the hospital just to make it easier to keep tabs on them and for companionship through the night. The beds were spaced far enough apart to give some sort of privacy if the conversations were kept quiet and spare blankets had been tacked up that could be pulled back or dropped like curtains to give at least a visual barrier around the patients, but no one was far away enough from each other to not be able to talk (or listen) if they wanted to. A few chairs were available for visitors' use, though slightly rickety and not up to much punishment. All three of them would be there for a good bit, so the goal was to make their stay as comfortable as was possible.

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Neil hadn't had much of a chance to see what was coming for him. He'd heard something strange and turned to see a blur of smoke that felt like it slammed into his chest like a freight train, and then he was falling-

falling-

-landing on the stony beach of Dieppe, with all those rocks that had bogged down the tanks and now they held him down so he couldn't move, the sky slate-grey above him and Tom- almost within arm's reach, if he could move his arms, his jumper stained with blood-

-he didn't know how long he lay there, breath coming in ragged gasps that seemed to take more effort every time.

Eventually there was just darkness, and then flickers of lucidity, realizing that no- he wasn't back at Dieppe, that was a dream, he was- wherever they were. And then he slept again and woke, looking around for Aurora or Harry-

He didn't regain real consciousness until the day after that, though it felt longer. There was pain, but worse than that was the weakness- he could barely hold his head up, or lift his own arms. Every failed attempt to sit up was met with a growl, and anyone trying to look after him wouldn't get much better. Neil was a terrible patient.

[so Neil was severely injured on the 24th, spent that day completely unconscious, the 25th sliding back and forth (if you were taking care of him he probably called you Aurora, Alfred, Harry, or Tom while he was awake), and the 26th brings him back to full, cranky life. He's not fully interactive until the 26th but if you want to visit him on the 25th and get some half-conscious hallucination action, feel free!]

Rory had woken up to chaos and somehow it didn't surprise him. He hadn't been at the meeting because he'd been taking care of the people at the hospital, but he'd picked up the information soon enough. He had concerns for Credence, but he couldn't focus on that right now. So for the past few days he'd been spending most of his time at the hospital...again. Except for once he had patients.

Neil was perhaps one of the worst of the bunch as since arriving he'd been unconscious. Rory had been keeping an eye on his vitals and having to keep him hydrated without an IV -- which wasn't easy. It was now mid-day and Rory was washing his hands so he could change Neil's bandages and make sure there were no signs of infection.

Neil had been awake a couple of times without doing much about it- staring at the ceiling, mostly, because he didn't have the strength to move or alert anyone. But this time when he opened his eye there was the sound of water splashing and then someone coming into view-

"Harry?" Neil didn't recognize his own voice. It was weak and thready, rasping through a dry mouth. "Where'd me arms go?"

If they were attached, he sure couldn't feel them.

"They're still there," Rory replied without much thought to the question. He could only imagine what contact with a creature like that could do to a person. From what he had heard it had passed right through this man and the injuries were extremely severe. Rory continued, "You just have a lot of bandages. You were injured pretty badly and now you're being taken care of in a hospital."

Rory wondered belatedly if he should correct the man for calling him Harry, but he was pretty out of it so he would let it slide for the time being.

"I... fell?" He remembered falling. Or had it been a dream about falling? Everything was blurry and he was so bloody tired he didn't remember anymore. He did remember one thing, though- he remembered Tom, knowing Tom was there after the fall. Or in his dream. "You- 'd you get Tom, too? Tom's here?"

He wasn't sure this was Harry after all- his eyes were starting to focus a little. He wasn't in a French hospital, he was pretty sure. They were speaking English, weren't they?

Rory sighed, he wasn't entirely sure what had happened exactly. He'd heard pieces about the attack and seen the aftermath, but had not been given the specifics. He didn't want to lie though, even if the chances were high that he'd have to repeat all this later, "You were attacked. It might have involved a fall--I wasn't given a play-by-play. There isn't a Tom here that I'm aware of...sorry."

He paused and then leaned in, "I need to take care of your bandages, but since you're sort of awake can I get you anything to drink?" He was a little hesitant to offer food given his condition, but liquids should be fine.

"Attacked?" Yes, at Dieppe- but this wasn't France. That was one thing that was filtering in. "Germans? Or-" He had a foggy memory of something that didn't make sense, some kind of moving cloud, so maybe it had been gas?

Now that Not-Harry brought it up, he could feel the scratch of his throat. "Yeah. Please." He probably couldn't have eaten anyway- too much work- but he felt like he'd been thirsty for a long time. His throat and mouth were dry as dust.

The more questions he asked the further he confirmed Rory's original thought that he might be a little delusional right now. It wasn't surprising, given the extent of his injuries, but it was still going to make things difficult at this point.

"No, not Germans. You aren't on a battle field...at least not like that," Rory said, doing his best to try and explain. But he wasn't sure how helpful that would really be.

Rory shifted his focus to getting the man water. He pulled over a bowl with water in it. Rory had been using a cloth in it to drip water into the man's mouth when he had been out -- an old school way of keeping a person hydrated. He removed the cloth, "Do you think you can hold this and drink from it?" He wanted to see how independent he could be, if not, Rory would have to help him drink from the bowl as well.

He tried to lift his hand to take the cloth. At least, he thought he had tried to lift his hand. He could feel it now, at least, as heavy as lead at the end of his arm, which still lay limp. "...it's not moving."

If he had the energy, he knew, he'd be afraid. He wasn't any use if he was paralyzed, he'd be sent home and he wouldn't even be able to take care of Mags. He'd waste away in a hospital, or an institution- but he was too tired to worry. He'd have to do that later.

Edited 2017-05-16 06:37 (UTC)

Rory mentally frowned at that. Not a good sign, but it could also still just be fatigue, lack of food, or something else. What he wouldn't give for someway to verify the extent of the man's injury. Rory kept his face fairly neutral though, "You're still recovering. Whatever got you...well it's unknown what effects it might have had," Rory observed, speaking calmly.

He then went about helping the man sit up, propping him up with some pillows. Then, Rory lifted the bowl of water to the man's lips, "Here. Drink."

It's not like he has the strength to fight when she really leans on him, even though he's been feeling a little stronger throughout the day. It is frustrating, it's really bloody frustrating. At least the last time he was in hospital he could sit up. "I've done nothing but rest, ma'am. Beg pardon, but I am really bloody tired of staring at the ceiling."

Not that it's not a lovely ceiling, but he's pretty sure he could tell anyone who asks every single feature it has.

"I know," Beverly offers gently, her voice sympathetic this time. She really does understand and she might feel the same way were she in his shoes. Several of her crew would be the same way and if he weren't so severely hurt, she would release him a lot sooner. But he is pretty badly hurt and he needs rest, much as it chafes.

"Believe me, if there were a way to speed up recovery here, I would be all for it. But we're all stuck with backwards equipment and this is the best I have to work with. If I had a book or a working computer, I'd offer that." But again, the technology here is pretty awful. There's barely even anything to do aside from stare at the ceiling.

"Yeah, a book'd be choice." Though he might also need someone to read it to him, considering how much effort holding it up would be. Which is absolutely galling to think about and he's just not going to mention that out loud since it's not like he has a book to worry about.

"Sorry for being such a pain in the arse," he says after a couple of minutes. "Never dealt well with being stuck in bed. Spent a couple of weeks in hospital when I was younger and I've never seen more grateful doctors than the day I was released."

Beverly manages not to laugh at the idea of this man thinking he's a pain. In her time as a doctor in Starfleet, she has had many patients and few of them have ever topped a Klingon.

"Don't worry about it," she says genuinely. "I've had many patients that were a lot worse than this. That's not a challenge, so don't get it into your head to push it." She offers a small, teasing smile to show that she's not really upset with him at all and her warning is more of a joke than anything else. "As soon as you're strong enough, I'll see about releasing you."

She might have to have a conference of sorts with her colleagues, just so they're all on the same page, but at the same time, she doesn't see a reason to keep any of them overly long here. They can recover just as well somewhere more familiar and comforting.

"Until then, is there anything else I can do for you? Something I can bring you or something we can talk about?"

"You could tell me what happened. Haven't got a clear answer yet- all I remember is... some sort of gas? A cloud?" He was pretty sure that everything about lying on a beach in Dieppe had been a dream, but the cloud was still uncertain. He knew all about what some poisonous gases could do to a person and if it had been gas, it seemed like he should either be in much more pain or dead. Yet here he lay, unable to lift his arms more than an inch off the bed under his own power but still able to think and breathe. It probably hadn't been gas.

That didn't help him determine what it had been. Hopefully the doctor would be able to enlighten him.

Beverly hesitates slightly, not because she doesn't want to tell him, but, well... "I don't really know," she admits. "I've been here for most of the time since whatever happened. There are rumors, but at this point I'm not sure if it was someone in the village, something from the outside, or someone's experiment gone wrong."

Or Q. She's never ruling out Q at this point.

"That's really bloody reassuring." There's a definite edge to Neil's voice- he doesn't like being out of commission, and he really doesn't like not knowing what's going on. He makes another abortive effort to sit up and falls back again, glaring at the undeserving ceiling. "How many did it get?"

There are other people in this room, but obviously he hasn't been able to see the rest. He has no idea how widespread the attack was- if it had targeted everyone in the village, or if only a few had been harmed.

Beverly can understand his frustration. She knows plenty of people who would be the exact same way in this situation. Chief among them would be Jean-Luc Picard, her friend and captain. He has never been good at being a patient with patience. And nothing will ever top having a Klingon for a patient. Were Worf here, he would likely be trying to push through it already and she would be making faces of irritation at him. But she can understand, even if she has to disapprove on principle.

“Only three,” she answers. “And no one died. All things considered, it could have been a lot worse.”

She doesn't think that she's slept since this began, but one visit to the hospital and Peggy instantly forgets her complaints. She's simply happy to not be injured and it brings her back to why she's visiting. She'd gone to the springs to fetch some water, along with some of the food from the feast that had kept well, setting it down on a table beside Neil. Setting herself down beside him, she also places several books down.

They're torn, some badly, from the attack, but others are from her personal collection and ought to keep him at least somewhat entertained. "I brought you something to read, on the off chance it would get you to stay put," she says conversationally. "I've heard that you're not being very helpful to the staff."

"Reading's better than nothing." Neil's never been a bookworm, but he'll take it. "It's not like I can do anything other than stay put, I feel weak as a bloody kitten right now."

Which is, let's be honest, at least half of what is keeping him on edge and unable to stop sniping at the staff. He doesn't like feeling helpless and right now he feels so incredibly helpless- he couldn't do anything to stop the cloud that struck him and it seems to have sapped his strength. He doesn't know if he'll get it back or if he'll feel like this forever, and if he isn't strong, what is he?

Useless, that's what.

"You are as weak as a bloody kitten," Peggy informs him without much sympathy, given that she wants for him to get better rather than force all his energy into trying to escape or pretend that he's healed far before he actually is. "Lucky for you, I didn't only bring books," she says, setting a fresh cup of tea down in front of him, from her personal stores.

"I've no idea how you take it, so it might be a bit disappointing," Peggy admits, crossing her legs as she adjusts in her chair, a signal that she's not intending to go anywhere anytime soon.

"Back in France, real tea's rare as diamonds. I take it any way I can get it now." He wraps his hands around the mug, lifting it carefully to his lips and taking a sip. Even with both hands on it, it's an effort and he's trembling by the time he puts it back down. Hopefully she won't notice.

Though it's Peggy. Of course she's going to notice.

Peggy's gaze firmly lingers on his hand for a pointed moment, not saying anything as she feels like this look ought to be perfectly for him to get her meaning and to take the warning with it. "I remember," she assures Neil, though she's luckily had a few years in between to remind herself what it's like having it on a regular basis. "I lived on whatever cold coffee I could manage to get out of my Colonel's meals," she admits.

"I think he caught on that his cup was always half empty, though he never said anything," she says, thinking that Philips let her get away with a great deal.

Neil raises an eyebrow at her look, but he doesn't lift the mug to his lips again until his hands have stopped shaking. "I was never jealous of Au- of my teammates and their undercover work, except for the food." Even here he isn't going to slip and name names. "One of the blokes liked to take the piss out of me, he'd describe what they ate so I could really enjoy the sawdust bread properly. Bastard."

His tone is fond rather than actually pissed, of course. He'd been irritated at the time, but he'd take Tom's ability to get under his skin if it meant Tom was alive again.

"Lucky for you, we do still have enough food left from the feast that you could indulge, if you liked," Peggy admits, though she believes there's only a few days more before even that grows spoiled and unable to help them much. She's concerned about the state of him, though she tries to hide it.

"I know you must hurt, greatly," she admits, "but if you don't mind, I would like to ask some questions about the incident."

Beverly offered to take a bunch of the evening and night shifts at the hospital, since she's used to gamma shift on the Enterprise every so often. Right now, she doesn't think they should be leaving anyone alone in here and she knows her colleagues would agree. She's used to difficult patients, having been the doctor for several non-human alien species over the years and as long as no one is as strong as a Klingon, she should be able to manage just fine.

She has the body of a dancer, but she is far from a pushover.

For now, she tends the patients as best she can, checking and changing bandages and making sure everyone has water as available and none of the injuries are getting infected. Occasionally she can be found grumbling about the lack of equipment, but usually that's done out of earshot of the patients. The last thing she needs is to give them the idea that they're all going to die here. They won't. Not if she has anything to say about it.

At certain points during her "day," she takes breaks, staying close enough to come help if anything happens to one of the patients, while being far enough to give them privacy and time away from her. It's also a chance for her to take a breather and let her doctor's mask slip a bit. If any of her colleagues try to overwork themselves during this time, she is very firm about not allowing that to happen. Anyone who needs encouragement to get some rest will likely get it from her at some point or another. On the flip side, she likes to check in on them, too, and see how their shifts are going and how each patient is doing before she starts her shift. Visitors are welcome to talk to her during one of these breaks if they so choose as well.

Benedict might not know the doctor personally, but theirs is a small habble, and it's virtually impossible to remain ignorant of everyone for long, especially when he's got Kate lying beside him every night. Kate seemingly knows every face in the village, and she'll talk to him about the residents before they fall asleep, which has left Benedict feeling comfortable enough to just walk up to just about anyone and strike up a conversation with them, forgoing the elaborate introductions he had felt compelled to indulge in when he first arrived.

Gwen would be horrified at this breach in propriety, but Gwen isn't here.

"Doctor," he starts, making his way through the hospital with an armful of linens carefully held to his chest, cloth that has been retired from its original use and cut or ripped into bandages. "May I be of assistance?" he asks, stopping finally at a respectful distance so she doesn't feel like he's crowding her or looming over her. "I was sent to deliver these to you, but if there is anything else I could do..."

Beverly does not mind forgoing all of the elaborate introductions usually reserved for visiting ambassadors. This is just a meeting of like minds, two people working together on the same thing, and she is grateful for any and all help, as evidenced by the relief on her face when he walks up to her.

"You are a lifesaver," she says vehemently, motioning for him to bring those over to a new pile of supplies. "I've been trying to keep our bandaging supplies together to make changing some of the injuries easier. So if you see anything else that could work -- tape, clips, wood for splints -- that would be a big help." She pauses for a few seconds, considering something. "Do we even have tape here?"

Pleased that his presence is so well received, Benedict smiles easily at the doctor when she starts to order him around, felling well-used to that sort of thing and more than happy to oblige.

If only he knew what she was talking about.

"I'm afraid I'm not sure," he hedges, frowning slightly, not quite wanting to admit to the fact that he doesn't know what 'tape' is. "I can certainly fetch wood for splints, but as for clips...I do not think we have those in abundance here either." They don't have anything in abundance, really, which is quite frustrating sometimes. More than sometimes. Most of the time. He's learned to compensate, but it's still frustrating.

It isn't that she really blames him for not knowing what tape is, she really can't blame him for anything that his universe might have left off getting to yet.

"We could really use a decent adhesive," she says, her own irritation at the situation slightly showing through. "But I'll take clips of any kind, if you happen to see them. The list of things we don't have is larger than what we do have."

Seriously, their supply list is tiny and it frustrates her daily. Compensating is great, but it doesn't diminish the frustration. One of these days her colleagues are going to hear her start to complain about the technology. Really complain about not having hyposprays or tricorders or a regenerator. What she wouldn't do for one of those.

She's been there as long as Peeta has; as if she'd actually be anywhere else while he recovered. There are things Katniss could be doing, yes. She could help run the bakery in his absence. She could be working on the bow she's been attempting to craft. She could even help with any recovery efforts. None of that seems important right now. Something, some weird muttation-like thing, had attacked Peeta. It could come back. This arena could throw something new at them. Forget responsibilities. She isn't leaving his side.

Thankfully, there's space in the room he's been assigned. As tempting as it is to crawl in the bed with him, she pulls up a chair to his bedside instead. Katniss does her best to make herself as comfortable as possible but even when she wakes up with a creak in her neck, she doesn't complain. This has nothing to do with the star-crossed lovers she has to pretend to be a part of. Her actions are entirely selfish. Peeta needs to stay alive. He's going to be the one to survive the Quarter Quell. Whether or not this is an extension of that arena doesn't matter. The premise hasn't changed at all.

Whenever some, even a medical professional, approaches Peeta, Katniss tenses. It's hard to trust others here, just as hard as it had been in the arena. The weeks spent building a new life hasn't made it any easier. If anyone insist that she goes home, Katniss is prepared to scowl and argue. Although she'd rather not be here at all, at least they're together.

He'd tried, a few times, to get her to go home - no matter what the effect on both of them would be. She could at least sleep better in an actual bed... at least until the nightmares came. Maybe there wouldn't be that much difference at all. But several nights in a chair couldn't be comfortable, and Peeta was worried that if she insisted she keep staying there, that she'd turn into the next patient. He'd gladly take her with him in bed, but just to start with the bed wasn't big enough for two people, except perhaps small children, and Beverly had given them a pointed look when she'd said to spare his healing leg any extraneous pressure.

(Still, but for the bed size, and the way he already almost filled it, he'd've asked her to lay down on his left side. They'd done it before, but this time they were being watched in person.)

But one morning when he wakes up, about a week after getting attacked, Peeta can't keep a small look of worry and concern off his face as he looks at her posture and judges how much she must be aching by now. "Hey," he says quietly, so as not to disturb the others. "We can get another bed in here and you can sleep on that. You're going to hurt yourself." She's more important than him. She's always more important than him.

Her health isn't the priority here. It's Peeta's. He's the one who had been brutally injured by the mutt. He's the one still stuck in a hospital bed. The chair is uncomfortable, yes. Sleeping in it for the past week has given her an ache in her neck and shoulder. Whenever she thinks Peeta isn't looking, she'll roll her right shoulder in order to try and alleviate it. Sharing a bed isn't an option. Aside from anything Beverly has implied, there are too many people watching them. But going home?

No. As irrational as the thought is, she's terrified that if she goes home, she'll lose him for good. It had been so close to happening in the Quarter Quell arena. Why chance it again?

Apparently, her actions haven't gone as unnoticed as she thought. She blinks sleepily, shifting in the chair to better look at him. Katniss doesn't bother to hide her frown or scowl of disagreement. This isn't about her. She'll survive sleeping in a chair. "I don't think there's any room for another bed," she answers quietly, and somewhat dismissively. "I'm fine."

The problem is, he's always looking at her. He's always paying attention to her. It's part of his self-imposed duty to take care of her, but he'd probably do it anyway. He'd always noticed her at home, before she'd ever noticed him, and suddenly being in a new place isn't going to change that. Being injured definitely isn't going to change that. While he doesn't often say anything, since he knows she has her hangups just like he has his, that doesn't mean he doesn't see it. But he also knows her well enough to know that she won't take any real suggestion that she leave. Still, he has to make the attempt.

"We can make room, then," Peeta says, because he hates seeing her hurt unnecessarily. That scowl doesn't stop him at all because he's concerned and she's clearly uncomfortable and she doesn't have to be. "Move the beds and put another one in here. Or I can move to a different room now and you can have one that way."

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Don't You Fret My Dear, It'll All Be Over Soon; I'll Be Waiting Here For You

open; april 25, 26 and onward

April 25 -- because hallucinations are fun

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april 26, evening

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april 26th

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most evenings while the patients are here - april into early may

early on in this whole debacle

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Peeta + open

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