#healingresolve

wind me up, put me down

looking out the window, i can't find something to realize

something about you

you, what are your thoughts are they just as dark as mine

Hospitals always had an earthly feeling to them. Maybe it was residual energy, of spirits who have passed on to begin life anew. No longer in need of their form to continue living on. Though perhaps it was their imagination.

They knock before walking in- hospital rooms always smelled like antiseptic and blood- and saying hello.

The doctor beams and escorts them into the room. Hector motions to the table for Yves to sit while he gets his papers ready. Yves wonders if Hector recognizes them, but maybe he’s just being professional about it. Doctor first, call the cops later.

It’s so quiet, and for once Yves wishes that wasn’t the case. “The wound on your leg was infected.” They can hear the sound of papers turning. Having their chart read out doesn’t put them at ease. Fingers tap against the examination table, legs draping down hanging in the air. It only brings their old injury to focus.

Usually these appointments go alright, doctor’s check the scar tissue recommend something that usually flies in one ear out the other and Yves goes on their way. Rinse and repeat. Call back if you’re experiencing discomfort.

Other times were almost out of body reliving that moment on repeat while the doctor removed their prosthetic leg. Plastic gloves feel cold against their leg, and they jump robotic arm swinging out in a defensive motion. The realization of what they’ve done hits them and Yves is focused once again.

“Why did you hit me? Did that hurt?”

The words sit heavy in their throat, heart beat booming in their ears. Unsure how long they were unresponsive. Just aware Hector was patiently waiting for an answer. They can almost hear the overhead lights flickering and buzzing.

I panicked.

“Sorry.”

I’m sorry I panicked.

[#blood . just #blood]

“Do you have to walk around with tissues shoved up your nostrils?”

Reyes had all but let him drop to the floor of the medbay, already intently heading off in the opposite direction of his crumpling form. “This is somethin’ else, Tseung,” was what he had offered in gruff explanation, before leaving the soldier in the doctor’s capable hands. His captain had neither the time or knowledge necessary to deal with his particular irregularity, and Rohan had never liked visiting the medbay, despite being relegated there quite often.  

He perches now on the edge of an examination table, looking ahead mindlessly as Doctor Hector Tseung sweeps around him gathering items in a busy workspace. “Can you tell me what happened?” Hector’s voice is vague in his head, subtle under a piercing ringing. He listens to its metal scream for a few moments, silent perhaps for a beat too long. The doctor’s presence is familiar, and it sets him more at ease; Hector had seen him through his first missions in Blackwatch, scraped up and nightmare-ridden.

“I’m dead,” startles out of him, “or… I should be-” his eyebrows furrow down, and his words spit out upset and burning. His gaze tears itself from the wall for a moment to regard the medic, searching his face for pity he doesn’t wish to find. 

And he becomes distinctly aware that he’s still fairly red-soaked, despite being mostly stitched together by the medics on call. It makes him shuffle a bit in place, finding crimson smudges where he’d placed his hands. “I’m uh, sorry for looking like roadkill,” he mentions as a soft afterthought. “You look like you’ve been running all over hell’s half acre,” McCree’s phantom voice offers in his mind.

“The payload”, he remembers faintly, absently, eyes blinking at nothing. The round had passed through him cleanly, sliced through what had to be an unlucky artery. “Got shot, and, they put the resurrection on me but I,” he trails off, scrubbing at his wrist with his fingernails. To explain, he reaches forward, hand flickering, touching Hector’s arm for a moment, before its tangibility is gone all together, translucent like a hologram, and Hector can no longer feel the contact. Rohan’s visage flickers, static like a fading tv signal as he watches for a reaction. 

“Hector–Something happened, with the tech. I don’t know a lot about it, so I…” Words fail him again. To his credit, Hector doesn’t respond with any impatience, instead quietly observing the abnormality; his hand passes through, once, twice, and Rohan looks at him blearily, panic all but wrung out of him entirely. Now he merely feels numbed, hazy and dreamlike in what he was now sure was a product of his mind, long asleep. 

After what feels like an hour through the span of a few minutes, he lifts his eyes finally, fashioning a quick optimistic grin. “Hey, does this make me like, in Star Wars– does this make me like Obi Wan Kenobi’s ghost?” The joke cheers him momentarily, and Hector offers a pity laugh in response. “You’re not dead, Rohan, and I believe you must be enlightened to be a Jedi.”

Rohan smiles at that, though his humour leaves him like water pulling around a drain, turning into something that made his hands shake. Hector is trying to get a look at his eyes, but his fidgeting makes the job much more dire than necessary.

“…Hector,” he clears his throat, daring to peer at the doctor. “Can you… fix this?” 

You have to understand your enemies! And know their guilty Netflix habits.