#in.

he doesn’t turn to look at @sympatheticdominance, despite the hole jack can feel burning through the back of his head. instead, jack lifts hands that do not tremble up to start on the releases for his plate carrier. forces himself to take steady, deep breaths, despite the sharp flair of pain with each inhale, eyes closing against the way the room shifts at the edges. pointedly, he ignores the too loud slap of the badge against the scanner that is swiftly followed by the clack of keys. 

( he’s not starting a chart for you, jack lies to himself. robby is just catching up on charting in a quiet room. overstimulated from the constant noise. you know how it is. )

a quiet groan slips through clenched teeth as jack sets the ruined carrier on the foot of the bed. which of course seems to be the perfect opportunity for robby to sever the tense silence between them, an almost vicious reprimand leaving his lips,

“you can’t keep putting yourself through this shit and expect me to just sit back and watch.” 

“just… eighty minutes until reinforcements start to trickle in,” jack murmurs, knocking a half clenched fist against the countertop three times. it’s all he can afford at the moment, this just above a whisper that he sends her way. too many all but shouted commands during the night have left his throat sore. he lets his head drop forward again, eyes falling shut against the harsh fluorescents that have been worsening his headache for the past few hours. allows himself to focus on the fact her hand still glides along his aching back. up, down, up, down. he could almost fall asleep like this.

he doesn’t answer the text. fishes his pen out of his scrubs instead, and hauls himself up from the couch to grab the sticky notes left in the staff lounge. scribbles a note for john — gone home. call if you need me to come back, jack — and leaves it tacked to the lid of john’s almost empty coffee. the younger attending won’t call him back in, not after seeing jack passed out on the couch, after john had taken the time to drop some frozen waffles in the toaster for him. jack knows that. he leaves it anyway and drags himself out the side for the employee parking.

the unanswered text burns a hole in his pocket. but it’s a short walk to his truck on the lowest deck, nearest handicapped spot. shorter work still to connect his phone to the truck and give dana a call. he figures she won’t be asleep again yet, would likely be waiting for his text back.

"rude," as if he's offended, but jd's tone is mildly chiding at best. "you should be grateful i walked in on this shit before some do-gooder suburbanite who would've run screaming."

he exhales a thin stream of smoke. walks closer, examining the mess. and what a mess it is. he's never seen a dead body before, except on tv. old westerns, mostly; cowboys firing blanks and pretending to fall dead right out of the shot, neat and clean as you please. this is... nothing like that. the human body has so much blood. they really don't get that right in the movies, he thinks distantly. someone should let those hollywood fellas know. there's a faint squishing sound when he walks closer -- boots on blood on carpet.

another night, another more or less successful hunt. there's a loose scrap of skin caught between his teeth that he can't quite get out. vampires still need to floss. who knew?

more to the point, his clothes are entirely ruined. his grey hair is plastered to his head in places, mostly around his temples. his eyelashes are flaky with blood. the only clean part of his face is around his lips, an almost perfect, tongue-length circle. his t-shirt sticks to him, ac/dc logo stained red. shame. he's pretty sure it's technically 'vintage'. he could've sold it for a fortune on ebay, even though the print is peeling.

humming a lestat song - fuckin' earworms, aren't they? - he hauls himself up the steps onto the bus. shower first, and then he'll spend the hour before sunrise typing up his notes on tonight's session.

or not.

“It’s just me,” he says quietly, feeling Amadeo start to wake. The poor thing’s heartbeat starts to kick like a rabbit’s; Astarion puts a hand on his ribs to keep him from jolting up. “It’s just me. Shh.”

[ steeples my fingies… ] / @formshaper

amadeo wakes slowly, and then all at once. his body goes from perfectly relaxed to bow-string tight, then slowly loosens as he makes a conscious effort not to seem so tense for the sake of the body next to him. cold body. gentle hands, the touch firm and grounding, not wandering and proprietary.

astarion.

now he truly relaxes, squirming and stretching, then stifling a yawn as he rolls over to face him.

"i was dreaming about you." the same thing he says no matter who he wakes up next to. Master can tell if it's a lie but likes the flattery anyway; amadeo wants it to be true, he hopes he was dreaming of astarion, and it isn't as though astarion will know he's lying. in the comfort of his own bed, he can speak it into truth.

tucking his face into the crook of astarion's neck, he weaves the dream tale. a daydream, now, but isn't that also technically a sort of dream? it counts.

"we were far away from here, just me and you." and bianca and riccardo, he adds mentally and then, hastily, and my Master. "somewhere it's warm all year round, but the nights are long." shyly, he smiles into astarion's pale throat. "i let you drink from me, but it wasn't the first time. i could tell. you were so gentle." he lays a lingering kiss to where he judges he might feel astarion's pulse if he had one. "we were happy. that's all it was."