#may 9.

MAY 9TH. MEDICAL WING, GRAND TETON MALL. @maraxsinclair​

Sleep doesn’t come. Vincent is too restless, body and mind wired, nervous system flooded with an excess of adrenaline. His mind replays the sound of the gunshot, the spatter of the blood, the dragging of the body. When it happens, Gilbert steps forwards ( one of the most trustworthy people he knows, family of sorts — his father’s closest friend, his teacher for many years, now his lab partner ) and Vincent follows like clockwork.

 In the aftermath of the late night burial, everything’s changed; for now, he’s not sure if he’ll ever have the luxury of feeling safe again. Panicked thoughts swim laps in Vincent’s brain and all he wants to do is shut them out, ignore them, run like the fucking wind back into the sheltered place he once knew. The closest he can come is a sleeping draught, something to knock him out for the next twelve hours so he can quiet the distress inside. Luckily, it’s not hard to find if you know who to ask.

“Hey, Mara,” he calls softly as he rounds the corner of the medical wing. Converted from dusty old pharmacy to apparent surgical center, Vincent can appreciate all the medics do considering how little they have to work with. In fact, it’s been him up on Dr. Sinclair’s table many times before with broken bones and concussions ( a natural consequence of one too many falls out of Victoria’s treehouse ). Here he is, coming to her again for help. “Are you busy?” You can hear the exhaustion in his voice when he asks. “I have a favor to ask of you.”