#sleep thinks~~

Dread fills Nikto's pores as the summer breeze turns icy and cold. Not because he doesn't enjoy the weather, he quite likes the autumn chill in the early morning. What they don't like is what the shift in seasons means.

Check-ups, more importantly vaccines and flu shots. Even when they're sedated they still feel the dull thrum of aching fear that beats behind his rib cage. He knows that the doctors here are "nice" but what should it matter? Why should they believe that anyone wielding needles and scalpels could have the ability to be kind? Why should they believe that they're kind when each year they add a new safety measure— not to protect Nikto, but to protect themselves from Nikto.

The more they think about it the more the fissures in his face burn, screaming white-hot lines in his flesh.

Leaning over the sink he throws numbingly cold water over his features before they reach for a towel. They would have had the mirror removed from his dorm if the door wasn't behind the sink. The mirror makes it easier to watch their back, even if looking it in makes them want watch their own countenance fracture under his fist as it's reflected back at them over the glossy surface.

Time never seems to find Nikto when he needs it to. Either going too fast, or too slow, sometimes they're not sure it moves at all. This time, it felt as if the last two weeks were squished into a few fleeting seconds.

The straps dig into their limbs, not enough to hurt but enough that he knows the doctors learned from last year. No matter how much he fights, it always seems they figure out new ways to try to tame him.

Upping the dose of anesthetic, tightening the straps that secure him to the bed, adding more straps, different medication, the list goes on.

"We have a new medic this year. They'll be carrying out procedure. I find them quite pleasant, I have faith that you'll find them, at the very least, endurable." Nikto hardly listens to the deep drawl of his psychiatrist. It's always the same bullshit. 'new medic' this, and 'they're skilled and kind' that. It's all a lie, it always is. No one ever understands, it doesn't matter who they are or how they act. They're wearing scrubs and holding a needle. That's what matters.

Each squeak and rattle of the gurney under his body has them wanting to claw their way out of the restraints and just walk there himself, but he knows better than to try that. He knows that if they had the autonomy to walk there, they would be running the opposite direction instead. It's for his own good, this is the best way to get it over with, doesn't matter how taxing it is.

Doors creak as they open and shut, antiseptic fills whats left of his sense of smell, florescent lights burn their brightness into his retinas. Voices pass through the thin, chilled air, Nikto doesn't bother to translate the words that float between the doctors and patients around him.

A face leans over him, he narrows his eyes as he watches the light seep through the edges of the person's silhouette.

"Hello, I'd like to introduce myself. I'm new here." You say, soft and un-provoking. He can tell you're smiling under the sterile blue mask because of how the skin around your eyes moves. It's hard for him to see, but you don't seem to be clothed in blue. Rather, the shade you are wearing is one that compliments your skin-tone. A relaxing color, that isn't as jarring as the constantly overwhelming, ever present blue.

He listens halfheartedly as you introduce yourself and begin to explain what will happen. They've heard it countless times, the same boring old spiel filled with technical terms and medical jargon.

"I'll first have you swallow this here, its liquid so it might be easier than a pill, but it doesn't taste too good so I have a few options of drinks to wash it down with." You start, holding up a small cup of medicine and gesturing vaguely behind you.

That's new. A liquid anesthetic agent. Usually its an injection, or a pill, or multiple pills. Nikto doesn't answer, they just stare at you.

When you realize you won't be getting an answer you start talking again, "I have some water as well if that's more to your liking, its all up to you."

You turn your head slightly to look over your shoulder briefly before you hear him respond, "Water is fine." His voice is lower than you thought it would be. Gravely, deep, cutting as if he's the one wielding the sharp objects instead of you.

"Water it is then. Would you like to sit up, or stay laying down?" Another choice… It takes a moment for Nikto to even decide.

"Sit up."

You have some of the attending staff begrudgingly undo the straps keeping him down. They sit up, but they don't run. They just look at you expectantly. It surprises him that he hasn't made a break for the door yet.

"How would you like to take this? I can help you take your mask off, or you can do it yourself. Of course, you also have the option of removing everyone not involved in this step from the room. That would leave me and your psychiatrist, Dr. Ross" You just keep getting weirder and weirder to them… Never once has anyone offered to boot the rest of the staff from the room, you should know he's dangerous, aren't you worried about your safety? He's not even sure how to respond, he takes so long that before they've even decided you clarify,

"I have a feeling you'll want to take the mask off yourself. Would you like people in the room, or not?"

With clearer options for answering, the word finds Nikto much easier, "No."

No is such a brilliant word. Nikto doesn't remember the last time they had the autonomy to say 'No' when it really mattered— or rather the autonomy to say no and be listened to.

Nikto tunes out the drone of voices as you usher everyone but yourself and his psychiatrist out. They feel fine. They feel fine even though they're sat in a hospital bed, not sedated, about to be jabbed with at least a few needles.

Through a smile you start talking again, "Alright, I'll set this on the metal table next to you along with this water. Promise you'll drink it and things should go without a hitch!" the plastic container filled with whatever chemicals are meant to keep him calm sits next to him along with water. Just like you said you would do. Their eyes follow your figure as you step back and turn around. Their gaze then flicks over to their psychiatrist who nods and looks off to the side.

His hand reaches up, un-clipping a few clasps before he pulls the mask away from their face, holding it in one hand. They stay like that for a moment, his face feels cold as he breathes in and out. Behind their eyes he watches as his hand reaches out to pick up the small cup, bringing it up to their lips and tilting their head to swallow the bitter, artificially sweet liquid.

He nearly sputters, hiding a cough at how bad it tastes. Taking a quick gulp of water before replacing the mask, Nikto clears his throat and replaces the mask. His psychiatrist relaxes a little, turning his head back to observe.

"All done? I'll turn back around now then and we can get started. Sound good?"

Nikto graces you with a rough grunt. You take that as a yes and sit in the rolling stool, sliding it next to his bedside. You begin explaining again, Nikto is quick to drown it out with their own thoughts but as soon as you start its clear you aren't doing it out of necessity— instead, you're explaining for Nikto's sake in a way that you know they'll be able to understand.

No unnecessary jargon, no technicalities. Just what you'll be doing and why.

"This first injection will go in your upper arm, that's where we see the best results. Its meant to give your immune system intel about what to do if you catch the flu. You might feel a bit crummy for a few days, that's just your body learning how to fight the real deal. The second injection is meant to help with some of the chronic pain you've described before. It'll be similar to the last one you had last year. Because I am a licensed practitioner, I'll be giving both injections. Sound good?"

Again, Nikto grunts in response, though its not as irritating this time.

Something that crosses your mind throughout the procedure is how everyone around you warned you of Nikto. You're certain something must have happened, but right now he seems so docile and—while he might not be amicable, he certainly isn't aggressive. You don't bother calling in the rest of the medical staff, the only reason they would be there is to help you in getting him to cooperate, so far you haven't needed help with that at all.

By the time you're done Nikto's entire opinion of you has shifted from disdain to something oddly comfortable. In that comfort lingers even stronger resentment towards every other doctor he's met as well as discomfort in the fact that they even feel comfortable around someone who just stabbed them with a needle. Someone who works as in medicine. Someone they stereotyped to be cold, heartless and incapable of compassion or understanding.

He walks back to his dorm, parting ways with his psychiatrist as soon as he can. One thing they hate more than anything is being treated like a child, being chaperoned. They shower, wash their hands, put on clean clothes and a clean balaclava before laying in bed.

He stares up at the ceiling. He thought that hatred was cut and dry, that no matter who it was they would hate any sort of doctor or nurse. So why don't they hate you? Why do feelings have to be so overly complex that the moment they think they finally understand what hes feeling, it changes its meaning and everything they thought they knew is whisked out from under his feet.

They don't sleep that night.

Nor do they the next after bumping into you in the halls, watching your expression shift as you smile at him. You shouldn't be smiling at him, no one should. You shouldn't be greeting them, and asking how they're doing, and waving when you walk away. Just who do you think you are? who do you think they are?

Nikto's weight slumps in the rickety beige chair, eyes staring at the dusty framed picture of a washed out sunset that hangs crooked on the wall. The clock ticks and the minute hand moves. It's late, so is the clock, and so is his psychiatrist. Nikto waits for another 15 minutes before Dr. Ross arrives and sets up the room for the session.

The lights are off, the blinds are shut, the door is locked and Nikto is sitting on a leather couch while his psychiatrist sits in a chair facing the door. Their mask is off this time. Dr. Ross says nothing, neither does Nikto.

The only thing that can be heard clearly is the soft whistle that comes on every inhale Nikto takes. They don't want to talk— or, rather, they want to talk but can't manage to break through their own internal walls.

Nikto takes a deep breath, a whistle following the feeling of his lungs filling with fresh air. The mask is comforting in a way, but to be normal again is something Nikto yearns for more than anything.

Nikto listens as his own voice fills the air, "I don't understand feelings anymore." its not sharp, or rough like it usually is. It comes out like a weak punch.

"What kinds of feelings are hard to understand now?" Dr. Ross asks, shifting in his seat.

"We don't hate the new medic."

"That's good progress. What do you think sets them apart from the other doctors you've had?"

Nikto takes a moment to think on that. They know whats different, but there's about a million things that are confusing about it.

"They gave us choices. And listened to our answer."

"Do you think you would want them to be in charge of your future medical needs?" Dr. Ross shifts again, crossing his legs.

"I don't know," Nikto stops, tongue flick out between his scarred lips to wet them, "They aren't afraid of me. They should be."

"Is there a reason they should be afraid of you?" Nikto sighs, this topic again. Having to explain that they are dangerous, that they hurt people, that they're scared of hurting people.

"I might hurt them." Nikto breathes out.

"Are you worried about hurting them because they're kind to you?"

Nikto doesn't answer, they have an answer, but the thought of saying it out loud makes their skin crawl.

They bump into you again passing by the Mess Hall after dinner was served. Again, you smile, its perplexing and bizarre. It makes their heart thrum in an uncomfortable rhythm, sets them in fight or flight, so they just stand there and watch as you walk down the hall.

Each new time their gaze sets on you, a new string of emotions beads up and wraps around his vocal chords until it feels like they can barely talk.

They seek you out without even realizing it, eyes flicking through each face in the Mess Hall, each figure in the distance— behind doors, windows, through halls and winding stair cases that feel endless until they finally spot you standing there.

Trudging back to his dorm from the most recent session with Dr. Ross, Nikto finds his feet taking him in a direction unfamiliar to their usual routine. Down a different hall, through a different door, leading him up and down stairs and through rooms until he reaches a familiar hallway. One that smells like antiseptic and his own trauma.

One that has you standing by the door to the med-bay, water bottle in hand, lips moving as you talk to someone, your shoe holding the door open while you share a laugh with a co-worker.

Nikto's fists clench at his sides, jaw set tight and eyes narrowed. He's not jealous, no, far worse. He's smitten. Obsessed. And it scares him. it scares him because he has no idea what to do next, no idea where to go with these feelings, whether these feelings really are what he thinks they are. Guilt is the next wave of emotions that overcomes them. Guilt as they watch you leave through the double doors at the end of the hallway, guilt that they've made progress in their trauma, guilt that they know they can't have you.

Another week, another session. Another hour and a half of feelings and trauma. The words spill out like hot wax, clogging up his throat and making it hard to breathe. Dr. Ross listens, he always does, but this time very intently. Taking notes, commenting, helping Nikto describe things.

In the end, both Nikto and Dr. Ross come to the conclusion that, "While these feelings are healthy and normal, it would be in your best interest not to pursue them given the context of the professional setting." as Dr. Ross put it.

So, for the next few months, Nikto avoids you. It's not hard, not in theory. But his feet have other plans as he walks by the med-bay over and over again as each week progresses.

6 months after he met you they find out you're being transferred. its a blessing and curse. No more turmoil, but now there's nothing to look forward. Now he has to find yet another doctor who will never be as good as you.

Dr. Ross reminds them that this is a breakthrough, a moment that opened doors that will let Nikto heal. Opportunities that will give them the ability to have more freedom, to heal more freely and to feel more freely.

About a year after you left Nikto takes leave. Its the first time they've taken leave that wasn't related to an injury or prescribed by Dr. Ross.

A long evening walking through the empty streets of the town nearby. It's summer now, the night is warm and humid, a gentle breeze sweeping a few leaves across the street. Shadows dance as the lamp lights overhead flicker on with the setting sun. Footsteps catch Nikto's ears, they stop walking and look around carefully.

A familiar smile, calm eyes, gentle hands. They're almost worried that they're hallucinating, but it's you. Standing on the sidewalk across from them, you stopped walking when you noticed them.

You're waving too, crossing the street after looking both ways. Talking to him as if no time has gone by at all. Their mind is reeling, so is their heart.

"How've you been?? I was worried I wouldn't see you again, I'm so sorry that I wasn't able to stay longer, life has been hectic."

Nikto stares at you for a moment, following the curves in you lips as you talk.

"… I have been okay. Have you?" They say, the words feeling foreign and uncomfortable. Small talk isn't something they usually engage with.

"I've been alright, I got a new job a few blocks away.. I miss the medic life though, you know? I miss you a bit too, maybe more than a bit. I don't like to play favorites, but I think out of all the patients I've had, you were my favorite." You speak with a smile, eyes sparkling as you talk to them.

After a moment of consideration for his response, Nikto opens his mouth to start talking, "… I .. enjoyed your company. We still do."

They pick up on your smile, how your cheeks move and how your eyes crinkle at the edges. How your shoulders relax a little and fall into a comfortable posture.

"How about we catch up over coffee some time? It'll be nice to get to know you better."