#zibbs

@zira-blackwell

One of Tibbs’ go-to fun facts was that humans did, in fact, have six senses: the sixth sense was called proprioception, and it was the idea that you were constantly aware of your body’s position in space. So when you closed your eyes, you could still touch the tip of your nose. Or if, with your eyes closed, someone were to lift your left arm and ask you to match its position with your right, you could do it with a startling degree of accuracy. 

And so, if everyone had six senses, he was pretty sure that doctors had seven: the sense of impending doom.

Or at least trouble on the horizon. He’d always had it. Back in the army, his squad had called him paranoid. When he’d squinted into the desert sun and announced, inexplicably, that they were about to come across trouble, they’d told him not to be so doom and gloom. And then, time and time again, he was right. Unfortunately, of course. He really wished he could be wrong. But he found that a lot of other trauma doctors, nurses, health staff in general, seemed to have the same sense of something foreboding. Something coming that was not going to be pretty.

It started with the quiet. Some nights in A&E were quiet, yes, but this kind of quiet felt wrong. He didn’t voice this concern to Dr. Blackwell, partly because to say the Q word was to bring hell down upon yourself and your staff, but also because he thought she would only think him foolish. Dr. Blackwell didn’t exactly seem like the kind of woman to believe in gut feelings. But the hours stretched on, and on, with not even a walk-in, no patients to be seen.

And then the phone rang.

“Dr. Tibbs speaking,” He answered it, tucking the phone between his ear and his shoulder so he could reach for a pad and a pen. Scribbling away in the kind of scratch only a doctor could manage, his brow furrowed. “Alright. How many?— right. We’ll get ready. Thank you.”

@exsgttibbs

As a doctor,  you worked in a fast-paced, high-stress environment. As a vampire doctor, you did all of this with the utmost awareness that a sudden burst of blood or moving too inhumanely fast, or catching a prognosis without ample evidence, based on the ability to scent an ailment could spell disaster for your career and your life. (As well as the life of your coven.) 

This meant that you did not have time for patients who come into the A&E complaining of an unbreakable fever and chills. Perhaps it was because she had spent the last thousand years in perfect health (minus the whole technicality of being dead, or what have you.)

Mr. Stanley Carlson was one such case. 

She had been handed the papers by a nervous looking nurse, which had only made sense after she’d looked them over and thrust the clipboard back towards the incompetent woman. 

“He has the flu, I am sure you don’t need me to tell you that,” she scoffed.

“He’s complaining of a headache.”

“Perhaps because he is dehydrated like 80% of England.”

“Dr. Blackwell, he’s been on fluids for five hours with no relief.” 

This gave Zira pause. Her eyebrow twitched up. She sensed a mystery. 

“Very well,” she conceded and took the clipboard from the nurse, starting off down the hall towards the bed in question. 

“Dr. Blackwell--”

“Thank you, Nurse Henley, that will be all.” 

Zira had her nose in the file, only looking up when she got close enough--

To see Dr. Tibbs standing by the bedside already. She scowled for just a moment at his back, but then brightened as she strode forward, pulling herself to her full height next to him.