NIGHT SHIFT, PT 1
DATE: MAY 20, 2018 ____________
SUBJECT ID NO: _______________
RX:
dear Harley
if youre reading this, Im sorry. probably means I didnt find a way out. Im trying but they got me in a real pickle here hon. Im trying though. just know tht Im trying. its been a Week now since they took me. terrorist group I think. drug addicts + some guy Charlie in charge. girl came to th clinic + faked car crash tricked me led me outside. thght someone was hurt + instead got to th car + injectd w somthng put me right out. woke up in a dam cave w gun pointed at me. wanted me to fix this kid hes yr age. Ive been doing my best but hes rly banged up. LOC + N&V whn I found him that was 1 week ago. Pt = enhanced 17yo M c- Dx depressed skull Fx L occ lobe, performd cranioplasty w precurved Titanium plate. they only let 1 girl help bc th rest wre too high. went well. Fixed what I could bt there was a Lot of damage enough to kill someon theyve been
PHYSICIAN ID NO: _______________
DISPENSE AS WRITTEN
DATE: MAY 20 2018 ____________
SUBJECT ID NO: _______________
RX:
torturing him. its bad hon I dont want to tell u details but its rly bad. Riree said they were hurting him to force his dad to make som kind of Weapon. She said its been 1 month + no end in sight. + th little girl they have a girl here too Cassies 7yo + they have her dad bt they wont bring him downstairs. hope th police still looking bt dont know I dont know if Im ever gonna get out of here bt just in case I wanted to write this to you. found these prescription pads in a supply closet w all th meds. been lookng thru all of it fr anythng useful. got mayb 2y med supplies here, mayb 2mo food rations. Ill try to find a way out try to come back home. Please Please be safe Please be safe hon. Ill be home as soon as I can. I know I havnt always been good but I wanna see You and yr mom one more time.
Love you
Dad
PHYSICIAN ID NO: _______________
DISPENSE AS WRITTEN
TUESDAY, OCTOBER 2 — 9:35 AM
Harley visits Ms. Potts’ office in the morning.
Her office is down on the fiftieth floor, which she’s granted him access to in case he needs anything. Harley knocks a couple times on her office door; there’s a brass plate secured to the middle of the door reading: PEPPER POTTS, CEO. He raps his knuckles again on the shut wooden door.
He’s been staying at the Avengers Tower now for over a month. He spends most of his time flipping through his dad’s notes from that bunker (which, for the most part, he’s unable to stomach), eating all the Starks’ food, and ignoring emails from his college. Classes started a couple weeks ago—and his dorm’s still empty—but Harley’s still not sure if he’ll go back this year. It feels so stupid now—college—when his dad’s buried six feet deep in New Hampshire dirt and the last person who saw him alive is laying in an Avengers hospital bed. And the guys who did all this, the guys who forced his dad out of his workplace and into a doomsday bunker, they’re still fucking breathing. How was that fair?
Hearing no response on the other side of the door, Harley knocks again. And again, and again, and then nudges at the barely cracked door with his foot. “Ms. Potts?” he calls out. “Uh, Pepper?” He pushes the door a little more, and he can see her long glass desk on the other side of the room, her open laptop, and her strawberry-blonde head resting atop of the desk.
She’s sleeping, he can see that now, her pale arms crossed over her head and her cheek pressed into her laptop keyboard. There’s a wall of windows behind her, streaming sunlight into the room. Harley clears his throat and tries again, “Pepper?”
She raises her head that time, blinking, and her hair is a mess, frizzy on one side from where it pressed on the keyboard. There’s a pattern of pink key-shaped imprints on one cheek. “Oh—sorry, sorry, I was just… Just closed my eyes and…” Pepper smooths at her face a couple times, and then at her hair, blinking again. “Sorry. How’re you doing, sweetheart? You need something?”
“Yeah, um,” Harley starts, “There’s some stuff… with my dad… Um.” His voice cracks, and he clears his throat again. “Uh. His will or whatever, there’s some stuff I need to do for it, I need to go over there. Back to his place, and I just—I was wondering if I could…”
Pepper nods at him, and she reaches for her phone at the edge of the counter. “Yeah, of course. That’s—that’s completely fine. I’ll let Happy know, and he’ll get something worked out for you.”
“Oh, uh, great. Yeah. That’d be great.”
Pepper taps at her phone a little longer, and then sets it facedown on her glass desk.
“Thanks,” he adds, realizing he hasn’t said it yet. “Really.”
She sighs, nodding in response, smooths down her hair again, and closes her eyes for a moment. Pepper’s belly is really big now—so big now that he can almost picture the baby inside. He wonders if the baby’s due yet; he wonders if Pepper will go once it’s born. He knows she and Mr. Stark aren’t on the best of terms, and even he wouldn’t want a baby around that Peter Parker guy. “I know this has been hard for you, and we’ve all been pretty focused on Peter, and the trial… but we’re still here for you, Harley. Whatever you need.”
“Thanks, Ms. Potts. Pepper.”
She smiles, and lets out a small sigh. Those key-shaped imprints on her face are fading, but she’s still blinking slowly, tiredly, propping her head up with one hand. Underneath her eyes, twin curved lines make her seem twice as exhausted. “Anytime. Just… Be safe, okay?”
“I will. I promise.”
TUESDAY, OCTOBER 2 — 10:45 AM
Happy has spent all of his free time for the past month all around New York City. Whenever he’s not helping Tony out with something, or not visiting May, he’s getting back their things. Sifting through thrift stores camera footage, tracking down buyers using facial recognition, and sending pictures of the items back to May for confirmation.
He’s found dozens of their belongings. Table lamps with red lampshades, cream-colored curtains. Wood coffee table, oriental rug, the black swing-arm lamp that used to sit on Peter’s desk. Peter’s nightstand, May’s queen mattress, their ugly patterned ottoman. A pink-and-white knitted blanket, Pete’s striped sheets and pillowcases, his blue comforter, his fuzzy gray rug. Happy even found a map of New York City that used to hang on his wall, one he’d marked up in blue Sharpie. A bookshelf the kid’s uncle had built. Dozens of Peter’s old textbooks. Every single one of the Percy Jackson books. His Avengers action figures, his comic books, even his old desk chair with one leg slightly shorter than the rest. More cream-colored curtains, some more wood shelves. Dozens more books. A twin-sized mattress, a round glass table, a green-painted dresser.
As much as he can salvage. And for each one, Happy pays more than double what it’s worth. Some of the furniture, even, he had to pay triple just to get the buyer to let it go.
He recently tracked down a couch. A dark green couch that he remembers from their apartment. According to the Parkers’ landlord, she only sold a couple things and donated the rest to a thrift store nearby. Happy searched the security footage and found the family that bought the couch almost four months back. They were pretty reluctant to let it go given how attached their kids had gotten to it and the price she’d gotten for it, but when Happy explained some of what happened, the mother insisted he take it. He offered to compensate them for it, but the mother insisted. “Take it,” she said. “I’m so sorry. We didn’t know.”
Tracking down Peter’s clothes is harder, but Peter’s friends help. Sifting through security footage, identifying anything that’s his, and tracking down who bought it.
Today, they’re in Staten Island—tracking down some guy who bought a good amount of Peter’s old clothes. He drives out with Ned in the passenger seat, who’s switching between sullen silence and nonstop conversation every five minutes. “...I mean, if you could just tell me, like, a little more about Peter, it couldn’t hurt, right?”
“Ned,” Happy says, a warning.
“No, seriously, like, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind, if you just ask him—”
“Ned.”
“I promise I won’t tell anyone, really, not even MJ, I just wanna know that Peter’s—”
“Ned, I gave you one condition if you wanted to help.”
The kid looks over at him with a wide-eyed guilt, and then slumps his shoulders. “Right. Yeah. Sorry.”
What’s Happy supposed to do? Tell Ned: oh, yeah buddy, sorry, your best friend’s damn near catatonic and won’t eat unless someone forces him to. If you saw him you wouldn’t recognize him, and he probably wouldn’t recognize you either.
They sit the rest of the car ride in silence, Ned poking at his phone. They find the guy, but Happy has to write a check for a whole new wardrobe just to get the guy’s claws off of it.
They get most of it into boxes—Ned sorts through it, making sure it’s all Peter’s, nodding at every pair of used socks and printed shirts and saying, “Yeah. That’s—that’s his.” Together, they load it into the back of Happy’s car, and afterwards he drops the kid off in his home in Queens, despite the kid’s protests.
He knows they’re trying to make Peter’s transition to normal life as smooth as possible, and that Ned’s just trying to help, but having that teenager float around the Medbay and ask Peter all kinds of intrusive questions isn’t going to help anyone.
Afterwards, Happy goes back to their old apartment and speaks with the new tenants—he gets paint samples of everything in the house—which, luckily, they’ve left alone. Seafoam green for the kitchen cabinets. Alpine white for the living room and kitchen area. Clover green for the hallway. Moss green for Peter’s room.
This is what May wanted—this is what she thinks will get Peter better.
So of course, Happy will help.
NAME: ___________________
DATE: MAY 23, 2018 _________
SUBJECT ID: _______________
dear Harley
I remember yr mom said yr Graduating in June. th 1st. I don’t think Im gonna make it but just want you to know I was gonna go. got you a present. got yr college money all set aside too bt I guess thats a problem for Septmbr. they locked me in this operating rm and theyv been leaving me here. thrs a bathroom + Ive been sleeping on that mattress we brought Pt downstairs on w medical blankets. Rations are all canned tuna dried milk beef jerky nothing good but at least theyre feeding me. not mch to do during th day but organize th meds and make Tx plan for Pt and write to you. Today they brought Pt back after I had dinner usually ar 8 or 745. Pt c/o mult lac to L thigh. sutured + injected area c- LA lidocaine. CC post-op h/a bt healing well, no infection. gave IV oxy for H/A + he thanked me. even in a place like this, hes polite. he was rly
PHYSICIAN ID NO: _______________
DISPENSE AS WRITTEN
NAME: ___________________
DATE: MAY 23, 2018 _________
SUBJECT ID: _______________
quiet at first but I got him talking. said his aunt was a nurse and she always said doctors had their heads so far up their asses they didnt know how to do anything useful anymore. I laughed. he asked me wht kind of doctor I was. I said pediatric surg. “oh” he said. “thats why they chose you? bc of” he waved his hand weakly at th back of hs head.
I told him no + explained what happened. Got Lucky I guess. He asked me where I worked. I said NH. “were in NH?” he asked.
“I dont know” I told him. “they knocked me out for th car Ride… Im not sure where we are.”
“oh” he said. he looked dissapointed. “never been to Vermont.”
PHYSICIAN ID NO: _______________
DISPENSE AS WRITTEN
NAME: ___________________
DATE: MAY 23, 2018 _________
SUBJECT ID: _______________
I dont know where we are yet. Hopefully one will let something slip. th big guy’s got a NY accent, some of th others too. not sure.
“Cassie keeps asking where we are” he said. “I dont know what to tell her”
“anything” I said. “shes a kid. shell believe it”
he was Really bothered by what I said. Quiet th rest of th time as I worked on his sutures. didnt even flinch. I guess hes used to pain, so this didnt feel like much to him. I gave him some of my food. whole can of lentil soup, + he ate it fast + thanked me again. “sorry they got you, doc” peter said to me. “your a really nice guy”
i think he knows we’re dead too. scares me how sure he is. hes your age hon and God what their doing to him. please please be looking for me. he needs Help. more than I can give him.
Love you
Dad
PHYSICIAN ID NO: _______________
DISPENSE AS WRITTEN
TUESDAY, OCTOBER 2 — 12:31 PM
May Parker has spent nearly two months in a hospital bed, waking at odd hours of the night and the dry hours of the afternoon. When she first awoke, she had to relearn how to swallow. How to talk. How to eat. How to grab something. How to write. How to sit up. How to lay down. How to turn on her side. And still she’s here in this bed—aching, exhausted, and barely able to move without assistance. Seven weeks of all this motor skills practice and she can barely sit up.
And now, like a damn infant, she’s learning how to move again. She’s been awake since the mid-august, and she’s been in this bed for six weeks now. Seven. Gets exhausted after just a couple hours of activity. She’s on a daily regimen of what feels like constant medication. Anticonvulsants to prevent seizures. Stimulants to help her focus. Painkillers to relieve her headaches. Anticoagulants to prevent blood clots. And she feels like all she does is sleep. Sleep, headache, physical therapy. Sleep, headache, physical therapy. Helen keeps telling her she should be at an inpatient rehab facility, but she keeps refusing.
How could she leave Peter like that?
What kind of parent would she be if she left him?
She tries not to think, but her aching head does it anyway. Here, confined to this hospital bed, unable to hold a fork or sit up on her own… What kind of parent is she now? What kind of shit parent lets her kid suffer just a few rooms away?
Cho’s in her room now, tapping the cup in front of her with her finger. “Go for it, May.”
She looks down at her pale hand for a moment, willing it to listen, just this once. From her position, May shifts herself up a little, managing to work her sore core muscles forward a bit, and then wills her unstable arm forward. It shakes, and she misses the cup by a whole two inches, shifts her hand to the side, and tries again, grazing the papered side this time.
“Don’t be discouraged,” Helen says, touching her arm in some attempt at comfort. “You’ve made a lot of progress.”
Progress, she scoffs. Right. She’s got the motor skills of a four-month-old, but sure, she’s made progress. May reaches again for the paper cup. Her outstretched hand jerks back and forth as she reaches forward, a rhythmic shake, and she says, come on, this time, just this once, let me— But her fingers smack into the cup, and it bumps over onto its side, spilling a spread of water over the table. Helen picks it back up, wipes up the water with a cloth, and asks her to try again.
Frustrated, she huffs at the ceiling. That cup in front of her might as well be a mile away. It might as well be on the other side of the fucking planet. She can’t grab it. She can’t lift it. She can barely touch it without knocking it over.
She has physical therapy for a couple hour after that—a broad-shouldered man with moss-green scrubs and dark hair and a host of tattoos. He has her practice pushing against his hands for ten seconds each, back and forth and back and forth until her arms ache and her mind tenses with clawlike pain and it hurts so badly she has to lie down again.
Dr. Cho keeps telling her that it takes time. That it’ll takes weeks, months, even years of work to get back to the way she was.
But Peter needs her now.
Pepper visits her around two. May asks about Peter, and she lets out a hard sigh before struggling to sit down in the cushy chair at May’s bedside. “Better,” Pepper says. “Still pretty quiet.”
Cho has her do some jigsaw puzzles (or attempt them) whenever she’s awake, anything to keep her mind active and to keep those neurons firing. She explained to her something about plasticity and brain damage that May already knows.
That’s the worst part about this. She’s a nurse; she knows her odds. She knows it’s a miracle she woke up at all; she knows it’ll be another fucking miracle if she walks again. We just have to keep your brain moving, keep it working, Cho explained to her. It’ll form those new pathways, and hopefully…
“Is he eating?” May asks, and her voice weakens in the back half of her sentence.
Pepper nods. “Yeah. Not as much as Cho wants, but. Yeah. He’s still eating.”
It’s hard to imagine her Peter not eating. He was always such a hungry kid. He always, always cleaned his plate. Why can’t Uncle Ben cook every night? Peter had whined one night through a mouthful of mashed potatoes. He was little back then, maybe eight or nine, and Ben had laughed so hard he almost choked.
Your uncle’s a busy man, Pete, May’d reminded him, with a short grin at Ben. And you like my cooking, too, don’t you?
Peter looked like a bear caught in a trap, his eyes wide. Um. He glanced back and forth between them both, looking increasingly worried. Before their kid could even respond, Ben leaned over and, cupping his hand to Peter’s ear, whispered something to him as Peter listened intently. Peter’s anxious expression morphed, and then he laughed, too, giggling hard with his mouth full, and Ben laughed, too, cackling with one arm on the back of Peter’s chair.
She forgot to ask Ben that night what he’d told Peter to make him laugh so hard. How he’d manage to cheer him up so fast.
She never did learn what he said.
Now, May gestures weakly with one hand—to the bedside table, where a small notebook lays open. “For Peter,” she manages. “I came up with…some…”
It’d taken her five minutes just to get down each word properly. An immense amount of concentration for each letter—to force her hands to obey. Pepper reaches for her notebook, and there, in shaky blue pen:
OPERATION HOMECOMING
FEEL SAFE - -
NED VISIT MJ VISIT
SCHOOL ??
GO HOME
DECORATE LIKE HOME - PAINT ? PICS ?
NOT EATING - -
PRACHYA THAI
MR DLMARS SNDWICHES
BENS APPLE PIE
“He hasn’t come…to see me,” she whispers. “Is he…”
“He’s okay,” Pepper says. The woman’s still holding her notebook, staring with a slight frown at the words on the page. “Just…it’s been hard for him, this past week. The hearing…”
She pushes the puzzle pieces together on a tray in front of her, feebly poking at them. Piece after piece, she shoves them around, trying to connect them one at a time. He’s going to be fine, she keeps thinking. He just needs some time. He just needs… May’s been over this a thousand times in her mind. Take him home, get him settled, get him back to normal. She has to get better for him. She has to be able to get up and sit down next to him and tell him he’ll be alright. Instead she’s stuck in this bed. She thought she would be better by the time she moved him. She really thought she’d be better.
She can’t even remember it. That day in April. The car crash. She and Helen have gone over it dozens of times, and the injury took away any memory of that day—that month. The last thing she can actively remember is her birthday in March and the rest is an utter mess.
Peter had made her a cake. Chocolate, her favorite, and he’d decorated the top with an ungodly amount of chocolate sprinkles. He’d written HAPPY BIRTD on it in pink icing; he said he’d run out of room, “like, really fast.”
He’d eaten three slices on his own, and, when May had pointed out the chocolate icing stuck to his collared shirt, Peter grinned, wiped uselessly at his shirt, and asked for another piece.
“I could take you over there in a wheelchair,” Pepper offers. “No one’s stopping you, May, if he won’t come to see you, then…”
May shakes her head. “Don’t want to scare him,” May says, and her voice is still dry. “He was so…” Before the hearing, he was coming to see her every day—each time looking at her like she was a demonic specter, like she was about to lunge right across the room and grab him by the throat. “Pepper… He was so scared…”
“I know,” Pepper says, looking aggrieved. She’s got her hand on her belly and her head tipped back to lean against the wall. “He’s getting better, though, May. He really is.”
May is the closest thing Peter has to a mother, and after just five months Peter‘s terrified of her. He’s never looked at her like that before. Not once. And now he’s hiding from her, avoiding her, cringing away from her… He cowered from her when she reached out to him. She isn’t going to force him to see her if it means that happening again.
Besides, what’s she supposed to do now? She can’t sit on the floor with him like Tony can, she can’t kneel next to him or hold him or do anything, really, unless she’s already laying down.
How is she supposed to help him?
NAME: ___________________
DATE: JUNE 1, 2018 _________
SUBJECT ID: _______________
dear Harley
today one of Them came down to th operating room. been sleeping in that support closet on th Mattress they dragged Peter down on. woke me up. One was sick. Lyle. 26yo M Hx meth SUD. Dx LOC HR VT OD meth + alc + they wanted me to save him. that guy Haroon pointed a gun at my head th whole time. sry didnt have a choice harley. Tx cooling IV fld + 2 mg prprnolol IV bolus - no imprv p- 5m - +2 mg IV, no improv ag - + 2 mg IV prprnolol + 3mg IV phntolamin - VS nl p- 15m. monitr c- EKG until guy woke up ag. made me monitor hm all damn day until he felt good enough to get up. Flooded w more IV fld + by 4 guy was mostly ok. he stared at me lk I was th one who gave hm th meth + ran off w his friends. probably just gonna do More - they always do more right before Pts sessions. guess it helps them thru it.
PHYSICIAN ID NO: _______________
DISPENSE AS WRITTEN
NAME: ___________________
DATE: JUNE 1, 2018 _________
SUBJECT ID: _______________
keep thnking ab that room. upstairs. scares Pt so bad that he doesnt talk about it. I knw theres a chair + a camera + thats it. got Pt back today at 739 + they dropped him on th floor + he couldnt Stand. embarassed I think bc I tried to help hm up + he said he didnt need Anything, said they didnt hurt him that bad. they mustv messed w his Knee again bc it was bleeding bad whn I got to it. dont think he could stand up if he tried.
Pt said h was Sorry. bc he couldnt get up on th Table on his own. I said I could help him up + he shook his head said he was fine. very stiff. kept watching me as I moved around kept putting hs arm by hs knee. so I sat on th floor w him instead + gave him th rest of my rations for th day. food got hm talking he was hungry. old pckge of jerky but it smelled fine he chewed through th whole thing as he talked ab hs best friend + hs crush frm school + his apartment + his Aunt while I casted up hs knee. put a stcknet sleeve over his Knee - wrapped in padded brown bandages, then used some shitty old plaster Sheets, layered over th bandages. talked w him while th
PHYSICIAN ID NO: _______________
DISPENSE AS WRITTEN
NAME: ___________________
DATE: JUNE 1, 2018 _________
SUBJECT ID: _______________
plaster dried. I asked hm about Cassie. he said th Girl was ok. I asked ab tht room upstairs they keep him in, if they needed anything. He gav me a funny look + joked “just like th Hilton, doc” + nothing else. poked at th new cast on his leg. finally let m close enoug to get him some meds Tx oxy IV little more thn last time. they took him away at 905 + he could stand ok w th cast, limp to th door + he looked back at me right as they closed th door + I saw his eyes + he was Scared. nothng I cld do.
sry I know yr not reading these. still nice to have u here, even if yr not really There. I hope yr safe hon plz be safe. yr supposed to graduate tday + Im not there. congrats Im so proud of y Harley so so proud. dont worry about me, Ill be ok. coming up w a plan I think itll work. just have to get Pt on board
Love you
Dad
PHYSICIAN ID NO: _______________
DISPENSE AS WRITTEN
TUESDAY, OCTOBER 2 — 3:17 PM
Cassie gets dressed sometime in the afternoon.
It’s weird, changing clothes every day. She missed it. Her shirt smells clean and it’s pink and it’s very soft. It’s smooth and it doesn’t have any stains or spots or damp spots that never go away. It’s hers, too, that’s what Jim told her, but she sort of remembers wearing it. There’s a hoodie too—a fuzzy blue one with purple polka dots. It’s supposed to be something. A person. An animal, maybe. There are little cloth horns and fangs and eyes embroidered on the hood, and there are pockets in the middle where she can tuck her hands. It’s warm and Jim says it’s hers but still she can’t remember who it’s supposed to be.
Peter doesn’t get dressed today. He’s still wearing the same clothes as yesterday—a gray T-shirt and a sweatshirt. Black sweatpants. Red socks. He’s awake today and he’s talking. That’s good. That must mean he’s feeling better.
He’s sitting against the wall right now in the corner of their room and making a face. Cassie knows this face, too—his closed eyes, that wrinkle between his eyebrows. The way his head tips marginally to the side, the way he’s leaned towards the wall. He’s listening, she knows. He’s hearing something she can’t.
“Peter?” she whispers, scooting in closer to him, her brother’s eyes open for a split second, focusing on her. “What’s wrong? What are they—”
He makes that shushing sound, quick and short between his teeth, and she closes her mouth just as Peter closes his eyes again, pushes his fingers into his forehead, splaying them over his face and pressing hard. Cassie watches his mouth move, forming the word: a hard T and then the rest of the word: talking, the answer to her question, and she understands why he’s listening so hard.
She lingers near the headboard of the bed, crouching and hiding where the other grown-ups can’t see her. She runs her hand over the plastic edge, smoothing over it, grasping it with her hand as Peter continues to listen. Someone must be outside. Maybe multiple someones. Have they finally come to take her away?
Cassie hovers her other hand over her tummy, the left side, where there’s a row of scars like Peter’s. Burns. She remembers how bad it hurt. She remembers and she remembers and she remembers: the red-haired lady’s face, her teeth, her arm raising with cigarette in hand. Peter howling, Wait! Please, Charlie! PLEASE!
She closes her eyes and tries to forget the picture in her head but it won’t go away. Peter lying on that table. His legs bleeding everywhere. Charlie standing over him, face twisted and splattered with red spots, screeching at him. Renee telling her, Look, you stupid brat, look at him! Your favorite Spider-Kid isn’t here to save you now, is he?
Peter does that for a while: closing his eyes and listening. He’s good at listening, much better than her. If Cassie’d been bit by a spider, too, then they’d be able to do it together. Then she could listen like him and climb walls like him and be super strong and super tall and fight bad guys like him. There were no spiders in their room before, though—and there are none now, either.
“Peter?” she whispers, once her brother’s eyes have opened.
A hum in the back of his throat, prompting for her to go on.
“What did they say?”
Peter tips his head back, staring up at the white ceiling. “We’re leaving,” he croaks. It’s the first he’s talked all day and his voice is dry and weird-sounding like crumpled-up paper, like a cracked sheet of mud.
Leaving?
“Here?”
With his mouth closed again, her brother makes a humming sound much like the last one: yeah.
But Cassie doesn’t want to leave. She likes it here in this room. She gets to wear different clothes every day and she gets to eat a lot. She gets to take baths, she gets to keep toys, and she gets to stay with Peter almost all the time.
She wants to stay here.
Cassie keeps her thoughts to herself, though, because Peter straightens his back and guards his casted knee with his arm, peering over at the door like someone’s coming. And it is—about a minute later, there’s a knock at the door, and there’s a man standing in their doorway.
Mr. Tony.
He shuts the door behind him. His black beard looks a little shorter, a little neater, the edges of it shaved in neat lines. He’s wearing black pants and a short-sleeved navy blue shirt. He’s rubbing his eyes. Mr. Tony says Peter’s name, and her brother hardens, toughens, like cement baked in the sun.
But the man doesn’t drag them out.
He doesn’t mention them leaving, either.
Instead, Mr. Tony sits down in front of them. He says he’s sorry he hadn’t been back in a while and then he says he’s sorry again. “Sarah says… She says I’m not supposed to force you to talk. Not if you don’t want to. I’m just, uh. You know. We’re trying, kid. Really trying to get you better here, and… I don’t know how.” He scratches at his scalp. His hair looks clean. “We had an idea… Well, Sarah had an idea, and I’m not sure… ”
He keeps talking and talking and talking and Peter keeps watching him as he does, all the while frowning and gnawing at the skin of his lip like he’s still hungry from lunch. Mr. Tony’s words are all jumbled up like Charlie’s and Peter doesn’t say anything back—only nods a couple times.
Mr. Tony doesn’t say where they’re gonna go, and Peter doesn’t ask.
But Cassie wants to know.
TUESDAY, OCTOBER 2 — 5:01 PM
“Good, that’s good. And can you tell me where you are?”
The boy looks up at her and then to the left—to the white wall, where an array of pictures is taped up. Pictures of him, of his friends, of his family. “Medbay,” he says.
Sarah writes that down, too, beneath the first couple questions. “Good. And can you tell me why you’re here?”
The kid swallows. His eyes lilt away again. “We left,” he says.
It’s nonspecific, but it’s enough for Sarah to check that box and shut her notebook in her lap. It’s nearly full now: a month’s worth of notes on Peter Parker. She’s brought a packet of papers with her, too, various screening tests and attempts to gauge his mental state, but he’s unwilling to pick up any papers she gives him or engage in any of the tests.
Peter had talked more before the hearing, but since then he’s been distinctly closed off, generally refusing to talk or interact with anyone other than Cassie, save that confusion with her head nurse Kaelyn. Sarah can’t get much out of him; she can’t get anything out of him. Getting anything longer than a one-word answer out of him is quickly becoming impossible. She can’t get any conclusive screenings out of him or much engagement at all.
At least he seems better today. Sitting up and interacting with Cassie. Tense but seemingly lucid. Sarah will just have to work with what she has.
Sarah attempts a cognitive exam, one that Helen specifically requested to get a grasp on his brain trauma recovery. She skips the written parts and goes right to the verbal section, but it goes just the same as the others: he’s unable to follow her questions or answer them, and he fails to follow explicit instructions.
She doesn’t think it’s a lack of mental ability; she thinks he’s just not paying attention. “Peter,” Sarah says gently, craning her head down to try to make eye contact with the boy, “I need you to try and stay focused for me, okay? I’m just trying to check your head, make sure you’re still healing okay. Can we do that?”
Peter’s got on a T-shirt today—a light gray one—and he’s wearing a zip-up hoodie over it. He shrugs, tipping his chin slightly downward: a nod.
She holds up three images of animals and asks him what they are. Tiger, horse, bear. “How about these? Can you tell me what they are?”
Peter’s eyes drift up to hers. There’s something in his face—judgment, maybe, a little scorn, like it’s ridiculous for him to even consider answering that question. “I know it’s a little dumb,” she gives, making a mental note that he’s at least kept some sense of his own intelligence, “but I want to make sure even the damaged parts of your brain are up to the task, okay?”
He sets his jaw. Sarah takes it as a yes.
She has him recite some words, and then some numbers, and he does well with both. Some basic arithmetic, some spelling, and Peter gives her that same odd look. “Okay,” she says, moving on from the basics, “how about some recent events? Can you tell me what you did yesterday?”
Peter doesn’t say anything. Instead glancing over at Cassie and back. They’ll have to work on that, too. The separation anxiety. At this point, it’s so severe it’s debilitating; she doubts she can separate them for more than an hour without causing an incident.
“Maybe what you had for dinner?”
She’s seen her patients do this before—trying to read her for the right answer. Peter’s doing it now. Scanning her face without avail. He shrugs again.
“Just give it a guess,” Sarah prompts.
The boy mumbles something about rice and chicken, which they had three days ago for dinner.
She writes down a note about episodic memory issues and moves on. She wants to ask if he remembers the courthouse, because it’s still unclear what he remembers from that day—just that he had to leave and come back. He’s relatively calm right now, though, and she’d rather not bring it up. She has him do a couple more exercises, mostly memory-related, but he’s uninterested in answering any more of her questions.
“You want to try writing it down, maybe?” she asks him. Sarah has a notebook for him in her bag—a sky-blue one meant for this therapy notes. She’s been trying to get him to accept it for weeks now.
He shrugs again. He looks more hostile than he did before, the way Steve Rogers described him in the bunker. Tense. Afraid. Mean. Like an animal that’s about to get shot. She talks to him about May—no answer. She asks him if he wants to go visit her—no answer. She asks him what’s bothering him and reminds him no one’s keeping him here and asks him if there’s anything he wants to talk about.
He shrugs.
She’s had patients refuse to talk. Veterans who sat their sessions in silence. Active duty soldiers who folded their arms and talked about their kids and their spouses instead of answering her question. Uncooperative, Sarah can handle.
But Peter…
Steve mentioned him in the couple of sessions they had. He explained they’d locked him in the same room as that kids, and both of them had been completely quiet. It wasn’t until Steve said Peter’s name that he broke his silence. And even after that, he explained, he’d been quiet. It was like he wasn’t even listening to me, Steve said. It was really…unnerving. Like, he picked up on some of the words I said but he wasn’t… He wasn’t hearing me. I kept telling him who I was, and he just wasn’t…
Finally, Sarah asks him again. “Do you remember those animals from the beginning? The ones I asked you to name?”
His eyes move down to her shut notebook and back up to her face.
“Could you name them again for me?”
The boy’s dark eyes focus on her face; his mouth flattens, pressing out at the corners—embarrassment—before slackening entirely as his eyes land in his lap.
His head tilts slightly to the side, his eyes still avoiding hers.
No.
NAME: ___________________
DATE: JUNE 3, 2018 _________
SUBJECT ID: _______________
dear Harley
almost a Month in here hon + its getting to me. I’m so sick of ths food. hell in a can honestly. these old cans of clam chowder will be the death of me. remember when we used to go and gt pizza from that place near the high school? hon Id kill for a piece of pizza. + if i ever Get out of this Place you and me well go. together.
that Lyle guy came back again today. 505am. Dx meth OD VT HR thru the damn roof. still consc + screaming hs head off c/o CP + fever, O2 low. Tx cooling IV fld + prep prprnolol IV bolus. LOC p- 20m + O2 sats 80, got him more O2 + flds until VS WNL. monit + thn they took him a 1200pm. one of them thanked me as they left. they’ve had some overdoses already.
PHYSICIAN ID NO: _______________
DISPENSE AS WRITTEN
NAME: ___________________
DATE: JUNE 3, 2018 _________
SUBJECT ID: _______________
Pt is doing ok. sleeping every time hes in here w me. I asked him if he was sleeping ok in that room. he was lying down on that operating room table with his eyes closed he shook his head against the table. I offerd hm sleeping meds. doesnt take a medical dgree to guess why he cant sleep. he said “no thanks” again. “got plenty down here” I told him. “you dont need to worry about getting more - Ill tell them I need more if we run out.”
he shook his head + mumbled smthng ab needing to stay awake. I offerd again + he said “no rly May Im ok Im good” it took him a few seconds to realize what he said, and then he looked up at me embarassed + said “sorry. sorry I meant - I didnt mean”
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DISPENSE AS WRITTEN
NAME: ___________________
DATE: JUNE 3, 2018 _________
SUBJECT ID: _______________
“Its ok” I said but he spent the rest of the hr quiet like that. hes done that a few times, calling me something else. they used tht ECT machine on hm again today so he was a little confused and very tired and kept mumbling things that I said back at me. he was too nauseous to eat but he gt some sleep in him before they took him.
I hope ur sleeping too. dont worry about me ok? Ill be ok + Ill come see you when I get out - trying out my plan soon. couldnt get Pt to help so Ive got to do it on my own. Ive got some decent weapons in here. I think Ive got a chance. If I can get ahold of one of the guards guns Im home free.
Love you
Dad
PHYSICIAN ID NO: _______________
DISPENSE AS WRITTEN
WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 3 — 7:40 AM
On Wednesday morning, Harley leaves the Avengers Tower.
Happy leaves him a debit card with some money on it—the card information, and a burner phone. There’s a note, too. GPS in phone. Call if you need anything. That’s Pepper’s handwriting, he thinks, an almost cursive with a right slant.
He takes a bus to Penn Station—as he waits, he gets a bagel and an iced coffee and is somehow still starving when he’s done. It’s a massive station, with sprawling glass ceilings and thousands of travel-weary people, even on a Wednesday. He buys a second bagel with the card Happy gave him, and settles down to eat it on a black-painted bench beside a mother and her infant son in a stroller.
The mother is leaned over the baby’s stroller, half-asleep by the look of it, with one arm poked inside the stroller and holding a set of keys. Her baby is crying—screeching so loud that it stirs the mother from her tired daze, and the woman shakes her hand, jangling the keys in front of her wailing son. The baby babbles and mumbles again, amused for another couple minutes until the keys stop moving again and the sound stops. Then the baby begins to twist his head around, looking past his mother out at the train station and he suddenly begins to bawl, eyes wide and red, twisting and straining to get out of his stroller seat; but as soon as his mother shakes the keys another time, and the baby stops crying, entranced, and giggles through his tears.
There, he finds a train that’ll take him all the way to Boston, and he sleeps most of the four-hour trip, so when he wakes it’s like almost no time has passed. From there, he finds a bus that’ll get him to all the way up to Manchester in New Hampshire, although he has to wait nearly two hours for the next one. He takes a second bus from Manchester to Concord, and a third from Concord up to Littleton.
That’s where his dad lived. Before.
He spends another half-hour at a gas station eating an odd-tasting deli sandwich, a bag of barbecue chips, and a Dr. Pepper. Rents a car from some auto place near the bus station, and sets out to his dad's place. By the time he gets there, it’s well past seven. He parks in his dad’s driveway; it’s a small house with yellow-painted siding and a small porch. It looks decent still, like he never left. There are a couple rain-battered chairs on the porch that were once painted white, but now have worn-away into a shabby gray.
Harley still has his old key.
He shuffles through his pockets for it, shoves it into the lock, twists, and pushes. The door opens with a heavy creak, revealing a small foyer with a row of jackets and coats hanging from the wall. On the other side of the wall, there’s a good-sized family photo that they had when Harley was little. In the picture, they’re standing in front of their old house in Tennessee. Harley might be five or six, and his dad’s smiling with his hand on Harley’s shoulder. His mom’s there, too.
Harley pushes through to the kitchen, where he sets his backpack down. His legs are cramping from all the travel. He’s only been in this house a few times—maybe once a year since he was twelve, but it’s still familiar. The green carpets are all tracked with dirt, and the table has a thin layer of dust covering it. In the kitchen, there’s a framed array of coins hanging up on the wall. Brass coins, all reading increasing increments of time. One month. Four months. Six months. One year. The highest one reads four years.
The rest of the house is the same. Photos of Harley, mostly, and a couple of his mom. They never divorced, technically, just separated, so it’s not a surprise to see them. His dad’s bedroom is a mess like Harley remembers—his dirty clothes in a pile in one corner, his bed unmade. In the bathroom—his toothbrush on the sink. His shampoo in the shower. All his clothes lined up in the closet.
The fridge is empty, though. Someone must’ve emptied it when they came through. Maybe his mom. There’s a load of laundry in the washer, too, now long dried. Ice cream in the freezer. A book on his kitchen table, cracked open about fifty pages in.
After the long day, Harley falls asleep on his dad’s couch.
It still smells like him.
WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 3 — 7:32 PM
Steve examines his face in the mirror.
Cho gave him an enhanced scar cream weeks ago to help with the marks on his face, but they’re still visible, raised lines diagonally crossing his skin. It’s a green paste with a slightly sweet smell, and it tingles as he applies it, rubbing it in but it’s still fucking visible. Weeks of this treatment and sure, they’re less noticeable but Steve can see them still, leftover lines—the shine of a metal hatchet in the air, coming down hard—of that day in the bunker.
From the other side of the bathroom door, Bucky’s voice is faint: “Stevie, let’s go! We’re late!”
“Coming!” he shouts back.
He opts for some concealer instead. Steve’s on television more than he likes to admit, so he’s got a stash of various makeup products in their shared bathroom, not that he’s much good at using them. He wipes that useless ointment off his face and applies the concealer directly over the scarring, doing his best to blend it in with the rest of his face. Without those lined scars, he looks more like himself, but he still feels as though they’re visible even underneath the concealer.
He buttons up his shirt and straightens his dress pants, taking one last glance in the bathroom mirror before pushing open the bathroom door.
That night, they go out to dinner. Date night. Something they haven’t really had since they started working on the whole Peter Parker project. They take a cab up to a steakhouse in Brooklyn. Bucky gets a ribeye and Steve orders lamb chops, and Bucky eats enough tiramisu to feed a whole damn family. They drink heaps of cabernet and ramble about the old days and by the time they get home, Steve’s so pleasantly buzzed that while Bucky’s finding the keys, he staggers up the front steps, calls Bucky’s name so that he’ll turn around, and kisses him right against their front door. Bucky lets out a small laugh right into his mouth and loops his arm around the back of Steve’s neck, pulling him right in.
“The neighbors,” Bucky murmurs against his mouth.
To hell with the neighbors, Steve thinks, and God, Bucky’s stubbled jaw, his warm lips, and Steve’s opening his mouth, breathing in another taste, another, and another.
Bucky pulls back for a second, and he’s got this starry-eyed drunken smirk that he had when they were young. “Hold on, doll,” he says, and he’s got the keys, and the door’s open, and they’re both stumbling right inside; Bucky’s slipping his jacket off his shoulders, but it gets stuck somewhere around his elbow, leather on slotted metal—Steve pulls harder and yanks it right off.
They make it up the stairs somehow, and then up to the bed, and Steve’s getting harder by the fucking second, pushing the other man onto their bed. “We don’t have to—” Bucky starts, and Steve says, “Shut up,” and climbs onto the bed right with him. Steve shimmies off his pants and climbs on the bed with him.
He gets Bucky’s shirt open, sucking at his chest and leaving small marks where he was—grazing his arms over muscle and climbing his way back up the man to find his mouth again; God, Bucky’s lips again and Bucky’s teeth, softly grazing his jaw, his cheek, and finding the sweet crook of his neck and Steve lets out a pleasant sound. Bucky rolls him over so that Steve’s on his back, getting his fingers at his shirt’s buttons and muttering, “This okay?” and of course Steve says, “Yes, yes, yes…”
Now a little damp with sweat, the shirt’s off, and then, Steve can feel Bucky’s fingers against his bare skin; grazing so slowly up and Steve rolls his hips up to Bucky’s and down again, and both of them again, gentle pressure and Bucky’s weight on him, and then the other man’s kissing at his chest, skimming his fingers so slowly up and down Steve’s sides that he can’t help but murmur, “Buck,” and he hears the other man breathe heavily into his stomach, pulling his fingreBucky kisses again, up and down, every time reaching closer and closer to his groin, Steve grabbing helplessly at his hair. He shuts his eyes and Bucky’s lips inches closer to him, and closer again, and Bucky brushes his fingers against his waistband, and Steve could just about kill him, gasping, “Please, Buck,” his hips lifting in anticipation, and Bucky smoothly pulls Steve’s boxers down to his thighs, leans in, and then, all at once, takes Steve into his mouth.
Bucky’s fingers are gripping him just at his hips, trapped beneath him, and his mouth, fuck , pleasure rolling and rolling and rolling into him as Bucky keeps going, an ever-sweet pulse in him, and his breathing goes so ragged his thoughts grow hazy, but he wants more, God, he wants more, and Steve grips into the bed, Bucky’s fingers squeezing where his mouth isn’t—perpetual sensation climbing up in him, and he chokes out, “Fuck—fuck—baby, I’m—” and a sound escapes him, an unholy groan.
Then this feeling comes over him—like someone’s watching him. Like he should stop. In the midst of all that divine feeling, his eyes flutter open, his heart thumping louder suddenly, expecting to find some ghastly creature looming over him. Instead, just Bucky’s dark-haired head moving up and down in his vision.
He shuts his eyes again, and tries to stop thinking about it, trying to stay present. He flexes his fingers into the duvet. Clutches at it, and he tells himself, You’re fine. Stop it. You’re fine. His heart is pumping even faster, and heat’s pressing at his face, but that’s probably just because he’s enjoying it. He’s enjoying it. He’s fine. He’s fucking fine. The pleasure is heavier now, like an elephant’s foot pressing on his chest, and he could make it—it’s almost over— god, please let it be over— his heartbeat grows ever-faster—and he now feels trapped even as that wonderful heady feeling lingers in him, like he’s glued down to the bed.
Steve turns his face to the side, half-into the pillow, and he inhales, inhales again, and shoves out a nervous gasp of air. Bucky’s fingers are still on him, holding his thigh, and his mouth, his wet mouth— please let it be over, he thinks, panic coiling in him, and he clenches harder in the bed, ever-harder, because please let it be over, please be over quickly, please, please—
And suddenly all the sensation is gone.
No fingers on him.
Nothing at all.
Then a hand touching his.
When Steve opens his eyes again, Bucky is still perched between his legs, is squeezing his hand and looking at him, saying, “...a little tense, baby. You okay? Steve?”
He feels a little nauseous, and for some reason now that Bucky’s gone, he feels a cool sense of relief spreading through him. All that wiry tension that was threading around him has now disappeared, leaving him with just a nervous shake in his gut. He nods—a silent I’m okay— and exhales, tipping his head back into the pillow. What the fuck was that, Steve? Huh? He’s about to apologize when Bucky says, “You want a glass of wine, maybe?”
“Yeah,” Steve says, thankful for the out, and although he’s still feeling remnants of his last glass it’s quickly fading. “Thanks, sorry, I’m just …”
“Don’t worry about it,” Bucky says, crawling back up the bed, and he gives Steve a soft kiss on his cheek. “White or red?”
“White.”
“Okay,” he says, “don’t go anywhere.”
“Wasn’t planning on it,” Steve says, blushing.
Bucky slides out of the bed and gets up. Steve hears him creak half-naked all the way down the stairs, a bit slower than usual, rustle around in the kitchen, and creak all the way back up. He returns through the bedroom with two bottles in one hand, two glasses in the other, pushing the door closed with his foot. “Okay, so here are your options,” Bucky says. “There’s that chardonnay Nat brought us, and… this bullshit we were supposed to give Sam at his birthday. Uh…” He reads the label. “Pinot grigio.”
“Oh, the bullshit, definitely,” Steve says.
Bucky smiles. He twists off the cap, pours a heaping glass for himself, and another for Steve. Bucky’s fingerprints are smudged into the glass where he sips. As he drinks, Bucky puts on the record player, picking some thirties’ song that both of them know. Bucky starts rambling about their childhoods, and the wine slips into him like a knife; tangy, it spreads warmly through him, loosening his taut muscles. They kiss for a while, softer, smoother, Steve cupping the back of Bucky’s head and bringing him closer.
This time, Steve takes the lead. He climbs on top of Bucky, kissing at his neck harder than before. I’m sorry, he thinks, and he hopes Bucky knows it. You know I’m sorry, don’t you? Bucky’s murmuring something against his mouth, curling his arm around his back and pulling him closer, stomach against his, warm and warmer, and his skin is damp with a thin layer of sweat—his mouth tastes like wine and Steve drinks him in. Bucky shifts, tangling their legs together as he turns Steve onto his side, and Steve pressing himself into him harder, panting, and Bucky’s hips roll against him, huffing out a stifled moan, and then another, and then another, all the while grasping at Steve’s neck like he’s the last thing on earth. But somewhere in him, that hum of panic is still there, the wine cloudy in his head and he feels dizzy. Maybe it’s the alcohol or maybe it’s just him, but he feels sick, but he’s fine. He’s fine. It’s just Bucky. He knows it’s Bucky. He’s not afraid. He’s not, but for some reason his body keeps telling him he should be. Stop it, Steve thinks, and he kisses Bucky harder, palming him and palming him until he makes another open-mouthed moan.
Bucky’s making that huffing sound again, whispering something, and pressing his stubbled jaw into Steve’s shoulder. His mouth is open, and Bucky’s hand creeps down his stomach, lingering at his waistband, and he mutters, “This okay?”
Steve breathes out a yes, panting hard. They’ve done this dozens upon dozens of times, and Steve’s fine. Bucky works at him slowly, drawing his hand up and down, grazing and squeezing and it feels good, it does, but he’s—it feels like— Steve swallows, and he feels his heart skip a beat in his chest. No. He’s fine. The pressure continues, a finger, and another, and a firm hand clawing his underwear down. He breathes—he tries to breathe—and he’s fine, he’s fine, but there it is still, prying up at his skull like a fucking crowbar: he doesn’t want to do it anymore.
No. No. He can ignore it. He can do this—for Bucky, he can do it. After all this how humiliating would it be to ask to stop now? No. He’s fine. He’s fine. He shuts his eyes again and tries to clear his head, to focus on Bucky—just focus on Bucky—but his heart’s thumping and his shoulder aches and there’s a sudden dampness to his skin and his heart’s thumping, racing, drumming in his ears, and he’s thinking, let it happen, you have to let it happen, it’ll be over soon, it’ll be over—
“Steve.”
He manages, “No, it’s okay—let’s keep—let’s just keep—”
“Stevie, stop—it’s okay. It’s okay.”
He can feel air between them now, and he realizes that Bucky’s already peeled his body away from Steve’s, breathing hard through his mouth and looking at him with ripe concern. Steve’s panting, too, and he’s dizzy, he realizes, and his stomach contorts with nausea. What the hell, Steve? He turns onto his back again blinking harshly up at the ceiling, and then grinds his palms into his eyes—again—and again.
What the hell is wrong with you, Steve?
You wanted this. Five minutes ago, you fucking wanted it. Frustration and panic pressing at him from all sides, Steve shimmies his underwear back up like Bucky hasn’t seen him hundreds of times before and pushes himself up into a sitting position. He tries to ignore that stick-sharp feeling poking into his stomach.
They haven’t had sex in six weeks. The several times they’ve tried it ends up in some variation of this—Bucky doing as he normally does, Steve trying to do the same, and Steve unable to finish the deal.
Six weeks of this.
Beside him, he feels Bucky scoot across the bed to sit next to him. “Is it something I did—” the other man tries.
“No, no,” Steve asserts. “It was great, it was… I just…” How fucking humiliating. Bucky is right here, and Steve loves him, and he wants to do it, he does, but he just—he just— “I can do it,” he insists, and his gut churns. His legs are shaking, when did his legs start shaking? He clamps his hand down on his thighs. Tries to still his legs. Tries to still himself. “I just—just need a second.”
A hand on his back. “It’s okay, doll.”
“No, I can do it, Buck—”
“Steve,” Bucky says, and the other man’s hand drifts up and down Steve’s back. “Give it a rest, baby. We can try again tomorrow—or whenever. Let’s just…We’ll just do something else, okay? You wanna dance?”
“Right now?” he scoffs, that revulsion still in him, and Bucky’s hand stills in the middle of his back, a warm weight on his spine. After all that?
“Come on,” Bucky urges, ignoring the animosity in Steve’s voice. “It’ll be just like old times.”
Steve doesn’t answer him; the hand leaves his back, and Steve presses his palms into his eyes again. You were fine, Steve. You were fine. What the hell happened? From beside him, Steve hears the man get up, move to the record player on the dresser, fiddle with it until the song changes, and walk back across the bedroom floor to him.
When he opens his eyes, there’s Bucky’s human hand, fingers wiggling in his direction, a request: come on. Bucky beckons him again, this time slipping his hand into Steve’s and pulling him up from the bed. The music is still playing on their record player, a woman’s low crooning voice, and the other man pulls him close, close, close.
He’s right. It’s just like old times.
Lilting from side to side, cheek to cheek, they dance. One song to another. Bucky’s arms around Steve’s neck, Steve’s looped comfortably around his waist. Steve tips his head onto Bucky’s shoulder. He doesn’t want to look at him right now; he can’t bear it. “What if…” Steve swallows. “What if… when I try again…”
Bucky’s voice, low and calm and right next to his ear. “That’s okay.”
“What if it takes me longer…” Steve says, and he thinks about this again. Dressing up, slathering concealer over his face, freezing up in the bed like a fucking teenager. “What if this keeps…”
“That’s okay, too.”
He swallows, and he hopes Bucky can’t feel his nerves fray against his shoulder. “But what if—“
“Steve,” Bucky breathes. He kisses Steve’s cheek, then his mouth, and then his cheek again. telling him to be quiet. “I had a good night. Didn’t you?”
“Yeah,” Steve mutters.
“Good,” he says, steadfast. “That’s all that matters.”
Chin to shoulder, still a little wine-drunk, Steve kisses the other man’s shoulder; he feels Bucky’s nose move against his temple, against his hair, rocking slowly with him as the music tilts and hums. A woman’s voice from the record player, a violin, and Bucky’s chest warm against his.
NAME: ___________________
DATE: JUNE 5, 2018 _________
SUBJECT ID: _______________
dear Harley
bad day today. Pt ws already shaken up bc they burned him—2deg lines down his upper arm, and it hurts him enough that he’s having trouble breathing. Tx + topical benzocain + ptrl jl gauze. told him the pain wld be worse later once the benzo wore off, gave some pills to take later. only 2. I get worried you understand dont you? I care ab him bt I get worried I rly do.
Pt was still w me when they brought Lyle downstrs. guy was still consc he ws screamng + none of th others cld stop him. dropped to the floor. Began seizing Tx midazolam but he jst kept going. I knew he was already dead I knew. they dragged hm out aftr + Pt just sat there staring where the
PHYSICIAN ID NO: _______________
DISPENSE AS WRITTEN
NAME: ___________________
DATE: JUNE 5, 2018 _________
SUBJECT ID: _______________
guy was before. I tried explaining wht hd happend to him bt he wasnt rly listening. jesus harley hes dead. 26yo + hes dead.
if I dont get out I thought I had more time. I really did. looks like Im all out. I never changed my will even. not since I met ur Mom + even after everything I didnt change it I dont kn why I just didnt want to let go. I want everything to go to you hon everything. go to college, do whatever mkes y happy. dont think Pt or Cassie will get that chance. I wasted so much Time regretting. regretting med school + marrying yr mom + all that hell in tennessee. dont do what i did ok? please please just be safe, be happy, and be careful out there ok? I love you i love you so so much.
Love you
Dad
PHYSICIAN ID NO: _______________
DISPENSE AS WRITTEN
THURSDAY, OCTOBER 4 — 8:48 PM
Dr. Helen Cho spends nearly the entire day studying Peter’s condition.
She doesn’t think they should stay much longer in the Medbay for anything physical, but she’s still reluctant to release them. They’re just not…stable. Cassie often refuses to touch her food unless Peter’s around, and Peter will barely eat unless Cassie’s present to persuade him.
She’s been reading about victims of severe trauma like Peter’s, the ones with dissociative tendencies like Peter’s. Some of them disengage from life completely; some divide themselves into multiple identities; some of them lose years’ worth of memories; some of them end up so violently suicidal that they don’t last more than a couple years past the trauma.
The fear keeps her up at night. Sure, Peter’s not sick anymore, but his mind… Five months in that bunker did more damage than Helen can even imagine. How is she supposed to let him out of her sight, knowing what’s possible?
A light knock on the door.
“Come in,” Helen says.
It’s almost nine now, and soon both the kids should be in bed. Cassie should be getting her bath, and despite his difficulties Peter’s been better about bathing in the past couple days, doing it himself without complaint. He hasn’t used a shower yet, but she feels like he might be reluctant to use one, given his history.
Her door opens slowly, and a woman with blonde and pink hair peeks in. Nurse Kaelyn, one of Peter’s nurses, and she shuts the door behind her. “Dr. Cho,” she says, and her voice sounds strained, her expression fraught with nerves. She clasps her hands together, and takes a couple steps towards Helen’s desk. “I’m sorry to bother you, really, but…”
“Kaelyn,” Helen says, wary, “everything okay?”
The woman squeezes her hands together, flexing her fingers together. “I know we’ve been working on getting—getting Peter discharged, but we were—today, I mean, we were working on inventory, and what we found… We’re not completely sure—maybe it was one of the other nurses, or we could’ve misplaced—but we did look, Dr. Cho, and we couldn’t—”
“Kaelyn,” Helen says, putting down her pen. “What happened?”
The woman still has a stethoscope strung around her neck. “We’re missing some supplies. Some medical tape, some alcohol wipes.” She swallows. “A twenty-milliliter vial of morphine.”
Helen stands up.
“We didn’t notice until later today—but it’s definitely gone, Dr. Cho. We—we looked—”
“How long have they been gone?”
“The morphine, just today, but the rest we’re not sure—Linda, she does the night shift, and she says she might’ve been missing her medical tape for the last week and a half, she just didn’t think anything of it.”
Helen’s already shoving on her doctor’s coat. There’s a nurse in with the kids now, she knows, but if they can’t find that medication— “Anything else?”
“An empty tube of antiseptic ointment,” the nurse blurts, as Helen rushes out into the hallway. “But they were all small things, Dr. Cho—none of us thought to approach you or each other until the morphine went—”
“And you’ve checked the room?”
“Yes, yes, of course, as well as we could without—”
“And the bathroom?”
“Yes,” she says, looking incredibly apologetic, “and the bathtub and the drain—we even in the toilet tank—but there’s nothing, Dr. Cho, and we didn’t want to just start ripping apart their room and scaring them."
They’re at the kid’s door now, and Helen puts her hand on the door handle. “You’re sure?” she says, gripping the handle. “You didn’t drop it, you didn’t misplace it?”
Nurse Kaelyn shakes her head.
Damn it, Peter, Helen thinks, and she pushes open the kids’ door.