In The Eye Of The Beholden Part II
Masterpost || Part I
~
“We should move.”
Mike shifts, laying comfortably on the rocks, eyes blank,“Why?”
The darkness looms about them.
Kevin glances over at the dead animal, pinned down, eyes open, red, “He’s staring at us. I swear he’s gonna get up, and come after us again.”
Mike laughs weakly, blood loss making his sight blurry, “I really doubt that’s going to happen.”
Kevin frowns, staring at the animal warily, as though it would suddenly shake off the spike and lick its lips, “Lots of things I doubted would happen have happened today.”
Mike looks at him, glancing up at him from beneath dark eyelashes, wishing he could take away the darkness in his voice, the frustration in his eyes, but it’s far past the time for wishes.
There is one thing he can do though, “Alright. Let’s go, then.”
Kevin grins, eyes bright for a moment before losing their spark, before he slips over to Mike’s bad side, wrapping his arm around Mike’s waist, urging him to hold on, “Come on.”
Mike grunts, closing his eyes around the pain in his leg, the perfect bite mark he’ll forever have as a souvenir.
And then they’re up, Mike limping along beside Kevin, stumbling as the world shakes before him.
“You know,” Kevin says in the silence, “if we die, I’m glad it won’t just be me. I’m glad that we’re here. Together.”
Mike smiles, stopping for a second, allowing himself to rest, as he turns to Kevin. Pressing their foreheads together, he lets out a pain filled breath, taking comfort in their proximity, “Me too, kid. Me too.”
Kevin smiles up at him, tangling their hands together, deaf to the sudden snick of a lock.
To the swing of a trapdoor opening in the darkness, the movement of the shadows.
To the fall of the pickaxe, its pathway smooth through the air, a perfect half circle, slicing across the cave.
It hits them with a thunk, spearing them through, pressing them up against the wall, an irrepressible force, holding them close, together.
Spikes shoot out of the wall, a quiet click, inundating them with holes. More and more, a checkerboard of thin, metallic spikes joining them in their grave.
A gasping breath, the trickle of blood down the wall.
The Doctor pokes his head from one of his many passageways, smiling sweetly when he sees the two of them pinned to the wall, “You’re beautiful.”
A glistening canvas, they shine. Littered with holes, blood mixing, connecting them, the spikes running them through. A pickaxe slammed through their hearts, together, forever. The finally mixing, love in its purest form.
He smiles, stepping closer, nodding in acknowledgement when he sees Kevin, eyes open, watching him, “Hi. I wanted to give you two something special. You’re such precious creatures, I wanted to give you something you really deserved. I’m sorry I messed up so terribly with the animal. I would have liked to have given you more, but I’m not infallible.”
Kevin doesn’t respond, mouth gaping open, blood trickling down the sides, as blank eyes follow the Doctor’s movements.
“Sorry about this, but,” The Doctor bites his lip as he moves closer, reaching to grab a hold of the pickaxe, ”I’ll be needing this. Thanks.”
With a sickening crunch, he pulls it out, the force of it causing their bodies to stretch, pressing outwards, a hole in the middle, in the center, their world.
Spilling out across the rocks.
~
Patrick’s gone, disappeared, off his monitors, off his radar.
He’s coming.
He’ll create his own future, his own world, his own death.
The Doctor smiles. What a smart child.
How exciting.
~
Gerard opens his eyes slowly, digging himself out of the drug-induced slumber. Groaning, he forces himself up, pushing at the cold surface beneath him, “Frankie?”
“Yeah?” Frank nods, blinking groggily at Gerard, “What’s going on?”
“I’m not sure,” Gerard frowns, looking downward, trying to pull his thoughts together, bring himself back to reality, before his eyes start registering, “Holy shit!” He backs up suddenly dragging himself across the room.
“What? Gerard?”
Gerard points, closing his eyes tightly, shaking, and Frank looks down, sees him. Mikey.
Torn apart, blood rusted over, dark, cold.
“What the fuck.” Frank jumps back, blood on his hands, his hair, “What the fucking fuck.”
“Frank,” Gerard says, voice wavering, eyes closed, the drugs finally breaking down enough, losing themselves in his bloodstream enough that he can remember.
Frank comes to his side, skidding across the floor as he kneels next to Gerard, resting his head on Gerard’s shoulder, “Fuck.”
There’s a pounding, a sudden sound causing them to jerk, to jump back, to look towards the sound.
The walls are moving, the white metal flying up quickly, the room finally as one once again.
It takes them awhile to notice the bodies, the three extra people lying on the floor, all carefully laid out in a row. To see the carnage that had taken place while they were asleep.
Eyes open, watching them, the whites of their eyes visible, too visible.
Frank walks closer, ever curious, ignoring the macabre, determined to find out who they are, what happened to them.
He only recognizes them when he’s almost next to them, next to their twisted heads, forced to look at Frank, at Gerard.
That’s Mike, and that’s Kevin. And over there, that’s, that’s Pete.
The last time he saw them, they were all alive.
But now they’re just staring, mouths stretched in a smile.
And as he looks closer, as he stands near them, he sees the staples, holding those smiles in place, forcing their joy.
Making them last forever.
A spike falls from the ceiling, plummeting into the body in front of him.
It bounces, feet and head jerking from the force of the spike. A doll, grotesque smile unmoving, as it grins at them.
The spike moves up, leaving a hole before plunging back down, again and again, littering the already dead body with holes, cold pieces spraying across the room. And then it stops, a cranking sound dragging it up slowly, before the walls at the end of the room start to undulate.
An wave in the ceiling as spikes start falling, shaking down, clattering to the ground as they come closer, closer.
A door opens up behind them, a grating of gears drawing their attention backwards, precious seconds lost.
Frank turns back around, eyes wide as he sees movement out of the corner of his eyes.
Stumbling back at the sight, barely saving himself, a spike comes down, slicing through the air, spearing his hand.
Convulsing involuntarily, he doesn’t notices the arms grabbing him from behind, pulling him back, away from the next spike.
With a terrifying rip, his hand breaks free, tearing apart, two ragged pieces falling free, lifeless.
Gerard pulls him, dragging him, refusing to lose him too.
And then they’re in, into the next room, safety.
The door slams shut, blocking off the view of spikes battering the room beyond them.
“Holy shit.”
But Frank just sits there, shaking, staring at his ruined hand.
It’s in two pieces, ragged skin breaking the hand in half, the bones shining white against the blood.
It dangles, fingers unmoving, unable to work as he holds it, feeling the broken crevices of his own body.
As he feels the way it’s destroyed him.
~
“I know this place.”
Water drips in the distance.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Frank says quietly, shivers running down his spine, across his body, a low level fear thrumming through his veins. “This is that hospital I went to.”
The dripping stops.
“Hospital?” Gerard stills.
“Yeah. This is the waiting room,” His voice is a little dead, a little not there. Almost as though all the energy he has is going into saying these words. Into distracting himself. “I used to make up stories about that painting over there,” he nods over at the wall opposite them, a blue painting hanging on the wall, abstract and chaotic.
Like clouds in the sky. It’s a story, a picture, in and of itself. All you have to do is find it.
But Gerard’s not listening, still locked on the hospital. On what that could mean. And even though it’s a long shot, it’s worth a try, “Do you think it’s a perfect replica?”
Frank shrugs, eyes still cold, blank, as he cradles his hand, “I dunno.”
“Frankie,” Gerard turns to him, reaching to wrap his hand around Frank’s arm, “Maybe there’s something we can use.”
He looks at Gerard blankly, “Use?”
“Weapons, scalpels, needles, that sort of thing.”
There’s a spark in Frank’s eyes, a single sign of life.
“They do surgeries in here right?”
“In the real one, yeah,” Frank looks at him, eyes dying, “This is a replica.”
“Frankie, Frankie,” Gerard looks at him, determined to make him feel something, to make him get rid of that look in Frank’s eyes, defeat.
He has to.
“It has your painting. Maybe whoever’s doing this likes perfection.”
Frankie doesn’t move.
“Frankie,” Gerard shakes him slightly, forcing their eyes to meet, “Please. Let’s just try.”
“Okay.”
~
Frank imagines that the Doctor’s monstrous, that scars cover his body, matching his insides to his outsides.
He imagines that he’s broken, that when you look at him, all you can see are twisted edges, sharp corners.
He thinks that perhaps you can see it.
See it in his eyes, in the way he walks.
He imagines that you can look at him and know.
This man is a monster.
But the truth is.
Monsters are everywhere.
The one person you expect to be okay, to be good.
Is the one person who wants to tear you down.
Just because they can.
Because they want to see your insides, the pieces that make you you.
They want to see them shatter.
~
It’s quiet, eerily so. This place that should be covered in sound, should be inundated in people, is silent.
Abandoned.
It’s nothing but a broken shell, a playground for the naughty. For the twisted, the broken.
And they’re walking through the middle of it.
Frank wishes he could care more. But his hand is throbbing, and his brain feels numb, every thought pushing at layers of cotton to get out, to join the world.
So he figures it’s easier to say nothing.
But the quiet pulls at Gerard, it pulls and tugs, and all he really wants to do is make Frank smile.
So he starts to talk. Talk about everything, anything. He talks about Doom Patrol and old cartoons they used to watch.
He talks about memories, waxing lyrical over their time together, trying to pretend that they’re not here.
That the walls aren’t closing in on them. Aren’t pressing closer and closer.
Aren’t echoing with words they shouldn’t be able to say.
~
When Gerard goes silent, Frank figures he just gave up. That his voice had gone too hoarse, his breath too lost. That it wasn’t worth it anymore. That he wasn’t worth it anymore. That his silence broke Gerard down, tore him to pieces.
And Frank knows it’s his fault, that he’s the reason Gerard stopped talking. He knows if he had just nodded, just hummed a response, it would have been okay.
He wouldn’t have gone quiet.
Why the fuck isn’t he saying anything?
The silence crowds in on him, the easy cadence of words no longer a distraction. A distraction from this. From what could happen.
Do you know how many people go “missing”?
Far too fucking many.
There’s a quiet noise behind him, and he frowns before arms wrap around his waist, suddenly, bands of steel, pulling him backwards in one quick motion.
A moment of stillness.
He’s gone.
~
There’s a hand to his lips, blocking his words, a vaguely familiar man crouching before him. Eyes intense, the man listens, head cocked to the side, a concentrated power in his stance keeping them still.
Silent.
Gerard stares at Frank from the opposite side of the tunnel, eyes wide, as they wait.
And wait.
And then, there’s a voice, coming through the walls, “So you got away. Congratulations.” Kindness spins across his words, “You have a chance, a beautiful chance. I hope you use it well. Choose your fate.”
In the silence following, the man nods, releases Frank from his grip.
Apparently, that was what they were waiting for.
~
“Wait. Patrick?”
The man nods, watching Frank from his perch against the wall, “Yeah.”
He can see it now, see the guy they first met, the one that smiled and tugged on his hat. He can see it, hidden beyond the darkness in his eyes, the coldness. The shadows on his face slicing down his cheekbones, pooling beneath his eyes.
He can see the hat, the eyes, the mouth. Everything’s the same. Everything’s unchanged.
He’s just not smiling.
Not anymore.
Patrick looks at them, hunched over, eyes bright, gleaming behind his glasses, a frame for his madness.
“So, here’s what we’re gonna do.”
~
(Pete, Pete, Pete.)
“There’s no way out.”
(Pinned up, against the wall.)
“Whoever’s doing this is smart. And he doesn’t want to lose us.”
(Like a doll. A fucking doll.)
“The only way to get out of here alive.”
(He’s not gonna get away with this. Never gonna get away with it.)
“Is to find him. And take him down.”
(I’ll get him, Pete. I’ll get him.)
(For you.)
~
Patrick leads the way, carefully maneuvering himself through the pathways as Gerard and Frank crowd together.
“You think he’s okay?”
Frank raises an eyebrow at him, questioning.
“He seems kinda,” Gerard twirls a finger at the side of his head, “loopy.”
Frank glances at him, turning to look at Patrick, raising an eyebrow.
He’s walking, ignoring them, eyes burning through the darkness of the chamber. Back slumped, he curls over himself, determination in every step.
“Didn’t he lose his friend?” Frank asks quietly.
“Yeah, but,” Gerard shrugs, looking at Frank. Mikey, he doesn’t say.
“I think,” Frank says carefully, words coming out in the quiet, “they may have been something more.”
“Oh,” Gerard says, watching Patrick, the way he doesn’t seem to care, doesn’t seem to notice anything, not anymore, “That sucks.”
“Yeah,” Frank says quietly, watching Gerard. “Yeah.”
~
The darkness pulls at them, the hollow echoing of the walls a death toll, pressing against their heads, tilting their reality.
They seem to pulse, a living embryo beating around them, holding them close.
Holding them near.
Keeping them trapped, caught up in a twisted mind, existing only in the darkness of the Doctor’s thoughts. Existing only in the madness of irreality.
Mice caught in maze, a mousetrap, waiting to be slaughtered.
Frank curls his hand around Gerard’s, holding on tightly, fingers clenching.
He holds on, listening to Gerard’s intakes of breath, his quiet steps along the empty tunnel around them. Holds on as the walls whisper, a silent watchdog, forever tilting their world, turning it on its end.
A brief moment of silence, the rustling of air, and there’s a prick.
A quiet prick, almost forgettable, just a quick itch of his arm and he’s moving again, footsteps silent against the ground.
And in the silence, in the dark, frozen insides of this labyrinth, Gerard’s hand slips.
Loose. Tenuous.
Gone.
~
Frank stumbles forward, blinking against the dizziness, against the pounding in his head. The walls twist around him, spinning on their axis. A broken silence in the monotony of existence.
But that’s normal, right?
~
The walls drip the blood of those already fallen.
~
The strike comes from nowhere, a wooden rod gleaming the darkness, two eyes glowing behind it as it comes slamming down.
A trajectory meant for destruction, for death.
A trajectory meant for Gerard, wanting to smash him open, take out his insides.
Paint the walls with his brains, make it easy, simple.
Patrick ruins it, makes it complicated, hard, reaching over Gerard’s shoulder, catching the rod, barely, just barely.
The blow hits him, sends him down, forces him against the wall, cradling him arm, blocked by the narrow tunnel.
Gerard turns, eyes wide as he stumbles back, watching Frank raise his arms for another attack, “Frank.”
But Frank just grins, corners twisting, as he brings down the rod, torn hand twisting around the handle in his madness, a harsh displacement of air as he tears it through the quiet of the passageways.
Gerard jumps the side, instinct moving him before thought could catch up, curling inward on himself in shock as Frank prepares for another assault.
The stick rises above him, thick, broken edges shining in the dim light, the white of his bone. It rises higher, Frank laughing, at Gerard, at Patrick.
At the blood already churning through the world they’ve found themselves in. At his hand, nothing but a pest.
Gerard jumps at him, hitting him in his stomach, the stick clattering to the ground beyond them, rolling into the darkness.
Clambering up, Gerard presses him to the ground, hands hard on his shoulders.
“Frank, please,” Gerard pleads him, looking into his eyes, searching for any spark of intelligence, any spark of life.
But Frank just grins, he grins and he grins and he grins, teeth shining in the light as he brings his hands up, fingers curved.
His nails catch on Gerard’s cheeks, digging into the soft skin, before Gerard grabs onto his hands, slipping in the blood, fingers pressing between the gap of Frank’s broken hand, as he pushes them away, leaving a bloody gash in its place, torn chunks of his skin beneath Frank’s fingernails.
“Frank,” he says again, desperation bleeding into his voice, but Frank just curves his fingers around the hands holding them down, just digs his nails into any skin, any flesh, he can reach, impervious to pain.
“Frank, stop, please, stop.”
There’s nothing.
The silence shouldn’t be so fucking painful.
And then Gerard’s loses grip, one of Frank’s hands slipping out of the living enclosure holding it captive.
With a grin, he wraps that hand, that rogue body part, around Gerard’s throat.
And he squeezes.
His fingers tighten, his nails tiny daggers digging into the back of Gerard’s throat.
Gerard gasps, losing grip of Frank’s other hand which immediately comes up, curling around Gerard’s neck in a steel grip, slicking blood against Gerard’s throat, future already set.
“No,” Gerard manages to say around his closing air pipes, around the hoarseness of his throat.
He starts to scrabble, hands searching the floors around him, at the fingers at his neck, panic riding his coattails as black spots appear in his vision, as his brain starts to fail.
In the quiet acceptance of death, he finds something, his hands curling around something real, something he can use.
With a final choked noise, he rams it into Frank’s head, loosening Frank’s hands enough that he can move, that he can push Frank’s hands back down, hold them to the ground with his knees, pushing the sharp edges into them.
That he can see the bloody hole in Frank’s head.
That he can see what he picked up.
A knife.
The edges dripping, sharp.
And he starts to drop it, he starts to let it fall from his hands, but Frank moves.
He fucking moves, smile still plastered on his face, his hands wiggling out from under Gerard’s knees, mouth wide, saliva gathering at the sides.
“Frank.”
Frank’s hand slips, Gerard’s knee sliding down to his elbow, as Frank reaches up to claw at Gerard, ripping apart anything he can reach. Anything he can touch, anything he can dig his fingers into.
And Gerard just sits, watching him, unable to move, unable to stop seeing the hole in his head, draining out blood.
But he’s still moving.
He’s still staring at Gerard with those glazed eyes, still watching him as though he can’t look away.
Gerard’s knee slides a bit further down Frank’s arm.
But he’s bleeding out.
He’s bleeding out, and his hand is reaching for his face, his body writhing beneath his.
He won’t be able to hold Frank much longer. Won’t be able to keep him down.
Gerard clutches onto the knife in his hand.
There’s no recognition in Frank’s eyes as he brings down the knife, as he digs it into Frank’s head, slicing across skin, across flesh and bone.
There’s no stuttering of movement, no screams, no fear.
That should make it easier.
That should make it fucking easier.
But Frank just stares up at him, grinning as the life leaves him, as his eyes slowly close, his struggles growing still.
And even when he’s gone, when his head is splattered across the ground, when the blood crawls across his face, he stares up at Gerard.
And he smiles.
~
The Doctor loves presents, loves the surprise, the thought. Just brightly colored packages he finds somewhere, dragged across the floor, splattered against the walls. A gift to himself, a gift from someone else. Something better than a book, a picture frame.
He likes it when they’re brightly covered. When they’re more than just the grey world he lives in. When he can live with them, in their glory.
Red is his favorite color, after all.
~
Gerard can feel it.
The blood.
Drying on his skin in flakes. Dark, brown, crusting over.
He can feel it burning, trembling against his skin with excitement.
Wanting to burrow in, burrow deep, until it can never come out.
Until it sings along his blood for as long as he lives.
As long as he breathes. As long as his heart still works.
Until all he can see is the broken remains of his friend, of Frank, splattered against the ground.
~
It’s strangely indifferent, this world.
This broken reality where the walls move, where horror lies in the corners and hollows of the walls.
Where darkness clings to their bodies like a sunken cloak, pulling them into a world not of their own making.
It feels empty though, like someone’s reached in and taken the skin, taken the muscles, the guts, and left nothing but bone, a skeletal cage. Like they’ve been stripped, stripped of fear, stripped of thought.
But there’s a hole somewhere.
Somewhere in his heart.
And Gerard doesn’t really want to wash his hands. Doesn’t want to see only in shades of gray.
But he can’t really change that, can he?
And then in the silence, in the pitter patter, Patrick reaches back, pulls him forward suddenly, the slamming of concrete against concrete echoing behind him.
With a quiet reeling, the slab of concrete pulls back, retreating from the walls of their cage.
It would have crushed him, a line of destruction across his chest, crunching his ribs, his heart.
Another thing he owes Patrick.
But Patrick doesn’t care. Doesn’t see the desperation clawing from his heart. Just looks at him, eyes dark, and says, “Careful.”
~
There’s a door in front of them.
Just sitting there.
It’s nothing special, almost blending into the walls around it. It looks like nothing, it should be nothing, but Patrick’s stopped, staring at it, a frown marring his face.
“What is it?” Gerard says softly, voice low, quiet, following Patrick’s lead.
The silence engulfs them, the stirring of the air the only sound as Patrick peers at the door, “It shouldn’t be here.”
“Huh?”
“There’s nowhere else to go.”
Gerard frowns.
“Every path, every tunnel, has led here.” Patrick stares at the door for a second, “This is where they want us.”
Gerard startles, eyes wide, “What?”
“Be careful.” Is all Patrick says as he reaches for the handle.
The door opens smoothly, only a quiet click indicating its change in position, a beam of light spreading across the floor in an angle.
And then it’s open, the two of them blinking against the sudden light, spreading color across the tunnel behind them.
And they stare.
Monitors cover the wall before them, brightly lit screens showing colored images of the rooms. Of the hospital. Of the dark underground.
They flash across the screens, places they were at, places they saw move and change.
Places that were less rooms and more death traps, areas of torture.
And they’re empty.
Completely empty.
There’s no blood, no bodies. Nothing left. Everything once against pristine.
Their very presence wiped clean.
The quiet fuzz of the machines trickles along the background as Patrick takes Gerard’s arm, “Come on. I see a door.”
Gerard stumbles along after Patrick, unable to take his eyes from the bright light, unable to stop thinking about it.
He’s watching.
~
The Doctor smiles, white teeth gleaming in the darkness.
They’re beautiful.
In person, on-screen.
Like gems, jewels, sparkling in the light he’s given them.
He’ll cherish them. He’ll love them, give them everything they could ever dream of.
They’ll shine with him.
~
Patrick walks forward, a determination in his eyes, a lighted madness. Concentration imposed upon every step as he continues onward, slicing a path through the darkness, through the quiet determination.
Erased. Forgotten.
Gerard sees it before Patrick does, stumbling after him as he is.
Sees the change in shadows, the quiet click.
And so he starts to move, starts to run, impulse governing his actions.
Hands outstretched, he pushes Patrick forward, hands brushing against his shirt for a few moments. For a few precious seconds, face desperate as his eyes meet Patrick’s, a single instant of connection before the hammer swings, flying across the tunnel, ramming into him.
With a sickening crunch, it slams into him, throwing him across the room until he collides with the wall. It breaks him, cracking his ribs, tearing his insides apart. Until he’s only pieces, battered flesh, bones sticking out of the skin, detached from muscle.
Until his head falls to the side, his eyes bulging from their sockets as his neck spurts blood.
Until his eyes find Patrick, blood red, a sacrificial offering.
Patrick stares, eyes wide, feeling himself crack, the fine tendrils of sanity holding him together tearing apart, finally ripping to shreds.
This is wrong.
It’s wrong.
And so he starts to run, feet pounding against the ground as he pushes himself away.
Away.
As he runs from this all, from reality, from this dark, broken hall filled with monsters.
Hoping he can get away, hoping he can be gone.
Disappear. Find a way to a place where his friends aren’t dead, where he hasn’t seen people become deformed, eternally changed from who they were before. Before he saw the life disappear from Gerard’s eyes, before he saw Pete splayed across the wall.
Before he felt his heart fucking break.
He doesn’t want to be here.
He doesn’t want this to be real. It can’t be real. It can’t be real.
It can’t be real.
But it is.
It fucking is.
~
He keeps running. He can’t seem to stop, can’t seem to lose the demons chasing him, the memories.
He can’t seem to find the strength to stop. To give up, to fight, to do something.
But he doesn’t know what he feels anymore, can’t see anything but blood, but bones and ripped hair.
And so he runs.
Until his heart pounds, ripping up through his chest, clenching his throat. Until his lungs start to burn, his legs grow weak.
And still, he runs. And he runs.
Until running is more stumbling, forcing his body to move in the only way it can as he barges into a room, the sides of the tunnel opening suddenly, a great cavern before him.
Until he falls on his knees, hands pressed to the ground as he gasps, pushing back the tears, the hysteria.
Trying to put himself back together again, trying to forget, for just a moment.
Just a moment.
Closing his eyes, he forces his breath to slow.
In. Out.
In. Out.
Forces himself to calm, sheer willpower pulling himself up, bringing him back.
And then, he looks up.
Before him is a ledge, a simple ledge, a black rail guarding the madness below, protecting people from falling.
And beneath that.
Patrick crawls forward, hands clenching on the railing as he gazes downward.
Beneath that are capsules.
Hundreds of them.
Glass capsules spanning from one side of the room to the other, all filled.
All bearing occupants.
All staring straight ahead, with dark, dead eyes.
Hundreds.
And as he’s staring, as the shock beats its way through his system, as the horror eats at him, a man steps in behind him, feet moving silently across the floor.
And the man smiles, careful of his scrubs, of his doctor’s mask, of the knife carelessly held in one hand, watching Patrick kindly.
It’s too bad Patrick doesn’t turn around.
It’s too bad the fear eats him up, that he can’t turn away from the sight before him.
That all he can see are the dead faces, staring.
That all he can think is.
Is Pete down there?
It’s too bad really.
He might have survived.
~
The hospital is loud, restless, noise rushing across his ears as doctors scurry back and forth, as he finds himself back among his coworkers. Back among his chains.
A woman comes up beside him, “Did you have a fun vacation?”
The Doctor nods, glad to be reminded, “Yes, dear.” He smiles, turning to her as they walk, “It was very relaxing, thank you for asking.”
“Good,” the woman says, sincerity bleeding through her words, “I’m glad you went. You do so much good here. You’ve saved so many lives. You deserve a break.”
“Thank you,” the Doctor says, taking her hand in his.
And he smiles, “It’s good to know my work is appreciated.”
Fin
Art