Drawing the Line. 2/?
Title Drawing the Line.
Genre Angst/Hurt/Comfort/Romance
Pairing US/UK
Summary A British soldier is diagnosed with tuberculosis during the chaos of the second world war. In the understaffed and war-weary English hospital, Arthur finds comfort with a volunteer physician from America.
Rating T
Chapter Rating T for some bad words.
Warnings Arthur learns of his fate and Dr. Jones makes an exit as fast as his entrance.
There was an incessant amount of noise.
The soft clicks beating a steady rhythm out upon tile were the first to penetrate through the void of Arthur's consciousness. Constant, unbearable clicks that steadily amplified until they were positively throbbing in his ears with a relentless monotony. Mumbles of gibberish floated on a hushed undercurrent, filtering through with just enough volume to drive a barb of annoyance into the already piercing pain. The whisper of cloth rustling, rough scrapes of metal against metal, an awful screech of a hinge that was long past due for oiling, crisp scritching of a pen against paper - Arthur clawed through the haze to find something, anything remotely coherent in the confines of black and heaviness and noise.
"Mr. Kirkland?" A kind, feminine voice wafted into the symphony; it would have been comforting were it not for the reeling agony that pounded away at his skull. "Mr. Kirkland, can you hear me?"
Arthur tried to assure her that he could indeed hear her and wondered if she would be be so kind as to stop the infernal racket, but the command did not reach his lips. He instead gave a strangled groan which, in turn, triggered a coughing spell that ripped away at aggravated tissue. He tasted phlegm and blood and dear God, did it hurt; suddenly the ache in his head wasn't quite as unbearable as the invisible hot pokers stabbing at his lungs. He vaguely registered gentle hands shifting behind his back, lifting him into a position that wasn't quite upright, but eased the pressure of the disgusting concoction from his windpipe. A cold metal edge pressed just below his lower lip.
"Spit it out, dear," the voice soothed, and he complied. A sickening slosh of liquid against the bottom of an empty basin followed. The coughing continued, prompting him to spit twice more before he fell into a quiet of rasping gasps and trembling limbs. "There you go. It wouldn't do for you to choke on the vile stuff."
He managed a croaking of thanks without another fit; he could have wept with relief. The steady hands lowered him onto his back.
"Should you need anything else, the staff is making rounds." A slight nod gave his assent. The click-clacks of retreating feet left him in silence.
As he settled into starched cloth and sturdy cushioning, something close to clarity began to sift through the fog of confusion and pain. The weight that pressed at his lids began to lift and Arthur cracked them tentatively open to slits. He immediately cursed his curiosity. The light that assaulted his vision was blinding; he hissed and turned his head sharply to the side, burrowing the right of his face into a pillow and cinched his eyes shut once more. There was simply too much to take in at once; Arthur clutched at the sheets, willing the whirling sensation that seemed to rock and pull at his body in something very much like spinning about in a circle too fast to leave his poor, addled mind be. He nearly cried out as a bubbling nausea pushed burning, horrible acid to slither up his esophagus until it was pooling in the back of his throat and spilling from his mouth in one excruciating jerking motion.
Tears gathered at the tips of lashes at the horrid convulsions, and a burning shame lapped at his heaving abdomen as a few trickled down his cheeks. For such weakness to unearth itself now of all times was nothing short of pathetic. He was ill - hardly a cause for fuss and melodramatic displays. He had been in the wake of horrors that chalked this experience to little more than a minor hindrance in the grand scheme of torture. Men had writhed before his eyes in the stones and dust of battle as flames cracked and seared flesh into blackened, bleeding masses of muscle tissue. They knew the quality of pain; they knew the penalties of mortality. For him to break down now was simply disrespectful to their name.
"Easy, fellah."
This voice was sharp and nasal - American, his weary brain supplied. Calloused fingers stroked at clammy flesh and lifted his head from the now sopping downy pillow. The echoing splash of stomach contents against metal ensued and Arthur just wanted to rest, just wanted to stop because he was tired and his body ached. He finished with a strangled sob and fell lax in the tender care of the other, breathing shallowly into heated skin and shaking violently with the tremors of taxed muscles.
"Penicillin does that." The man was so calm, the essence of the tone so warm as it thrummed against his flesh. Arthur wanted to nestle into the warmth and sleep for decades. "I'd like to say that it'll get better, but you can never tell when it comes to that stuff."
Again the question itched at the tip of his tongue.
"What's wrong with me?" His voice was hoarse and dry and disgusting.
There was a pause that ticked by for what felt like hours. His head was lowered into fresh sheets and a cool cloth dabbed at his face that was soaked with his own sick. Mortification clogged his throat.
"You have tuberculosis." Sadness tinged the words, but it did nothing for the iciness that settled in Arthur's chest. His mind went blank.
"We're doing everything we can to stem the bacteria, but nothing's a guarantee," the man continued on; Arthur hardly heard him. "With all the added stress of battle, it's managed to spread through your lungs faster than it would normally."
He could think of no suitable response. He stayed silent, counting the heavy beats of his heart.
"But, again, we're doing everything we can. If your body responds well to treatment, the pain won't be quite so bad." The cloth was removed.
Something snapped. Arthur could have sworn that it was audible, that the distinct crack dealt to his sanity echoed throughout the room with the heavy finality. He was sure the speech was meant to bring comfort, but it did nothing to ease the sudden surge of boiling rage that laced through his veins, spurring his hands into a clenched and trembling fury. His eyes snapped open on their own accord, too wild and too bright to be completely coherent. He stared into the vivd azure that met them head-on; they were alight with alarm and something despicably akin to pity. His vision blotted red.
"The pain won't be quite so bad, you say." Venom dripped from every syllable. Arthur shook. "Indeed, that is a notion that merits celebration. I daresay I should be positively jumping with glee at the idea."
The blue eyes did not falter from their gaze, but slowly drained into a muted, clouded tint of muddied blue as the emotion drained and a wall carefully raised itself. It was a practiced look; of that, Arthur was sure. The face that radiated youth was drawn and worn from sleepless nights and stress, but there was a hopeful nature that hummed with ardor and energy beneath the external visage of a doctor's coat splattered with blood and the pale flesh of an exhausted and underfed body. It was strong and tender and genuine. Arthur wanted to cling to it almost as much as he wanted to destroy it.
"You think the world is a bottled ray of sunshine; that there's always a silver lining at the end of the bloody f-fucking tunnel."
Green eyes flared with a crazed glint of loathing that was every bit directed at himself as it was the young man before him.
"Sometimes there is no a happy ending in store for the protagonist of the story. Sometimes you need to come to terms with the reality that there will be suffering in the world."
His voice raised an octave and his breathing shallowed as he entered full-fledged hysteria, but his mouth worked on its own and spouted glimpses of conversations and last words whispered upon a friend's deathbed in a constant, frenzied train of thought. He didn't feel the fingers that trailed across his whitened knuckles or the words that attempted to soothe the delirium that rattled his teeth and drew blood from the biting nails on his palm. Only the shrieks of men and stench of death and visions of limbs being torn and rent apart graced his senses. Bombs exploding, smoke choking, screams sounding, heart pounding -
And all at once his head cleared. He looked up into those eyes and was bombarded by the urge to rip them from their sockets. Nothing so beautiful should exist; it would only be sullied by the ugliness of the world. As aware as he was of the morbidity of the statement, he was no less convinced of its acuity.
"Get out."
"Mr. Kirkland -"
"Get out!"
A heavy silence settled in the air. After several beats, the younger gave in with a sigh.
"My name is Alfred Jones. Let a nurse know if you need me." He gave a particularly calculating look before he turned to the doorway. "I'll be back to check your vitals later."
The door creaked shut with a tiny click.
Muffled voices traveled between the barrier.
Cries rose from the floor.
Arthur sobbed alone.
Genre Angst/Hurt/Comfort/Romance
Pairing US/UK
Summary A British soldier is diagnosed with tuberculosis during the chaos of the second world war. In the understaffed and war-weary English hospital, Arthur finds comfort with a volunteer physician from America.
Rating T
Chapter Rating T for some bad words.
Warnings Arthur learns of his fate and Dr. Jones makes an exit as fast as his entrance.
There was an incessant amount of noise.
The soft clicks beating a steady rhythm out upon tile were the first to penetrate through the void of Arthur's consciousness. Constant, unbearable clicks that steadily amplified until they were positively throbbing in his ears with a relentless monotony. Mumbles of gibberish floated on a hushed undercurrent, filtering through with just enough volume to drive a barb of annoyance into the already piercing pain. The whisper of cloth rustling, rough scrapes of metal against metal, an awful screech of a hinge that was long past due for oiling, crisp scritching of a pen against paper - Arthur clawed through the haze to find something, anything remotely coherent in the confines of black and heaviness and noise.
"Mr. Kirkland?" A kind, feminine voice wafted into the symphony; it would have been comforting were it not for the reeling agony that pounded away at his skull. "Mr. Kirkland, can you hear me?"
Arthur tried to assure her that he could indeed hear her and wondered if she would be be so kind as to stop the infernal racket, but the command did not reach his lips. He instead gave a strangled groan which, in turn, triggered a coughing spell that ripped away at aggravated tissue. He tasted phlegm and blood and dear God, did it hurt; suddenly the ache in his head wasn't quite as unbearable as the invisible hot pokers stabbing at his lungs. He vaguely registered gentle hands shifting behind his back, lifting him into a position that wasn't quite upright, but eased the pressure of the disgusting concoction from his windpipe. A cold metal edge pressed just below his lower lip.
"Spit it out, dear," the voice soothed, and he complied. A sickening slosh of liquid against the bottom of an empty basin followed. The coughing continued, prompting him to spit twice more before he fell into a quiet of rasping gasps and trembling limbs. "There you go. It wouldn't do for you to choke on the vile stuff."
He managed a croaking of thanks without another fit; he could have wept with relief. The steady hands lowered him onto his back.
"Should you need anything else, the staff is making rounds." A slight nod gave his assent. The click-clacks of retreating feet left him in silence.
As he settled into starched cloth and sturdy cushioning, something close to clarity began to sift through the fog of confusion and pain. The weight that pressed at his lids began to lift and Arthur cracked them tentatively open to slits. He immediately cursed his curiosity. The light that assaulted his vision was blinding; he hissed and turned his head sharply to the side, burrowing the right of his face into a pillow and cinched his eyes shut once more. There was simply too much to take in at once; Arthur clutched at the sheets, willing the whirling sensation that seemed to rock and pull at his body in something very much like spinning about in a circle too fast to leave his poor, addled mind be. He nearly cried out as a bubbling nausea pushed burning, horrible acid to slither up his esophagus until it was pooling in the back of his throat and spilling from his mouth in one excruciating jerking motion.
Tears gathered at the tips of lashes at the horrid convulsions, and a burning shame lapped at his heaving abdomen as a few trickled down his cheeks. For such weakness to unearth itself now of all times was nothing short of pathetic. He was ill - hardly a cause for fuss and melodramatic displays. He had been in the wake of horrors that chalked this experience to little more than a minor hindrance in the grand scheme of torture. Men had writhed before his eyes in the stones and dust of battle as flames cracked and seared flesh into blackened, bleeding masses of muscle tissue. They knew the quality of pain; they knew the penalties of mortality. For him to break down now was simply disrespectful to their name.
"Easy, fellah."
This voice was sharp and nasal - American, his weary brain supplied. Calloused fingers stroked at clammy flesh and lifted his head from the now sopping downy pillow. The echoing splash of stomach contents against metal ensued and Arthur just wanted to rest, just wanted to stop because he was tired and his body ached. He finished with a strangled sob and fell lax in the tender care of the other, breathing shallowly into heated skin and shaking violently with the tremors of taxed muscles.
"Penicillin does that." The man was so calm, the essence of the tone so warm as it thrummed against his flesh. Arthur wanted to nestle into the warmth and sleep for decades. "I'd like to say that it'll get better, but you can never tell when it comes to that stuff."
Again the question itched at the tip of his tongue.
"What's wrong with me?" His voice was hoarse and dry and disgusting.
There was a pause that ticked by for what felt like hours. His head was lowered into fresh sheets and a cool cloth dabbed at his face that was soaked with his own sick. Mortification clogged his throat.
"You have tuberculosis." Sadness tinged the words, but it did nothing for the iciness that settled in Arthur's chest. His mind went blank.
"We're doing everything we can to stem the bacteria, but nothing's a guarantee," the man continued on; Arthur hardly heard him. "With all the added stress of battle, it's managed to spread through your lungs faster than it would normally."
He could think of no suitable response. He stayed silent, counting the heavy beats of his heart.
"But, again, we're doing everything we can. If your body responds well to treatment, the pain won't be quite so bad." The cloth was removed.
Something snapped. Arthur could have sworn that it was audible, that the distinct crack dealt to his sanity echoed throughout the room with the heavy finality. He was sure the speech was meant to bring comfort, but it did nothing to ease the sudden surge of boiling rage that laced through his veins, spurring his hands into a clenched and trembling fury. His eyes snapped open on their own accord, too wild and too bright to be completely coherent. He stared into the vivd azure that met them head-on; they were alight with alarm and something despicably akin to pity. His vision blotted red.
"The pain won't be quite so bad, you say." Venom dripped from every syllable. Arthur shook. "Indeed, that is a notion that merits celebration. I daresay I should be positively jumping with glee at the idea."
The blue eyes did not falter from their gaze, but slowly drained into a muted, clouded tint of muddied blue as the emotion drained and a wall carefully raised itself. It was a practiced look; of that, Arthur was sure. The face that radiated youth was drawn and worn from sleepless nights and stress, but there was a hopeful nature that hummed with ardor and energy beneath the external visage of a doctor's coat splattered with blood and the pale flesh of an exhausted and underfed body. It was strong and tender and genuine. Arthur wanted to cling to it almost as much as he wanted to destroy it.
"You think the world is a bottled ray of sunshine; that there's always a silver lining at the end of the bloody f-fucking tunnel."
Green eyes flared with a crazed glint of loathing that was every bit directed at himself as it was the young man before him.
"Sometimes there is no a happy ending in store for the protagonist of the story. Sometimes you need to come to terms with the reality that there will be suffering in the world."
His voice raised an octave and his breathing shallowed as he entered full-fledged hysteria, but his mouth worked on its own and spouted glimpses of conversations and last words whispered upon a friend's deathbed in a constant, frenzied train of thought. He didn't feel the fingers that trailed across his whitened knuckles or the words that attempted to soothe the delirium that rattled his teeth and drew blood from the biting nails on his palm. Only the shrieks of men and stench of death and visions of limbs being torn and rent apart graced his senses. Bombs exploding, smoke choking, screams sounding, heart pounding -
And all at once his head cleared. He looked up into those eyes and was bombarded by the urge to rip them from their sockets. Nothing so beautiful should exist; it would only be sullied by the ugliness of the world. As aware as he was of the morbidity of the statement, he was no less convinced of its acuity.
"Get out."
"Mr. Kirkland -"
"Get out!"
A heavy silence settled in the air. After several beats, the younger gave in with a sigh.
"My name is Alfred Jones. Let a nurse know if you need me." He gave a particularly calculating look before he turned to the doorway. "I'll be back to check your vitals later."
The door creaked shut with a tiny click.
Muffled voices traveled between the barrier.
Cries rose from the floor.
Arthur sobbed alone.