Fic: Symbiotic Programming 1/?
Title: Symbiotic Programming
Chapter Title: Catalysts Three
Author: Plumppumpkin
Rating: Pg-13
Warning: In Cut
Disclaimer: I do not own Medical Investigation or the characters. Or even the fic Universe.
This monster is dedicated to Sydney (laeliamouse), whom gave me permission to write a fanfiction based off of her fanfiction “Rabid Computer;" to Amy (Zaedah), whose conversation prompted me to write this opening; and to Hidden Relevance, whom I haven't had a online chat with, but who's stepped in to add a few stories of her own to this great fandom. Writing a story in another fanficton author's universe is new to me, and a little odd, but it was a opportunity I didn't want to pass up. First of all, Sydney, at any given point, has the right to yell at me for screwing up what she envisioned, so, check the reviews for that. Also, the entire story, believe it or not, was written while I was listening to “Chasing Cars” by Snow Patrol: it's not relevant to the story, I just thought I would mention it.
Warning: While NBC made Natalie Durant look like the ever-dependable woman, who cries over every death and loses most arguments with Connor, I highly doubt a real person would be that flat/potentially annoying. Which, actually, was why I liked Rabid Computer and wanted to write in its universe. Therefore, the Natalie Durant in this piece will not be a doormat, and she will not be hopelessly pining for our one, awesome looking Dr. Connor (Note the italics, this story may add another genre by the end). In fact, it should be known that she leaves the team and does it with flair. Way to go Nat.
On to the story.
Symbiotic Programming
Chapter One:
Catalysts Three
It started with a broken slide, which was curious, as most instances similar to this did not, usually, unfold because of a shattered slab of glass. As far as catalysts go, it was an unlikely one, and in the grand scheme of things, should have been overlooked. She cut her index finger, though, just above the first knuckle, half a centimeter below her nail. It bled, most cuts did, and she let out a small gasp as the trail of red dripped onto the table below it. The blood loss wasn't extensive, and due to a notable lack of panic, Natalie was more than able to reach for a brown paper towel to wrap the wound in.
“Miles,” calm words were spoken, and the young doctor looked up from his microscope. “I need you,” she continued slowly, “to go find Connor. Now.”
His eyes flickered briefly from her pale face, to the brown paper wrapped around her finger, somehow able to draw from the sight the accurate conclusion. He was out the lab door before she could tell him again.
Three hours later, she was lying motionless on a hospital Gurney, an IV in the crook of her elbow. Her red rimmed eyes were lucid, however. Miles, who was hooking her up to the heart and breathing monitors, silently wondered if she had ever been this ill before.
No one could admit to thinking that she might actually die, they had to maintain a professionally good morale in order to save her life, but they did fear. Stephen the most, which made his intense focus on the case rise drastically, while his demeanor shifted into a spiral of perpetually unsatisfied with everything.
Natalie did not die, like three of their patients had, nor did she acquire any permanent damage. She had only, between one exhausted sleep and the next, told Miles that the only thing this could be was the Hantavirus. A smile was shared between the two later, after the treatment had been administered and some of her original color had come back, and Miles felt comfortable enough to tell her he was not aware that the NIH had developed a new method of identifying illnesses, but thought that it was effective nonetheless.
A broken slide started it, but a general lack of tact was what continued it.
“You are getting sloppy,” Although Stephen Connor was relieved, he had chosen this particular minute to raise his voice. He should have attached a clause about how he worried about her onto the sentence, but professionalism trumped his personal feelings at the moment. His pathologist had broken a slide in the middle of a routine procedure and had endangered the lives of her patients, as well as the team.
Her eyes, still betraying the remnants of her exhausted sleeps, caught his briefly while she packed the remainder of her equipment into its case. She was hoping to determine his mood by looking beyond words and failed. They had stayed an extra three days, to be sure that she was responding to the treatment, while the others had returned to Maryland. Now that she only needed to take a pill a day, it was time to clean up and leave.
“I'm sorry,” she stated sincerely, although the first blossom of defiance was beginning to bloom in her thoughts, “the iodine must have made my gloves slick.”
“That cannot and should not happen,” he pressed, his voice conveying a degree of disappointment she did not want to hear at the moment. She could be disappointed with herself, and she was, for she was the one who had the right to hold herself to a standard of flawlessness; but he could not. He could suffer from a case of high expectations, but he could not demand perfection for perfection's sake.
It was only natural that she resented it a little, that the human half of the doctor wanted to hear him ask her if she was all right. You don't survive a Level Four virus without carrying any emotional baggage away with you, but she saw that there was nothing else to do but see his disappointment for concern and accepted it with a small degree of resentment.
“I broke a slide,” she responded calmly, “I didn't start an epidemic.”
Bewilderment flickered across Stephen's stoic face, and he opened his mouth to speak. Natalie beat him to it, shutting her case and securing the clips in place while continuing, “It won't happen again, Stephen.”
The broken slide had started it, a lack of tact had continued it, but it was the car ride home that determined their future.
Natalie slept, her head tilted downward at an uncomfortable angle while her arms hung limply over the sides of the arm rests. She had, before climbing into the SUV, determined that she would write her error report before exiting the vehicle in Maryland, so she could go home and sleep. Her worn body had decided otherwise, however, and she'd drifted off ten minutes into the smooth drive.
It was night, and while Stephen had maintained a meticulous watch on the road, he had made a steady habit of glancing over to look at her. Perhaps it was to make sure that her chest was still rising and falling, he had been afraid during the duration of her illness that she would not make it, or perhaps it was to make sure that she was really sleeping and not avoiding another unpleasant conversation. The second perhaps was mentally crossed off by glance four, not even Natalie would compromise the muscles in her neck to avoid an argument.
An hour and a half into the drive saw her awake, however, staring out the windshield as she admitted to herself that she would not be getting that report done during that particular car ride. Writing could not be completed when one's mind was ricocheting violently off of itself. She did, after all, have a week of leave to complete it.
Stephen made the mistake of looking away, when she caught him glancing, without saying a word, resolving to keep his eyes on the road and his comments to himself until they arrived in Washington. It looked entirely too much like dismissal and not enough like self-preservation to amend that poor choice of action.
The next three hours of silence, silence that should have been reserved for a mutual exchanging of apologies, was only filled with the sound of spinning tires.
She could have died, after all, Natalie told herself as the landscape zipped by her window. Wasn't that knowledge enough of a punishment?
She could have died, after all, Stephen told himself as the yellow lines disappeared one by one under the car. Wasn't that enough to give him reason to be both angry and pensive with aftershock?
Author's Note: Let it be know, that I am writing this as I go (which should be considered a Capital Offense). I apologize in advance for any future waits you will all likely have to endure to read later chapters. College makes you live on the edge.
Chapter Title: Catalysts Three
Author: Plumppumpkin
Rating: Pg-13
Warning: In Cut
Disclaimer: I do not own Medical Investigation or the characters. Or even the fic Universe.
This monster is dedicated to Sydney (laeliamouse), whom gave me permission to write a fanfiction based off of her fanfiction “Rabid Computer;" to Amy (Zaedah), whose conversation prompted me to write this opening; and to Hidden Relevance, whom I haven't had a online chat with, but who's stepped in to add a few stories of her own to this great fandom. Writing a story in another fanficton author's universe is new to me, and a little odd, but it was a opportunity I didn't want to pass up. First of all, Sydney, at any given point, has the right to yell at me for screwing up what she envisioned, so, check the reviews for that. Also, the entire story, believe it or not, was written while I was listening to “Chasing Cars” by Snow Patrol: it's not relevant to the story, I just thought I would mention it.
Warning: While NBC made Natalie Durant look like the ever-dependable woman, who cries over every death and loses most arguments with Connor, I highly doubt a real person would be that flat/potentially annoying. Which, actually, was why I liked Rabid Computer and wanted to write in its universe. Therefore, the Natalie Durant in this piece will not be a doormat, and she will not be hopelessly pining for our one, awesome looking Dr. Connor (Note the italics, this story may add another genre by the end). In fact, it should be known that she leaves the team and does it with flair. Way to go Nat.
On to the story.
Symbiotic Programming
Chapter One:
Catalysts Three
It started with a broken slide, which was curious, as most instances similar to this did not, usually, unfold because of a shattered slab of glass. As far as catalysts go, it was an unlikely one, and in the grand scheme of things, should have been overlooked. She cut her index finger, though, just above the first knuckle, half a centimeter below her nail. It bled, most cuts did, and she let out a small gasp as the trail of red dripped onto the table below it. The blood loss wasn't extensive, and due to a notable lack of panic, Natalie was more than able to reach for a brown paper towel to wrap the wound in.
“Miles,” calm words were spoken, and the young doctor looked up from his microscope. “I need you,” she continued slowly, “to go find Connor. Now.”
His eyes flickered briefly from her pale face, to the brown paper wrapped around her finger, somehow able to draw from the sight the accurate conclusion. He was out the lab door before she could tell him again.
Three hours later, she was lying motionless on a hospital Gurney, an IV in the crook of her elbow. Her red rimmed eyes were lucid, however. Miles, who was hooking her up to the heart and breathing monitors, silently wondered if she had ever been this ill before.
No one could admit to thinking that she might actually die, they had to maintain a professionally good morale in order to save her life, but they did fear. Stephen the most, which made his intense focus on the case rise drastically, while his demeanor shifted into a spiral of perpetually unsatisfied with everything.
Natalie did not die, like three of their patients had, nor did she acquire any permanent damage. She had only, between one exhausted sleep and the next, told Miles that the only thing this could be was the Hantavirus. A smile was shared between the two later, after the treatment had been administered and some of her original color had come back, and Miles felt comfortable enough to tell her he was not aware that the NIH had developed a new method of identifying illnesses, but thought that it was effective nonetheless.
A broken slide started it, but a general lack of tact was what continued it.
“You are getting sloppy,” Although Stephen Connor was relieved, he had chosen this particular minute to raise his voice. He should have attached a clause about how he worried about her onto the sentence, but professionalism trumped his personal feelings at the moment. His pathologist had broken a slide in the middle of a routine procedure and had endangered the lives of her patients, as well as the team.
Her eyes, still betraying the remnants of her exhausted sleeps, caught his briefly while she packed the remainder of her equipment into its case. She was hoping to determine his mood by looking beyond words and failed. They had stayed an extra three days, to be sure that she was responding to the treatment, while the others had returned to Maryland. Now that she only needed to take a pill a day, it was time to clean up and leave.
“I'm sorry,” she stated sincerely, although the first blossom of defiance was beginning to bloom in her thoughts, “the iodine must have made my gloves slick.”
“That cannot and should not happen,” he pressed, his voice conveying a degree of disappointment she did not want to hear at the moment. She could be disappointed with herself, and she was, for she was the one who had the right to hold herself to a standard of flawlessness; but he could not. He could suffer from a case of high expectations, but he could not demand perfection for perfection's sake.
It was only natural that she resented it a little, that the human half of the doctor wanted to hear him ask her if she was all right. You don't survive a Level Four virus without carrying any emotional baggage away with you, but she saw that there was nothing else to do but see his disappointment for concern and accepted it with a small degree of resentment.
“I broke a slide,” she responded calmly, “I didn't start an epidemic.”
Bewilderment flickered across Stephen's stoic face, and he opened his mouth to speak. Natalie beat him to it, shutting her case and securing the clips in place while continuing, “It won't happen again, Stephen.”
The broken slide had started it, a lack of tact had continued it, but it was the car ride home that determined their future.
Natalie slept, her head tilted downward at an uncomfortable angle while her arms hung limply over the sides of the arm rests. She had, before climbing into the SUV, determined that she would write her error report before exiting the vehicle in Maryland, so she could go home and sleep. Her worn body had decided otherwise, however, and she'd drifted off ten minutes into the smooth drive.
It was night, and while Stephen had maintained a meticulous watch on the road, he had made a steady habit of glancing over to look at her. Perhaps it was to make sure that her chest was still rising and falling, he had been afraid during the duration of her illness that she would not make it, or perhaps it was to make sure that she was really sleeping and not avoiding another unpleasant conversation. The second perhaps was mentally crossed off by glance four, not even Natalie would compromise the muscles in her neck to avoid an argument.
An hour and a half into the drive saw her awake, however, staring out the windshield as she admitted to herself that she would not be getting that report done during that particular car ride. Writing could not be completed when one's mind was ricocheting violently off of itself. She did, after all, have a week of leave to complete it.
Stephen made the mistake of looking away, when she caught him glancing, without saying a word, resolving to keep his eyes on the road and his comments to himself until they arrived in Washington. It looked entirely too much like dismissal and not enough like self-preservation to amend that poor choice of action.
The next three hours of silence, silence that should have been reserved for a mutual exchanging of apologies, was only filled with the sound of spinning tires.
She could have died, after all, Natalie told herself as the landscape zipped by her window. Wasn't that knowledge enough of a punishment?
She could have died, after all, Stephen told himself as the yellow lines disappeared one by one under the car. Wasn't that enough to give him reason to be both angry and pensive with aftershock?
Author's Note: Let it be know, that I am writing this as I go (which should be considered a Capital Offense). I apologize in advance for any future waits you will all likely have to endure to read later chapters. College makes you live on the edge.