Giant Robots: The Pharmacopoeic Rainbow
Sep. 6th, 2013 10:23 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lb_leeThe Pharmacopoeic Rainbow
Prompt: 'White' for Stuff100, 'side effects' for Hurt/Comfort Bingo
Word Count: 500
Summary: M.D. goes off her meds. Giant Robots 'verse. Sponsored by Michael Sondberg Olsen!
He wakes up to her vomiting in the bathroom.
He automatically pulls on the vanish—it's second nature at this point—but leaves the vest where it is. The bunk is dark, except for the bulb over the bathroom nook, but he can navigate through the shadows easy.
She's shaking, sweating, bent over the cheap toilet. When he puts his hand on the back of her shirt, it's damp with sweat. There's a click and a pull and her mind opens, telling him what he already knows.
“I'm sorry.” Her thoughts are dull and leaden from nightmares and nausea. “I really thought--I swore I'd make it over this time...”
He doesn't speak. He doesn't need to. He goes, gets a Scrunchie off the doorknob, pulls her hair back while she heaves, brushes a hand up and down her back, sending her strength and calm and the order that he knows she's in no condition to resist. She's the one who got him the little vials and needles that keep him in balance; he can be the one making sure she stays sane.
It takes him a while to find the bottles, but the bunk isn't large, and M.D. can't keep a secret from him. Five little bottles, and they all rattle when he shakes them. Good. The last time she tried this, she flushed all the pills down the drain and ended up strapped to a table. He still struggles with the labels, but the pills themselves, he knows by shape and sight: blue oblong for seizures, yellow round for appetite, small white round for sleep, red square for side effects, and big white oval for the side effects of the red.
He grabs a small white and a glass, which he fills while she finishes up. When he's sure she's done, he hands her the pill with a glass of water. She doesn't resist, just takes it. Tomorrow morning, he'll put the pills on her cafeteria tray, and she'll take them.
“One day,” she says. “One day, I won't need these. I didn't need them till they put me on them. One day...”
She can't say anything else. Before, she used to never shut up, but after ten years in a cell, she doesn't have the strength anymore. When he takes her back to bed, she leans on his arm. She's been getting weaker and weaker since the move to Alaska, and the doctors have come up with all sorts of explanations and hypotheses, but in his opinion, she's just finally running down. He doesn't say it, but they both know: she'll be on at least two of those pills until the day she dies.
Even when she's back in bed, she doesn't release his wrist, clinging to his tired mind for its relative calm. Her eyes are dark and bottomless, and he hums gospel until she relaxes and her breath goes even and her mind and fingers slip from his.
It's the least he can do for the kid who got him out.
Prompt: 'White' for Stuff100, 'side effects' for Hurt/Comfort Bingo
Word Count: 500
Summary: M.D. goes off her meds. Giant Robots 'verse. Sponsored by Michael Sondberg Olsen!
He wakes up to her vomiting in the bathroom.
He automatically pulls on the vanish—it's second nature at this point—but leaves the vest where it is. The bunk is dark, except for the bulb over the bathroom nook, but he can navigate through the shadows easy.
She's shaking, sweating, bent over the cheap toilet. When he puts his hand on the back of her shirt, it's damp with sweat. There's a click and a pull and her mind opens, telling him what he already knows.
“I'm sorry.” Her thoughts are dull and leaden from nightmares and nausea. “I really thought--I swore I'd make it over this time...”
He doesn't speak. He doesn't need to. He goes, gets a Scrunchie off the doorknob, pulls her hair back while she heaves, brushes a hand up and down her back, sending her strength and calm and the order that he knows she's in no condition to resist. She's the one who got him the little vials and needles that keep him in balance; he can be the one making sure she stays sane.
It takes him a while to find the bottles, but the bunk isn't large, and M.D. can't keep a secret from him. Five little bottles, and they all rattle when he shakes them. Good. The last time she tried this, she flushed all the pills down the drain and ended up strapped to a table. He still struggles with the labels, but the pills themselves, he knows by shape and sight: blue oblong for seizures, yellow round for appetite, small white round for sleep, red square for side effects, and big white oval for the side effects of the red.
He grabs a small white and a glass, which he fills while she finishes up. When he's sure she's done, he hands her the pill with a glass of water. She doesn't resist, just takes it. Tomorrow morning, he'll put the pills on her cafeteria tray, and she'll take them.
“One day,” she says. “One day, I won't need these. I didn't need them till they put me on them. One day...”
She can't say anything else. Before, she used to never shut up, but after ten years in a cell, she doesn't have the strength anymore. When he takes her back to bed, she leans on his arm. She's been getting weaker and weaker since the move to Alaska, and the doctors have come up with all sorts of explanations and hypotheses, but in his opinion, she's just finally running down. He doesn't say it, but they both know: she'll be on at least two of those pills until the day she dies.
Even when she's back in bed, she doesn't release his wrist, clinging to his tired mind for its relative calm. Her eyes are dark and bottomless, and he hums gospel until she relaxes and her breath goes even and her mind and fingers slip from his.
It's the least he can do for the kid who got him out.
Ah, good.
Date: 2013-09-07 03:25 pm (UTC)