Archive of Our Own ^beta

It would be six months tomorrow.

Six months. Enough time for removing sutures after sealing the gash on her forehead. It was enough time for the skin to have risen forth, pink and shiny, leaving a scar that was still tender under her fingers. Six months were enough to have bled the color from the memory of waking up in a hospital bed, with tubes attached everywhere.

It was time enough for a bone to set, have a cast removed, but not long enough to erase the nightmares that came every night. Suffocating nightmares of blinding light, searing heat, screams, the sound of tearing flesh, the bone-crushing pain on impact against shattering glass, and the smell of blood, or the feel of it - syrupy thick - gliding down arms and legs. Worse than any of those things was feeling the panicked hammering of her heart against her aching ribs while she crawled, sightless, through splintered pieces of furniture, searching, reaching out, not finding him in the chaos.

There was no escaping, not in quiet moments when she had to sit and wait. Breathing became a chore; unwilling lungs choked on air, her mind rebelled against her and forced her to relive the moment her stinging eyes recognized him- a rasping mangled heap that shivered in the far corner of the room.

The soft purring of a telephone eventually replaced the terrifying scream in her head, and she found herself staring at the methodical movements of the receptionist's hands as she switched lines. Three rows of buttons, more than a dozen blinking orange lights. More than a dozen voices on the lines hoping to reach someone. The woman's hands fluttered over the switchboard, pressing here and there without missing a beat.  A litany of bland phrases flowed from her lips with each subsequent light she pressed:

"I'll check, please hold,"

"I'll connect you shortly; would you like to leave a message?"

"Urban Development is on line 3 for you, Madam Director,"

"Doctor Faremis is in a meeting right now,"

"Yes, can you send that up to the 56th floor? they've been asking for it."

Waiting minutes were endless minutes. Lucrecia had never been an anxious woman, her career demanded many moments of waiting, and through the years, she had cultivated a patient personality. Titers required time, compound analyses needed time, as did specimen cultures and various other procedures that had eventually become second nature to her. When did she become so preoccupied with running out of time?

Sitting in the Shinra Science Research Department's waiting room did not offer her the opportunity to relax. Her brown eyes flitted between the oversized double doors leading to the conference room and the clock on the wall behind the receptionist's desk.

Outside, the approaching thunderstorm buffeted the floor-to-ceiling window panes, making them shudder with each rumble. Muted grey thunderheads obscured what little light permeated the tinted windows, leaving the waiting room to fend off the gloom with feeble yellow sconces glowing against the dark wood panels on the walls, so unlike to the brightly lit spaces in which she spent most of her days.

Lucrecia's fingernails tapped against her stack of folders in time with the ticking clock. The involuntary sigh that escaped her lips earned her a glare from the receptionist, an unfriendly, waspish woman who wore too much eyeshadow. It was her fifth sigh in less than ten minutes, according to the clock. She supposed that it was reason enough to be glared at. Oh well, she wouldn't concentrate on the other woman's comfort when the future of her career lay on the chopping block. The ever-present ache in her thigh pulsed, reminding her to adjust her position and stretch her leg out to relieve the spasm in her muscles.

A distinctive chirping from the receptionist's multi-buttoned machine caught her off-guard, and her eyes immediately locked on the conference room doors. The fluttering in her stomach intensified in anticipation.

The secretary tapped the side of her headpiece and listened for a few seconds before covering the microphone end with a well-manicured hand.

"Doctor Crescent?" she barely spared Lucrecia a look as she switched off the intercom module and returned her attention to the large flat computer screen on her desk. "They're ready for you now."

Lucrecia's legs, long-since numbed by the weight of her folders and briefcase, objected at the sudden shift in position when she stood. The unyielding scar tissue that ran down the side of her thigh tightened with the change in muscle tension, sending a bolt of exquisite pain down to her toes. Air rushed past her clenched teeth in a reflexive gasp; a sudden fear of discovery flooded her veins with adrenaline. Warmth spread from her chest out to her limbs and neck until her whole body burned with shame. Certainly, they wouldn't want to keep a weakling in their employ. She turned a furtive glance toward the reception desk, where the woman sat wholly absorbed in a memo displayed on her terminal screen.

Grateful for the lack of an audience, Lucrecia straightened ram-rod and made her way across the waiting room on wobbly legs.