Work Text:
Run.
Run.
Run.
Run.
Where?
There was nowhere to run.
Even if he ran, how could he explain it?
How could he tell Sahira this?
He could not.
Never.
Treat the man.
Treat him and discharge him.
That was the plan.
But no.
No. He was to remain.
And Henrik Hanssen had to treat him.
Boxed into a corner.
Locked in an office.
Back against the door.
Blinds cutting into his hand.
No air to breathe.
No light with which to see.
He could not do this. Not even for Sahira. He could not continue to treat that man. Not a man who, God forgive him for feeling it, Henrik would rather died.
Could he even be trusted not to do it himself? To rid himself of the presence?
He was a terrible doctor. That shouldn’t have been in question. A good doctor treated his patient without judgement.
But most doctors were not treating the man who-
No.
No.
“Keep that in its box,” screamed his mind. “You cannot open that box. Throw away the key.”
But the key was right here. On his ward. In his hand. The key and the box it kept locked were at Henrik Hanssen’s mercy.
And he was at its mercy.
Completely.
And it had no mercy.
It would not allow him even a single breath of air.
The entire world was airless.
“You were always my special boy.”
The box rattled. Bouncing. It was going to burst itself open. Never mind a key – no lock could withstand this.
Run.
Run before it opens.
It was locked so long. It was surely fermented and toxic and deadly.
He felt his hand release the blind. He did not ask it to.
“You were always my special boy.”
The box slammed itself against the walls of his mind. He felt it in his skull.
He pushed the lid down. Put all his strength into it. All his energy.
His knees buckled.
He still hadn’t breathed.
Why hadn’t he breathed?
He was going to die.
Maybe that would be better.
Better than this.
“You were always my special boy.”
Crash.
Henrik realised too late he had fallen to the floor.
The box was open.
Rivers of memory flowed out of that box, trickling at first to his eyes. In waterfalls it came to his ears. It deafened him. It blinded him.
“You were always my special boy.”
And he breathed.
Not a breath he wanted to take – there was no relief or joy for the air which filled his lungs – but one which came against his will. A breath of grief. It came with a sob. With tears he could not cry.
Tears which never fell.
Maybe they never would fall.
Air tore through his chest. It stung his throat and it dried his mouth, but it kept him alive.
He was alive. His body would recover from this. Bodies had a way of doing that. He would be alive, and he would be Henrik Hanssen, and he would be a doctor.
That man’s doctor.
“He will pass,” said his mind. “One way or another, death or discharge, he will pass.”
This was correct. In the end, Henrik was going to be rid of him; either he would die relatively soon or he would get a transplant and be discharged.
It just seemed such a distance away.
Breathing was easier. Still not as it ought to have been, but it hurt less to fill his lungs.
There was no relief. It was all dread.
Sooner or later, he would have to stand up and return to the ward. He would had to pretend he was fine.
And really, he was fine. He wasn’t dying. He wasn’t injured.
He was just breaking.
To everyone else who could not see that box spewing its horrors into every corner of his mind, Henrik Hanssen was fine.
When he opened that door, that was what they would see.
That was what Sahira would have to see.
After all, it was only to Henrik that this man was Hell. To Sahira, he was just Dad.
The man was Hell, but Henrik had to be fine.
“You were always my special boy.”
“No,” said Henrik, his head resting against the wood of the door. “I was not. I am not.”