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Looking back on his life, Number Sixty-nine had never lived in a way that would be considered ordinary . Travelling with a circus, a father that only had feelings of contempt for him… Sure, many kids didn't live good lives– they worked in factories, or were orphaned, perhaps confined to a bed due to illness. But he… he wished it could be so simple.
One thousand hours of doing gruelling labour in a factory sounded lovely to him. To get away from it all, and just mindlessly work, even if his body ached from exhaustion, weeping for a break.
Being bedridden from sickness meant he'd have a bed! The cot he and Misha shared could hardly be considered such– he imagined a doting mother and father laying cool, wet towels on his forehead. A hand carding through hair, soothing him in his moments of distress.
It sounded nice.
Number Sixty-nine would never quite get over the horrible chill on his back from the metal table. He was skin and bones, so it would jab at him uncomfortably as the leather straps were tightened, keeping him firmly in place. Unable to flee.
Not that he would.
Sometimes, the chill from the table would lessen as time progressed. Whether it be from the cold numbing his skin, leaving it completely indistinguishable from the frigid metal, or from blood pooling on its surface, serving as if it were some sort of thin cushion between himself and the metal.
Who knew laying in one's own blood could warm you up so quickly? Number Sixty-nine sure hadn't. Or maybe that was because of blood loss, or perhaps even mild Hypothermia.
"Any difference in regenerative abilities?" Asked Doctor Moreau, settling above him like a storm cloud. He placed his hands on top of Number Sixty-nine's shoulders. He had to bite back the relief he felt at the warmth it provided, which instinctively had him wanting to lean into the man. To get closer to the warmth his body provided.
"No differences, Doctor. His wounds are healing the same as they always have, not even close to that of a–"
The nameless researcher was cut off when the Doctor slammed his fist into the table, just beside Sixty-nine's head. It rattled the metal, producing a crash that echoed in the large room, but Number Sixty-nine couldn't even bring himself to flinch. He was used to the Doctor's erratic behaviour– it wasn't anything new.
"Oh, dammit! Number Sixty-nine!" He howled, voice pitching into a childish whine.
What a pathetic man . He wouldn't voice those thoughts aloud, but he was sure that the other researchers carried a similar opinion of him. Even if they all had to report to him and follow his instructions, that didn’t mean they wouldn’t have their own private opinions of his behaviour.
“Doctor Moreau! Please, calm down!” Someone yelled, attempting to mollify him with reassuring words. “We’ll surely make progress eventually! This subject has been the best so far– the only one not to die from our work! Is that not a step forward in and of itself?”
Like pouring water over a hot pan, the Doctor's anger fizzled away into optimism. The way he bounced between moods so erratically… It was unsettling.
“Yes, yes you’re right! I hope I didn’t frighten you, Number Sixty-nine, my dear! Now, have you noticed any changes in recent days? In mood, appetite, energy, etcetera?”
The posable lamp that hung above the table was moved, pushed above Sixty-nine’s face casting its luminous shine into his face. He didn’t let himself flinch away from the brightness too long, even if it burned his eyes and made spots appear on his eyelids when he closed them.
“No Doctor Moreau, I haven’t felt any different from usual.” He mumbled, watching cautiously as the man switched out his usual gloves for rubber ones.
That never spelt anything good for him.
“Hm, that’s very unfortunate… Open your mouth for me, wouldn’t you?”
Sixty-nine did as told, parting his jaws and allowing the man to prod around at his teeth and gums.
“Well, your teeth aren’t any different from usual– though I’m not too sure if that would be something that’d change even when this experiment proves a success!” When , not if. He really, really hoped it wouldn’t be a when . “You already have sharp teeth all on your own! You’re practically built to be different; to be superior !”
The Doctor poked around at his molars, forcing him to open his mouth even wider. God, did Sixty-nine fantasise about biting those fingers off– through flesh and bone, rendering the man a weeping, caterwauling mess on the floor. He’d come close to biting the Doctor on previous occasions. Before Misha had arrived he’d sunk his teeth into a few other staff members, which given the wariness which they regarded him with, hadn’t been forgotten. But when Misha arrived, when he had someone so much younger and smaller than him who he could protect… It made it all feel just a little more tolerable.
Beforehand, it had all been happening to him– he had not even a semblance of control regarding the situation. They’d come to his room and drag him out by the arms, ignoring his screaming protests as they did. Now though, when he offered to go, it was for a reason! He achieved something, he had a choice in the matter. When he went, Misha was left unharmed by them, and he’d be able to know that it was at least worthwhile for someone.
That was probably a really twisted way of thinking about it all, but leaps in logic had to be made in these sorts of situations. For his own sanity.
The Doctor prodded too far back, and Number Sixty-nine gagged, body tensing up involuntarily.
“Oh! Oh, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to do that!” The Doctor gasped, retracting his finger from his mouth.
The man leaned in closer, looking down at him closely, casting a shadow from the light above. His fingers, still wet with saliva grazed his cheek in what he assumed was meant to be a soothing or affectionate manner. All it did was make him shiver, wanting so badly to divert his eyes away. For a man with such a goofy looking face, looking into those goggles of his made Sixty-nine awfully uneasy.
“S’okay.” Number Sixty-nine tried to make it come out as sincere, but it sounded more like a garbled grumble to him. If Moreau picked up on that, though, he didn’t say a thing about it.
“We’ll give him another couple days to further recover, hook him up to an IV drip and escort him back to his quarters! We’ll resume testing once his symptoms from the blood loss have gone away.”
“Yes, Doctor! Right away!”
Doctor Moreau stepped away, allowing the light to burn his eyes once more. Still, Sixty-nine was relieved by his words. A couple more days to relax in bed, only seen by the researchers to make sure the blood transfusion he’d received only a few days earlier was taking well. An adverse reaction from his body would be bad, and he knew for a fact that the Doctor wanted to keep him alive.
He was more useful that way, after all.