Work Text:
Red stains the front of his chest.
He is still as he sits upon his bed, head loose and leaned forward, thoughts fuzzy as pain centers upon his cracked teeth. Blood fills his mouth, spreading across his tongue and mixing with spit as it dribbles down his chin. The patient’s head spun, eyes unfocused, and mind filled with a hazy fog.
Something cracks loose in his mouth, slipping past his lips and dropping to the floor with a solid clink.
A tooth.
It lands right next to the Doctor’s polished shoes. The patient looks up, eyes still blurred, and his tongue loose and heavy in his mouth as his voice struggles to even come up past a gasping choke. “...I’m sorry.” It’s the first thing that slurs out of the patient’s mouth. It takes him everything to say those two words, and he barely even gone past the volume of a whisper, weak and husky.
For every drop of blood that comes from his mouth, the patient counts thirty seconds of silence before the Doctor actually does anything.
The sound of rubber gloves shifting draws the patient’s attention, and what follows is the firm grip of the Doctor’s hand on his jaw. The patient’s head is lifted up, forced to look at the taller, more imposing man before him.
“Are you?” The Doctor asks, his head tilted to the side, his height casting a shadow over the patient. It’s a question that feels like the twist of a knife within his gut, stirring guts and cutting flesh. “You don’t listen to what you’re told.”
That hand on his jaw tightens, squeezing the pain from his gums until it’s all the patient tastes. Metallic, bitter and horrifyingly familiar. He did not think of it much, but ever since he came to this facility, he could not remember tasting anything else but his own acrid blood.
Instinctively, the patient looks to the Doctor’s coat pocket, where the small end of a switchblade peeks from beneath. The man had never bothered to hide it. A warning, it was. Though, no one had actually seen the blade pulled out.
Terse; the patient is quick to explain himself. “I just...wanted to know what you were making me take, you don’t even tell me the name of the pills.” The patient reasons, struggling to make himself coherent and non belligerent. He doesn’t even know why he is bothering to reason with the Doctor, he knows that whatever excuse he’d thought of, the man would always find a way to twist and turn his words into something unrecognizable.
He was not an idiot, and the Doctor knew that well enough too. He’d come from a background almost similar to the man before him, the only difference was that he had a thought that was deemed a little too doubtful to the Nexus Core . Before he knew it—every wall that surrounded him was white.
It was an insult to all the work he’d done for them. He’d been careful, never crossing a line, moving up until he dared to have a thought that challenged the higher-ups.
In the years he’d stayed here, he’d always convinced himself that he was perfectly healthy, that his superiors had made a mistake. But, as the days went by, this place seemed to turn people sick. Ailing them with the problems it was supposed to help with.
They knew what this place would do to him.
The Doctor is once again; silent. He does not loosen his grip on the patient, but he turns his head off to the side, and the patient hears the telltale sound of a blister pack being torn open. A pill presses against the patient’s lip. He widens his eyes, the cold, solid thing is something that brings his body to a frigid chill.
But the Doctor’s insistent gaze is what ultimately makes him split his mouth open, jaw creaking and teeth parting way for the cause of the current predicament. The pill is placed against his tongue, and the patient immediately wants to spit it out as it slides down to the brim of his throat. A hand clamped over his mouth.
“Swallow.” The Doctor says, his voice making it sound like a request, but the patient knew better.
His throat moves, contracting and tightening. The sensation of the pill going down is more disgusting than the blood and spit staining the front of his clothes.
It is only then that the Doctor releases him. The patient gasps in a lungful of air, coughing and hacking, his body wracked with shivers as he finally falls backwards onto the bed with a shuddering, wet sigh. He blinked, aware of how open his eyes were, but it still felt like he could not see anything in front of him.
The sound of rubber gloves being tugged and thrown into a bin reaches the patient’s ears, and the clacking of the Doctor’s shoes against the linoleum tiles move in a pattern that suggests that the man was leaving. The swing and slam of the door is what proves the patient correct.
Sometimes, he wonders if the Doctor had once enjoyed causing this pain to others, that in some earlier time, the man had found some release in seeing the ailing and weak bleed under his hand. But at some point, the same scene had bored him. Sometimes, true cruelty did not come from the people who reveled in it, the patient had learned.
It came from the indifferent.
How many times had the Doctor seen this same sight? Of the blood running down some patient’s chin as he forced a pill down their throats? Somehow, it was easier to think that the man had always been like this; an emotionless stone wall of a man.
Cruel and unrelenting, the Doctor knew how to flay their minds raw.
Slowly, the patient pulls the covers over himself and above his head, curling into a tight ball. His eyes felt heavy, and he was not sure if that was from the pill that he had been forced to take, or if it was from the Doctor knocking a few of his teeth out. He was most definitely drooling red onto his mattress, but his body couldn’t even bring itself to lift a hand and wipe at the side of his mouth.
At least, sleep made everything better. Most of the time, his mind couldn’t conjure up anything when he slept, no dreams, not even fantasies of stepping out and feeling the cold concrete road in his feet. The first few days, he’d remembered the Nevadan skies, the slightly suffocating scents in the air.
He’d always hated it. But now that he was stuck here, with no way to see the world outside besides the small glances outside the frosted windows, he wished he’d relished in it more.
Shutting his eyes, the patient falls into unconsciousness, the ache in his gums no match for the heavy fog of sleep. It was dreamless, as always, there was not much to dream about when every single day had the same sights to see, the same faces to look at, and the same pains to feel.
And it was easy to get startled awake from it.
The patient props himself up with his elbows, already mentally preparing for another bout with the Doctor. But as the sleep ebbs away from his eyes, the patient feels his breath escape in one quick huff, lungs loosening. A caretaker stands there, worry deep in their grey eyes, hands clutched to a metal tray with a plate of what seemed to be today’s food.
“Hey, buddy.” They mutter, an almost convincing smile plastered on their face. “Sorry, did I wake you?” Dark patches of skin cradle their eyes, almost like a scar at this point with how permanent they were.
It was never, never good to see his own caretaker in such a state. He himself was used to being battered and tired, but of course, the Doctor’s methods didn’t just reach the patients. Everyone, including the staff, were all affected. Though the latter’s treatment was less harsh, the Doctor still needed them after all.
And it was rare to have a job like this in Nevada, where you spent more of your time caring for others, even when the opposite was easier to do.
Usually, that look on the caretaker’s face meant they’d argued with the Doctor. They had been newer compared to the other caretakers, and every single one of them would soon learn it was better to leave the Doctor to his own devices, picking up the mess he’d left behind. They didn’t want his ire pointed at them more than it already was.
Some had even left because of the state of things, and even it was bitter to think that they had enough liberty to choose, but those thoughts were quickly dismissed. It was better that they didn’t stay here.
The caretaker places the tray on the bed, their hand moving to gently grasp at the patient’s shoulder. “You should eat.” They say, and the patient presses his tongue at the raw spot of his gums, still slightly painful from his tooth getting knocked out, its enough to deter him from the thought of eating no matter how much his stomach aches to have something.
“It’s just soup.” They urge. “It won’t hurt you.”
Turning his head, the patient stares at the bowl, now in the other’s hands. He didn’t mind the food much, as tasteless as it was most of the time, it kept them all full.
“...okay.” He relents, and the caretaker smiles at this.
He sits up, back slouched and still tired from being woken up so suddenly, he stares at the plastic spork and then back down at his shaking hands. The caretaker picks the utensil up, scooting themselves closer to the patient. They pick up the spork, scooping a careful amount of the soup and blowing on the steaming liquid before offering it up to the other.
Spoon bumping against his lips, the patient lets his mouth open, just enough to have the caretaker feed him.
It was silent. None of them said a word, and the caretaker didn’t make the patient speak. It was strange to see someone choose to do this, for him. It had been said and said again, by the Doctor and the other nurses; no one would care about a few lunatics. To the outside world, they were technically already dead to the people.
But not them. Not to this person sitting in front of the patient, who went beyond for him, who could have just bought him his food and left him to deal with it alone.
So, as the caretaker was in the process of giving the patient another spoonful, he couldn’t help but speak, to uncharacteristically break the silence first.
“You’re so nice to me.” He says, his voice rough. “More than I deserve...”
The caretaker pauses. “What are you talking about? What made you think you don’t deserve the bare-minimum?” The patient swallows the air in his throat, too dry to even have spit to gulp down. Like it was a mercy, the caretaker sits back slightly, giving the other a bit more space to organize the thoughts within his head.
Your kindness scares me.
It was what the patient wanted to say, but he was sure he’d give off the wrong impression. How was he to express that it was not that caretaker, they were never the problem. But the world they lived in, where the roads were blood-soaked, the sky gave no warmth and held no sun. This place had no room for the tenderness that the caretaker had shown here.
And sooner or later, the Doctor would rear his head and take notice. It had always been easier to pluck out the ones you didn’t trust than to wait until they left.
Horrible thoughts flood into the crevasses of his head. The caretaker, with their comfort, their hands that did not have any blood, and those crisp scrubs that he always managed to keep clean. Easy, a stingless balm to wounds, someone who was needed at all times. All ruined because he simply cared too much.
Silence falls on the patient. The caretaker let his question go, it was obvious that he did not want to answer, and they’d never dare to force anything out of him. They stood, the soup unfinished, but it was better than having the patient eat nothing.
“Look, how about this, you go to sleep, and tomorrow morning before anyone is awake, I’ll take you outside for a bit.” They offer, and the patient looks up in surprise.
Outside? The caretaker was telling him they could take him outside?
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gone outside, even though he was sure that it would be the same shitshow as always, but the idea of finally seeing something else besides the same four white walls was... exciting. He’d see it all again, a chance to drink everything in before he had to inevitably go back.
The patient bites his lip. “No one would find out, right?” He asks, the thought of the Doctor still looming at the back of his head.
A grin graces the other’s lips. “No one.” They whisper, like it was simply a childish secret. “You don’t have to worry about a thing, I’ll handle everything for us.”
Standing up, that look of absolute honesty doesn’t leave the caretaker’s face. “So, smile for me, we’re going outside tomorrow.”
And the patient believes him.
The caretaker leaves after a moment, moving on to do thier other duties. For once, the patient looked forward to the next day. Even if it led to nothing changing, he’d hold onto the memory for as long as he spent the rest of his days here.
Sleep came with no pain to ignore this time.
If there was one thing that staying in this place did to the patient; it was making him a light sleeper.
The lights in his room flicker on, and the patient fully expects it to be the caretaker. He sits up, an excited greeting already on the tip of his tongue before his eyes focus on the familiar figure standing before him.
“Morning.” The Doctor greets casually, and in the midst of the patient’s stunned silence, he pulls out a chair from the side, sitting down from across the other’s bed. His legs cross, hands placed almost gracefully on his lap as he assesses the patient before him.
Eyes flicking to the door, the patient is speechless. Was the caretaker still going to come? Surely they haven’t been caught already.
“Why are you here?” He snaps, feeling a surge of anger rather than fear. Hands involuntarily gripping the sheets, the patient trails his eyes down to the Doctor’s hands, seeing the rubber gloves and the...syringe filled with liquid. “What is that?” He asks then, teeth gritting.
The Doctor doesn’t seem to register his worries and his anger. “You were a researcher with the Nexus Core, right?” He starts, and the patient looks at him, confused by the strange question. “When they gave you to me, they told me you were brilliant.”
“What does this have to do with anything? Just answer my—” The chair lets out a loud screech as the Doctor suddenly stands up. The patient gulps, feeling something lurch in his stomach. He keeps eyeing the syringe in the other man’s hand; held like a weapon to ruin and harm. At this point, it was no different to a kitchen knife.
Thumb pressing lightly against the syringe’s plunger, the patient presses against the headboard of his bed in an attempt to get away. The room was too small, if he ran, the Doctor could simply outstretch one arm and snatch the patient again.
“You did good work with the Nexus Core, and it seems like they want to have you back, just ...not in the same position as before.” Again, the patient is about to retort, but his words are choked off by the Doctor’s hand abruptly wrapping around his neck, squeezing just enough to stop him from speaking. The patient eyes the syringe with a newfound and deafening fear, the needle glinting in the dim lights.
“You don’t mind helping the Nexus Core again, right?” The Doctor tilts his head, his tone chillingly flat. “Even lunatics like you are still needed, after all.”
The patient feels his throat close up. Out of all the pain that the Doctor had subjected him, this is what made him thrash the hardest. Hands fly up and wrap around the other man’s unrelenting arm, fingers and nails digging into the pale coat, scratching, fighting against the hold like an animal caught in a deadly trap.
They could not have him, not as a vulnerable and sickly man, and not as a victim of whatever research they wanted to put him and other patients through.
“Stop—!” He hisses, watching in complete horror as the needle comes closer, and the patient’s eyes strain to try and follow it. He couldn’t let this happen, not when he’d been so close to see the outside again.
“Just take this as your clean bill of health.” The Doctor says, almost mockingly simple and professional.
There’s a prick on the patient’s neck, just the start of the needle piercing into his skin, and he lets out a loud yell, trying once again to thrash no matter how dangerous the action could be. But the Doctor was not a stranger to the behavior, and his hold was strong enough to keep the patient mostly still.
Tightly closing his eyes, the patient bites the inside of his cheek as he braces for the sensation of that syringe sinking deeper and deeper until it was enough to administer whatever drug was inside.
That was he’d thought would happen until the door slams open.
Pressure leaves the patient’s throat as the Doctor turns around to look at the person who had just stormed inside the room. It was enough that the patient could see who it was; those clean scrubs, eyes that were circled with tiredness, and a face that was usually drawn into a smile—now bore a look of furrowed brows and lips drawn into anger.
The caretaker.
Violently, the patient is pushed back against the bed, knocking the back of his head against the hard steel of the bed frame. Dazed, he watches as the Doctor and his caretaker wrestle each other in front of him. Loud yells echo off the walls, almost unintelligible to the patient, but still just as poisonous and vicious.
“Sick fuck—! I should have done this a long time ago!” The caretaker barks, one hand gripped against the Doctor’s coat, their other hand in a tight fist and ready to throw a blow against the taller man. The patient does not see most of it, in-between his vision blacking out and the blurriness.
Sounds of hit after hit reach the patient’s ears, painting a vivid image of bruised knuckles and skin. One pushes the other against the wall only to be met with a savage thrashing that causes more punches to be exchanged. It goes on to the point that the patient can see a tinge of red against each of them.
It is hard to focus on anything until he makes out the shape of the Doctor pushing the caretaker enough that both fall to the floor with a heavy thud. The slight curve of the Doctor’s back is all that the patient could see.
Now, he begins to feel the adrenaline pulse through his veins. Through the throbbing of his head, the patient drags himself across his bed, fingers desperately gripping the fabric as he fights against his dizziness.
“W... wait...!” He mutters pathetically, lifting his head up just in time to see the Doctor’s hand lifting up into the air, something shines in his hand, small but sharp. The patient’s eyes widen as he realizes it was the switchblade, the one that no one had seen used before. But here it was, raised up and poised.
A cut of air leaves the patient’s throat as he watches it rapidly move down, then up, then down again, and again. The blade comes back even more stained each time, wet and bloody. There’s a horribly thick, choking noise slowly quieting down. The patient is frozen in his spot, a silent scream pasted onto his face as the Doctor finally stands up, chest heaving up and down. The front of his white coat is splattered with red. And the hand holding the switchblade is doused and dripping.
There are legs peeking from beyond the mattress, unmoving.
The patient cannot make himself look past his bed.
Slowly, the Doctor approaches, weapon still clutched in his hand. The patient wrenches his stare from the pale white of his sheets to the taller man.
“What.” He hiccups, tears begin to well up in his eyes. “What did you do to him?” His words are forced out from the beginnings of a furious sob. Blindly, he reaches out, hands grappling against the Doctor’s coat, stained with his caretaker’s blood.
His fingers curl so deep, so tight that it felt as if they could only be satisfied by wrapping around a neck, to feel the pulse slowly quiet down beneath his thumbs, to bruise the skin and to have the nails leave bloody crescents.
He knows the answer, of course. The Doctor knows he does.
“It was always going to end like this with you.” The other man says, his voice distinctly breathless and tired.
As always, everything had to be ruined eventually. If the caretaker wasn’t going to leave, he’d have to be torn away, ripped from his hands to leave a gaping wound where the comfort had been. The patient should have known better to think that anything would be better, that what happened with the Nexus Core wouldn’t come back and bite him when he left his neck vulnerable.
Breathing through his teeth, the patient feels his hands shake from how hard he gripped his sheets now. He keeps telling himself: that this isn’t how it’s supposed to be, this wasn’t supposed to happen. A repeating mantra in his head like it could change the sight of the Doctor before him. Of the man covered in blood, gripping that knife that he knew had killed the only person who had cared.
And the repeating words began to change. A prayer of smoldering hate.
I should kill you for this. Ruin you like they did me. I should—
“I’m going to kill you.” The patient speaks between his clenched teeth. “I swear, I’ll make you hurt.” He presses his forehead against the Doctor’s chest, his eyes trained on the red splotches, the violence stained on the other man’s hand. He closes his eyes in a hurry.
Then, in the next moment, the patient hears the scratch of the chair across the floors, then the sound of heavy metal crashing down.
It makes the patient open his eyes, and suddenly, he finds that he’s standing, his chest heaving rapidly. He looks around, seeing the chair knocked to the side, traces of red smeared onto one of the legs. Then, he sees the Doctor, sprawled on the floor, head cracked open and bleeding onto the white floors. He is gasping in pain, he probably won't live if no one comes for him.
When did that happen?
“Hey.” A voice calls out.
The patient gasps, turning around to see—
The caretaker stood before him, a gentle smile on their face, unharmed.
“Wh—What just...” The patient puts a hand to his forehead, feeling the start of a headache at the back of his skull. But he flinches as he feels the wetness at the tip of his fingers, he immediately looks down at his hand, seeing that it was stained with blood. Sticky and fresh.
Huh. How strange.
A giggle disrupts his thoughts, and he stares at the other. “I saved you, buddy.” Is all they say, holding their hand out. “What are you waiting for?” Swallowing his nervousness, the patient hesitates before he takes their hand. It does not occur to ask them how they seemed to be unscathed.
“Are...are we going somewhere?” He asks, and the caretaker laughs again, louder this time. The patient stares at them, shaking his head in disbelief before he tries to look at his hands once more, but a palm to his cheek stops him before he does.
“Outside, of course.” The caretaker winks at him. “I told you I’d handle everything.”
This time, the caretaker grabs the patient’s hand, stepping over the Doctor’s body, and then walking out of the room.
“Oh.” The patient says. “Okay.”
As they walk, the caretaker looks over their shoulder to look at the patient, and they let out an amused huff. “Hey, come on, smile for me.” He says. “You’re never coming back to this place ever again.”
The patient finds that he could not deny them. His lips curl around the edges, daring a small laugh as the infectious glee in the other’s face fills him with the same glee. It had always been hard to be upset in the presence of the caretaker.
His fingers knot into the caretaker’s tie between long digits like it had always belonged there, clutched tight as the door to the exit breaches open, and the patient’s bare feet meet the cold, rough concrete. It is raining, heavy enough that as he stands for only but a minute, his clothes cling wetly to his body. It’s cold, of course, but the patient finds himself unable to shiver when he’s so excited.
He’d never been so relieved to see this horrible place.
“Are you happy?” The caretaker asks him, his wet hand still clutched onto their dry one.
The patient looks at them, his face brightening up impossibly as he takes a few steps forward to the edge of the sidewalk. “Is...is this going to permanent?” He whispers, the pattering of the rain almost drowning out his quiet question. “This isn’t going to be taken away from us, right?”
Ever the unwavering beacon, the caretaker does not let a tinge of worry slip onto thier face. That ever resolute smile stays. “You can trust me on that.” They say, their voice louder than the rain could ever be.
Stepping farther into the streets, the patient revels in his newfound freedom. He didn’t know where to go, or where this would lead him, but he trusted that with that caretaker, they’d figure something out, everything was better with them, after all.
As the patient walks, aimless but uncaring, he turns his head as he sees a beat up car pull up next to him. It looks like it’d hit something multiple times. Really, the person who owned that thing must be a horrible driver.
The window rolls down, revealing a man sitting behind the wheel. His eyes are hidden by red lenses, the rest of his face covered by a dark mask clasped together at the back of his head. The stranger looks at the patient up and down.
“You shouldn’t be standing out in the streets.” He says. “Are you going somewhere?”
Strangely, the man doesn’t regard the patient’s clothes, it was obvious that he had escaped. The patient doesn’t answer at first, and even though he feels the presence of the caretaker behind him, he doesn’t hear them say a word.
“No, I’m not going anywhere, I’m just...” His thoughts trail off, not really sure what he’d intended to say in the first place. The stranger lets out a hum, staring ahead onto the empty streets.
After a while, he tilts his head at the patient. “I’ll give you somewhere to go to.” He says.
The patient’s lips press into a flat line. “...only if you let my friend come too.” He gestures behind him, and the caretaker is still quiet from where they supposedly stood. The stranger stares past him for but a brief moment, but he nods his head without any question.
“Sure.” The man says. “Get in.”
There’s a click from the car door unlocking, and the patient slowly opens the vehicle before he climbs in. He soaks the seats, but the stranger didn’t seem to mind all that much. To be honest, the man wasn't asking the questions that normal concerned people would ask. Blood still stuck to the crevasses of his skin where the rain hadn’t been enough to wash it all away.
Still, the man didn’t notice, or he just didn’t care. The patient didn't know which reality was better.
Looking to the side, the patient sees the caretaker sitting beside him, who gives him a reassuring grin. He hadn’t heard them come in, nor had he felt the seats sink when they sat.
“I can give you something to do.” The stranger says as they speed through the street. “You don't seem busy."
The patient stares at him through the rearview mirror. He reaches out to grab the caretaker’s hand, but he misses and grabs the car seats instead. He felt nervous. Was he always so easy to read? Or was this man simply good at studying others? He tries not to pull a comparison to the Doctor.
He doesn’t say anything, and for some reason, the stranger laughs at that.
“Come on, kid.” He says, his voice sounding amused. “Smile for me, this is a position no one is ever going to take from you.”
And the patient believes him.
So, when they stop in front of a building, and the man hands him his coat to shield him from the rain, the patient learns one thing from this stranger, not from the man’s own words, but from the others in the building. From fleeting greetings to whispers as they passed by.
They called him Doc.