Work Text:
now
*
“Dr. Ellis,” Mel says, blinking at the woman standing on her doorstep. “I didn't—please, uh, come in.”
Parker doesn't so much as twitch off the welcome mat. Pasta La Vista, it reads, a favorite of Becca's. “Dr. King,” she says, her eyes dark and serious. “You need to wake up.”
Mel laughs nervously, rubbing at her knuckles—mountain, valley, mountain, valley—until she's reached the end of her hand and runs her thumb up the other way. “I am awake,” she says. “I'm—what do you mean, I need to wake up?”
Ellis stares at her, solemnness in every inch of her. “Dr. King,” she repeats, her voice soft and quiet, pleading the only way it gets when they're tangled in sheets, hands slipping over skin. Her face unspools into something wretched, an aching want Mel can't understand. “Mel, please.”
“I'm awake,” Mel repeats, only her eyes catch on the darkness rising from behind Parker, and she realizes abruptly that she is not.
She returns her gaze to the other woman, fear sparking beneath her skin. “Parker,” she whispers, refusing to look at the gaping maw of darkness that's blooming, the swell of seething black which ripples and grows. “Parker, what is happening?”
“We're going to get you out, Mel,” Ellis swears, a spark drifting from her mouth to land on the welcome mat, orange flames flickering into being. Neither of them shifts as they climb up Parker’s scrubs, greedy and warm. Mel inhales, the inside of her nose filling with the smell of antiseptic and the sour green tea they stock in the ED; homely and comforting. “I promise.”
“Promises don't work on rot,” Mel says, echoes of her mother and her grandmother in her voice. She can taste the words, the richness of fertile soil, the sour-sweet stench of death below, overtaking the others with an ease that scares her, just a bit. “Tell Becca I love her.”
“Mel,” Parker says, begs—but the darkness overtakes her in between one word and the next, and lingers, tendrils hissing at the flames still belching from the welcome mat.
Mel, very carefully, steps back and shuts the door.
“Fuck,” she says to the wood that's etched with safekeeping and love, identical to her actual apartment's door, but only just the once.
***
Magic, people have found, is ill-suited for healing.
Oh, potions work better than meds sometimes, and the occasional spell to siphon a spill of blood from scrubs is handy, and definitely, the enchanted cuffs that can keep even the strongest of people down help when there's an overwrought patient, but magic? Unruly, glittering magic?
It's greedy.
Try to pull blood from a wound, and it’ll drain someone dry in ten seconds. Heal a bone with the twitch of a wand, and it will simply fuse back, with no sense of alignment. Try to restart a heart, and the shock-start pressure will implode the veins.
So healing is sort of a hands-on process, one of the only things still untouched by magic.
That, of course, doesn't stop people from hurting each other with magic—no, that's the lush sort of ruin that magic thrives in.
Magic is dangerous. It's cruel. It has no heart, and it takes and takes and takes.
***
thirty minutes ago
*
“He's been sort of… screaming,” Mel says, fighting the urge to chew on her bottom lip. You won't get kisses if you're all chapped, the Becca that sits in her mind reminds her, and even though it's sort of a non-issue given the whole Parker Ellis situation, it's still enough for her to knot her fingers together to avoid the urge. “Security swept through and did amplify the sound-dampening attunement, but Dr. Robby thinks it'll only hold for a little longer, before it fades, since he's been, uh,” she winces, her eyes darting from the man on the bed to Abbot, “Cursed.”
“Fucking magic,” Abbot spits out, before he sighs, shaking his head. He rakes a hand through his hair, mussing the curls. “Any sign on what the curse is?”
Mel winces again, even though she knows it's unprofessional of her. “Entrail eating, but mixed with a dosage of opiates so the standard of pain numbing isn't—”
“Feasible,” Abbot finishes. “Well. Even Gloria won't be able to argue with our satisfaction rate with this one.”
Mel shrugs and then nods.
She's never quite sure what to do with Abbot; the man hates magic with a passion that few can match, but he's often the first at hand when the really bad magical cases come in. It makes her skin itch, just a bit, a tendril of portent that clings, even when she tries to scrub it off: magic has taken from him, and will take more still.
“So,” he says, spinning on his heel. “Anything else I should know about?”
Mel shakes her head, even as something strains for her attention. She lets her gaze wander over the ED, her mouth pressed flat as she searches for whatever is pinging her wrongbadwrong sense; another bit of foretelling she can't twist free of.
“Who's that?” Abbot asks, tipping his head towards a younger man, who's pacing in a curtained-off room. His eyes are bright, brighter than humanly possible when he glances up, and the static shock of ice-cold dread that slides down her spine is more than enough warning.
“I don't know,” she murmurs, sidestepping Princess and Santos as they rush past, Abbot keeping pace with her as they begin to make their way towards him. “But there's—something's not right about—”
As if forewarned, the man snaps his head up, making direct eye contact with her. For a moment, the world ceases to exist besides the malignant possession of something unspeakably cruel in his eyes, and then the moment shatters as he whirls around and lunges for his backpack, pulling out something that crackles with hatred even from across the room.
“He's—”
“Fucking—everyone down,” Abbot roars, even as he runs with her, the two of them ignoring the gasps that follow, the way doors start slamming shut; magically automated for disaster and triggered by the words as Abbot continues to yell, “Code Yellow, someone call the DMC now—”
Mel doesn't pay any further attention; she's sliding into the room as the man spins back to face them, but Mel—
Mel isn't thinking about the odds of survival or fear.
She's thinking about the gap-tooth smile from the shy six-year-old in South 12. About the elderly man in Trauma 1 who promised to see his son on the other side just before he went under. About the small family who's gathered in the family room, anxiously waiting for news about the emergency appendectomy for their aunt.
She jumps, dodging the chair the man tries to trip her with, and slams into him, knocking him back against the gurney.
“Too late,” the man hisses, bucking beneath her as his fingers scrabble to shatter the vial in his hand. “Too late, too late; crack the seal, swallow the soul—too late, too late, too late—”
“Dr. King—” Abbot yells, but he's too late, as Mel hears the crack of glass and flings herself over the spill, curling into a fetal position; her best guess to contain it.
There's a beat of silence, and then, nothing.
***
The DMC—the Department of Magical Control—was established in the early 1930s when World War II was just beginning to fully arrive on the horizon.
World War I had unearthed a piece of magic better left forgotten; scrolls of potent rage, building blocks of seething despair; the desperate sort of animal fear needed for huge workings.
It had also proven the need for humanity in healing, the useless sort of damage done by people left with nothing but wands in their hands.
The government had done its best, but tools of help always turn to tools of war in their hands, and by the time the 60s had arrived, the DMC had shifted entirely to nothing more than containment practices.
Control. Contain. Correct.
***
now
*
“She’s in there,” Parker says as soon as she's back in her body. The room fades back into view as if a mirage, the layers of reality returning beat by beat. She doesn't twitch, even as everyone around her exhales in relief. Dana presses a hand to her shoulder, a steady, warm hold that keeps her talking. “But there's—there's something else in there with her.”
“Do you know what?” Abbot asks, and she lifts her eyes to meet his worn-out face. She'd say he looked guilty if she didn't know that it was deeper than that; bone-deep regret and heavy soul-staining weariness.
“Mel called it rot,” she says, unsteady still. She doesn't think she'll be steady until she has Mel back, until she can hold her in her arms and nudge their noses together, breathing in her familiar scent of latex and mint. “She also—she told me to tell Becca—” She cuts herself off.
She stares down at Mel, laid out on a gurney. Her fingers are cold, greying ever so slightly at the tips. Her braid is slightly undone from the mess of her rushing the man, and Parker knows if she were awake, it would bother her, but she can't even touch her right now; she can hardly look at her.
There's a thump at the door, and Parker turns, frowning when Langdon grimaces from outside, gesturing for them to let him in.
“We're on lockdown until the DMC can clear us,” Abbot murmurs, as Dana unlocks the door and Ellis turns back to stare at Mel. “All patients here will need to stay, but we've cleared the lobby, and Gloria let us know that the upper floors are ready to move at a moment's notice.”
Ellis nods, hardly hearing him.
“It's an amplified soul stealer potion, set to turn everyone to a thrall,” Langdon reports grimly. “He was possessed six days ago—Princess found out there's an APB out for him, with a warning that he's dangerous and likely to attack. He didn't flag for us, because it's a local one from fucking Nevada.”
For a moment, no one moves, before Parker sways ever so slightly, and there's a rush of people shoving things at her; a hard chair under her ass, a blanket around her shoulder, a hand wound tight in hers.
“But she's in there,” she says brokenly, because that doesn't—potions like that don't let people remain. They hollow them out, wring every last bit of humanity from them, and turn their husks onto the earth; standing orders are nearly always simply: destroy.
Her gaze darts from Mel's fingertips up to Abbot and over to Langdon; she hasn't felt so lost at work since she was a newbie, drowning in the waves of the ED.
“I don't know how she is, but we believe you,” Dana says, squeezing her hand tightly. “She just needs to hold on until the DMC gets here, alright?”
Parker nods, fixing that point in her mind.
They just need to hold on, no matter what.
***
“Dude,” Trin hisses, as Vic shifts on her feet and bumps into her for the third time, her sneakers squeaking on the linoleum. “Get it fucking together.”
Vic stares at her, and not for the first time, Dennis wishes Mel were here; not only because then she wouldn't be in a fucking magical coma, but also because she’s their goddamn port in the storm, effortlessly in charge even when she doesn't realize.
“Please check on your patients,” Samira mutters, slouched in her chair. Her face is pale, wan in the bright lights of the ED, none of the sweet joy that she's normally suffused with to be seen. “Santos, lay off.”
“I didn't even do—” Trin starts up, and Dennis has heard enough, sliding out from between the nurses' desks to wander through the rooms. They're nearly all occupied, even the people they'd been about to release kept back; everything is on hold until the DMC arrives.
He offers a few sandwiches, gets a juicebox to the kid who's curled up in an armchair, and is rounding the corner when Cassie sidles up to him, twitching her hair over her shoulder with a smooth flick.
“Hey,” she offers, sighing when he grimaces back at her. “Yeah, uh, Robby is finishing up the final calls to the DMC—they should be here within an hour.”
Dennis snorts, sour annoyance filling his chest. “What, this doesn't even classify as an emergency?”
McKay frowns, anger slipping through her eyes before it dissipates like mist burning up in the sun. “By all reports, Mel contained it.” She holds a hand up when he opens his mouth. “I'm not saying that it's—I'm not saying anything other than it's shit, okay? But I'm just saying that they have a reason for getting here when they do—even if we all wish that it was sooner.”
“Right,” Dennis mutters. “Because Mel isn't worth anything to them other than containment.”
Cassie shoots him a look of annoyance, but doesn't disagree, keeping her mouth shut as they finish out his round. Nearly everyone is fine, if not bored by the long wait; no new combatants to fight off, even if the possessed man stares at the two of them when they wander past his locked-down cell.
“It's bad,” Dennis finally says, as they wind their way back towards the nurse’s desks. He can hear Trin snapping some new insult off at Vic again, her voice as sharp as glass; the way it only gets when she's scared. “Isn't it?”
McKay frowns, her mouth thinning out before she brushes her bangs back, tucking the longer locks behind her ears.
“It's not good," she admits, side-eyeing him. “The vial contained—”
“Soul stealing,” he interrupts, chewing on his lip. He can feel the thump of each of his steps reverberating up his spine; a steady march towards something he can't quite name. “I know.”
She pauses, reaching out to tug on his arm, bringing his whole body to a stop. “How the hell did you know that?”
“As soon as it broke containment, I could tell,” Dennis says slowly. “It's a localized thrall one too—” He nearly squeaks as Cassie wrenches the two of them around, marching towards the room Mel is lying in. He can hear Trin and Vic stop their arguing at his yelp. “What the hell?”
“You need to tell Abbot and Ellis,” she orders, swinging the door open and forcing him through. “Whitaker has more information,” she announces, and Dennis winces at the looks everyone shoots at him; disbelief, anger, annoyance.
“I thought it was already known,” Dennis says, holding his hands up. “The potion is a soul stealer with a localized thrall component; it's set to fiend the body, not cut it loose.”
“What the fuck do you mean by ‘fiend the body'?” Langdon asks, after a beat of silence. Distantly, Dennis can hear someone talking loudly outside the room; he hopes Trin and Vic aren't fighting again. “Isn't that what thralls always do?”
Dennis shakes his head, sickness rising from his stomach. “Fiending is mimicry, where they want to be able to be the person too—thralling is total hollowing.” He swallows hard, faint memories of theological lectures rising to mind. “Whoever designed it didn't want anyone to know until they were ready. It's—this isn't something low-scale, some minor thrall creation. If it had gone off like they wanted it to, every single one of us would have been permanently altered and not known until whoever is on the other side decided to cast the final component piece and force us into thralls. Mel's unconscious, probably, because the wall of it is in her; all that change, looking to scoop her whole personality out and become her.”
He's panting by the time he finishes; Abbot and Ellis have grim looks of steel on their faces, whereas McKay, Langdon, and Dana all seem point-blank horrified.
“And you know all this—how?” Abbot asks, arching a brow at him.
Dennis refuses to look at anyone. “The Whitaker family line specializes in potions and handfasting; if there's a potion in thirty feet of me, I can usually pinpoint its intentions, especially the darker ones.”
“Handfasting,” Langdon repeats, sounding unimpressed. “Like marriage?”
“Like complete and total binding obedience,” Dennis says, still staring at the wall. He can feel his cheeks turning red, humiliation crawling up his spine. “There's a reason Pittsburgh is the only place I've been outside of Nebraska.”
“Ah,” Dana says in the quiet pause, before she reaches out and touches him, a shock to his system. He glances at her, wide-eyed, unsurprised to see the soft set of her jaw, the corners of her eyes tense with an unvoiced emotion. “Why don't you go find Robby, Whitaker, and fill him in?”
Dennis nods, always grateful for direction, and turns, moving as quickly as he can, pretending that he's not fleeing them.
***
As soon as Whitaker disappears from view, Parker turns to look at everyone.
“Please tell me that kid did not just admit to decades of familial coercion under the guise of helping others and not himself,” she says, squeezing Mel's hand. The tips of her fingers are black now, the grey creeping down her fingers to begin to hit her palm. She's not looking at them for too long; otherwise, she'll panic for real. “What the fuck?”
McKay shakes her head. “I knew he had a streak of obedience in him, but I thought that was more because he was a student doctor, not because he'd been cursed into it.”
“Is it a curse?” Landgon mutters, avoiding everyone's gaze when Parker glances at him. “Or was he just exposed to it for so long he doesn't know how to do anything else?”
No one knows how to answer that, silence filling the space until Dana shifts on her feet. “Cass—we need to update the DMC, see if this piece of information will get them here earlier. Langdon, Abbot, why don't you give Ellis a moment—Ellis, hun, yell if you need us.”
Parker nods, accepting the gentle touches of everyone to her shoulders with poorly concealed ill grace; she hates this—this waiting.
She became a doctor deliberately, pointedly, so that she could always have something to do.
The door latches shut behind Langdon, and she closes her eyes, bringing Mel's cool hand up to press a kiss to the back of her hand.
“C'mon, Mel,” she murmurs, blinking back tears. “You've got this. You're Doctor King, the best and brightest the Pitt has to offer. We're going to get you out.” She presses another kiss to her hand. “I promise.”
Promises don't work on rot, Mel's voice reminds. She sounds like the wind whipping through reeds, faint and empty. Tell Becca I love her.
“Tell her yourself,” Parker says, sharp and angry, before she reels it in, wary of getting too worked up. She won't be able to stop herself from sparking, and the last time it happened, she supercharged the goddamn scalpels.
She inhales, breathing in the familiar smell of the ED: antiseptic and chilled, recycled air. It fills her lungs, steadying her nerves in a way she almost hates, despite how much she clings to it.
She knows this place, knows these halls, has saved lives and lost them here, has peeled apart layers of skin, and has splattered blood across these floors. She's plucked more items out of orifices than she can count, unwound spell damage from organs, delivered babies from writhing bodies, and helped families say goodbye.
This is her chapel, her calling, her sainthood and absolution all rolled into one; she reveres healing because she can understand it, and she holds nothing higher.
Or, more accurately, she didn't.
Mel, and their steady, quiet courtship, have turned all her notions on their heads.
It would upset Parker more if she didn't love Mel as much as she does.
“C'mon,” Parker murmurs, and lets herself cling. “You're going to be fine; even if I have to drag you to it, kicking and screaming.”
***
The thing about being alone and trapped in her own mind is that Mel isn't good at it.
She doubts most people are, but she knows she's exceptionally bad at it. She doesn't handle her own uselessness well.
It's one of the things she thinks slots in well enough with Parker; their ragged edges match in this, that neither of them can do idleness.
But here, in the swath of her mind that hasn't been devoured, she has nothing left to do but wait. The books on her shelves hold dusty memories that crumble to ash when she touches them; faded and solemn images shimmering from the mess before disappearing.
Outside her apartment, the wind howls ceaselessly, a chorus of murmurs that all try to tempt her from her shelter.
Darling, her mother calls, warmer than she ever was in life, before disease stole her away entirely. We're waiting for you.
Mellie, her father murmurs at her window. He sounds happy, thrilled to see her in a way he hadn't since she was six. Didn'tcha want to see the pond this summer?
More voices churn beneath, but two do not, and they're the two Mel clings to the hardest.
Sweetheart, someone says, their voice twined with ten others; hints of familiarity in all of them. A siren song on the breeze, the tantalizing feeling of just opening her door and having everything be okay. Won't you just come outside?
Mel bites down the urge to respond, her tongue caught between her teeth.
She smooths her fingers over her hands, dragging them over familiar skin, and settles into her couch; nowhere near as comfortable as her actual one.
She supposes it's another level of protection, god knows what could happen if she falls asleep now, but still, she really wishes a spring wasn't digging into her ass right now.
Come outside, another blur of voices demands. Now!
She shakes her head, cupping her hands over her eyes, digging the heel of her palm into her eye sockets, despite knowing how bad it is for her eyes.
“I won't,” she murmurs, enough to answer but not enough to be caught in conversation. “I won't, and no one can make me.”
***
By the time the DMC is almost to the PTMC, Robby thinks he might just rip his hair out with frustration.
The day had been too long, the repercussions too raw; the noise Ellis had made, when she'd seen Mel for the first time—well, Robby was going to add another heavy stone to his guilt.
“You couldn't have known,” Jack had muttered at some point in the waiting game, his knee nudging against his thigh. “Stop blaming yourself.”
“It's not blame,” he'd answered, venom thick in his mouth, a poisonous sort of rot cracking between his teeth. He can taste his own ire, hot-metal and sand, bog-water despair underneath. “It's the fucking truth.”
Whitaker had hummed from his seat across the table from the two of them, his feet tossed over Abbot's lap. “I think the only person we can blame is whoever possessed the guy,” he'd murmured, avoiding looking at either of them. “Right?”
“I hadn't clocked it,” Jack had said, his hand settling across the nape of Robby's neck, before he'd given him a rough shake. “So get over yourself.”
Robby hadn't responded, but he hadn't needed to; all three of them had known it was still going to be another moment of horror he tortured himself with for a good, long time.
He blinks, pulling himself out of his spiraling thoughts to clap his hands, dragging everyone's attention back to him.
“Here's how it's going to go,” he says, aware that it's not just his staff who are listening, but the bored patients too, all caught up in this. “The DMC is going to do a walk-through—we will direct them to the patients first for sweeps, leaving alone the gentleman who started this. That, I will be handling. Once a patient is cleared, if they can be released, please walk them to the ambulance bay and let them work with the DMC to get their cleared papers—so long as they have signed our release waivers, we do not need to keep them here.”
He swallows, glancing around at his staff, unsurprised to see their solemn expressions. Above him, the AC kicks on, sending shivers down his spine; the heavy press of air feels nearly like a release of tension as it ruffles his hair.
“If the patient has not been cleared for release, but has been magically cleared, keep them in the room they are in, and we will begin coordinating with the upper levels about placements, but they will not be released to the upstairs until we—as in the staff—have been okayed to leave as well. Doctor King—Mel—will be their first priority when they walk in through those doors. Dr. Abbot will remain on hand in the room to assist with any needs the DMC may have.” He raises a brow. “Any questions? No? Alright then—they'll be here in three.”
***
Any day that the DMC arrives at the ED is a bad one, Dana knows, but this is the worst one yet.
The other dozens of times—more than that, she's sure, but she's not paid to dwell on the past—they had mostly been security responses or the occasional unruly possession.
They hadn't had a staff member get dropped by magic like this ever.
“Why didn't the sensors catch it?” she hears Princess hiss to Perlah, her voice tight with worry. “That's what they're there for, right? Is Gloria going to tell Robby he's overreacting again and do nothing?”
Dana doesn't bother interrupting her; she's wondering the same, too, even as Robby turns from his spot by the bay doors to beckon her over.
“I want you to walk with Abbot with the DMC,” he says, his face worn and lined, sliding his phone into his pocket. “Just to Dr. King's room. Get a feel of what they're like and if they let anything slip about treatment or potential stop gaps we can put in place to prevent this from ever happening again.”
She nods, carefully not looking at him as he tucks his reading glasses away. God, she wants to smoke, wants the thick drag of something nearly too warm down her throat, if only to drown out her urge to talk. “And you?”
“And me?” he asks scornfully. “I'm fine, Dana.”
“Didn't say you weren't,” she says, still not looking at him. She's seen him this brittle and hollow before, knows just how much she can push before he really loses it. “Just wasn't sure what you were doing in the in between.”
“Handling our possession,” he grits out, pinching at the bridge of his nose. “Since he's the most dangerous—” Dana clicks her tongue, cutting him off, and Robby stares at her, his face wan. “Since he's actively harmed a staff member, I'm obligated to be there,” he mutters sullenly. “And I don't—if he—”
“I get it,” Dana says. She glances out the bay doors, sighing. “God, I'd kill for a cigarette.”
Robby laughs, low and deep, a surprised jolt of noise. “Those things will kill you,” he mutters, a familiar refrain that they finish out together, “If the Pitt doesn't first.”
“It'll have to do worse than it has,” Dana says pointedly, before she tips her head to the doors, eyeing the black cars that have pulled up with no small amount of trepidation. “You ready?”
“Never,” Robby admits, before he strides over to the glass, all humor wiped away.
“You got him smiling,” Abbot mutters from behind her. “Nice.”
“Not for long,” she says.
Abbot laughs sharply, the sound of baying dogs wound through. “Any smile is a success here,” he says, grinning wildly at her when she peers at him over her shoulder. “Haven't you heard the latest spiel from Gloria?”
Dana snorts, her mouth curving into an unwelcome smirk. “No,” she answers, her craving fading ever so slightly. “But you'll have to fill me in.”
The doors slide back open, Robby leading a team of stern-looking suits through, and Dana sighs, pressing her lips together. “Later,” she says, her eyes fixed on Robby, because she refuses to entertain anything other than hope. “You'll have to tell me later.”
***
There are three ways to halt a thrall possession.
One: The host body is killed, and the tethering line of magic is traced. From there, all outgoing power levels are traced, disrupted, and contained. The thrall source is collateral damage, almost deliberately so, and the only true loss is the original host body found. All other thrall spells and curses are typically able to be lifted, though what remains in the other thralls varies from host to host. True thralls rarely survive but are also just as equally rare; most enscorcelled people are simply under a very strong compulsion and not an actual thrall charge.
Two: The thrall charm is weak enough to snap under the combined presence of three in the mind of the target, and the targeting spell cannot hold fast to the original thrall spell. The snapback of the potion to the originator either damages their psyche enough to prevent them from creating another attempt or is powerful enough to kill them. Upon death, all other thrall bonds shatter, and those under the forced bond compulsion are set free.
Three: Wing it with a hope and a prayer, which is technically the only option when it comes to true thrall.
The DMC advises that it has specifics set out to follow the first two paths; it doesn't mention that there is a third option.
Much like it doesn't address the misinformation surrounding thralls and possession.
***
“So,” Jack says, as they pace through the hall to King’s room, the three DMC representatives silent around him. “How can we prevent something like this in the future?”
Silence answers him, and he rolls his eyes, flicking a glance at Dana, before he tries again. “Any sort of preventative measure would be helpful—this shit didn’t even ping on our sensors.”
A ripple of something shifts through them, and he arches a brow at the person in the lead, unable to make out any distinguishing features of them.
It's an unfortunate piece of the DMC—total obscurity for the good of their service—and Jack shoves down how uneasy it makes him, to not be able to describe them as anything other than human.
“This will not happen again,” one of them says, which isn't an answer. Dana scoffs, unflinching when some of them turn to her, and the one who spoke continues. “We will update your sensors with an emergency notification set to alert us if anything of this magnitude crosses through your doors again.”
“So this should've gotten caught?” Jack says, pausing right outside of King's room. “Is that what you're saying?”
A different person shrugs. “We cannot say for certain,” they murmur. “Now. Onwards to the containment centriole?”
Dana clears her throat, sternness swelling in her voice. “The containment centriole is a person, folks.” She sweeps a stern gaze over them. “And her partner is in there with her. If one of you so much as refers to Doctor King as nothing more than containment again, we are going to have a problem on our hands.” She smiles, flat and wide, nothing happy in her face. “Understood?”
“Understood,” rumbles from the center of them, but Jack still has to force back a sneer as he knocks once and then opens the door, gesturing them in.
The three of them file in, and Dana reaches out, patting his shoulder. “Keep ‘em in line,” she murmurs, and he grins, sharp and angry.
“It would be my goddamn genuine pleasure,” he mutters, and stalks in after them, settling himself behind Ellis, ready for anything.
***
“Shit,” someone unfamiliar says, loud enough for Mel to peel her hands away from her eyes, blinking at the stranger standing in the center of her apartment. The walls have shifted, bits of wind wearing through the sturdy brick, faces of people long since forgotten peering through the cracks. “Well. This is one way to do it, I guess.”
“I'm sorry,” Mel says, startling them into whirling around. “But who are you?”
“Oh,” they say, their eyes bright. “Oh! No, wait, this is far simpler than I expected. Excellent.” They extend their hand, their fingers uncurling from around something that hurts Mel's eyes, that smells like rainwater and moss, cigarette smoke underlying it. It crackles in their palm, sharp and searing, as if condensed hope.
“See you on the other side," they say, instead of answering anything else, and Mel closes her eyes and breathes through the pain of it, deep, steady pulls of air to her lungs.
“Mel?” Parker murmurs what feels like a heartbeat later, and Mel lets her lids peel back, staring up at the familiar ceiling of the ED, her whole body aching.
“Oh,” she says, reaching out to touch Ellis’ cheek as the other woman's face appears over her. It startles her into honesty, as she blinks. “Parker—I missed you.”
Parker chokes, biting down on her lip as Mel drags her thumb over her cheekbone.
She feels sort of drunk, hazy from the aftershocks of whatever the bright thing was.
“Hey,” she says, pushing herself up as fragmented bits of reality begin to return. “Did anyone else get hurt?”
“No,” Parker says, her mouth twisting into her take better care of yourself, frown.
Mel hums, bits and pieces of splintering future paths coming at her too fast to sort through. “That's good,” she says, before she swings her legs to the side of the gurney.
Ellis immediately steps forward, slotting in between her legs, her hands settling on her waist.
“I missed you,” Mel repeats, closing her eyes. She tips forward until her forehead is against Parker's, breathing the welcoming smell of amber and honey that clings to the other woman. “I was alone and voices were asking me to go, but not yours and not Becca's, and I knew that they were lying, but they made it sound so—” She cuts herself off, sagging into her more firmly. “But not yours,” she says again, shuddering. “I would've stepped outside for you.”
“You didn't,” Parker murmurs, her hands sliding up her spine, two firm spots of warmth. “You're here.”
“I'm here,” Mel whispers, the words rinsing the taste of a coin out from under her tongue, before she tilts her head back and presses a kiss to the edge of Parker's jaw.
“You've been out for four days,” Parker manages. “The DMC came by, and someone did something to you. They just hummed and touched your forehead and then announced you were going to be fine, which was baffling, and—but then, you wouldn't wake up.”
“I'm up now,” Mel says quietly. She feels, well, not quite normal, not after that, but settled back in her body. She hadn’t realized how disorienting it was to be trapped in a shallow pool of her own mind, but reality is much richer than it was before.
She blinks at Parker, dragging her gaze over the other woman's stern face, unable to stop herself from pressing another kiss against the corner of her mouth.
“I missed you,” she says again, stupidly. Something happened, something bad, she knows, but the details have escaped her again, lost to the aether. “I don't—what happened?”
Parker smiles at her. “We're going to have another long talk about personal safety,” she murmurs. “But I'm glad you're okay, Mel.”
“Right,” Mel manages, before she yawns, her jaw cracking. “You waited for me?”
Parker nods, gently helping her lie down again. “Yeah, honey,” she says, her voice cracked through with fondness and bemused joy, a heaviness stripped away. “Of course I did.”
“I'd wait for you too,” Mel manages, and then she's asleep again, drifting back into a warm darkness where Parker is there, and they're tucked in together.
***
Parker stares at Mel's face, slack with sleep, the corner of her mouth curled up into a smile.
“You're so fucking brave,” she whispers, and doesn't hesitate to reach out and take her hand, smoothing her thumb over the ridges and valleys of her knuckles.
There will be time for her to grab the doctor, time for her to berate Mel for her nearly unbearable courage.
For now, though, there's just the feeling of her fingers tucked against her palm, and a glimmer of warmth growing in Parker's chest.