Chapter Text
Waverley should have petitioned to be next in the line of administration years ago. He had admired Dr. Swansea enough to live with their differences of opinion, but there comes a point where respecting one’s peers comes at too high a price.
Now is clearly one such time. Nobody had expected poor Swansea’s kidnapping by hooligans, nor for Dr. Tippets’ apparent mental decline to render him useless in the capacity of interim administrator. Perhaps Waverley should have, given the absurdity of the times. He can only pray that Tippets would not do something as reckless as allowing Dr. Strickland his ridiculous experiment on poor Mr. Fiddick (although a part of him argues that it, at least, would be a decision made by the man).
Tippets had been doing nothing since his temporary reassignment. If Waverley were not here, he thinks, the hospital would have closed the second Swansea was taken, if not earlier. Her staff replaced by haughty young researchers, perhaps, her patients butchered for the want of fame.
And where was Swansea’s latest fascination, the famous Dr. Reid? He had been missing for nearly as long as his employer, blessing the hospital with his presence that horrid night only long enough to ask after Swansea before vanishing once again. That man had done nothing for the Pembroke but lock away valuable office space.
Were Waverley a better man, he would have tossed away his pen and left for home. It was, after all, well past the night shift had ended. He would be shooed off of the floor were he to try to round, told to rest, as though any of them deserved that luxury. No, he does not need rest—he needs a present and rational administrator. He needs organization, rationality, and Lord, he needs information!
Against all sane judgement, it is this thought which leads Waverley Acroyd to find himself testing the lock on Dr. Reid’s office door. Even worse is his stubborn nature which demands, when the door does not budge, that he does not give up.
The whole staff had seen the frightening look in Reid's eye as he rushed out the front doors the other night. Waverley is most certainly not a gossip, but he does hear the hospital's many whispers. Despite his yet-short tenure, Reid has always vanished during times of hardship. Only a fool would not wonder why.
Obtaining the master key ring from Swansea’s bloodied and abandoned office was, of course, concerningly simple. It is much more difficult to maintain composure upon entering the sacred ground of Reid’s office. For on a rickety bed in the far corner laid no-one but the man himself.
Of all the irresponsible, careless things to be expected of Jonathan Reid, stealing away from his shift to sleep was unexpected. Is this where he was, night after night, when he disappears from the halls to see to mysterious errands? Swansea—his friend, it had seemed—had been beaten and dragged away, and yet here Reid sleeps like the dead.
The man is splayed across a foolishly small hospital bed (which he absolutely should not have in here), arm flung haphazardly off the side such that his fingers were sure to have lost feeling by his waking. His legs have been bent awkwardly to keep from dangling off the mattress as well. It is a small mercy that, save for the snobbish coat he insisted on wearing all through the hospital, the man is fully-clothed; though it is rather distasteful that the ridiculous bloke had not even removed his shoes.
Once Waverley has had enough of gawking at the slumbering buffoon, he marches over to the balcony door and throws it open, not before wheeling away the nonsensical divider maintaining Reid’s privacy from his own desk. Some light, he hopes, will be likely to wake the good doctor up. He is pale enough to never have seen it, perhaps it will shock some sense into him.
The London smog and freshly-rising sun leak pitifully into the dull room. Alongside them, the bite of a winter morning. Only the latter can penetrate further than a meager meter or so. Undeterred, Waverley nearly stomps over to the sleeping doctor and gives him a right shake. It was not as gentle as he had intended, but it seems no matter—Reid is out like a light.
The inadvertent voyeur scrubs a hand over his face and, after just a fleeting moment, leaves the other man to lie like a corpse on his pathetic bed. There are more important things to be done than rousing incompetent show-offs. The soreness and cold the man will undoubtedly feel come waking will be punishment enough for the time being; a formal report can be filed upon Dr. Swansea’s return.
The night after the hospital's raid is exceptionally bland. The blood has been scrubbed from the walls and the gossip has grown stale. Naturally, Dr. Reid left the moment after seeing his last patient, not caring to help his colleagues or prepare for new admits.
Waverley let him go that night, as he does the next, and again after that. He can do nothing properly in his current position, so he would do nothing at all.
Before long, Reid vanishes altogether.
Time passes, and by some miracle the Spanish Flu seems to quiet. For the first time in what feels like aeons, more patients are held inside hospital walls than in tents. The hard work of fine men like Mr. Fiddick helps immensely, as do the surprising efforts of the hospital's nurses. Tippets’ unofficial promotion of nurse Branagan (his only meaningful action as working administrator) leads to some surprising recoveries. Loathe as he is to allow a woman to play doctor, he would much rather have a capable nurse by his side than a showman. The nurse, at least, cares for her patients before herself.
When Dr. Tippets announces his imminent ‘break’ from practising medicine (a doctor, of course, is far too stubborn to simply retire), there is little argument against Waverley taking his place at the helm. He has practically been keeping the ship afloat himself already. He accepts the role with grace—he has no intention to boast, simply to do what was necessary. That begins with finally making proper use of the first floor offices.
His predecessor, in his tenure, had held onto a depressing hope that their missing colleagues would return one day. Neither had been reported deceased in the papers despite their statuses, though a doctor should know how little that means amidst an epidemic in the shadow of a war.
Waverley brushes his hand over the fresh new plaque beside the administrator's office. The brass lettering—”Dr. Ackroyd”—shines bright with hope. In a way, however, it is an admission of defeat. He has already grieved, but this is a physical reminder of the loss of Dr. Swansea. The death of a respected colleague.
A tragedy he has not faced so personally since the war.
Despite their differences of opinion, Waverley had respected Swansea. He had done well by the Pembroke for many years, and was a wizard in the operating room before stepping back to manage. He did not begrudge him that choice either; Edgar's eccentricities had meant he was better suited for the unseen work anyway. Unseen, but not unimportant.
With slow, heavy steps, Waverley plods towards his final task for the night: cleaning up after the late Dr. Swansea's most vexxing mistake. The plaque sporting Dr. Reid's name had been ripped from the wall, but still, nobody on the staff dared enter the abandoned office. Waverley assumes their trepidation is much akin to his own hesitations regarding the administrative office.
He, however, is more than happy to reclaim this room. Giving just one doctor so much space (private space, locked away and left alone) was beyond ridiculous. The hospital needed (needs) the extra workbench and cot. God knows what justification besides fascination there was for giving the Pembroke's youngest, most absent physician the lion's share.
It is no matter.
The air inside the office is musty and stale, but the surfaces themselves are mostly clean besides discarded papers and thick layers of dust. Vials of rotten blood line the central shelves, ugly reminders of Reid's penchant for experimentation. A nurse can handle the mess; right now Waverley only cares to remove any personal belongings and reclaim hospital resources. That blasted cot will go first.
It does not take long to throw the little he finds into some paper-board boxes. It is somewhat more difficult to find the little spare key to the hospital trunk which lays in the corner of the room. The hospital’s master keyring is supposed to open all offices, cupboards, and trunks in the main building and the morgue—a measure taken for safety against any dangers or malpractice alike. It is unclear which category Dr. Reid’s locked-away belongings fall into.
The trunk does not open with the standard trunk key, but with a small spare stashed deep in the administrator’s desk. When the lid finally lifts, any joy at success is quickly replaced with the echoing thump as it falls back down.
When the rattling shock finally releases its hold on his mind, Waverley gently opens the trunk once more. Its contents are unchanged, but this time he is prepared.
Weaponry.
He had served just as Dr. Reid had, and had assumed the man was as armed as any veteran: a service revolver stashed away somewhere, perhaps a pocket knife a bit too large to pass for a tool of convenience. This? This is nothing of the sort.
Two shotguns, clearly modified, aside a gleaming machete and an assortment of heavy bludgeons and cudgels. These lie gently among a plethora of ammunition and small knives. The most concerning item by far—a sharpened wooden stake—sits atop it all with its bloodstained tip pointed towards him like a threat.
Waverley slowly, carefully lowers the lid once again, careful not to jostle the more delicate contents. Good Lord, what has he stumbled into?
The next few nights are remarkably plain. The combined work of nurses and Mr. Fiddick cleans up the spare room swimmingly, and nobody but the administrator gives a second thought to the large chest and assorted boxes in the far corner of his office.
Peace in these days never lasts long. That is how Waverley rationalizes his heart leaping into his throat at every knock on his door, the lump settled in his throat from a near overwhelming sense of unfinished business.
When said unfinished business finally rears its ugly head, Waverley’s only warning is a faint rustling from the office down the hall. He gives a start at the firm knock seconds later, but steels himself quickly. Best to get this done with.
“Come in.”
Waverly sits ramrod straight as the tree of a man enters, unwavering even as the approaching glare strips away the bulk of his confidence.
“Dr. Reid, so you are still alive. To what do we owe this visit?”
“I believe you know the answer to that question, Dr. Ackroyd. Is the Pembroke still, by chance, in possession of my belongings?”
Straight to business, if a bit rude. This should be expeditious.
“You are lucky, doctor, that the rest of your old colleagues have more faith in you than I. It was not my choice to hold on to these.” The wave he gives toward the stack of boxes is halfhearted. If Dr. Reid could not be bothered to return to his position at the Pembroke, Waverley will show he was unbothered in turn.
Reid raises an incredulous eyebrow. “You packed away my office?”
“You abandoned your position.”
“There was an… emergency. I have returned now, and was hoping to continue treating the people of London.”
“Then you will have to do so elsewhere. There will be no further discussion on the matter.” Short and sweet. Give a man like Reid an inch, and he will take a mile.
Thankfully, the other seems to understand the finality of this decision. His deep sigh is somewhat stifled, his look torn between frustration and resignation before ultimately settling on the latter. “May I, then, collect my possessions?”
The careless motion over his shoulder is near-automatic. Although, as Reid sweeps past the desk, he is struck by doubt. Without thinking, he snatches his colleague’s nearest wrist. The doctor’s pale skin is as cold as the stare he raises to the administrator’s eyes.
“I saw the contents of your trunk, Doctor.” He chokes down the phlegm gathering in his throat as the icy wrist is wrenched from his grasp. Without a word, Reid makes his way to the room’s corner and begins casually rifling through the trunk of note.
“I have half a mind to report you.” Reid, ever the showman, rolls back onto his heels before raising to his full, towering height. Waverley refuses to rise to the provocation, but keeps his eyes trained on the man. The dangerous man.
“Why haven’t you?”
“..Excuse me?”
The doctor cocks his head carefully. “What has stopped you from reporting me to the authorities while I was away? You have had ample time to do so. Even if you were convinced I were dead, certainly you would want such armaments safely out of the hospital?
“Doctor Reid, if you are accusing me of something—”
“Of course not, my apologies. I am simply curious”
And it is a good question, is it not? No matter how many times Waverley opens his mouth to answer, he cannot find any reason. He is not one to be lost for words like this; it makes his gut twist into knots. After an unsettlingly long moment, another cool touch sends a shudder through his very core.
“Thank you for your discretion, Doctor. Though, now I must formally ask you to continue in this fashion. Do not report me or my belongings, and I will leave you to your work.”
There is no explanation, no closure, but Waverley gives a curt nod regardless. Whatever needs to happen to put recent tragedies behind him.