Chapter Text
Cecil was not his best self at the moment.
He was foggy, nauseated, disoriented; his eyes wanted to cross. And his teeth--there was definitely something wrong with his teeth. They fit right, or as properly as his teeth ever had. His jaw clicked the way it always did, and there was the overbite, but they felt--wrong.
His tongue was a little numb. He blinked and tried to focus his eyes.
"Ah! There you are."
"I dislike you already." Cecil hadn't intended to say that out loud. And he usually could handle his tongue, keep it under control. He was a journalist for fuck's sake. Conservative use of language was the first and most important skill.
"Oh, that's okay," the voice said. Cecil squinted over the side of the bed. (This was definitely not his bed; for one thing, Carlos wasn't in it.)
(There's also a white coated stranger beside it, Cecil, that should be a pretty decent clue.)
"We don't have to be friends," the voice went on, and then he laughed and Cecil closed his eyes again because no, he was rejecting this reality. "I'm here to help, though. I'm Dr. Carlsberg--"
Dr--??
Cecil sat up, awkwardly, tried to force his eyes to focus. "No you're not," he said, somewhere between confused and downright insulted.
"Got the ID right here," he said cheerfully. He pointed to a lanyard, and the name was stitched into his coat too. Dr. S. Carlsberg.
"No," Cecil said. It was easier to focus if he closed one eye, squinted out the corner of the other, although now he wasn't sure he wanted to see anyway. "No. No thank you."
The routine was familiar, even if it had been a few years. Blue scrubs that were several sizes too large, no shoelaces, no pencils. Those socks with the little grippy things on the bottom. A soap product that was supposed to be both shampoo and body wash and was, in fact, neither.
Some things were new. Like mouth checks.
"I've never had a problem with medication," he'd insisted. "Trust me, you only need to go rogue once."
But they didn't believe him. In general they were trying to poke holes in his story--his memories, it wasn't some story he'd cooked up to cover his behavior or something. That stupid doctor consistently tried to trick him: "And when was the last time you used cocaine?" and the answer was never, he had never even tried-- and the doctor still gave him that little aww come on look, like Cecil was supposed to trust him, would say oh okay, you've caught me.
Yes, he was on medication. Yes, he took it faithfully twice a day, got the blood tests as ordered, levels good, everything fine.
He'd been fine for ten years, damnit, you only need one manic catastrophe and then five years trying to repair your relationship with your sister before--
"For the last fucking time, look, my hands aren't shaking, and even if they were I would be in pretty bad fucking shape after two days if I drank that much, I don't, okay, I have already fucking told you--"
Carlsberg shrugged (Cecil refused to call him Doctor and they couldn't make him), and looked back down at his notes. "Okey-dokey," he said. "New questions. I think we're ready to tackle this stuff."
"If you ask me about my childhood, I'm signing myself out."
"Hmm, no, don't think you will!" That wasn't something someone should be able to say cheerfully.
"Ohh, I don't think you'll stop me!" Cecil said, mocking his tone.
"Well, ya see. I was hoping you'd remember by now, but. We can hold you for fourteen days."
"That sounds like bullshit." Cecil was smiling, but it wasn't a happy smile, it was tight and vicious. "See, you think I don't know my rights, but if you listened when I talked to you you'd know that this isn't my first--"
"Well, see. You're an involuntary admit. Came in in an ambulance, screaming your head off about some big company out to get you, you had to be sedated, so long story short we can hold you for two weeks no matter what you say."
"That's not--that's not good news, do you have to be so damn cheerful about it--"
"Aww, come on, brother, it's not so bad!" And the doctor clapped him cheerfully on the shoulder, and that was unusual because--
"You're not--supposed to touch me." Right? Wasn't that--?
The rules were fuzzy. And who would believe him, anyway? It was a pleasant friendly gesture directed at someone who had just been brought in on a stretcher screaming bloody murder.
It had been a long time since he'd had to care about stuff like that.
"Whoops, sorry," Carlsberg said cheerfully. "Anyway. What's the last thing you remember before we got you here?"
"I don't know--"
"Try. Think about it."
"I was--getting home from work? Probably? I was coming home. Carlos was probably cooking--he usually does, I'm not really any good at it, and uh. I don't know."
"Remember what you were feeling?"
Cecil blinked at him. "No. I do not. Probably feeling, like. Normal?"
"Normal is not a feeling, Cecil."
"Yes it is. It's what it feels like when you're not feeling anything too strongly, and it's nice, it's stable, it's moderate responses to things like normal people have, don't tell me how I feel--"
"If you knew how you felt you wouldn't be here, would you?"
"I think I'm done answering questions, thank you."
"That's your choice, of course, but--well. The less you cooperate, the longer you're here."
"Hey." A prod. "Hey."
It was dark, still, god only knew what time it was. Cecil rolled over, patted the bed for Carlos--
and hit the wall. Of course. Carlos was home alone in their great big bed. And Cecil was here being crazy.
"Wake up," the voice hissed. "No, don't sit up, just--give me your arm."
The puff-puff-puff and squeeze on his upper arm and--
"If you just wrecked it I'm getting you up at 4 tomorrow," she said.
Maureen. He didn't know how he knew her name, there were an awful lot of nurses and residents and all kinds of people in scrubs floating around here.
"Gotta make my job difficult," she said under her breath. "Every freakin' day."
He wanted to point out that he'd only been here for three days, couldn't really remember much of the first one, although if that stupid doctor was right they probably weren't able to get a resting BP out of him at that point.
But then she was gone, and he was asleep again.
"What is this again?"
"Your meds." The nurse looked tired, a little overwhelmed, almost apologetic.
"Yeah but, what is it? What's the dose?" Cecil looked at the two innocent little white tablets in his cup. It didn't look like the his usual medication. The--the--
What was it called again?
Maybe it was what he usually took. He tried to remember--wake up, coffee, toast, pill--
just one. Twice a day. Regular as clockwork.
So maybe they'd just upped the dose?
"I'm--I'm sorry," she said. "I'll see what I can do. Ask around."
She turned toward the empty bed, noticed it was empty, shook her head fast, and pushed her little cart out of the room.
She hadn't watched him take pills this time.
He thought of hiding them for a second, or flushing them, presenting them to the doctor in a triumphant a-ha! that might finally get some answers out of him.
He dumped them into his hand, turned them over looking for markings.
Look how paranoid you are, he thought. That's why you're here.
He took the pills.
"I can't shake the feeling that something is wrong here."
"You don't have to whisper, sweetie, it's okay--we're alone in here. No one is listening." Carlos smiled. "Do you--do think someone is listening? Or--"
"No I don't think--I'm fine, Carlos. I'm stable now. Jesus."
"Oh, of course, I know." There was a bit more nervous tension in his smile. "You gave me a little bit of a scare, there, sweetheart. But I'm glad you're safe. I'm glad you're doing better, and--"
"Yeah, okay, I'm sorry, I didn't mean for anything to happen, and I'm sorry for--for whatever I--what did I do, anyway?”
"What did you--uh. You went off your meds, and things got kind of messy there, and you thought that I, uh, was poisoning you? Or something, and--"
"You know what, never mind, I don't want to know." His stomach twisted over. How could he distrust Carlos, of all people, how could he--
He didn't remember being suspicious of Carlos. Something like that would be a slow build, bits of doubt here and there, intrusive concerns that seemed to hold more weight than the usual irrational flashes.
Kind of like how he felt about this place.
"It doesn't matter," Carlos said. "You're okay now, and you're safe, and you didn't do anything dangerous. And you'll be home soon, and we'll be together again. I give it three more days, maybe four, just to make sure your blood work is okay."
Three days. Carlos would know, wouldn't he? He was a scientist. 'Course he wasn't a doctor, but science was science, right?
Cecil looked around the blue walls of his room, at the empty bed on the other side of the--
"Why are we in here?" he said. "You can't get visitors in your room, not in these kind of wards."
"What?"
"How did we get in here?"
"Guess we snuck past the nurse's station?" Carlos shrugged and grinned. "It's okay, I'll get in trouble for this, not you. Blame it all on me, Ceec."
"How are we all today?"
The groups were pointless. They were probably just meant to keep people out of trouble, get them out of their rooms. Today we're going to talk about our feelings, today we're going to pick a word and draw a picture and the rest of the group has to guess what it was. Sam ruled the craft group with an iron fist, checked your pocket when you left for stolen yarn or colored pencils. Some forgettable old woman kept disrupting the resident in charge of the goal-setting group, but no one could really hear her; Cecil often found himself telling everyone what she'd said.
Cecil went to them anyway, 'cause you had to, had to show you were trying or something. He kept getting in trouble for swearing.
"First we're going to go around the room, and I tell everyone what we're feeling right now."
Cecil didn't hear the responses. He was counting the people in the room--but the number didn't seem to be consistent. They were in a rough circle, kind of, at a table that rocked when you leaned on it.
"--are you alright? Cecil?"
"What? Yeah. Sorry." He squinted at the doctor or resident or whoever he was. Probably not the short one.
"How do you feel today?" This doctor-person had that air about him, like he was always struggling not to refer to the group as "girls and boys". Maybe he’d missed his calling, secretly yearned to be a kindergarten teacher but couldn't bear to waste eight years of medical school.
He shrugged. "Normal?"
"Hmm. Is that a feeling?"
"Oh for fuck's sake--"
"Language, please." Like he was seconds from telling Cecil to go sit in the corner until he was ready to say he was sorry.
The group went on around him. People talked about their feelings, responded to each other's feelings, but if it had a destination they didn't seem to reach it. Cecil looked around the room discreetly and counted again, and again. Someone started to cry; without thinking he leaned his chair back and pulled a section of coarse brown paper towel off a roll and handed it to them. If you had asked him later he couldn't have told you who it was.
"Missed breakfast this morning, didn't you?" Carlsberg said cheerfully. He was the kind of person who--yep there it was, pulled a chair around and sat on it backwards, leaning his crossed arms over the back like they were friends who worked together or something. "Where were you, buddy?"
Cecil ignored the term of endearment. He crossed his arms and leaned as far away from him as the chair would allow. "If I have to eat one more hard boiled egg I'm going to lay one." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Look, I've been good. I've taken all my meds, and I go to the groups and talk to people and yesterday I played fu--I played table tennis. When do I get out of here?"
"Regular meals are important for--"
"Christ, really? That's enough to keep me here?"
"Not on its own. But we are concerned about you. You're a little paranoid, don't you think? We see you, you know." His voice seemed to change, and all the dopey goodwill dropped out of his smile; it became something small and dark. "We see you counting patients, how you wonder if they're really there. How long have you been skipping your meds?"
"What--I'm not--they watch me, they check, like one time someone didn't and I took them anyway. You're certainly drawing enough blood! Can't you tell?"
"Huh?" Carlsberg blinked and he looked like his old dopey self again, something Cecil didn't think he'd ever be relieved to see. "I know, Cecil, I trust you. Say," he added, "How long have you been worried about that? That I don't believe you're cooperating?" He sounded like he'd just thought of it, like it was unrelated to the previous conversation.
He had to keep the door open, and Maureen stood behind him the whole time, looking like she wanted to be anywhere else but there. To be fair, Maureen always seemed to look like she'd rather be somewhere else. She leaned against the open door and crossed her arms and said, "Go for it, man."
It felt like ages since he'd shaved. But he'd proved himself responsible enough for it, as long as he had an appropriate adult to make sure he was safe with the sharp thing.
Levels of care, he reminded himself. He did not currently need someone to watch him shave. But they couldn't know that. He might just be doing a very good imitation of someone who could be trusted with a razor; some other patients clearly were not ready to be alone with sharp objects, and it was just safer to assume everyone was on the same wavelength. Everyone was watched while they took their meds. Every one who shaved their face had direct supervision. Every half hour, every night, the nurses looked into every single room, and no one could close their door at night without someone peeking in and everyone got the same treatment, even if it was more than you needed.
Cecil turned to the mirror, steeling himself for the worst; he was exhausted, because he never slept well without Carlos, not now he'd gotten used to him there, and he hadn't shaved in--how long had he even been here? And also--
He paused. Stared ahead.
His reflection was all wrong. He touched his chin--stubbly to the point of scraggly, probably, but in the mirror his face was smooth. And still, too. Static, like a photograph.
"Are you gonna shave or what?"
He couldn’t tell her or he’d never get out of here. He did a pretty good job at shaving, considering he couldn't see himself at all.
"Hi." He smiled, leaned on the smooth blue counter of the nurses' station. "So listen. Um." He looked at her name tag. "Ms. Cardinal. We talked the other day about my meds, and I wondering if you'd found anything out? Do you remember that?"
"Hi, Cecil," she said, and she almost sounded guilty. She looked towards the white board where the shift assignments were posted. At least Cecil assumed that's what it was, it had nurses and doctors listed on it. "Um. Sorry. I couldn't talk to--"
"Is there paperwork? A chart or something? You've got to have something back there."
"No, I'm really sorry, I--"
"Oh." Well, he'd hoped he could trust her. She'd seemed nice, and understanding, and she didn't make him open his mouth and move his tongue around to make sure he'd swallowed the damn things. Guess he was wrong about that, then.
Guess he couldn't trust anyone around here.
"Is there anyone who can tell me what I'm on? Where's that doctor? He's prescribing it, he has to know."
"Cecil, I can't--"
"How is it he always turns up when I don't want to talk, insists we talk about dangerous and uncomfortable things but when I have a question he's nowhere to be seen--"
"I need you to calm down, okay--"
"I'm perfectly calm," Cecil said. And it was true. His voice was steady, if tense, and he wasn't shouting. "I just think I have a right to know what I'm taking." He leaned on the counter again and whispered. "Please. Just think about it. Two white tablets in the morning, at night the two white pills and a little pink capsule. I'll still take them. I just want to know--"
"Is everything alright?"
"There you are." Cecil hadn't thought he'd ever be relieved to see Carlsberg. "I just want to know what meds I’m on right now."
"Calm down, please, Cecil, everything is okay--"
"I know it's okay. I'm fine, I'm calm. I just. You have to tell me what I'm taking. I'll still take it. No problem, I've been compliant since I got in. But I need to know what I'm taking. I can't remember what I was on before, but I want to know, please just--"
There was a smug looking woman behind him, and she offered him a little smile. "Now Cecil," she said, "we'd hate to have to go over your head on this. Just settle down."
"I'm perfectly settled, I just--don't touch me--"
"Well, it doesn't matter what you're on, does it?" Her smile looked oddly sharp. That was a metaphor of course, her teeth were perfectly normal, and sure her smile was a little wider now, wider than he would have assumed possible on that face, but he just meant that it looked a little vicious, a little aggressive. "It's not working. Your paranoia is getting worse, isn't it?"
"That's not what I'm here for. Look, I'm bipolar, I've been dealing with it for a while, this is just a little hiccup but I'm taking the medication, I'm doing well, Dr. Carlsberg said--" Cecil looked around. Where was he, now? He was just here. Wasn’t he?
"We're changing your diagnosis." She shook her head in a parody of sadness. "Clearly whoever thought you were bipolar was so, so wrong." She smiled again. "You're clinically insane. What a pity."
"That's not a diagnosis!" Cecil was shaking now, with anger and confusion and hurt, and this was all wrong, and it wasn't fair. "Insane isn't a clinical term, it's a legal one, and it's archaic anyway, don't you tell me--"
"Hysteria too, it looks like. This is hysteria, wouldn't you agree, Nurse Cardinal?"
"Hysteria? Okay, I get it, joke's on me, stop asking questions." Deescalate the situation. Smile and nod and get the hell out of here. He was a journalist, after all, two well-worded articles and he could break this place wide open, but only if he got out in one piece. "It's over now. I'll go back to my room, or--or to the common room, it's almost lunch time, isn't it? Yeah, I'll just go about my day--we can all just carry on now, right?"
"I don't think so." She sounded regretful, but she was still smiling. Cecil looked discreetly for her name tag. He was definitely gonna name and shame Dr Mallard when he was released. "You're causing a disruption, Cecil. Look at all all the distress. Look at poor Carlos."
"Carlos?" For a moment he did regret it, because it really was unfair for Carlos to see him like this, insane and hysterical in a hospital hallway--
What was Carlos doing there? "How--it isn't visiting hours--" was it? He looked for a clock. "But time's not real, is it?" he muttered, but still he looked. The clock at the nurses' station seemed to be running backwards. "This isn't real, is it? None of this is."
"Oh, you're worse than I thought. Now he thinks time isn't real, do you hear that? Tell him, Carlos. Correct him. You're a scientist, after all."
Carlos looked concerned and hopelessly confused. "I--I'm not a chronologist, I'm a scientist--"
"But this isn't real. This is--listen, I know my rights, and you wouldn't dare do this--let go of me--don't you dare, this is wrong--"
"Let's get him somewhere quiet before the shock therapy, hmm? What do you think?" She grinned her sharp grin and maybe it was her teeth, they seemed to be all canines. "We've got a nice little padded room just for you, Cecil, a nice safe place.”
"That's not how ECT works, okay, I know these things, I've researched these things, you can't just--let go of me--this isn't real, this isn't--this can't be real, let me go, let me go--!"