I don't need Xanax. I'm perfectly calm given the situation at hand. [ His voice came out as a vitriol-filled snarl in the nurse's direction. ] Just bring the morphine. Quickly.
[ Wesker was in pain, enough to request a substance that could, for some, alter consciousness in the presence of others. That bad. William had never been shot—had never even broken a bone, for that matter—but he could imagine enough to know that whatever his closest friend was feeling was probably beyond his imagining. And being felt by Albert, who had already come very close to death, judging by the location of the twin gunshot wounds and the bag of blood hanging from the IV hook. The thought made him vaguely nauseous.
He shoved his faintly trembling hands into the pockets of his lab coat, clenching ethidium bromide stained fingertips into tight fists at his sides to attempt to still them as he returned his gaze to her patient. The door closed behind him. Of course he'd seen Wesker sick before, as long as they'd known each other, but he'd never looked like this. Like shit, quite simply: his hair had come free of the usual gel or whatever it was he used, there was dust on one cheek (where his head had hit the ground, maybe), his skin was ghostly pale and his thin lips weren't much better. He'd lost a lot of blood. A lot of blood, enough to probably have been in hypovolemic shock by the time the ambulance arrived. ]
I told you. I told you to stay in the lab. I said this would happen.
[ There was none of the usual smug vindication he was used to feeling when right—he didn't want to have been right about a nightmare scenario. ]
no subject
[ Wesker was in pain, enough to request a substance that could, for some, alter consciousness in the presence of others. That bad. William had never been shot—had never even broken a bone, for that matter—but he could imagine enough to know that whatever his closest friend was feeling was probably beyond his imagining. And being felt by Albert, who had already come very close to death, judging by the location of the twin gunshot wounds and the bag of blood hanging from the IV hook. The thought made him vaguely nauseous.
He shoved his faintly trembling hands into the pockets of his lab coat, clenching ethidium bromide stained fingertips into tight fists at his sides to attempt to still them as he returned his gaze to her patient. The door closed behind him. Of course he'd seen Wesker sick before, as long as they'd known each other, but he'd never looked like this. Like shit, quite simply: his hair had come free of the usual gel or whatever it was he used, there was dust on one cheek (where his head had hit the ground, maybe), his skin was ghostly pale and his thin lips weren't much better. He'd lost a lot of blood. A lot of blood, enough to probably have been in hypovolemic shock by the time the ambulance arrived. ]
I told you. I told you to stay in the lab. I said this would happen.
[ There was none of the usual smug vindication he was used to feeling when right—he didn't want to have been right about a nightmare scenario. ]