arklaycounty | but who's gonna push my wheelchair around when i get sick?

but who's gonna push my wheelchair around when i get sick?

[ Two officers shot in local standoff following raid on drug compound. That had been the headline, nonspecific. And yet—"someone just walked over my grave" was how superstitious idiots would probably phrase the feeling of cold dread that had washed over William as he watched the words scroll across the bottom of the screen, as the footage cut to a reporter standing in front of police tape and a mess of red and blue light. Ambulances, police cars. He knew. He didn't know how, but he knew.

His hands ached with the tension of his grip on the Volvo's hard steering wheel as he made the drive to the place—taken to Robert Fleitcher Memorial Hospital, the news had said, God only knew how long ago. There was a short argument with the bitch at the front desk before the protected information he already knew was finally disclosed.

Albert had been shot. In the side and the thigh, and the uneducated receptionist wasn't able to give him the crucial specifics that might give him an idea as to whether or not he would be attending a funeral or a hospital visit. Still in surgery. Another two hours, added to the four he'd already been on the table long before William knew.

His name was listed as next of kin, as he expected. Not like there was anyone else. It took him another hour after the conclusion of the operation to come into consciousness, an hour in which all William could do was stare at the IV line and the bloody drain tubing and the readings on the screen behind him while trying to assemble his mind into something coherent.

At last Albert opened his eyes, lifted his head. All at once the fear gave way to fury—how dare he? William had told him this was a horrid idea. ]

You fucking idiot.

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[ He almost told William that he didn't have to stay, but thought better of it. While he was stable now, he'd been on the brink of death just a few hours ago, and something could still go wrong.

Not that he expected anything to, but it was a possibility that William had probably thought of. Even suggesting that he leave seemed insulting when Albert thought of it that way. ]

At least get something to eat first.

[ Because once he had some work to focus on, William could get absorbed for hours. He likely hadn't eaten since he heard about Albert's injury. A meal would do him good. ]

I got coffee earlier.

[ Said as though he deserved credit for it—it was something that wasn't water, at least. He couldn't remember when he last ate or when he'd last felt hungry; as of now, food didn't appeal and his body seemed to have slipped into temporary hibernation, all of its needs periodically shelved. He wasn't a stranger to the feeling in the slightest, but William questioned if he'd ever been so thoroughly under its grip as he was now. ]

I'll eat if I get hungry.

[ Coffee didn't count, but they were both dedicated coffee drinkers. It meant that he wasn't neglecting himself entirely, and that would have to be good enough.

Albert winced as he shifted positions, his wounds protesting the movement. It irritated him to be stuck in bed like this. He doubted he was supposed to be getting up, but he wanted to, even if it was only for a little while. ]

I don't suppose anyone mentioned when I might be able to go back to work.

You can't be serious.

[ William's back tensed as he watched his friend attempt to get comfortable, wincing all while asking how long it would be until he could go get shot a third time. The desire to be busy wasn't objectionable to him in the slightest; to the contrary, it would have been his response—but to want to return to this work before his blood volume had even fully returned to what it was supposed to be was insanity even for Wesker.

There couldn't be a single goal worth that, no matter how overarching and well-planned. ]

You were just shot in a position you never should have taken. That raid had nothing to do with Umbrella or your goals. Nothing! And if you return to work the same thing will happen again before your wounds have even healed. You should be asking how long until you can return to working in a laboratory where you won't be shot.

[ The relief when he settled back down was plainly visible on his face, though he felt vaguely nauseous from the sudden spike in pain. If he was lucky, that would go away on its own. ]

S.T.A.R.S. operations don't have to have anything to do with Umbrella, and I can't just opt out when they don't.

[ He would have liked to reassure William that this wouldn't happen again, but considering he had never expected it to happen at all, he thought that would ring hollow. ]

[ William let out a short, wavering, aggravated breath without breaking eye contact. ]

I told you that. I said that to you when you left. [ He lowered his voice, gesturing adamantly with one hand. ] There are better ways to accomplish the same thing without risking your life for some local domestic disturbance charge!

[ He knew that wasn't what this was, at all. If anything, it'd probably get national coverage within the next 24 hours, hungry as the public currently was for any kind of armed standoff.

Beat. ]

I think you like being a cop.

[ Independent of his larger goals. A serious accusation, even simply by virtue of never having been disclosed to him, but every emotion William felt at the moment was serious. Whether or not he even completely meant it he wasn't sure, but it was a way to transform anger and fear into something verbal, regardless. ]

[ All of that was so far off the mark that Wesker could hardly believe William said it. Domestic disturbance? Something like that didn't even ping the radar for S.T.A.R.S.. The amount of planning, effort and skill that went into an operation like this was apparently very underappreciated here. ]

I'm not even going to dignify that with a response.

[ William should have known better than to minimize his efforts or accuse him of enjoying a job that demanded some semblance of a moral compass. There were aspects that he liked, but the job overall was kind of a pain in the ass. ]

You don't have to.

[ William glared—wordless, staring holes into the figure in the hospital bed like it would do something. He'd been this angry with Albert before, but never had it been paired with such a feeling of complete helplessness. That was what made this so hard to grapple with, that and the fact that he'd been in a laboratory on the other side of the city, completely unaware, as the one person he'd ever called a friend hinged on the cusp of death. Wesker could have died without his even knowing. ]

This entire situation never should have happened.

[ You should have just stayed. ]

No, it shouldn't have, but not for the reason you continue to insist on.

[ It shouldn't have happened because he and his team were supposed to be better than this. Wesker still didn't know how it had happened, and that frustrated him. What had gone wrong? Had someone screwed up, and if so, why? He wasn't half as eager to get back to his usual duties as he was to find answers.

His heart rate and blood pressure were gradually increasing, the numbers on the monitors rising the more he thought about it. ]

[ 'The reason you continue to insist on', worded like he was irrational for wanting the most important person in his life to avoid people with guns. William narrowly managed to suppress the urge to yell—as frustrated as he was, as close to his limit as this entire day had pushed him, he was still able to at least somewhat moderate his volume to suit the situation at hand.

His eyes fell to the monitors behind the plastic headboard. 98 beats per minute. Higher than it had been earlier. His blood pressure was higher, too, but its rate of increase seemed to have jumped beyond the normal degree of growth that came with the treatment of hypovolemia.

Wesker was stressed, his sympathetic nervous system engaging. Arguing probably wasn't helping, and despite his own deep distress, William was at least able to recognize the need to subdue some of the cacophony storming within him. ]

Operations go wrong. It's not a science.

[ William wiped a hand over his face. ]

Human beings don't behave predictably.

[ At least the one who had done this shot his brains out once he realized there was no salvaging the situation, or so the news had said just as he was pulling on a jacket over his lab coat. It was the least he deserved. ]

Humans are predictable.

[ But William didn't spend as much time interacting with people as he did. Wesker could read a person like a book and come up with all the likely possibilities of how they might behave.

Yet something had gone wrong this time. Wesker hadn't been completely in control of the situation, and he didn't like to acknowledge that he could ever not be in control.

His vitals remained higher than they should have been, but the numbers didn't continue to climb, at least. ]

No, Albert, they're not. You can guess what someone will do one hundred, one thousand times, but you can't read their mind.

[ A short, frustrated huff. William knew better than anyone his friend's incredible capacity for perception, how easily and methodically he assessed others and their motives—but that was rarely from a distance. He'd been shot by a crazed stranger, not anyone he'd had time to study. Someone whose entire readable motive was a lack of desire to be arrested and sent to prison. That was it, and it was maddening to think that Albert potentially didn't see it that way.

No rhyme, no reason. His reflexes had been faster than Wesker's, or Albert had been caught off-guard. That tiny difference in inborn ability was all it would have taken to kill him—what if the still unidentified shooter hadn't decided to rent a place two miles from a hospital? What if the bullet in his side had hit the renal artery instead of the bottom of a rib? ]

[ No, that was true. He couldn't read minds, nor did he think he would want to even if it was an option. The mind of anyone else would be a strange and unpleasant place to find himself in.

But he was convinced he should have been able to do something to prevent this. The guy had taken him by surprise, emerging from a room that had already been swept. Wesker was on high alert, but got caught off guard anyway. Surely he had missed something—some small sign of danger that he had just overlooked.

He shifted again, trying to sit up and gritting his teeth against the pain. He was exhausted and still groggy from the morphine, but sleep felt far out of his reach for the time being. ]

[ Wesker lapsed into silence, the muscle of his jaw flexing as he clenched his teeth and attempted to sit up. It couldn't have been comfortable, given the location of the bandaging at the bottom of his ribcage; William was sure some postural muscle or another had been disrupted. ]

Hold on, don't—hurt yourself.

[ He frowned and got up from his chair, quickly learning that one foot had fallen asleep without his being aware of it. Foot prickling and tingling with static, he made his way to the head of the taupe plastic bedframe, frowning down at him. ]

Grab my arm or the bedrail. Something. [ It looked pretty solid, even if it was made of the same material as the rest of the bed. A departure from the cold metal he remembered fencing his thirteen-year-old self out of his mother's hospital bed. ]

[ He chose the bed rail, but only because it was more convenient. Wesker hadn't realized how much he took the simple ability to sit up for granted until this moment. It shouldn't have been so difficult, but he had to be careful how much pressure was exerted on certain muscles.

Once he was upright, he exhaled a shaky sigh of relief. It wasn't much, but being upright under his own power made him feel a little better, at least. ]

I may need an antiemetic.

[ He hated to admit it, but admitting it was better than the alternative. ]

That's probably the morphine. Here—hold this.

[ William handed over the plastic emesis basin on the side table, the least appealing shade of pink he'd ever seen. Like the child of taupe and a sort of dusty rose color. Maybe it was intended to push people from nausea and into vomiting proper. ]

I'll get a nurse. Just stay upright, whatever you do. Understand?

[ While he hoped he wouldn't have to use it, Albert took the emesis basin just in case. He closed his eyes and swallowed thickly, trying to urge his stomach to settle. ]

Yes.

[ Lying back down could potentially help, but it had taken so much effort to get up, and he didn't want that effort going to waste. Hopefully the nurse would be prompt. The strain of vomiting was bound to be hard on his sore throat and injured side. ]

[ William wasted no time in hunting down a nurse—again. He didn't believe for a minute that the call button could be trusted; the promptness of response to the first call, when he'd just arrived, had undoubtedly been a fluke.

It took longer to get someone this time, but he did. They chose metroclopramide IV, according to the bottle the nurse drew from—a woman with a huge mass of frizzy red hair down to her shoulderblades this time, not the guy that they'd seen earlier, which is who William would have preferred administer it. He'd have to look that up in the Physician's Desk Reference when he got back to the lab, whenever that might be. Annette was definitely competent enough to keep things running for the next few days, or however long this took.

William stayed silent while the nurse was in the room, even as she reminded them of the presence of the call button, worded in such a way as to imply she actually cared about his own efforts in coming to get someone as opposed to having to do her job. He glanced down at Wesker when the door closed. It had been a long time since his friend had looked so pitifully human. ]

Is it having any effect?

[ He gagged a few times while William was gone, almost sure he was going to lose the war his stomach was raging on him, but each time he managed to stop himself from being sick. Sweat beaded on his face and neck. He felt hot but knew that it wasn't hot in the room.

Seeing the nurse come in was an immense relief. He didn't hear everything she said, as he gagged again while she pushed the medication into his IV line, but what she had to say didn't matter as much as making this stop. Nothing was coming of it.

Strands of loose hair hung around his face, and his voice seemed very weak when he replied. ]

It'll take a minute.

[ It occurred to him that there was probably nothing in his stomach to bring up anyway, but that didn't make the situation any better. ]

[ Pity—an exceedingly rare emotion for William Birkin, but still one he was able to feel. He felt it now, watching his closest friend try not to vomit, or maybe sympathy was a better descriptor; Albert had never been pitiful in William Birkin's eyes, nor could he ever be. Whatever the feeling, it was unpleasant, twisting deep in his gut and joining the generalized chaos of every other emotion this whole nightmarish situation had managed to elicit.

William reached out absently, squeezed his shoulder with a bare hand as he stood beside the bedrail. Neither of them had ever been particularly tactile with other people, but there were exceptions in Birkin's world; this was one of them. Hopefully the touch was grounding, or at least would give him something to focus on other than trying not to vomit.

On some level, it soothed his own nerves at least a modicum, too; the bones and muscles of Wesker's shoulder were solid and immovable under his hand, still warm with life. He hadn't gone anywhere, and hopefully wouldn't be in the near future. ]

Breathe deeply. Through your nose, not your mouth.

[ William's hand on his shoulder was helpful. It gave him something to focus on other than the persistent churning of his stomach and the feeling of needing to heave. While touch wasn't always something Wesker appreciated, it was welcome now.

When he thought it was safe, he took a deep breath through his nose and exhaled slowly. Repeating that cycle a few times helped, and soon enough the urge to be sick passed. It seemed that the cool air of the room was able to reach his skin again. He calmed, his relief apparent in his expression and the way his muscles began to relax.

Wesker reached up to touch William's hand as a sign of thanks, though he didn't say so. ]

I think I'm all right.

[ A fleeting, nonverbal touch was offered; naturally, William understood the meaning of the fingers briefly grazing his own. There wasn't a need for Wesker to verbally thank him, or to thank him at all, but the brief moment of contact did help his own stress, somewhat. ]

Good.

[ There was a pause as William lapsed into thought. ]

I recall feeling similarly after my fourth molars were removed. I hadn't remembered to eat and I took Percocet as prescribed. That would have been back in... '82, I believe.

[ He was still angry with Albert, of course—that wouldn't go away any time soon, but the rage had fallen to the wayside, for the time being. There would be plenty of time for them to discuss this when he wasn't about to vomit or in severe pain. William was also a bit preoccupied with feeling shaken and disturbed to also harbor fury at the moment, and some form of distraction, talking like this, would probably be of benefit to both of them. ]

[ Wesker huffed in amusement, his lips turning up in a half smile. It had been a long time since he'd thought about having his own fourth molars removed, and it was good for him to think about something other than the events of the day.

He knew that William was still angry, but he would rather they resume their argument some other time. ]

Do you ever remember to eat?

[ Noncommittal, but honest: ]

Sometimes.

[ Because he knew he was in the presence of someone who wouldn't chastise him for it; Wesker had had plenty of time to get used to the irregular schedule William kept where eating, drinking, and sleeping were concerned, and he knew better than to prod him too hard over it. He always did eat and sleep eventually, as it stood. ]

We were deep in the research on T. I had bigger concerns.

[ And those concerns had paved the way to the experience of throwing up half a percocet in the lab sink. At least it had only been them and one or two others. ]

[ Poor eating and sleeping habits were something Wesker was very familiar with, as his own weren't much better. He subsisted mostly on coffee, with the exception of a high protein diet when he was building muscle mass. ]

It could've been worse. Imagine being sick at one of Umbrella's black tie social functions.

[ Everyone of significance at the company attended those, including Spencer himself. Not to mention leading minds from other parts of the industry. ]

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cw suicide mention

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