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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ '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. ]

I imagined being sick at one of Umbrella's social functions every time I attended one of Umbrella's social fuctions, Albert.

[ For the most part. He'd liked being seen by executives, pointed out to people as Umbrella's youngest hire, Dr. Birkin, the child prodigy. People talked about him, and their shared work; they were prominent figures. Chief Researchers of the Arklay facility.

What he hadn't liked was the need to engage with these people beyond just being praised. There were social niceties to waste one's time on when that same time could have been much better used in the laboratory, which was usually exactly the direction in which his thoughts began to wander at these things. Wesker, for all of his aloof nature, had always been better with people than William himself had been, partly because he felt like giving other people some degree of effort Birkin just didn't. He thought of things that William didn't, noticed things that were eclipsed by his relative tunnel vision. One of them had to. ]

Those cheese cubes were always too soft, too.

[ William returned to the chair at the foot of the bed, did his best to get relatively comfortable. He expected to be here for a while yet. ]

[ Such things were a waste of time, but when Wesker was required to attend, he had no problem charming everyone he spoke with. Making a good impression mattered, because it influenced the way people viewed Umbrella as a whole. In rare instances, he could even find some interesting conversation.

The thought of food made his stomach roll again, so he chose not to think about it or comment. That aside, he felt well enough to use the remote to raise the head of the bed and settle into a sitting position. ]

Such a shame. Your reputation impressed quite a few people. I'm sure many of them would have liked to speak with you for more than two minutes.

[ William shrugged. ]

They knew how busy I was.

[ Wesker adjusted the bed to sit fully upright now, which was almost enough to make Birkin outwardly sigh with relief. He was doing alright for someone who had been shot twice in the last twelve hours, all things considered, though William still kept a careful eye on him—having lost as much blood as he had, there was always the possibility that he might lose consciousness if his heart had to work much harder to keep his brain oxygenated, as it would with a more vertical position.

But the fact that he wasn't standing seemed to negate that enough for him to remain conscious, at least for the time being. Good. ]

...I'll call Annette in a little while. She can bring over some things I need to work on.

[ That way he wouldn't have to leave, which felt out of the question. It had been hours, but William still very much felt as though he'd read the headline a matter of minutes ago. ]

[ Sitting up probably wasn't the best idea. Wesker knew he still needed rest to recover, but the simple act of sitting made him feel like he had some degree of control. He wasn't stuck just lying there helplessly.

For now, he seemed all right, considering the circumstances. His vitals were going back to normal—or what passed as normal for the condition he was in, anyway.

He closed his eyes and took another deep, relaxing breath. ]

Will it be too distracting for you to work here?

[ A hospital couldn't provide the same quiet as the lab or even home. There was constant activity, even late at night, as nurses made their rounds tending to patients. ]

I can work under mildly distracting conditions without issue.

[ As much as the loud chattering that had been typical to the laboratories in the Spencer Mansion prior to their tenure as chief researchers had aggravated William, he was able to focus on, even become engrossed in, his work under conditions such as their current ones.

And even if he couldn't focus, attempting to was better than sitting here and doing absolutely nothing when Albert slept. William Birkin's was a mind that needed to stay occupied, and leaving to go back to the lab was out of the question. Furthermore, the only thoughts that occupied his mind whenever he was left to his own devices were ones he would rather not have: wondering if Albert had thought he was going to die, whether he'd been afraid, how much pain he'd been in when he was first shot, what his doctors and nurses might be thinking but not saying to them, how long it would take before something like this happened again. Unpleasant matters. ]

You know that.

[ It was the occasional slamming of doors that really bothered Wesker, but maybe that was due to the medications or just the fact that he was injured. If he was in William's place, he would probably be able to get some work done too. ]

Ask her to bring me something to read, if she doesn't mind. [ A thought, then he added: ] For an occasion when I'm not heaving and can stay awake for a reasonable amount of time.

That can be arranged.

[ William spread his hands on his knees, paused for a moment, got to his feet. ]

Any preference?

As long as it's intellectually stimulating. I do not need "The Complete Idiot's Guide to Dating" or anything similar.

[ Which someone had anonymously given him as a Christmas gift several years ago. He hadn't found it funny, and he'd never found out who did it either. ]

I was thinking Cell or Advances in Virology.

[ That was... specific. Probably a gag gift from one of the people who had left those ridiculous cards (like they can do any justice to the fact that the guy was just shot). Again a reminder that there was a half of Wesker's life that he knew nothing of, that he couldn't know—he had deliberately kept interactions with these people to a minimum, and if Albert hadn't been shot, they wouldn't have ever crossed paths. It wasn't ideal for S.T.A.R.S. to see him interact with anyone from Umbrella, though at least nothing he himself had done might lead them to connect him to the corporation. ]

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

cw suicide mention

👍

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

he's gonna be fucked up about this for the next 20yrs and he didn't even get shot

Meanwhile Wesker will have moved on within the next 20 days.

"william wym you're still upset. that was last month get over it"

Exactly

beg to differ there, al

Really tho

"william seemed jealous" it's bc he's jealous

You're still his favorite, William.

damn well better be!!!

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

wesker truly just getting slammed from all sides today

Kinda tempted to have some complications just to crush William. A little clinical death.