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

[retroviridae]

[ 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.

Comments

[retroviridae]

[ A grim reality, one William hadn't even begun to face yet. No, he probably wouldn't be discharged any time soon. He'd need physical therapy, in all likelihood, and there was no telling how well or how poorly he'd rebound from surgery. He was 38 now, two years older than himself, and starting to approach the age at which the human body's ability to heal itself showed the faintest signs of flagging. There was also the sheer severity of the injuries: he'd lost enough blood to go into shock and lose consciousness, and he'd just had an arterial resection. He'd been lucky to survive at all, a thought that made Birkin feel sick and unbearably, overwhelmingly helpless. ]

Maybe.

[ A good fifteen minutes passed before Annette knocked on the door: she hadn't done anything asinine like bring flowers, which was expected—William never would have married someone who thought that kind of platitude was an appropriate response to multiple gunshot wounds. She did express her sympathy, her worry, decidedly less furious than he had been (and still was, on some level), though they were much less close. She'd recover if Albert died; he probably wouldn't.

William thanked her as she set the small stack of folders and old journals on the side table next to the cards and his still-cooling coffee; at least now he'd have something to do other than agonize while Wesker slept. She'd also brought a saran-wrapped turkey sandwich for the one in the room who was allowed to eat. Thoughtful, even if he didn't particularly feel hungry at the moment. ]

[viralgod]

[ The thought of not making a complete recovery hadn't even crossed Wesker's mind. Not doing so wasn't an option. He had to get back to his old self, and sooner rather than later.

Annette didn't bring flowers, a card or anything else that was essentially meaningless. She brought books for him and work for William. He especially appreciated that she brought William something to eat. His friend may not have felt like eating, but he probably needed to.

Wesker wouldn't be able to bring himself to eat even if he was allowed to. Food was unlikely to stay down.

He thanked Annette for her concern and for everything she brought them, assuring her that he would be fine, despite the severity of his injuries. It was pleasant to talk with her, even briefly. There was no underlying layer of anger in her, unlike William. ]

wesker truly just getting slammed from all sides today

[retroviridae]

[ William watched the conversation but didn't interrupt—Annette was his friend too, and even in his own egotism he could recognize that she deserved a moment to re-establish contact with Wesker uninterrupted. They talked for a few minutes, then she glanced to the door, said something about getting back to Sherry.

William stood up, wished her off. They exchanged a few more words about their daughter, the lab, keeping things running smoothly in his absence. She gave him a brief kiss on the cheek in parting as they stood beside the bedside table, offered Wesker her well wishes again, left.

He took the half of the stack intended for himself and his now-drinkable coffee back to the same chair he'd spent most of the day in, settling into silence for a few moments. Then: ]

She'll watch the lab.

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

[viralgod]

[ A kiss on the cheek was awfully chaste for a married couple, but he chose not to comment. William was already suppressing enough anger. Instead, he thanked Annette again for coming by and for wishing him well.

Now that William had something to occupy him, Wesker felt more comfortable allowing himself the opportunity to sleep. If he could actually stay asleep. It seemed like the slightest sound disturbed him. ]

It's in good hands then.

[ Annette had dedicated herself so much to William's work that he had no doubt she would take good care of everything in his absence. ]