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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[ As soon as the bullets had pierced his flesh, he had known it was bad. The pain was so white hot and blinding that he'd only managed a few more steps to some mild cover before he went down. Gunshots rang out around him, and he recalled Chris Redfield yelling his name as blood began to pool around him. He'd tried—futilely—to stem the bleeding, but it was too much. He had blacked out with cold images of death creeping into his mind.

When he began to regain consciousness he wasn't sure how long it had been or what had happened. The sterile smell of the hospital room and the soft beeping of monitors were almost comforting. He was still in pain, but it wasn't anything like what he'd felt when he was first wounded.

He was still groggy when he first opened his eyes, but not too groggy to recognize William sitting at his bedside, wearing an expression that would make a Cerberus turn tail and run.

You fucking idiot.

Wonderful.

Wesker felt around at his side and found the call button, pressing it to summon a nurse. The response was surprisingly prompt. She was in the doorway within moments. ]

Morphine for me and a Xanax for him, please.

[ He nodded his head in the direction of the angry William Birkin for emphasis. ]

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. ]

[ The nurse gave William an irritated look, but left to retrieve morphine for Albert without commenting.

Even though the pain wasn't as bad as when he'd first been injured, it was still bad enough for Albert to care nothing about the state morphine would leave his mind in if it meant taking the edge off. The effects were only temporary, and the relief would be well worth it. He tolerated pain well, but this? This was more than he could handle.

He felt like shit and probably looked the part. For now, he couldn't bring himself to care. The fact that he had survived was enough for him. ]

I remember.

[ William had made his stance very clear. Being inexperienced with—and unsuited for—combat himself, Albert didn't expect him to understand. It was dangerous work, but things like this weren't a frequent occurrence. At least, not for people who were as good at the job as he was. ]

Can we do this some other time, William?

[ His voice was scratchy, entirely unlike his usual smooth tone. Wesker barely recognized it as his own. ]

[ God, he even sounded horrible. Had he been screaming? The footage of wounded soldiers in Vietnam William remembered his parents watching in his boyhood came to mind. Albert, in that state. Probably. Probably he had, even if it was an impossible concept to reconcile with the cool exterior of the man he knew. And being intubated for a surgery that long likely hadn't helped, either. It was all too much to think about.

And here was Albert, acting like he was hysterical for being rightfully upset about this. He didn't wish to press him too much in his current state, but there was still anger that had to be vented. Had to. ]

Do you know how I found out?

[ William raked a trembling hand through his bangs. ]

The local news. I didn't know if you were alive until I got here.

[ I'm worth more than that. You owe me more than that. ]

[ That information bothered him a bit. As his emergency contact, William should have been notified immediately and given the details of his condition. When he was feeling up to it, Albert would have to find out why that wasn't done. ]

Someone should have called you. If not from the department, then the hospital.

[ William was entirely justified in being angry about that. ]

How long have I been out?

[ His sense of time was completely disrupted. Had it been hours? More than a day? Surely not longer, but he really didn't know. ]

[ Yeah, should have, William almost said, but he managed to keep the comment at bay. That much wasn't Albert's fault. Leaving the laboratory, joining S.T.A.R.S., not listening to him—those, on the other hand, were. It was as though after this many years Wesker still maintained the belief that his death was his business alone, and that was a difficult notion for him to stomach. ]

Close to eight hours. You lost enough blood to go into shock, and the surgery lasted six.

[ It was an estimate, another unbearable fact about this whole situation. William still had no way to know the exact details or when in the tactical operation this had taken place. All the information they'd been able to give him was when the ambulance arrived and when the surgery began. ]

You were shot in two places. One of the bullets hit your femoral artery.

[ To the letter what he had feared when the receptionist dryly informed him that 'Captain Wesker was shot in the leg', as though that did anything at all to narrow it down where the extent of the injury was concerned. ]

[ Eight hours... a long time, but it could have been worse. He wondered how long he'd been down at the scene, but he'd have to ask his team about that.

The fact that his femoral artery was hit explained a lot; the rapid blood loss, why he wasn't able to stop the bleeding. Things were a little blurry in his mind, but he remembered the pool of his own blood quite clearly. It was something he would never forget. ]

I'm not surprised. I was losing blood fast.

[ The nurse soon returned with his morphine. As she pushed the medication into his IV, a sensation of warmth washed over his body, dulling the pain into something he could tolerate. It dulled his mind too, but that was fine. ]

Thank you.

[ William fell silent, composing his features into something passably neutral for the duration of the woman's brief visit. This was a conversation that was meant to be had privately, an open wound he didn't want strangers gawking at like a car accident on the freeway. The door shut behind her; he his pale eyes narrowed, brows knit again. ]

You never should have been shot. You're lucky you're not dead— [ —and so was he— ] You should have been wearing Kevlar. Behind cover. You're not careless.

[ None of this would have happened if he had just stayed in the lab, if he hadn't abandoned their work for some left-field "opportunity" like he did. He wouldn't be receiving morphine and another blood transfusion in a hospital bed at some shitty county hospital and William wouldn't be fighting to keep himself from yelling or being sick in the emesis basin intended for the patient. ]

How did this happen? Albert?

I was wearing a vest.

[ For all the good it had done him. Surely William didn't really think he would go into a situation like that without one. That wouldn't just be careless; it would be downright stupid. ]

That's a good question.

[ And one he wasn't sure he knew the answer to. His team was very competent in the field, and until that moment, everything had gone exactly according to plan. ]

The building was swept and secured...

[ He drifted off into thought. Had someone screwed up, or had the shooters really managed to hide themselves that well? ]

Obviously not. They're supposed to be special forces. Ex-military, you told me. Unbelievable.

[ William had, without realizing it, begun to pace at the foot of the mobile bed, turning every two or three steps. ]

And you're their captain. You should have been directing operations from the ground, not in a firefight.

[ Said as though that would somehow reverse that which had already happened. Anything to grasp at in this situation, anything, anything. The sight alone of Albert in a hospital bed was something William could barely integrate into his own reality. He paused in his pacing. ]

Are you still in pain? I'll get the nurse if the dose wasn't strong enough.

[ An investigation would be conducted into the incident, and there would be punishment if necessary. Nothing about this sat well with him. Obviously the operation had gone badly, but he was sure his people had been thorough. ]

I always go in with the rest of the team. That's part of the job.

[ William's pacing was somewhat annoying, but Albert didn't comment. He understood that it was something his friend needed to work off some of his anxious energy. ]

It's tolerable now. If I have another dose I won't be able to stay awake.

[ His speech was already a bit slurred, and his thoughts were sluggish. At least he was still coherent. ]

[ Part of the job you never should have fucking taken, idiot. By some miracle, William held back the words, at least for the time being. This was a conversation they'd be having again—how could Albert do this to him?—but right now the pain management situation had taken center focus.

William knew what he needed to say, but he still had to pry the words from his own mouth, guts tangling in a miserably tight knot as he prepared himself to say it, to willingly walk away from the relief of seeing Wesker conscious and alive. ]

Take it. You've been shot. You need sleep.

[ Even if it meant slipping out of consciousness again—permanently?, some dark shadow in his mind asked. It wouldn't be goodbye. It would just be Albert getting some sleep, if that was even what he wanted. But it very much felt like the last time they might see each other. ]

I'll be here.

[ He knew William was right. Rest was something he desperately needed right now, but a part of him didn't want to give in. He'd already been out for eight hours or more. It felt like such a waste.

But what else was he going to do? Even trying to get out of bed would have caused pain that he didn't care to deal with, and it would only aggravate his injuries.

He sighed and reluctantly agreed. ]

Fine. Get the nurse, but try to be polite this time.

[ She was responsible for taking care of him right now. Pissing her off probably wasn't the best idea. ]

I was perfectly polite given the situation at hand. [ The pacing stopped; William cast on last look in his friend's direction before heading toward the door.

They weren't able to increase the dose much, he was informed, but they could make the medication in his IV line "a bit" stronger, for whatever that meant. Either way, William managed to find a live nurse, different from the one assigned to the room, and drag him back to administer what he needed to. His failure to take off his lab coat before driving to the hospital probably helped; while he wasn't a practitioner, they probably at least recognized that he was educated.

The nurse slowly fed the drug into the IV pump, left. William, still standing but at least not pacing, looked in the wounded man's direction. ]

Sleep. Not like I can go anywhere.

[ Out of the question. ]

[ Albert huffed, not in the mood to argue about it. William's social skills left something to be desired. He couldn't imagine the man having a public facing job.

But he got the job done. It was a different nurse, but that didn't matter as long as he got the medication he needed. This next dose left him barely able to keep his eyes open. He tried and lost the battle quickly. ]

Don't let me sleep too long.

[ His words were barely above a murmur, and Albert didn't even hear William's response before drifting back into unconsciousness. ]

[ Apparently the operation concluded not long after the second dose of morphine: some time around the four-hour mark, Wesker's subordinates started trickling in: dressed like him, visibly distraught, carrying flowers and cards Birkin had to resist the impulse to roll his eyes at. Like that was what Albert needed right now, as opposed to them going back in time and being competent.

All of it was eyeroll-worthy, really. They didn't know what they were to Wesker and to Umbrella. What bothered William more, however, was their insistence on seeing him—as though they had any right to—though at least they yielded when sharply reminded that people need sleep following any kind of major surgical procedure.

On the whole, though, he made a point of being exceedingly civil in their interactions despite his own boiling vitriol, just a stranger they could all assume was a brother or cousin or something. The less interaction he had with them, the better: this was Wesker's ongoing, overarching project, and William did his best not to interfere. Even if that project was likely to be over now, God willing.

When Wesker stirred and came to, the sun had already set, though the full moon and the room full of monitors and the bar of golden light under the door to the hallway made it easy enough to see in the semidarkness. William, true to his word, was still there, having at least chosen to finally sit down; he turned when the movement in the corner of his eye caught his attention.

It was a relief, having him awake again, no matter how much they claimed he'd stabilized. ]

The members of S.T.A.R.S. came by. You have cards. [ He nodded in the direction of the bedside table, where a few of them were set down next to a plastic pitcher of crushed ice. ] I informed them that you were sleeping.

[ His sleep wasn't a very restful one. It was riddled with unpleasant dreams that—while not frightening—left him feeling strangely hollow inside. By the time he woke and managed to drag himself out of the drug induced haze, the feeling remained, but the details were gone.

Oh well.

William's voice alerted him that his friend was still there, as promised. Wesker turned to look at him instead of the bedside table, uninterested in the tokens of sympathy his team had brought him. He would look at them later, if only so he could accurately identify which card had come from who. In the morning, perhaps. ]

How sweet of them.

[ If it was even possible, his voice sounded worse than before. Being intubated for surgery had left his throat feeling raw, and a few hours of rest wasn't enough to improve it. ]

They aren't still hanging around the hospital, are they?

[ Wesker's voice was raspier than it was when he'd first awoken; while the air in the hospital room was certainly dry, it was probably a lingering effect of having been intubated some six hours. Regardless of whatever reasonable explanation was available, though, it was jarring to hear his friend's smooth, low voice this hoarse, another stark reminder of his humanity. As untouchable as he'd always seemed, as he'd always conducted himself, here was Albert, lying in a hospital gown with two freshly bandaged gunshot wounds, still not fully clear of the immense threat to his life.

He'd almost died. He could have died without William ever having a chance to say goodbye. He hadn't even known he was wounded for hours. ]

It's doubtful.

[ But Birkin wasn't sure, either. They had been pretty hellbent on seeing their Captain, and they hadn't taken the no well coming from a stranger. ]

What is your pain level?

I don't really want visitors right now.

[ Except the one sitting next to his bed right now. William's company was welcome as long as he wasn't trying to give him a lecture. Wesker knew how serious this was. He didn't need anyone rubbing it in. ]

Tolerable. I'm fine, for now.

[ And he wanted to stay awake. Rest was what he needed right now, but that didn't mean he was going to sleep constantly. ]

Have you been here the whole time?

Yes. Annette's watching Sherry.

[ He'd probably bring them by at some point, when the situation had calmed down and grown less dire overall. Annette liked Wesker too, even if that was the full extent of the relationship, and he'd made brief appearances in Sherry's life. Right now, though, it would just be them. He needed time to process this and Wesker needed time to recuperate in the immediate aftermath of major surgery and neither of them could do what they needed to do while keeping up the pretenses necessary to politely engage with others.

Wesker knew him. Interacting required no additional effort; he didn't need to consciously think about what to say or how he needed to behave, unlike with the members of S.T.A.R.S. he'd finished shooing away a few hours prior. Albert was minimally demanding, always had been.

William glanced down at his hands, which had by now at least stopped shaking. ]

I'll probably bring over something to work on soon.

[ 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. ]

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

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wesker: gets shot | birkin: dont. do that

He did it on purpose just to upset William.

hater behavior

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