A delicate chain of daisies adorned her crown, miraculously unbroken by the violence of her death. A handful of white petals lay scattered about her head. Blood splatter touched only two. Most of the blood present pooled beneath her temple, her eyes open but distinctly vacant. In the distance, Leonard could hear other children laughing and carrying on as if nothing had happened. The bizarre juxtaposition raised the hairs on his arms and soured his stomach.
He rose to his feet before closing his tricorder and giving his report. "She's been dead about three hours."
He doesn't pay much attention to the symptoms the first two days. Irritability and distractibility can be caused by just about anything. He attributes them both to a host of reasons working in tandem. Not enough sleep, not enough coffee, too many recent emergencies, not enough down time. He's worn thin. Not more than he can handle, but more than he'd like.
Restlessness soon arrives on the heels of its twin companions. On the third day, his head begins to ache. The malady doesn't seem confined to the pressure in his skull. The inside of his mouth tastes wrong, the rest of his body feels off. His biochemistry is shifting. By the end of the day, he can't gather enough attention to finish his reports or find the motivation to care. He paces, a haze overtaking his mind. By the time he thinks to pull out a scanner, he's already too far gone. The urge to dominate is overpowering.
Two seconds is all it took. Unfortunate aim, a faulty cuff on his PPUs, and 'highly acidic green goo'. You can do everything right and still have it go to hell in a handbasket. His staff had converged on him like a swarm of bees, their quick actions preventing the damage from reaching catastrophic proportions. He still has a right hand because of Chris. Because of Geoff and Joanna. He would have marveled at their teamwork and efficiency had he not been out of his mind in agonizing pain.
Twenty-four hours later he's released from his own Medbay with strict instructions. Which he only half listens to because he's tired and grumpy and because he's a doctor damn it. He knows how to take care of a patient. Even if that patient is himself. He strips down without much thought, ready to wash stale sweat from his body, flash produced by the adrenaline dump and fear. Standing there naked in a daze with the water running, the realization strikes him. The regenerating layers of skin above the newly repaired blood vessels and nerve endings must be kept dry.
He huffs and closes his eyes. "That's just great," he grinds out.
The uniform he's wearing is orange, not blue. His station is a prison cell, not the MedBay of the Federation's most prestigious starship. He carries no rank, only a decade long sentence. The hands that were meant to heal took life rather than nurtured it. In a fit of rage, he'd pummeled the man found wooing his wife, leaving him a broken, bloody mess in the back alley behind a bar. When he'd walked away, Clay had still been alive. An hour later, he was found dead.
Routine shapes his evening hours when not interrupted by the call of duty. He strips off his uniform shirt and tosses it in the refresher. He settles back against the arm of the sofa and props his feet up. After being on them all day, it's a relief to slip off his boots and socks. If it's been a particularly bad day, he'll reach for bourbon. If not, a cup of coffee fits all hours of the day. A few articles from the latest dispatch of StarFleet Medical Journal calm him, gives his subconscious material to chew on throughout the night. After that, he throws on a tank and slips out of his pants. He comms JoJo once a week. Sometimes more. Then he checks the last of his messages at the computer before brushing his teeth. Then it's off to bed.
8/19: Flowers
Date: 2022-08-20 06:37 am (UTC)He rose to his feet before closing his tricorder and giving his report. "She's been dead about three hours."
8/20: Heat/Rut AU
Date: 2022-08-20 07:52 am (UTC)Restlessness soon arrives on the heels of its twin companions. On the third day, his head begins to ache. The malady doesn't seem confined to the pressure in his skull. The inside of his mouth tastes wrong, the rest of his body feels off. His biochemistry is shifting. By the end of the day, he can't gather enough attention to finish his reports or find the motivation to care. He paces, a haze overtaking his mind. By the time he thinks to pull out a scanner, he's already too far gone. The urge to dominate is overpowering.
8/21: Intimate Bathing
Date: 2022-08-21 07:26 am (UTC)Twenty-four hours later he's released from his own Medbay with strict instructions. Which he only half listens to because he's tired and grumpy and because he's a doctor damn it. He knows how to take care of a patient. Even if that patient is himself. He strips down without much thought, ready to wash stale sweat from his body, flash produced by the adrenaline dump and fear. Standing there naked in a daze with the water running, the realization strikes him. The regenerating layers of skin above the newly repaired blood vessels and nerve endings must be kept dry.
He huffs and closes his eyes. "That's just great," he grinds out.
8/22: Bad End
Date: 2022-08-23 01:43 am (UTC)8/23: Bedtime
Date: 2022-08-24 04:13 am (UTC)