#tw medical situations

[eddiediaaz]

contemplating ending it all while doing the dishes (for the 3rd time today because i couldn't do them for like 2 weeks) on a summer saturday night. i'm such a fucking loser i hate living so bad. like what's the fucking point here??? everytime i feel like i'm taking a step forward in life, or simply feeling better mentally, it's actually 5 steps back. there's literally no point of me being alive right now. why am i even here i don't matter

[randomwriteronline]

"I can't do anything for the eyelid."

Krakua listened in polite and total silence as Jaller (slightly creaky, emphasis on velar consonants) insisted: "Nothing at all?"

"It's fused into the mask," Zaria (ejective alveolar fricatives, deeper tinnier tone, slightly scratchy) replied curtly: "I can't separate the different protodermis masses anymore, and even if I could the lid wouldn't be able to move on its own after the damage it sustained. The only viable options are to either close it completely, leave it like this, or remove the whole thing."

"A permanently open eye sounds like a nightmare..."

"And there's no saying an operation like that doesn't run the risk of fracturing the brain, either."

"That's a possibility?"

"With how brittle he is, I wouldn't be surprised." the voice shifted, sound waves changing trajectory with a sneer: "How did you even wreck yourself like that, huh? Forgot how to finish a Nova blast?"

Krakua remained perfectly still, breaths quiet, shallow.

After a long pause, Jaller spoke up: "Can the mask be removed?

"Surgically, yes. I could probably shave off a bit of the excess protodermis to make the mass a little more manageable, too. He'll need to be operated on his joints either way."

"What's your sentence on those?"

"Left knee will have to be bolted down so it doesn't risk dislocating abruptly, but it'll survive; I'll leave what to do with the right one up to him in the end, though personally I'd completely re-do it since it's not much better than the calf and ankle - those are too damaged and will need prosthetic replacements. His foot seems fine enough, I'll see if I can salvage it."

"And his other ankle? Hewkii said it was broken."

"It is, and it'll need a thorough welding job. His hip and spine too, on a smaller scale. His chest is only a bit warped, thankfully, so there shouldn't be too many problems."

"About his arm--"

"The problem's organic. Elder Racans promised they'll check on it."

"Thank you. If there's anything we can do..."

"See if you can remedy him some more braces like the one he already had until the prosthetics feel natural and at least one crutch to get around, maybe a small vehicle. He'll need as little weight on his lower half as possible for the adjustment period, and it surely won't be too bad to let him have some support later on, either."

"That's the opposite of an issue. Nuparu will love to keep himself busy for about a day designing and making all that."

A deeper hum closed the conversation with a nod, and the Toa of Iron stalked away to the other side of the room to rummage with a pile of something delicate, of carefully tempered metal and thick crystalline glass, looking for the correct tool.

Their soft tinkering painted unclear shapes in the eye of Krakua's mind as their careful sounds melted into the white noise tracing patterns on the ceiling.

"You've been awfully quiet," a creaky voice whispered at his side.

"Thinking," he replied hoarsely, peacefully.

Jaller smiled: "About what?"

"If my mask can be fixed."

"That's a question for the mask makers," Zaria interjected.

"They'll surely have the schematics for a Suletu," the Toa of Fire reassured his friend: "If not, they can easily get someone to send a print for it over."

But the De-Toa tilted his head slightly: "I want my mask fixed," he insisted: "I don't need a new one. Mine's fine. I just want it fixed."

"It will have to be melted down."

"That's fine. I just want it fixed."

"I think that can be done. It will probably have some added protodermis, though, to stabilize it."

"But most of it will still be the same?"

"Of course."

"That's fine, then."

Liquid lightly crashing against the inside of some kind of vial distracted him briefly: the Toa of Iron laid the object down before he could catch a good glimpse of it and went back to rummaging for yet some other medical utensil.

Raising his volume so he could be heard above the rockus, he did not turn as he asked: "Did you listen to what I said earlier?"

"Yes," Krakua croaked as nicely as his ghastly voice could.

"What do you want for your eye, then?"

"Like this is fine."

"Your knee?"

"I trust you."

"So I have permission to make it a prosthesis?"

"Yes, please."

Zaria turned to him briefly like he'd just spoken in an alien language: "Aren't you polite," he muttered at last, sounding flabbergasted.

Krakua coughed out a little laugh.

Jaller remained in the room as long as he could, keeping a careful eye on the few pieces of equipment slowly piling up on a small tray beside the cot - metal ingots, a sealed glass vial of some nebulous liquid, some kind of half-mask, a chisel, a pair of small scissors, a miniature blowtorch, a scalpel of sorts. He recognized most of them from his time getting a shoulder fixed up in the claustrophobic infirmary in Ta-Koro, his example being used to teach as many Matoran as possible how to treat more dire injuries.

His thoughts soured the longer his gaze lingered on the utensils. A vague sense of calm nudged them to the side: glancing downward, he found the De-Toa staring at him, buzzing faintly yet reassuringly where he laid with a sort of pleasant grimace and a quiet mischievoys request to distract him.

Acquiescing, a short sonar wave left the Arthron.

The Toa of Fire managed a little smile when his friend squirmed with a hissing giggle as the sound gently hit him.

He nodded whenZaria made a definitive gesture, telling him to get out and wait until called again - probably to fetch the safely removed Mask of Telepathy.

His hand squeezed gently the dark armored shoulder one last time: "Remember you'll need to adjust."

"Hm-hm."

"And I'll have your mask."

"Hm-hm."

"So don't disappear again. Got it?"

"Hm-hm."

A stern look: "Got it?"

The battered warrior cackled: "Got it."

Jaller patted him lightly; the next moment, he was gone.

The Fe-Toa's palm was heavier, more concrete: laid across Krakua's chestpiece it seemed to encompass it completely, carefully studying how the protodermis rose and fell beneath it.

"Take a deep breath," he instructed.

Krakua inhaled as much as he could.

"Does it hurt?"

"No."

"Good. Keep going," he ordered as he went to fetch the vial.

The younger being watched him fix the half-mask on top of it, careful not to jostle the liquid too much yet: "I don't need it," he spoke calmly, very quietly. "I can handle the pain."

He watched the rusted fingers clench a little harder around the glass.

The words came out of Zaria in a hiss: "You can't."

No further arguments were had.

It took a couple of tries, but at last the muzzle fit perfectly over the Suletu's mouth.

The anesthetic smelled like something far too clean, scrubbed dry of any hint of life. Krakua shut the one eye that could still be properly shut and breathed the disgusting antiseptic scent in as long and as deep as he could, just like he was told to do, while a palm pressed down on his forehead.

Slowly, very slowly, the odor subsided.

He startled awake when he realized the weight spread on his face was gone as well. His throat rumbled and sputtered like an engine revved up one too many times, hurriedly calling out for Trinuma: no other part of his body understood his intentions, remaining limp and unresponsive inside his frozen body, and so all that came out of him was the low monotone wail of a calculator incurring into an impossible error.

An orange shape entered his field of vision: "Stay calm," (ejective alveolar fricatives, deeper tinnier tone, slightly scratchy) "Stay calm, we're done. Deep breaths."

"Done?" Krakua repeated - borrowing Zaria's voice when his own failed him again.

"Done. The operation's done. It went well. Now breathe."

His chest moved easier now. His back had lost the strange tingle he'd been feeling long enough to forget about, noticing it again only now that it had disappeared. His lower half felt like bits and pieces of a whole: entire body parts he knew had to be there left terrifyingly large gaps in his tactile reception.

His body felt more his with each breath, returning inhabitable little by little. It took a few long attempts, but his neck cleared, and opened, and words began to fill his mouth once more.

"How are you feeling?" the Fe-Toa inquired.

"Weird," he wheezed raucously, a little pained: "Drowsy."

"That's normal," his surgeon reassured him. "Your body is trying to recognize the prosthetics. Try to sleep it off, I'll wake you when Racans arrives to see what to do for your arm."

"My mask?"

Steps moving away: "Jaller's got it."

"Ah... Ah. Right."

He focused on the white noise - conversations out of the door, just far enough for the words to become indistinguishable, blooming into large pixelated patterns of static against the ceiling.

Another part of his body felt a little more familiar.

A whine left him.

Zaria turned back to him: "What now?"

"Wanted to ask," Krakua groaned through his tiredness. "More discreet... With a Suletu..."

He did not miss the scratching sound of tightening joints: "Questions about your operation?" the deep tinny voice hissed, warning him witho uttering any threat: "Or about Toa Zaria?"

The De-Toa craned his neck enough to look at the other.

His interlocutor showed him his back as he fancied himself busy putting his tools back in their rightful place.

"You thought of two things, when I said... I could handle it. The pain."

The creak of glass under pressure: "Be very quick."

"For the second - does it always feel, that bad?"

"Yes."

A soft hum.

Zaria's eye glowered from behind his shoulder: "And for the first?"

"Does it ever get better?"

Silence followed.

His head felt so terribly heavy. He didn't want to sleep.

It would have been so easy, if he'd had his mask. Maybe he should have left it forever stuck to his skull. It hurt horribly, and it didn't work as well as before, but he would have been able to use it now.

His body quivered. He was so tired. He didn't want to sleep.

The white noise on the ceiling curled around him comfortably, locking him in some sort of soothing hold.

Rusted hands rested on his knees.

"You'll need these checked every year," Zaria mumbled: "I'll be waiting for you. And hopefully, I'll... I'll have a good enough answer for you, one of these times."

His gaze met Krakua's.

He got back a comforted smile.

[hylianengineer]

I found this rant in my notes from that time a couple months ago when the pharmacy lost my birth control prescription right before a holiday weekend and made me deal with unmedicated PMDD for a week and I was scared out of my mind. Have an angry rant about the inadequacies of the American healthcare system.

When Julian Bashir was a child, he thought that if he was bad, the doctors would make sure he got sick. He grew out of it. But… if you live with a chronic medical condition that requires medical attention to manage, this is kind of just how your life works.

You have to do all the right paperwork and go to all the right appointments and say the right things in order to maintain access to the treatment you need to be healthy. Especially if the meds you need are a controlled substance. You have to be the good patient. You have to, or you’re in for a significant amount of pain and suffering. It feels like a threat hanging over your head.

And sometimes, you’ll do everything right, and then something happens outside of your control to screw everything up. Maybe there’s a shortage of the medication you need. Maybe the pharmacy loses your prescription. But suddenly you don’t have what you need to be okay, and you hurt. More than that, you’re terrified. You don’t want to be in pain. You don’t want to suffer.

You just want to be okay; why is that so hard?

And the doctors don’t mean to hurt anyone! They don’t understand the amount of power they hold over us. They really do, for the most part, want to help. But the system is a mess of power imbalances and red tape and fear fear fear. There are too many bureaucratic road blocks that keep people from getting medical attention. There are too many doctors who don’t give a shit. Who don’t listen to their patients. Who assume the worst of us. We just don’t want to hurt anymore. We don’t mean to be a bother, we just want to be okay.

And we have to put our wellbeing in their hands. We have to hand them our lives and our sanity and hope they hold them gently. And if they don’t? We have to pick a new doctor and do it all over again. What other choice do we have?

[3mutantsinatrenchcoat]

Hop... hospital-

[mad-hunts]

i just realized i haven't really talked about what barton is like while he's in arkham and/or what it's like for him. so... let me start by saying barton is probably among one of the inmates at arkham that has caused the highest number of incidents. and i don't mean small ones all the time, either. because barton will go so far to make himself sick just so he can go to the infirmary and steal scalpels / ANY sort of object he can cut people with (specifically the doctors.) now, of course i'm not trying to say that this is justified because of this, but he has also has a history of being treated very badly in there (though that certainly isn't an uncommon thing for anyone in arkham unfortunately) ... and i just feel like that's important to note because his behavior could very well be partially in retaliation to this.

however, i can imagine that the staff in arkham typically don't care about considering things like this since it is a SUPER corrupt place. and thus... i hate to say it, but whenever he is compliant, it's usually because he's drugged up to the point where he's drunker than a skunk. or loopier than a pot-holder. because it is DEFINITELY not normal for barton to not rebel against them in any way. he's also refused to eat in there several times and wellll — that probably didn't vibe well with them, either. so basically what i'm trying to say is barton 'acts out' a lot while he's in there, which could be attributed both to his circumstances AND to his very altered mental state

[q-nihachu]

it's self-centered but i'm just so pissed at wilbur for making a hard time for me so much harder. my parents are both having surgery and i, who am disabled, am their primary caregiver. i dragged myself to the pharmacy today and they told me they didn't have the medicine i need to function (they told me they did before) and i sobbed the whole way home. and here i am mad at at an internet guy who i've never met. the guy i was a fan of for years, who i've gotten other people into, who i wanted to be like, had to go and be a shitty person too. and i can't explain that to anyone, so here i am shouting it into the void because it has the only people who will get it.

[aslyfcx]

I feel like I hurried back here too quickly and I apologized for leaving again so soon (taking a very very long break) after I announced I’m back. I thought I was ready but in reality I wasn’t. The threads are on hold, asks are on hold.

I’m gonna explain why I’m leaving again under the more section but it’s gonna touch some touchy subjects. It’s gonna be a veryyyy long post.

I am not asking for advice. I’m simply posting this because I want you guys to know what’s going on and why I’ve been on and off more often than usual.

Having an alcoholic stepfather scares me a shit ton because he just gave me a fucking heart attack because I could hear him coughing and choking from the living room while I was in my bedroom. Mom heard it too.

Mom, younger brother (he’s an adult, just want to clarify), and I dealt with him so many times because he has fallen a lot of times this year, stumbling around, putting his pajamas on only to fucking fall over, drinking every damn night…some days, it got to a point where he will drink in the morning and other days he just drinks all fucking day long. He denies being an alcoholic and he denies that he drinks even though he does.

My younger brother had to be the one to legit lift him up off the fucking ground whenever he falls.

On top of that, it’s bad enough I have to deal with helping my mom out with her grandmother and watching my mom be responsible for my grandma’s financial stuff because my grandma is still getting taken advantage of by my toxic ass sister and my toxic oldest nephew. They’re still fucking asking her for money even though they don’t even have the fucking guts to go to my mom to ask because they’re fucking scared of my mom and they won’t face my grandpa because my grandpa was fucking infuriated, told them off when he first found out.

This shit has been going on since February of this year and my mom’s been taking care of her shit for months, fucking months because nobody else knows how to handle financial shit. My mom never had a close relationship with her mom but damn—she’s only doing this to make sure my papa doesn’t get screwed over.

Everything is so fucked up and I’m tired of trying to put on an optimistic facade here in the server and out in public but I know I have to so I don’t have to make people worry…although I am finally getting all of this out.

I did let my therapist know but it just keeps getting worse and worse. I tried a new medication and that didn’t fucking help so I’m left with the current medications I’m taking.

And we had to look into my grandparents’ wills, we had to update my papa’s will with his consent because he didn’t feel right leaving everything to my toxic ass sister and my oldest nephew. My grandma basically just left every single fucking thing to my toxic ass sister and nephew, she made my toxic sister the representative in which we’re not changing because my toxic ass sister had been using her fucking card for OF aka OnlyFans, expensive shit too. We had to get her a new card when we first found out and then recently we had to close her card because somebody used her card for Hiltons Hotel which was $1,500 in which my mom declined that purchase, the bank closed her card.

My grandma is paying for my uncle’s rent and home (the home that should’ve been paid off years ago but it wasn’t), my toxic ass sister and nephew’s rent for the place they’re staying in, car insurance for my toxic ass sister and my uncle. My sister put my grandma’s name under her car on the fucking Audi while she wasn’t herself at the time. She fucking took advantage of my grandmother.

She’s paying for the goddamn truck that my nephew drives. She is paying for everything.

It hurts seeing my mom busting her ass and my own grandma doesn’t even care. She just jokes saying she will go to prison when we told her that it’s serious about this matter. She just fucking jokes about it.

My grandma has been diagnosed with primary biliary cholangitis back in February or so. She has liver issues and she doesn’t drink. She never fucking drank. She’s on medications to help her liver keep going and help get the toxics out of her liver otherwise she will not get enough oxygen to the brain if she doesn’t take these goddamn medications.

[entirelysein-e]

It feels like you bait us with your "imma write" and then you say "oh no im not writing because x" like it feels like you never mean anything you say? You will "not write for x weeks" and you "will write rn" but neither is ever true like ???? Im confused all tge time your confusing

I'm truly sorry for that. I don't mean to justify myself but perhaps I can explain!

I'm not a content machine and mentally I'm not doing great rn. When I plan to write and me actually being in the headspace to write plus having the time to do so is something that rarely ever goes hand in hand.

The last 2 months have been filled with my mother in a coma and my step dads cancer being back plus me moving away quite far (from them) while taking care of them.

Of course I said that I'll write when I can but I did say I can't write for x weeks because I had 0 free time. Whenever there was a snippet of time I did write!

The last few weeks have been filled with reposts from my old blog so it wouldn't be entirely dead and the only "new" piece was the Kiryu thing I've needed exactly 5 weeks for bc there was simply no time.

[wildgeese98]

I got a pap smear the other day and while I was sitting there, bare assed, pussy in the wind, the nurse practitioner looked down at my socks and said "oh do you have animals?" And I was like "uh yeah I've got cats" and we proceeded to have a conversation about my cats. I was a bit embarrassed that I apparently had enough cat hair on my socks to be a viable premise for small talk while this person got ready to root around in my insides. Lmao

[hylianengineer]

I've been reading about IUDs and I'm really shocked by how much all the official websites want to tell me they don't hurt that much when inserted, even as they cite evidence to the contrary. In people who haven't given birth, fifteen percent experience severe pain and the average pain rating out of ten is 6.6 (both numbers are lower in people who have given birth, and 6.6 is right on the border between what this study classifies as moderate vs severe pain). That's BAD! That's over one in ten people, or about the same odds as me rolling a 1, 2, or 3 on my 20-sided dice during a Dungeons and Dragons roll. If you've played Dungeons and Dragons, you're probably thinking the same thing I am - I do not like those odds.

Also, that 15% study was partly funded by the companies that make IUDs, so I consider it suspect - in the sense that I'd expect them to report it being less awful than it is.

This article I'm reading just said not to rely on 'online scare stories' for information. Bitch, you're the one writing the scare story! The data is right there! Fifteen percent! Six point six out of ten!

[salted15]

have ya seen kwite's response video yet? cuz things are not looking good for orion :/

I HAVE i'm so glad orion was lying about everything- i feel really bad that kwite had to show their face and share so much sensitive + personal information to prove themself innocent though , it really sucks and i hope they can mentally recover from all of this . i can't find much of my vocabulary right now but i've been so relieved that kwite's innocent , and so upset that this whole situation happened in the first place

[merchantofwhispers]

[ My mother is being discharged tomorrow and she'll be on bed rest for a bit after. I think tonight I'm going to go buy a bunch of snacks, fizzy drinks, and watch childhood movies while trying to process everything thats happened. once again thank you to everyone whose been leaving kind messages, praying, and checking on me. It's been a SUPER rough few days. Somehow it is still a miracle to me that we went from filling out Power of Attorney paperwork to her being able to talk, eat, and even laugh with the care team this morning. Now-.. Onto taking a much needed breather. ]

[danascullysjournal]

If You Will Let Me

X-Files Post-Milagro Fic Chapter 21: Help

TW: references to demonic activity, mild references to injuries, hospital setting. Author’s Note: Eternal thanks to each of you who are following <3  This chapter is part of a larger work on AO3.  As AO3 is currently down, this work and preceding chapters are all searchable under #If You Will Let Me 

____________________

The phone finally ceased its insistent ringing as the machine clicked, taking over.  

It beeped angrily.  The signal of a disconnected line, a wasted call.  Anyone who was not privy to knowing about the safety precautions would take it as such, hang up and move on.  

After two solid minutes, the beeping stopped.  The silence was brief before a familiar voice began to speak. 

“Guys, it’s me.  I’m at Memorial Hospital.  Please come, it’s important.”

There was a muffled, clattering shuffle as the receiver fumbled over the phone cradle, finally coming to rest with a plastic clack.  

The recorder clicked itself off.  Silence fell over the room, interrupted only by the whirring of computer fans. 

Dim morning light dusted itself sparingly across shelving and computer towers.  The message replayed as the men stood in anxious silence. 

Byers eyed the other two men.  His face was grim. 

Langly scrunched his nose, skeptical.  “You think someone put him up to it?”

Byers shook his head.

“Not Mulder,” Frohike was quiet, but resolved.  “He wouldn’t do that.  But he knows not to just ask us to come out like that.”  He drummed his fingers on the desk in front of him. 

Langly stood, adjusting his glasses. “He could be hurt, can’t come here himself.  But why call us, why not Scully?”

 The men were quiet for a moment, considering. 

Frohike broke the silence.  “It has to be bad.”  He sighed.  “Well.  Let’s go bail his ass out.”

____________________

Mulder’s clumsy hand made a few vain attempts before it figured out how to hang up the phone next to his hospital bed. 

Abby helped to readjust his pillows and offered a supportive smile. “You got through?” 

“Yeah.  They’ll get it.”

He sighed.  He was certain they would hear his message, but coming to visit during the day in a very public place?  That was asking a lot from men whose lives depended on secrecy and anonymity.  He could only hope.  

The nurse stared at him for a long moment.  “Well.  If your friends come, I’ve already notified the nurses’ station on her floor.  They’ll be expecting someone.  But if anything goes wrong…”

“If anything goes wrong, I forced you.  Threatened you.  Whatever.  Say what you need to say.  Make sure it doesn’t ruin your future.”  Mulder was used to being blamed.  He could think of no reason to take the full fall that was nobler than protecting Scully.  He would do it a hundred times over.

“Yeah.”  Abby’s lips were twisted in a strange, nervous line.  “And you’re sure… this thing, whatever it is, it’s not here.  It won’t…” Her voice faded.

“Come for you?” 

 She nodded weakly. 

“No.  I can’t guarantee it’s not here… but it won’t come for you.  I don’t know why, but it doesn’t… It doesn’t want anyone else.”  He stared vacantly out the window at the clouded, deep indigo of early dawn.  “Just us.  He just wants us.”

Her lips were turned, brow furrowed.  She cleared her throat and started for the door.

“I have to go, but I’ll be back before my shift ends.  As often as I can.”

He offered a small, grateful smile.

She raised her eyebrows.  “Of course, Beth will be coming in too, ya know.”

“Oh good, she’s my favorite.” 

Abby rolled her eyes and grinned.  As she left, her soft laugh danced through the doorway.  

He blinked slowly, then moved his unfocused eyes toward the blanched, pockmarked ceiling tiles above him.  Though his system was dutifully purging the chemicals from his veins, he still felt heavy.  Drained.  His focus wavered.  His glassy eyes drifted closed. 

_____________________

A knock at the open doorway snapped Mulder’s eyes open, and his gaze settled on a familiar, ragtag group of three mismatched men.  One wore a well cut beard and a suit to match.  The other two wore baseball caps and track suits, attempting to blend in.  It had quite the opposite effect of what they intended.  Mulder winced as he sat up in an attempt to greet them.

He was immediately under interrogation.  

Langly blinked through his thick framed glasses. “What put you in the hospital this time?  You do look like hell- what happened to your face?  And you’re really pale- is it vampires again?” 

Frohike stepped forward, his eyes squinted in faux clinical analysis.  “Yeah, you look even worse than usual.” 

Mulder began to grin, but stopped abruptly at the tight, painful pull of newly healing skin.  “Thanks, Melvin.  I missed you, too.” 

Near the doorway, Byers pressed his lips together, holding in his amusement. 

“You owe us, ya know.”  Frohike huffed and crossed his arms.  “Landline contact from a very public facility, plus demanding we come into said public facility.”

“Demanding?  Hardly.  Dramatic today, aren’t we?”

Frohike ignored him. “You put us at serious risk, my friend.  Not to mention, we are putting some highly sensitive research on standby for you right now.” 

Langly nodded, his long blonde hair nodding with him, and spoke in an enthusiastic whisper. “It’s true, Mulder, you would find it fascinating.  I can’t go into specifics here- obviously - but it has to do with the Bermuda Triangle and advanced technology.”  His eyes were wide with excitement.

Mulder shook his head, immediately regretting it from the way the room began spinning.  “No... no.   I’ve had enough of the Bermuda Triangle to last me a while.  But I’m okay, mostly.  I called you guys for Scully.  Not me.”

“We wondered.  Usually you call her.  You calling us was a big red flag.”  Frohike’s face grew more serious.  “Is she okay?”

“Boy you don’t care about me at all, do you?”

Frohike shrugged.  “Not as much as her.  No.”  

Mulder nodded.  He understood perfectly.  Scully meant more to him than anything on this cursed planet, yet here he was, tied down by IV tubing and kept from knowing anything about her.

“Fair.  Well first of all, you need to know that they won’t tell me about her, won’t let me see her.  Some of the people here think I did something to hurt her- and I didn’t.” 

Frohike’s eyes narrowed.  “Did you do something on accident?” 

“No!  Absolutely not.”

“Jeez man, just asking.”

The slumped shoulders and the angry, pained look in Mulder’s eyes were enough to silence any more sarcasm. 

He rubbed a hand over his forehead, down to rest on the bridge of his nose, and heaved a deep sigh.   “I have been trying so damn hard to keep her safe… and I can’t.”  His confession whispered through his lips, and he felt himself break at the admission of his own impotence.  Uttering it aloud somehow made all of his attempts to protect her seem pathetic.  “I need you, and so does she.”

Langly adjusted his glasses and moved to the bedside, focused solely on helping the battered, frustrated man before him.  “You know us, Mulder.  Anything you need, we’ll do.”  

Mulder nodded slowly, composing himself.  There was too much at stake for his volatile emotions to win.  Not now.  

“This won’t make sense, and we don’t have time for me to explain.  There are demons that want us both.  Lots of them.”  Mulder wondered at himself.  He had lived it, and yet it sounded insane even to him.   “It began with Scully, but somehow I’m part of it, too.  They’ve… claimed us.  I can’t think of a better way to explain it.  Claimed her… and if we don’t figure out how to stop it…she’s…” He didn’t finish the thought.  He couldn’t.  

The Gunmen looked at each other, faces grim. 

“Tell us how we can help.”  The voice Byers used was quiet and calm, but he rocked his body back and forth behind the other two in an unconscious, nervous rhythm.

Mulder offered the best smile he could.  It was miniscule.  

“Thank you, guys.”  He drew a breath.  “Well, we need information, and I can’t help until I’m released from this stupid room.”

“No problem, finding information is our specialty.”  Langly offered a genuine, reassuring smile.  

“I know.”  Mulder felt his spirits rise slightly.  “I need you guys to find out everything you can about Phillip Padgett.  He was an author, and was part of our case last week.  He was somehow able to write things that came true.  He’s responsible for the deaths of at least three people- and tried to kill Scully.”

Frohike sputtered, furious.  “That bastard!  You caught him, right?”

“He’s dead.”  

“Oh.  Well, that takes care of that.”

Mulder’s lips were drawn in a thin line.  “It should.  But I’m not sure.  Scully definitely thinks he’s part of this, somehow.”

Langly squinted at Mulder quizzically through his black frames.  “How can a dead guy be part of what’s happening to Scully?  Do you think he faked his death?”

“Could be.  But Scully performed the autopsy… and she was pretty, uh, familiar with his face.”  Mulder felt his stomach clench at the memory of Scully sitting on Padgett’s bed, so close to him.  “I need you to get all the details you can find, Langly.  Anything about him.  Where he was from, where his ability to write things could have come from… and if that body is still in the morgue.  And we also need information on the area surrounding Laroy, Illinois.  Any paranormal activity, missing person files… anything that can help us figure out what we’re dealing with.”  

“Can do.”

“Now you guys,” Mulder directed his attention to Frohike and Byers.  “I need you here.  This is gonna sound insane, but… Well, when we are alone, the demons seem to have access to us.  I don’t really understand it, but that’s how it seems to work.  It’s like… something has us… marked.”  He swallowed hard.  “I’ve seen them almost take her.  Me being there doesn’t help, I’m just more food for them.  But last night, in her apartment, the police came for a disturbance call, and-”

Frohike interrupted.  “Well, what were you two doing?”  He waggled his eyebrows.

Mulder pointedly ignored him.  “They were everywhere, and… in us.  I know this doesn’t make sense, but when the men came through the door, everything stopped.  The demons have the ability, almost like permission, to attack us.  But when other people- other souls- are there, they can’t do what they want.  Or can’t complete what they begin.  So they leave.”  

The concept of souls, of some eternal aspect of self, had always seemed odd to Mulder.  Somewhat contrived and self important.  It was a way for mankind to believe they had a larger supposed worth.  Yet now, he found himself at a loss for any other explanation.  It was terrifying.  Yet the thought of an eternal piece of himself existing with Scully, somehow… he found himself desperate for that aspect to be real.

“I know you guys like to work together, but we really need you to split up and keep us from being alone.  Otherwise… well, we might not be here for much longer.”

The men nodded, though their faces were reluctant.  Being stuck in a hospital room with no special equipment and no defined ending time sounded torturous.  

“You,” Mulder nodded to Byers.  “I need you to be Scully’s protection.  Make sure she isn’t alone.  And let me know how she is, if you can.” 

Frohike balked, his mouth agape.  “What?  How does he get that assignment?”  He waved his hand at Byers dismissively, who stood awkward between them, attempting to avoid eye contact.  “What makes Byers the guy for the job, when I-”  He stopped himself short.

Mulder’s thin smile returned.  “When you what, Melvin?”

“Phhh.  Nothing.”

“Byers is the most normal looking, disarming guy in this room.  No offense, but you and Langly stick out of any crowd.  Even with your sexy tracksuits.  We need Byers to be Scully’s brother… someone who could get medical information, who could stay with her.  Someone the medical staff wouldn’t question.  Besides,” Mulder’s smirk returned.  “I’ve missed you, Melvin.  I thought we could spend some quality time together.  Maybe even cuddle.”

Frohike shook his head.  “You’re an ass.” 

____________________

Golden light glimmered through the windowpanes, flashing off the metal railings and IV stand in a blinding glare.  The walls, pillows, blankets, even the pale wooden doors were illuminated by morning light that shone unnaturally.  Propped up with pillows in the glaringly white bed, Scully rested, half conscious.   Auburn hair splayed tousled and tangled around her head, and waffled strips of sterile white gauze wrapped expertly around sections of her arms.

When she finally attempted to open her eyes, she was blinded by the glow that filled the space before her.  Pieces of her body burned, but everything around her was feather light.  Peaceful.  It was a calm, silent space.   She took a deep, contented breath, nuzzling her head further into her pillow, only to feel a sharp sting on the back of her scalp. 

She groaned and reached behind her cranium, fingers settling on a bandage.  On shaved skin.  She startled.  Why hadn’t she noticed before?  She began frantically feeling the rest of her head for hair.  Her fingers combed through strand after tangled strand, and her quickened pulse slowed.  

She blinked, heaved a sigh, and looked down dully at the bandages on her forearms.   She hadn’t noticed them the night before, either.  From the glass on her floor, she realized.  Turning her arms over before her, she wondered absently how many shards they had to extract from her epidermis, how many had pierced deeper, and how many new scars she would wear now, this side of heaven.   

She let her eyelids drift closed, attempting to quell her dismal thoughts.  It occurred to her that when one is so lacerated and abused, the scar tissue takes over and the softer, unmarred flesh is barely visible, but hidden and safe underneath.  

Her heart felt that way now.  She loathed it.  

A knock at the doorway rattled her.

“Agent Dana Scully?  You’re awake.”

A young police officer stepped a few feet into the room, squinting at the brilliant light.  He attempted a polite smile.

“Yeah.  I’m awake.”  She looked him over, trying to place him.  He stood tall and lean, with sandy brown hair, freckles, and a face yet to be worn down.  He looked no older than 25, she guessed.  Though she prided herself on remembering details, this face escaped her.  Her stomach clenched.  

“Have we met, Officer…?”

“Matt Harris.”  He smiled again.  “We haven’t actually met, no.  I responded to a call about a disturbance at your residence.  I asked the doctor to notify me when you were alert so I could ask you a few questions.”

“Oh.”  She looked down at her bandages once more.

Officer Harris took another step into the room.  “It’s okay, Dana.  You’re safe here.  We just want to know how this happened so we can keep it from happening again.  I have a few questions, they won’t take long.  Is it alright for me to ask you a few things?  Do you feel well enough for that?”

Scully frowned, but caught and held his gaze.  He seemed to be a real person, but her fingers found the “call nurse” button that lay next to her on the bed.  

As if a nurse could do anything to a demon. 

She was familiar with these interviews, and the very notion that some stranger could consider her a victim in that sense made her smolder.  There was no word, no feeling she despised more.  Besides, she couldn’t tell anyone the truth.  Not the police officer.  Certainly not the medical staff.  At best, they would assume she was lying to protect someone.  At worst, she would be held for psychiatric evaluation.

“I… I really don’t feel up to questions, Officer Harris.  But thank you.”  She offered a superficial smile. 

Shifting in place, the young officer looked indecisively toward the door, then back to her.  “Well… could you let me know, was anyone else in the apartment with you, Ms. Scully?  Did you let anyone in, or did anyone force their way in, or…” 

Her forced grin fell off her face.  There was nothing she could offer him, truthfully, that would answer his questions.   She sighed, weary. 

“Listen.  I appreciate this, I really do.  But I’m fine.  My partner, well, my friend was with me, but he wouldn’t hurt me.  Ever.  There wasn’t anyone else that I remember being there.”  

The lie tasted bitter on her tongue.  She supposed, though, that a spirit didn’t technically count as another person.  Physically at least. 

Officer Harris raised an eyebrow, then cleared his throat.  “You said ‘that you remember.’  What do you mean?”

“At some point in the early morning… I became unconscious.”  She knew how it sounded, and winced internally at the judgment she saw on his face.  “I’m tired, officer.  I really just want to rest.”

He frowned to himself, scratching a note on his notepad.  “If you happen to remember anything else, please get in touch.”  He walked to her bedside, placed a card on the table, and stared down at her.  His eyes were serious.  “But off record, Ms. Scully, I suggest you and your friend stop fraternizing if it ends like this.”  

Her face was stone.  “There is nothing else.  Agent Mulder had nothing to do with what happened to me.  And if I do have any more details, I won’t be calling you, because off record, Officer Harris, I have observed many well done victim interviews.”   She glared up at him.  “This wasn’t one of them.”

He blinked, turned abruptly and left. 

The condescending tone in his voice had reminded her too much of Kersh.  She slumped back into the hospital bed, furious, but too exhausted to do anything about it. 

Almost against her will at first, she felt herself beginning to drift back to sleep, and chose not to fight it.  The darkness wasn’t here.  It wasn’t here. 

But before she could fully succumb, another knock sounded loudly at her doorway.  She jolted awake.  

“Ms. Scully?”  A nurse with a kind face and bright, cartooned kitten scrubs peeked in.  “I’m sorry to disturb you, hun, but your brother is here to see you.  I can send him away if you’d rather not have company.”

Scully blinked.  Who had called Bill?  And if Bill was here, her mother wouldn’t be too far behind.  She groaned inwardly, but forced a small smile. 

“Sure, yeah.  He can come in, I’m awake.”  She tried to sit up a bit, to look less battered.  She was certain, with her bandages and her hollowed eyes, she looked not unlike Lazarus.  Bill would be furious to see her like this. 

A well dressed, bearded man stepped through the doorway.  He offered an awkward grin, and an equally awkward wink.  

“Hey, sis.  I heard you’re feeling bad, and you could use some company.”  Byers walked across the room to the chair by her bedside.  “I came as soon as I could.”

“You two have a good chat, Ms. Scully,” the nurse called.  “Press the button if you need anything at all.”  Her footsteps retreated down the hospital hallway. 

I 

Byers leaned in, attempting to be quiet but reassuring.  “Mulder sent me.  He told us what happened.  I’m your personal bodyguard, I think.  For now anyway.”

Scully smiled.  “Thanks.”  She cleared her throat.  “So, is he…” she trailed off, glancing down at her bandaged arms. 

“Oh, he’s okay.  He’s okay.”  Byers’s face was sincere. “He just can’t come see you right now, but he’s just on the next floor down.” 

“They hurt him again.”  Scully’s tired eyes grew wet, in spite of herself.  “It’s not going to stop.”

“No, it’s going to be okay.  Really.”  Byers cleared his throat and patted his hand on hers.  It was painfully evident that he had little experience in comforting another human, but she appreciated the effort.  “The guys are taking care of it.  And Mulder.  And I’m here taking care of you.  We’re going to figure this out.”

She nodded.  A tired grin graced her lips for a brief moment, then darted away.  “Tell me how he is.  Please.”  She felt her desperation rising to the surface. “I just.. I want to see him.  I need to see him.” 

“Soon,” Byers promised.  “But you should rest.  Mulder’s okay.  I’m sure he’ll be released soon.  He seemed ready to leave his hospital bed immediately to come find you.”

She breathed a soft laugh.  “Mm.  Typical Mulder.” 

“He’s safe.  And so are you.”

She scoffed inwardly.  

“You don’t have to stay, you know.”  She carefully adjusted her head on the pillow.  “I’m going to sleep.  I’ll be fine.”  She wondered at the last three words.  How often she had lied them. 

Byers leaned forward.  His face was suddenly very serious.  “I won’t leave.  Mulder said you can’t be alone.”

She would have folded her arms, were it not for the IV tubing and painful sutures.  She settled for a skeptical glare. 

“I wasn’t alone.  He was at my house and they… they came anyway.”  The memory of Mulder’s face twisting, melting into the hollow, haunting visage of Padgett made her stomach suddenly sick.  “He tried to stop it.  He couldn’t.”  

____________________

“Mulder, you’re not gonna believe this.”  Langly’s excited voice greeted the men from the doorway.

“I hope it’s good news.”  Mulder tried to smile.

“Sure.  Good news you aren’t on my missing persons list.”  

Mulder and Frohike glanced at each other.  

Papers rustled in Langly’s hands as he walked toward the bed.

“I dug into the small town in Illinois first, and a Philip Padgett was actually listed as a resident of the Laroy area in the last two censuses- and since he was listed as a minor there, I traced the family back.  Before they moved, he lived in Springfield, Missouri.  They moved when he was around seven, and his mother left soon after.  Just disappeared.  She’s one of sixty-eight people listed as missing from the Laroy area over the past thirty years.  Not all from that town, but most are from the same county. They seem to be grouped into clusters, three here, five here.  I’ve organized the disappearances chronologically and listed the dates for you.” 

He placed the papers on Mulder’s lap. 

“Anything specific about Padgett?  We couldn’t find any criminal record.  Or friends.  Or family.”  

Langly shook his head.  “Nothing.  All his rentals have been in his name alone. The only time spent away from Laroy was his time in college at Illinois State University.  English and language arts major, minor in religious studies.  No surviving family.  His father died two years ago.  Looks like he moved to DC shortly after that.”  

Mulder chewed his lip in thought. 

“I went ahead and printed all his former addresses.  His last one was in your building.  Crazy!” 

Mulder grimaced.  “I know.  It wasn’t a coincidence, he planned it.”  He continued to flip through the pages, slowly studying the new information.  So many missing people.  So many lost souls.  

“You have been a busy bee haven’t you?”  Frohike teased.

“Doing my best while you sit on your ass with Mulder all day.”  Langly turned his attention back to his wounded friend. “I’ll have to check for the body when they finally bail you out.  I can break into places, I can get you full family histories and social security numbers, but overriding morgue security and breaking in solo… even I can’t do that.”

Frohike put his hand over his heart.  “Ah, it’s good to be needed, isn’t it, Mulder?”  

Mulder did not respond.  The color had drained from his face.  

“Mulder?”  Langly stepped closer.  “What is it?”  

Mulder’s eyes were trained on the page of Padgett’s former addresses.  Washington, D.C.  Normal, Illinois.  Laroy.

“This address.  1650 Hainsville Road.”  His voice was tight.  “You sure he lived here?” 

Langly nodded.

“That address… is the one that Scully tried to take us to.  We ended up at a farmhouse. With demons.”

The Gunmen looked at each other.  The afternoon sunlight was tainted by uncomfortable silence. 

Frohike sucked a breath and spoke.  “But…  how would Scully know his old address?” 

Mulder’s pupils were laser focused, burning a hole through the paper.

“I don’t think she did,” he said quietly.  “I think… she said what he wanted her to say.”  His mind was reeling, his stomach twisted.  

“I don’t understand,” Langly said, regret evident in his voice.  

“Have you ever wanted something so bad, you would do anything to get it?”  As Mulder spoke, his words were chalk in his mouth. Eyes unfocused, brow heavy with sickened understanding.  “What if… what if Padgett found a way to do just that?  What if he made some supernatural attempt, some bargain to get who he wanted?”

“You meant what,” Frohike said.

Mulder shook his head, slow.  Afraid.  “Not what.  Who.  He wants Scully.”

_____________________

[apologyacceptedcaptainneeda]

I’m so scared to get a new psychiatrist. My last one was horrible. She was not good. She reality checked me on our first appointment, which sent me spiraling. She made assumptions about my symptoms and gave me no time to tell her she was wrong. She didn’t take into account all my symptoms and which ones were more severe when adjusting my meds. But the thing that pisses me off the most is how she handled adding a med. She flat out coerced me. She placed me on a benzo despite all my concerns and fear of it. She even showed me some graph that showed my risk of overdose, which was low but still there. She also said the benzo was safer than a specific antipsychotic I had been on previously.

Yeah. That was not ok. Definitely not something to tell someone actively in psychosis. Also fucking hell why did she lower a med treating my severe anxiety and severe depression?

When I said I was diagnosed with bpd, she questioned why. On the first appointment. Because I meet all the criteria! That’s why! I was diagnosed! I didn’t pluck it from the air!

Or when she said I’m not schizophrenic. I’m schizoaffective, I know this. I didn’t say I was schizophrenic. She fucking wasn’t listening. She also said I wasn’t disorganized. Ha! I very much am. I have days of intense word salad among other disorganized symptoms that are constant. She didn’t let me explain that.

Also just the blatant disregard for my history. I have past suicide attempts. I am chronically suicidal. I actively self harm. I have a long history or trauma. I struggle to reliably take my meds. I have been hospitalized so many times.

She. Did. Not. Care.

I took myself off the benzo. Yeah. I fucking did. Because I am not ok with being on it. And it is not safe for me to be on it. She put me on it twice a day every day. She gave me on the second appointment three month of refills. Yeah. So it wasn’t a short temporary get through this rough patch med. She was going to leave me on it. How fucking irresponsible.

So I’m not going back to that psychiatrist. Ever. I refuse.

[nibeul]

every time my doctor tells me my bloody noses r normal I feel like I have to ask everyone how long theirs normally last n how frequently they get them because I think im going insane

[ink-asunder]

I wish to god someone actually discussed risks and side effects associated with treatment instead of forcing me to go into it blind and deal with the iatrogenic side effects completely unprepared.