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ironcladrhett · 6 months

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TIMING: Immediately following 'Fade to Black' LOCATION: Gatlin Fields, near the Flat PARTIES: Parker (@wonder-in-wings) and Rhett (@ironcladrhett) SUMMARY: Parker receives an alarming call from Rhett and he goes to help. CONTENT WARNINGS: Medical blood (brief type mention), suicidal ideation, eye trauma

—

“...Rhett?”

“Werewolf got me. Probably got ‘bout twenty minutes afore I bleed out. Bring supplies. It’s safe now. Send you the coordinates in a sec. Somewhere near the edge of the Flat.”

Parker wasn’t the type to drop things when he was surprised, afraid or angry. Indeed, his ability to maintain his composure under incredible duress was something that even his father acknowledged was a strength of his, even if his mother knew that it could just as easily be a weakness in the right (or wrong) circumstances. So when Rhett called him, breathing heavily, still managing to make himself coherent and told the younger Warden that he’d been attacked by a werewolf and that he was approximately twenty minutes from dying, Parker said nothing in response and if Rhett hadn’t hung up first, he would’ve.

The coordinates were received and promptly entered into his phone as Parker swept through his house with a purposeful stride, collecting the large medical bag that had just about everything one could possibly need for any medical emergency. Well… almost everything. As Parker raced down the dark streets of Nightfall Grove, sharp blue eyes darted up at the archaic sign of the neighborhood apothecary and he debated very briefly about running in, grabbing whatever looked the most familiar to what Jonas had offered him that day for his reaction to Blue and throwing a hundred bucks at the cashier but ultimately, the risk and reward wasn’t great enough - he literally didn’t have time for an altercation or distraction from anyone that would’ve wanted to give him grief.

So, he headed straight to the coordinates that Rhett had supplied, only allowing one set of instructions to pass through his mind: Keep Rhett from dying. He refused to entertain any other, less logical notions or consider any other possibilities; they had no place in his mind. They never did.

Fortunately, if there was fortune to be found in the call or coordinates he received, Rhett was relatively close to where Parker lived so the younger Warden got there as quickly as he possibly could’ve, running lights and taking tight turns until his bloodstained hatchback took him out to Gatlin Fields, much closer to Serpent’s Flat than he’d have liked with its acrid stench and domineering presence looming in the distance. It took a little longer than he’d have liked due to the black pits of ooze that periodically dotted the road and surrounding fields, causing him to circumvent the most direct route.

—

The warden sat backed against a tree not far from the cave entrance, looking like he’d been to hell and back… and might be on his way down one last time. Four long gashes had been sliced across his face, from where the werewolf’s claws had gripped beneath his jaw and behind his ear to wrench him to the ground. The second from the top had gone right over his left eye socket, mangling the blind eye beyond saving. His face was almost entirely red, short beard stained a dark scarlet as the blood pooled among the hair before dripping onto the shirt he wore. One that had been similarly shredded, three much more shallow claw marks starting from his collarbone and ending just above the waist of his jeans. His left leg was mangled, soaked red and broken in several places, more dead weight than anything at this point.

On the ground about ten feet from where Rhett sat were clear signs of a struggle, and a pool of his own blood that streaked its way to his current position. Slightly farther from him than that was another significant bloodstain—one that was not his own. It dripped off in the direction of town with two pairs of footsteps, leading him right to the fae if he cared enough to pursue it. He did not. Not that he could, anyway. He was on death’s door, his breathing shallow and ragged, gaze upturned toward the sky. He wondered if Parker would get here in time, and then wondered what would happen if he didn’t.

There was some guilt there, for the things he’d be leaving unfinished. This business with Mariela and his daughter, properly smoothing things over with Emilio… but, he supposed, then he at least wouldn’t have to deal with the fallout of having attacked the two young’uns that seemed to be fond of Alan. And vice versa. Ugh.

Lost in thought, feeling more tired than he ever had, the sound of a car engine in the distance made his brow furrow. Ah. Perhaps he’d survive this after all.

He wasn’t sure if that was better or worse.

The most he could do to acknowledge Parker’s arrival as the warden hurried over to him, bag in hand, was to slightly turn his head in his friend’s direction. And god did he look like a horror show.

—

The smell of blood mixed with the stench of the flats as the Warden scanned the environment. A cave entrance, a sparse dotting of trees. Obvious signs of a struggle, upturned earth, blood that sprayed the ground. His eyes found two blood trails and he opted to follow the one that led him to Rhett. Or… he could only assume it was Rhett; the pirate was virtually unrecognizable with all the sets of gashes he’d acquired from the werewolf - and it was definitely a werewolf, Parker could tell as even the stray hairs that remained at the crime scene, sticking to the opened wounds on Rhett’s body were enough to irritate his sinuses.

The younger Warden approached the other, dropping to a crouch as he quickly assessed the level of threat each injury presented. Marks on the face, deep, wide, profuse. A shred of stiffness and hesitancy as Parker examined the eye that, while still able to move around normally before, had been completely ruined by the attack. He moved downward where he saw the decidedly more superficial claw marks on Rhett’s chest - they were long but Parker didn’t think they were the cause of the bloodloss. They’d scar but they weren’t Parker’s primary concern so he ruled them out of his plans for emergency operation. Now those blue eyes went down to Rhett’s left leg, bent out of shape, disfigured, with exposed flesh and bone and muscles.

Could it be saved? Could Rhett be saved? The understanding that death could come for anyone at any time and that it was ultimately futile to try to deny it was a recurring ideology spread across hunters, no matter the subtype or generation. And yet, Rhett had used what little strength and energy he had to call Parker, of all people. The younger Warden didn’t pride himself on being the one tasked with pulling a man from the brink of death - he’d done it once before. He could do it again. Rhett calling him was a nonverbal indicator though of what, Parker didn’t think about.

“I’ll need to dress the wounds on your face.” Parker started first, speaking clearly, swiping his nose with the back of a wrist absently as he started to set up his medical bag. “Your eye… is beyond repair; I can extract it or you can keep it if you’d rather but that might cause complications in the future.” He was being clinical but making sure that he was being loud enough that Rhett was able to hear him from wherever the Warden lingered on his lifeline; Parker refused to believe that Rhett would die here and now. From his interactions with the pirate, until just now when he was assessing the damage to Rhett’s body, Parker almost got the childish impression that Rhett couldn’t die.

Asking for Rhett’s blood type seemed futile - Parker had the means for a transfusion but he wasn’t so dumb as to assume that getting more blood was better than just fixing what he could. “I also need to set your left leg. I assume you don’t want to lose it but…” He faltered before clearing his throat. “I have anesthesia.” He offered, reaching down to pull the fabric off from around Rhett’s ruined leg so he could properly apply a tourniquet. “One of my needles will knock you out for a couple of hours.” He licked his lower lip, moving his head so he could catch Rhett’s dark, lifeless gaze.

“What do you want me to do?”

A pause, a new plan that formulated in his mind. One that Parker very rarely considered when he or other hunters were in danger and injured. “Rhett, I should take you to a hospital.” The word itself tasted unusual on his tongue. Parker was ambitious but he understood his limits pretty well. And this… whether he liked it or not, this was outside of them.

—

The options were grim, but not unexpected. The eye was as good as gone, and the leg would be too, if they didn’t do something about it quickly, but… while he worked up the energy to respond, breath hitching in his throat a few times, Parker offered a different solution entirely.

He’d never been to a fucking hospital, a fact that he assumed Parker knew, judging by the general hunter mentality regarding those places. While his accelerated healing might raise some brows, he didn’t think he’d be there long enough for it to really become a problem, and… well. There was only so much that two wardens could do all on their own in the wilderness.

“Set it,” he wheezed. “Close me up so I—so I can make it there.” A beat as he caught his breath. “No anesthetics.” If he did die at some point during this situation, he didn’t want it to be while he was knocked out. He wanted to feel every second of it. He was fading as it was, feeling lightheaded and slightly confused, which was about as good as it was going to get for setting his shredded limb. None of it felt good, but Rhett was relatively quiet throughout the process, not wanting to complain and slow his friend down. He lost consciousness twice, but the next painful task would wake him up again with a throaty groan. Who knew being stabilized would be such a pain in the ass?

Finally, the deed was done. He was as good as he was going to get, out here at the Flat. Next came perhaps the most challenging part—loading him into the vehicle to get him over to WR General Hospital. He couldn’t stand, so Parker had to carry him. Something he might’ve complained about were he not on the brink of death, but it was the farthest thing from his mind right now.

Once they breached the doors of the emergency room, however, all that changed. The swarm of strangers trying to ask him and Parker both questions as they laid him out on a stretcher and poked him with needles to get him hooked up to IVs rubbed him very much the wrong way, and the warden lashed out like a cornered stray. He began to regret his decision to allow this, but now that he was here, they didn’t seem keen on letting him leave.

A doctor told Parker that Rhett would need emergency orthopedic surgery to save the leg, and advised the younger warden to head home after giving his contact info to reception, telling him he’d be contacted once the man was stable and set up in a room, but the procedures to repair his leg and remove the eye would take a while.

And a while it did take—it was ten hours later when the man finally came out from under the anesthesia, blinking awake in a quiet hospital room, bleary-eyed and confused. Squinting felt strange, and he lifted a hand to his face to feel the bandage secured over his left eye socket, as well as the stitches covered in dermabond that lined his face. A nervous glance downward did confirm, however, that he still had two legs, and the warden released a sigh of relief. At least there was that.

—

He knew it was unfair to expect a coherent answer from the dying Warden as Parker himself was torn evenly in two by what he could’ve and should’ve done. Even as he waited for a response, the logic in the younger man’s mind told him that if nothing else, before anything else, he needed to tourniquet the leg. Fortunately, Rhett’s eventual response, tinged with blood and borrowed from a set of lungs that weren’t working properly, reached the side of Parker’s hearing that could acknowledge and process it correctly.

No anesthetics. Set the leg. It was going to be the first of many tribulations but all things considered, though he didn’t have to be, Rhett was a surprisingly docile patient. Parker still had the ability to work in silence, with or without the plaintive moans, grunts and curses from whoever or whatever he was working on. It took several different movements and a lot of cracking that no one should’ve heard due to how unnatural they were but, as Parker placed the straightest branch of the tree that he could find against the leg and wrapped it in a thick bandage, it was set. Enough. The bleeding had largely ceased thanks to the tourniquet and putting the bones back into the leg where they were supposed to go and Parker cleaned his hands with one of the many rags from his medical bag, casting a glance at his shoddy handiwork before looking over his shoulder at his car which wasn’t too far away, to a normal, mobile person.

Rhett was anything but, though, and with another useless sniffle (seriously, Rhett couldn’t have been attacked by literally anything else?) and the instructions in his mind, Parker lifted the older Warden, collected his medical bag and carried the both of them to his car. Usually, he would’ve asked for permission but he was more than willing to be complained at, later - something told him that he would’ve looked forward to it. Rhett would complain at him later, once he was properly fixed.

The following checkpoints of that night wanted to be something of a blur, an automated mind that ran on autopilot as he drove to the emergency services. He did, however, remain sharply cognizant of where they were and never quite lost track of where he was or ultimately what was going on, though he found himself getting very irritated very quickly by the wave of questions, concerns and explanations circulated between everyone. It was a bear attack. His name is Everett Tangaroa. Here is my information. It probably wasn’t a good idea to– Well, that last part about anesthetics was something they had to learn the hard way.

The older Warden was whisked away, leaving Parker with the knowledge that he’d have to undergo an emergency surgery, that Parker was advised to go home and get some rest, that they’d let him know when they were finished and if something unexpected would happen and that they’d do everything they could to save the man. Parker didn’t have the heart or the patience to explain that he didn’t look the way he did because he was crying for Rhett.

But… as he went back out to his car with one more comment saying that the police would contact him if they had any questions or reason for suspicious activity or foul play, Parker wondered if he would’ve cried if that was the last time he saw Rhett. Now that he was laying in the back of his hatchback, considering just sleeping there until he was contacted about any updates, he felt his hands shaking. His breath, already coming to him with difficulty through a stuffed up nose, was more shallow than he wanted it to be. Were the tears in his eyes because of the residual werewolf hairs that now lingered in his car or was he actually… afraid for Rhett?

He sniffed again, pulled himself out of the back of the car and ultimately decided to go home, clean himself up, get some sleep - he’d been rational so far, it was foolish to stop now because of some childish fear that the man he’d only known for a few months was in critical condition and that Parker might find himself without a pair once more. Rhett wasn’t his brother. Rhett was his friend. And Parker wasn’t used to those anymore.

Maybe this was why.

Sleep was uneasy, hearkening back to those couple of weeks when he was tormented by nightmares that didn’t belong to him, nightmares that didn’t belong. And he kept his phone as loud as it could be and very near to him, waiting for something, anything. The second he received a call saying that Rhett was stable and moved into a room Parker could visit, he was dressed and out of that door, on his way, heading up the elevator and now lingering in the doorway to Rhett’s room, where he saw the proud Warden covered in gauze, bandages, an elevated leg and hooked up to the machines. He paused for a moment before rapping his knuckles on the wood. “Rhett.” He called, his tone carrying an uncharacteristic gentleness to it.

—

His hackles had raised the moment he’d been put on a stretcher and wheeled into a small room in the ED where his injuries could be more closely examined, anger and fear peeking through the haze of blood loss. He snapped at the nurses and doctors that were trying to help him, arguing with them as loudly as he could and generally making their jobs as difficult as possible. He didn’t know why, it was just an instinctual reaction. But at least Parker was there, speaking with a few people, trying to give his best account of what’d happened and what all he knew of Rhett’s injuries. But, in the frantic rush to get the warden stripped, sedated, and on his way to the operating room, he lost track of his friend. Suddenly he was moving down a hallway, which—how had he gotten here? Where was Parker? Not understanding the procedure for these things, the sudden sense of being very alone filled Rhett with panic. He tried to shout, but nothing came out. His body wouldn’t respond to him, finally laying still on the stretcher.

Seeing the bright overhead lights as they passed through another set of doors, Rhett realized he was in the operating room. Those big, circular lamps overhead looked just like the shit he’d seen on the telly. The voices around him were muffled and he felt sleepy, but fear kept his one eye open. He couldn’t move, he couldn’t speak, and now they were moving him from the stretcher onto a table in the center of the room, and for some fucking reason, Rhett felt certain he was going to die.

But of course he hadn’t. The memory that he had a feeling he wasn’t supposed to have was just that—a memory of something that’d been successful. Because he wasn’t in the operating room anymore, he was safe in a much softer bed, in a dimly lit room with a window that looked out over Deersprings. His thoughts were jumbled again, his mind confusing the past for the present and vice versa. He felt strange and floaty and disconnected, and he wasn’t sure if it was from the drugs or whatever the hell was wrong with his head.

A voice snapped him out of his distant stare out the window and he turned his head, struggling to make out who it was in the dark. The voice was familiar, though, and he thought about it for a moment.

Ah.

“Parker?” His voice was hoarse from all the screaming he’d been doing, both before and after the procedure. Evidently, he was not peaceful while he slept, but at least he’d been still. He lifted a hand off the bed and rested it on the guardrail, extending it palm-up toward his friend as he entered the room. “Hey. Hey, mate.” It felt silly, but he said it nonetheless as Parker reached his bedside. “Thank you. I… you did it. You got me here. Probably saved my life.” He’d take the other’s hand if it was offered, giving it a squeeze that was nowhere near as strong as what Parker was used to. “Thank you.”

—

He was aware, at least aware enough to recognize that it was Parker that stood in the doorway for a moment before slowly making his way over to the side of the bed. The latter approached with a measure of hesitance; throughout the entire ordeal, the younger had all but pushed his own latent fear (or strong disdain, he’d probably tell you) of hospitals by the wayside in favor of making sure Rhett was taken care of. Now that the immediate danger was over, now that it was quiet (if only because Rhett had obviously rubbed his voice raw) and relatively calm, Parker felt out of place. Neither of them belonged there, he felt, not with their accelerated healing, the hunter genes either flat-out rejecting or at least diluting the effects of anesthesia and medication. Neither of them, engineered and constructed as they were to withstand pain and heal quickly so they could go out and do it again, belonged at the hospital with the gentle staff, compassionate hands and a genuine want to help.

Parker understood the sentiment from the other side of a glass pane. It wasn’t that hunters weren’t deserving of help, it was that oftentimes there wasn’t a way to. And as he drew closer to Rhett, sharp blue eyes dancing over the multiple bandages, tubes and sterile colors, hearing Rhett say his name and offer a hand, presumably for the younger Warden to take and to tell him ‘thank you’... None of it felt right. Timidly, Parker placed his hand into Rhett’s, feeling the texture of calloused skin send an involuntary spike of discomfort up his arm but he knew to expect it.

And for a long moment, Parker was silent. He wasn’t sure what to say, now that he was able to think about what he wanted to say instead of what needed to be said. He wanted to apologize for leaving Rhett, wanted to apologize for taking him to the hospital in the first place when he knew that Rhett wasn’t keen on the idea. He wanted to make light of the situation, which was strange for him but he was learning that levity was a useful tool - remaining serious the entire time, while having its benefits, wasn’t appropriate bedside manner. Rhett wasn’t a robot like he was; he was a person with strong emotions, a flare of anger and passion, the ability to laugh when he heard something that he liked.

But Parker also didn’t want to make a poorly-timed joke. Unless… Would that have been what Rhett wanted? The Warden was only a couple of years younger than Rhett but he felt so much more ill-suited for things like this. He swallowed the knot in his throat and he took his eyes off of Rhett, casting his gaze out of the window as he held Rhett’s hand, returning the gentle squeeze with his own. He’d held hands with Metzli at their request and it was a similar feeling: Nice. Calm. Connective.

“It’s–” He stammered before clearing his throat. “I knew you’d make it.” He changed trajectory. “I’m… I see that you got to keep your leg.” Parker looked back to Rhett slowly. “It was… not supposed to bend that way.” There. A joke. A light one, to gauge the other Warden to see if that was what was needed.

—

As if realizing himself, the warden gently withdrew his hand after a few beats, clearing his throat. He’d blame it on the drugs trying their damndest to keep him docile, he figured. Still, what Parker had said did draw a laugh out of him, and he used the now-free hand to scratch at his head, looking at the limb that was lifted into the air. “Aye, yer right about that,” he agreed with a grin, sighing and angling his head to look at it from a slightly different perspective. There was no cast, but the whole thing was bandaged all to hell. He wasn’t sure what they’d done—he vaguely recalled someone coming into the room earlier to explain it, but he couldn’t remember what they said. Something about… metal plates? Anyway, didn’t matter. He’d heal a hell of a lot faster than they expected, and to that point—Rhett looked down at the various lines coming from him and the sensors attached to his chest and grunted impatiently, beginning to peel them off and pull them out. An alarm or two went off as he did this but he paid it no mind, instead looking at Parker expectantly.

“Oi, figure out how to get the baby rails down, wouldja? We gotta get outta this joint.”

Two nurses came hurrying into the room to see what was happening and very quickly started trying to talk him down, but the warden was determined as he wiggled his bad leg out of the sling and continued fussing with the railing of the bed.

“I know, I know, I hear ya! Listen, I’m fine, and I’m gonna go home now n’ finish healin’ up there, ah’right? Where’s my things?” He shouted over their protests, growing more irritated by the second. “You wanna help me, get me a damn crutch ‘er somethin’.” They were bewildered, unable to physically stop him from leaving, but understandably very concerned about him eloping from the hospital against medical advice.

“Sir, please, you need to rest, you’re not even fully recovered from the—”

“Don’t ‘sir’ me, Penelope,” Rhett interjected, reading the name off her badge. “I ain’t never been a sir. Listen here. I respect ya, I do. Both ah’ya. But I got places to be n’ estranged children t’meet and I sure as shit ain’t doin’ it here in this hospital room. So. If you would kindly get me a god damned crutch…”

—

The younger Warden was relieved when Rhett, who had since withdrawn his hand and letting Parker’s go back to his belt in its comforting location, laughed at the comment. He was much less relieved, however, when the pirate abruptly started disconnecting him from the wires and nodes that were monitoring his body. “Negative.” He said at first in response to Rhett’s request to have him assist with the rails; Parker didn’t like it either but it didn’t seem like a good idea to start causing problems for the staff and potentially undoing the repairs that’d been done to the man by leaving for whatever reason.

Of course though, it was Rhett they were talking about and the older Warden was a fighter to the very end. The room went from calm to much more energetic and frantic rather quickly and while Rhett was yelling at the nurses, talking over one another and him and him yelling back to do this or that or the other, Parker managed to navigate through the confusion of bodies and movement and he grasped the lead physician’s arm as the latter entered through the door. “If I may have a moment.” He said before pulling the two back into the hall, temporarily leaving the poor nurses with Rhett’s unsightly temper.

“If you keep him here, he’ll do this at every available opportunity.” He tried to explain, keeping his stare on the doctor. “I know how it sounds, we know he’s still injured but please let him go.” Parker was almost positive that this was as far from standard protocol as possible, though he obviously didn’t know anything about any hospital protocol. He was also notably nervous even as he stood a full few inches over the head of the doctor. “Please. He’s… this is for your safety.” Because ultimately that was what it was; even in his weakened state, Rhett still had considerable strength and if they carried on the way they were going, despite Parker wishing he would just… not, someone was going to get hurt, someone who didn’t have accelerated healing. “You have my information, you can send me the bill. Just please give the man a crutch and let him come home with me.”

It was a little bit of a lie, to be sure, but after the physician couldn’t help but hear the circus erupting from the room and looking at the intense gaze in Parker’s eyes, he nodded in reluctant agreement. Without missing a beat, Parker exhaled and turned to go back into the other room, again doing his best to work around everyone until he was able to place his hand on Rhett’s shoulder forcibly. “Rhett, we’re leaving. Calm down. They’re bringing you some crutches. Then we can go.” A wheelchair would’ve been better, but Parker knew none of them could afford to be choosy when Rhett was pitching a fit. He spoke closely to Rhett, clearly, making sure his voice could be heard among the commotion; he supposed his mother’s insistence for formal vocal training wasn’t completely wasted, after all. Though he had to keep himself from collapsing under the newly-acquired observation of the nurses, who seemed to fall largely silent and regard him with an authority that he neither owned nor even wanted.

—

He’d gotten himself all worked up arguing with the nurses, finally figuring out how to lower the guardrail and watching it drop with a loud, satisfying clunk. “Ahaaa, there, see? Ya can’t fuckin’ hold me!” Stupid. He was behaving like a child, but sometimes that wasn’t really all that surprising.

“Mister Tangaroa, please do not try to stand,” nurse Penelope begged him, moving up close as he swung his legs over the edge of the hospital bed, groaning in pain.

“Oi, no, that’s my shitbird father!” Rhett hollered, waving a dismissive hand at her as she tried to gently press on his shoulders to keep him in place.

“Everett,” she barked, making him pause, but only for a moment. The other nurse, Dakota, was hovering anxiously between Penelope and the door, gaze dancing between the altercation in front of them and the visitor that was slipping out into the hall with Dr. Florman, unsure how best to help without manhandling the patient in a way that wasn’t quite legal. It was only their third week on the job, for heck’s sake! Rhett scoffed and shrugged away the concerned healthcare worker’s hands, scanning the room for his clothes. They had to be here somewhere, right? Even if they were tattered to shit.

“Where’s my stuff?! I need my stuff!”

“Th-they had to throw out your clothes, sir,” Dakota piped up nervously. “They were tattered and soaked in blood—”

“Damnit, all my clothes are like that! Fuck. Get me some joggers ‘er somethin’, then. Go on! I ain’t walkin’ outta here with a bare arse!” Dakota didn’t even want to argue, just nodding and scurrying out of the room, past the visitor and the doctor with a fearful look in their eyes. Penelope still wasn’t having it, arguing right back that he needed to stay put. That was when Parker returned, putting a hand on Rhett’s shoulder to get his attention. It took the older warden a moment to respond, but he did eventually look up at Parker and fall silent, giving him a small nod. And perhaps, since he’d stopped yelling long enough to make eye contact with his friend, Parker might notice that behind all the chest-puffing was a man who was very much still afraid.

Dakota returned with sweatpants in hand, just in time to hear the news from the doctor that they’d be letting the patient leave against medical advice. They gently set the pants on the bed next to the belligerent man, regarding Parker quietly before leaving the room again to get the requested crutches. Rhett picked them up as quick as he could, slipping them on with some fussing before standing up on one leg to tug them up around his waist. He held onto Parker for support until the crutches were delivered, reaching behind his head to untie the starchy gown they had him in and letting it drop to the floor.

“My phone,” he said as an afterthought, looking at Parker. “Did you end up with that, ‘er is she back at the cave?” It wasn’t a pressing matter, but he’d need it sooner rather than later. For right now, his main concern was getting the fuck out of that building. Crutches acquired, the injured warden led the way out of the hospital room, glaring at the rest of the staff and patients that’d congregated near the nurse’s desk to gawk.

—

If there was ever a set of circumstances to prove to Parker just how human Rhett was underneath the bravado, yelling, and character role he’d set for himself, it was this one as the younger Warden kept his gaze steady and his hand firmly connected to his shoulder. Grounding technique, it was called as he’d since done a modicum of research when he found himself wanting to help the pirate with the latter’s problems with dissociation. At least, that’s what Parker thought it was.

In any case, he did see the fear in Rhett’s eyes, a trapped animal in a scenario outside of his control and lashing out in the only way he knew to regain it. Parker couldn’t know how he himself would’ve reacted in this scenario - assuming he’d ever have allowed himself to be carted to a hospital or even been mauled by a werewolf to the point of needing an emergency operation - but he did understand Rhett’s recalcitrance. He couldn’t fix or change what had happened and he knew better than to assume that he could change the future, so he only did what he could do in the present, ever-flowing and malleable as it was. Fortunately, Rhett did seem to calm down, if only long enough for the nurses to retrieve the things he asked for.

A shoddy addition of pants and a longer wait than he was sure Rhett wanted on set of crutches later saw the two slowly leaving the hospital as Parker kept his vigilant eyes on the pirate’s hobbling visage, making sure that if the latter faltered that he’d be there to provide additional support. “I did. I’ll return it to you once we’re out of the establishment.” He suggested, wanting to fall silent once more, wanting to ignore the multiple pairs of eyes that stared at them, at Rhett’s Frankensteinian gait as the duo continued their departure. “My vehicle is a short distance away. I’d offer to go pick it up and meet you in front but…” But they both knew that Rhett could’ve been missing both of his legs and he still would’ve insisted on making the trek himself. “It’s not that far.” He ended up saying instead.

—

There was a lot of angry grumbling beneath his breath as they left the facility, mostly in response to all the attention they were garnering—it wasn’t every day you saw a heavily bandaged patient half-naked and hurrying his way out of the hospital as quick as he could hobble, still groggy from anesthesia. Add Parker, a stoic but clearly concerned party into the mix, and it was something worth staring at.

Rhett was starting to remember how much he hated people in general.

It wasn’t until they were on the elevator and headed back to the ground floor that the man seemed to relax (just a smidge), heaving a sigh and banging the foot of one of the crutches against the wall idly. “Right,” was all he said in response to Parker bringing up the car, his gaze fixed on the floor, brows furrowed into a permanent scowl.

The elevator dinged, and the pair stepped out into the lobby. Rhett’s hackles shot right back up but he kept his head down, just trying to make it through those fucking doors and get away from all… this. There was a surface lot a short distance from the main entrance, and upon Parker’s instruction, followed him in that direction. It was fairly brisk outside, and the shirtless warden shivered and came to a slow stop. “Hang on, hang on,” he breathed, feeling lightheaded again. This unstable state seemed to irritate him and he muttered another curse, squinting his eye shut and leaning onto the crutches to lift his hands to his face. The heel of his palm dug into his good eye, while the other, covered in bandages, was only permitted a soft touch. “Just… need a sec. Fuck. Can’t catch my goddamn breath,” he complained. The world felt… soupy. Or… well, that wasn’t a good word for it, but it was all he could think about. Soup. Fuck, he was hungry. Hungry, and the world felt wrong. Fake.

“What if I ain’t awake?” The fear came from nowhere, but it was one that plagued him more often than he let on. Usually based on nothing, but after that attack? Rhett glanced at Parker, then down at himself. “This is stupid. Don’t make sense. Why’re you here? How the fuck am I alive?” His heart rate increased and he felt… mournful. “It’s fiction, it's just like fiction. Can’t be real. Just a fuckin’ story.” With a weary, dramatic groan, Rhett pushed the crutches away from himself, sending them clattering to the pavement. He wobbled on one leg but managed to stay upright, at least for the moment—like he was waiting to actually wake up. Or for things to just go black, because he was obviously dead, right?

—

They were almost gone, they were almost out of there and away from the scrutinization of the healthcare workers. Soon they’d be in Parker’s car where they could fully relax, ease the tension from off their shoulders. Parker could offer to take Rhett back to his place where the pirate could sit in a comfortable chair and eat homemade clam chowder (something Parker didn’t grow up with but ever since he moved, he rather liked it so it entered his list of foods he was willing to make for the week). They could make small talk, Rhett could share more stories or maybe explain what the hell had happened to place him near the Flat covered in werewolf scratches.

Soon enough, they were outside and while he wasn’t sure if Rhett would appreciate it, Parker welcomed the nip of the chill on his skin - normally, he wasn’t one for the cold and it took him longer than he would’ve admitted to acclimate to it, especially coming from somewhere as humid as Louisiana, but given the unintentional pressure placed on him from this whole ordeal, it was, well, a breath of fresh air. They were close but Parker was more than willing to pause when Rhett requested it–

Then he felt his stomach drop, tension coursing through and stiffening his body when Rhett started… doing whatever it was he was doing. An episode? An existential crisis? The effects of coming off of anesthesia? He’d done some surface-level research on what he took an educated guess about what Rhett struggled with but psychology was something that was to be observed but not touched; there were far too many variables that Parker didn’t have a fundamental grasp of nearly enough of those variables to be able to make a call on what the right action to take would be.

Maintain touch as a grounding technique– no, don’t touch someone because that might make things worse– ask them about things they could see– wait no, you should ask how you can help but keep in mind that they may not be able to tell you– well it depends on the person, really since everyone reacts to things differently– just be empathetic–

‘Parker, you sunova bitch, you don’t possess empathy.’ His brother’s voice rattled in his head for a moment as the conflict of information with an underlying fear at his inability to know what to do to effectively help Rhett had the younger Warden dumbly reach down to collect the crutches and tuck under one of his arms. The other hand, without provocation and probably with the wrong directive in a mechanical brain, reached out and placed itself on Rhett’s shoulder once more; firm, steady, squeezing it with what he thought he hoped was a familiar sense of pressure to keep Rhett from falling into the abyss.

“Tell me what you see. Where you are. What you feel. Anything.” That selection of instructions was probably not what was needed but dammit, that was what Rhett could either take or leave. Parker wasn’t a therapist. He wasn’t even a person. This was a machine trying to tell a human that the life simulation did indeed exist, even if they’d never seen it for themselves.

—

Blood roared in his ears and he squinted his eye shut, flinching under Parker’s touch but not pulling away, considering the questions he was being asked and finding himself lacking in answers. “I don’t know,” he wheezed, shaking his head and grabbing hold of the man’s arm to steady himself. “I—” He opened his eye again, letting it dart over the scenery around them, trying to ignore the darkened edges that framed everything like a tunnel. His breath was coming in quick, deep gasps but he tried to focus, gaze wandering over objects he saw every single fucking day and not being able to put words to them.

Where was he, then, if he couldn’t say what he saw? “Outside.” Duh. “The…” Rhett glanced over his shoulder at the tall brick building behind them for a moment before twisting back around and shaking his head. He wasn’t trying hard enough. What did he feel?

“Sad. Scared.” Unless Parker meant physical, in which case— “... sidewalk.” Under his bare feet, no less. Okay, okay. Just… “I knew them,” he breathed, finally letting his attention jump to Parker’s face. “The… werewolf.” He dropped his voice, even though they were alone. “And the—the nymph. I knew them. I didn’t kill ‘em, but I knew ‘em, n’ now… now…”

He wasn’t afraid of dying. He was afraid of living with the consequences of a botched job. Another failure at the end of a long line of them, but this one was different. This one had, in a way, become more personal. They had mutual friends, mutual acquaintances, and how severely was this going to fuck that up? It was the sort of thing that would normally drive him out of a place, but he couldn’t leave here. Not now.

His heartbeat was slowing back down, the panic subsiding as the numbing realization that he’d really screwed the pooch on this one set in. “My brother, he… can’t know. He can’t.” That was it, wasn’t it? Rhett had just managed to start the long, agonizing process of patching things up with Emilio, and something like this would rip the bandage straight off. No… something like this would take their relationship out back and shoot it. Emilio had a thing about young adults, some protective instinct that he couldn’t seem to ignore, and Alex and Cass, well… fuck. Fuck.

“I can’t—I gotta lay low fer a while, mate,” Rhett managed as he came back into his senses. And standing in front of a hospital looking half dead was not laying low. He cleared his throat and reached for the crutches, taking them back and seeming to shrug off the episode with relative ease. “M’fine. Let’s get gone.”

—

What started as standard answers quickly turned into something more exposed, revealing emotions, feelings, thoughts that Parker knew were usually locked behind the facade. In the dark of grasping for anything, the something that Rhett had shared, whether intentional or not, stung of personal value and vulnerability.

Not only was a werewolf involved but a fae was too. Somewhere in the depths of Parker’s mind he could’ve sworn a couple of dots might’ve been connected but that was a vein of thought that could’ve been tapped into at a later time. For now, Rhett was afraid. He was afraid and the emotion somehow looked wrong, yet perfectly natural on the pirate’s bandaged face. He was afraid of the implied intimacy of the ordeal, Parker knew that well - it was the reason why he never asked for names. A name meant connection, which only served to humanize things that either couldn’t or shouldn’t possess it. People named their computers, their cars, pets.

And Emilio couldn’t know. The reason was irrelevant to Parker; Rhett said that his brother couldn’t know and that was enough for the younger Warden. “Okay.” He replied at the end of the newly-acquired information. It was only one word but it carried a tone with it, mysteriously missing its flat affect or blunt delivery. He had a directive, he had a line of logic to follow now, a thread to find Rhett in the dark and a problem he could provide solutions for. “I have a spare room,” he offered as he held the crutches out for Rhett to take when the latter mentioned needing to lay low. “...If that would help.” Casting a quick, blue-eyed glance over the withering figure of the other Warden, as though he’d mysteriously sustained another injury during his episode, Parker led the way to his car.

—

While the van offered mobility, it was recognizable. He’d have to paint over the mural and change the plates. And as much as he didn’t love the idea of being in one place for any significant amount of time, he really didn’t see a better alternative. Emilio’s apartment was a no-go, and not just because of the black ooze—certain people would think to look for him there, people who were going to be pissed when they heard about this. If they heard about this. Tracking down the werewolf and the fae to finish the job wasn’t entirely off the table, but Rhett had a feeling that he wouldn’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell of overpowering that mongrel for a while—plenty of time for it to rat him out to whoever it felt needed to know. There was always the bunker, though a few people knew of its location as well, and he couldn’t be sure all of them were trustworthy. In fact, he couldn’t be sure that anyone was trustworthy.

He looked over at Parker as they resumed the trek to the car, scowling. Paranoia was a disruptive mistress, but he tried to reason with himself that he could trust Parker. Of anyone, he could probably trust Parker the most. They were both wardens, both… different in a way others didn’t always understand, and the man had come to his aid. Had helped him when it would have been easier to let him die and pay the price for his mistakes. He’d come back, even after Rhett was no longer his perceived responsibility, to continue shouldering that burden.

Yeah. He could trust Parker. But no one else.

“Sure,” he muttered, still trying to deaden his emotional vulnerability, hating that he’d gone through even a small episode in the other warden’s presence, but figuring there was nothing to do about it now but move on. “Just—can’t nobody know I’m there. Gonna have to meet ‘Milio fer… personal matters sometime soon, but I’ll travel.” It could at least wait until he was out of the bandages. “N’ if anyone asks… was a troll what did this, aye?”

—

The younger Warden’s loyalties were considered strange at the best of times - he was the type where a little effort went a long way with him and sometimes it seemed like he was subconsciously searching for someone to serve, even if he never would’ve thought to perceive it that way. A knight wanting to pledge to a monarch, a ronin with no lord. The unusual (or perhaps this was simply being all-too-human) part was that while it was a strong presence when it was there, it was also malleable and there was little, if any, love lost when those loyalties were either betrayed or discarded.

Right now, as he got into the driver’s side of the unassuming car with Rhett and the scowl the other man had given him regarded as something with no ulterior motive in his mind, Parker was fully expecting for the other Warden to deny his offer. Rhett wasn’t stupid and Parker understood the hesitance; he’d only been there once, it wasn’t a space to call his own, he had plans and ideas and Parker assumed that it would’ve been an adjustment going from being mobile in his own… iconic van to one house, even if only for a while. But Rhett wasn’t stupid, as was previously mentioned. Nightfall Grove’s sun set eerily early, giving him the cover of darkness (even if what was left of Rhett’s vision wasn’t properly suited for it), not a lot of people knew where it was and he knew that Rhett was more than capable of warding off whatever creatures roamed the streets, if any of them bothered him.

So when Rhett said yes, there was no immense relief, no misplaced sense of gratitude for electing to choose his house over wherever else he could’ve stayed (Parker assumed that Rhett’s bunker, van and Emilio’s places were respectively off the table) just as there wouldn’t have been hurt feelings if Rhett ended up saying no. It was a suggestion, an offer and as far as Parker could care, so long as Rhett didn’t ruin any of his trinkets, collectibles or other treasures, he probably wouldn’t have noticed that much. He’d make more food but that wasn’t unusual or unwelcome.

Rather… maybe having someone else in the house, someone he himself trusted, another unusual Warden, would be… nice, even if only for a few days until Rhett inevitably found someplace better for him.

“None of what transpired is going to be relayed through me.” Parker assured, looking over at Rhett as the two sat in the car for a moment. “I found you out in the woods, you received an early discharge from the hospital, last seen with me but I dropped you off at a preferred location.” He went through the motions aloud before he paused, tilting his head. “...A troll? Really?” His expression softened and he allowed the ghost of… what could’ve been called a ‘playful’ smile to cross his features. “I was going to say a massive bird. But it’s your story. Troll it is.”

—

“Massive bird? Oi,” Rhett laughed, settling the crutches between his right foot and the car door, making sure they were snugly wedged. “I known more wardens who been ripped apart by trolls than anythin’ else. Them fuckers’re tough. Should be believable.” As for people who didn’t know he was a hunter who asked… well, he’d probably just come up with a different story each time. Didn’t much care what they thought.

He was terribly tired, he remembered once he was settled in the seat, and he didn’t last the drive from Deersprings to Nightfall Grove. And once they’d reached Parker’s home, the older warden was woken up, brought inside, and shown to the spare room. From there, he rested his crutches against the side of the bed, regarding them with mild distaste, hoping that he wouldn’t need them after a few more days. It was hard to say, he’d never had a limb so broken that it needed metal plating to put it back together, so… who knew what his accelerated healing would do? Regardless—“Think I’m ‘bout ready to sleep fer a week,” Rhett joked as he sat down on the mattress, knowing that in reality it would probably be something close to twelve or fourteen hours. “Will bug ya whenever I’m back in the land’ah the livin’.” Another thank you sprang to the tip of his tongue unexpectedly but he swallowed this one, settling for a resolved nod instead.

—

The levity was nice, Parker decided, accepting the joking back with an actual smile, small and unsure as it was like it knew it didn’t belong on the Warden’s face. He wasn’t surprised at all when Rhett fell asleep during the drive - their genes made the recovery process a strange one, a shortened duration in exchange for little relief from the pain. He imagined it was especially rough for Rhett, who apparently not only had to undergo a major operation but he had never been in a hospital before and it was especially tough to learn new things at 49, or so he had to guess.

But they were at his home soon enough, he had awoken and subsequently shown Rhett his temporary living quarters. At least there was a bed, but not much else in the way of personality when it came to the room’s barebones decoration and even then, they were sorely dated - it was obvious that some of these items came with the antiquated house when he bought it. But it was warm, dry, and (at least as far as Parker could gather) safe for Rhett to stay at, at least until the latter was ready to move on and almost get himself killed again– ‘Whoa, that’s not your thought, is it? Sounds like something dad would say.’

He blinked the thought out of his head and he regarded Rhett, who was now sitting on the mattress. The older Warden mentioned sleeping for a week - it was rhetorical, of course, Parker understood - but at least he was willing to sleep. He nodded and Parker nodded back, having a feeling that Rhett was going to add something else but the collector was internally grateful that he hadn’t said ‘thank you’ again; he was still painfully unsure about how to react to that one. “Affirmative.” Parker glanced around the room briefly as though checking it for things that a half-blind, disabled man could accidentally stumble into, ding his shin on, or something of that nature but came up empty. Just as empty as the room was.

“I’ll be in the living room.” He held up his phone. “If you call and I don’t hear you, text me.” He left the rest of the sentence unsaid, not wanting to make it seem like he was doting on Rhett. ‘The day that happens is the day I know for sure that you got into a literal bind.’ Parker gave Rhett one last look accompanied with another small, genuine half-smile before he patted the doorway with a finalized gesture and he left to go into his own room, just for a few moments to breathe heavier than he should’ve, feel his hands seize up as he felt every emotion at once for just a second. Seeing Rhett like that in the forest. Taking him to the hospital where everyone was asking probing questions. The fiasco an hour ago. The episode. He gently clasped his hands over his ears as though that would suddenly make the thoughts that rattled around in his brain go away. Closing his eyes, he tried to focus on his breathing. This would be fine. Rhett would be okay. ‘You’ll be okay.’

#. thread ;#. with ; parker wright #. caged ;#medical blood tw #suicidal ideation tw #eye trauma tw

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highwaywhump · 1 year

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Would you be up for writing a little piece about kill shelters, from the pet’s POV? I saw that you said you wouldn’t write about pets actually being PTS - completely understandable! - what if someone were to come in at the last second with the news that the pet’s original owner had been found? I’m so curious on what the process would be for the shelter handling this- since it would technically be murder, how would it be done in a way to remain ‘legal’? And what would the pet be told? Would they tell them what was going to happen, or just ‘get on with it’? :o

TW/CW: A CHARACTER THAT IDEALIZES DEATH/HAS SUICIDAL THOUGHTS. to be clear, he doesn't die, but another character does (this comes through very vaguely - never voiced outright). brief and vague mention of a gun, talk of scars, low self image, talk of collars and chains and cages/kennels, description of a hit and run victim (still alive), brief description of a dislocated hip, talk of restraints, talk of syringes and needles.

i know our community has suffered these past few days, and i was seriously debating whether i should post this piece or not. in the end, i figure that writing has been my way of overcoming difficult feelings for many years now, and i have been dealing with a lot of them lately, including intense stress and depression. if anyone feels i am doing something wrong in posting this piece, please let me know and i'll see what i'll do about it.

i am also painfully aware this ask was sent over a month ago (in reference to this ask), but i had to sit down and think about how i wanted to go about it. BE AWARE that the following piece features a character that idealizes/wishes for death - please sit this one out if you are struggling with such thoughts. i'm putting everything under a read more so that you can avoid reading a single word if you don't feel comfortable. my dm’s are always open if you want to talk about anything. <3

this character might seem familiar to some. spoiler, this is how poker from this piece ended up. he was about 35 when joey met him and he’s a few years older in this piece. and i'm sorry but there’s just something about men in cages… (also, let’s ignore that i add a bunch of details here that weren’t present in the first piece with him. also also, i don’t know what happened to the verb tenses in this one. it’s the middle of the night. roll with the punches i guess)

It might’ve been months since the guard dog saw his owner last. He doesn’t know. He’s stopped counting.

Well.

He never really started.

He doesn’t remember much about him. He’d lost another fight, the last one in a long row of losses. He’d been pulled into the back of a car by his thick collar afterwards, dazed and hot and sputtering blood all over the leather seats. They’d hit him in the ribs for it and he knew he’d deserved it.

Whoever was driving had been given orders in his owner’s rough voice.

“Go down to the docks. Get rid of him.”

He knew there was a lethal piece of metal stuck down the waistband of the driver’s jeans.

He’d been taken a few hours outside the city instead, deposited on the wet asphalt outside of a brick building and chained to a drainpipe. The driver had gotten back in the car and sped off.

The guard dog had leaned against the hard brick, watching as the brake lights disappeared. He didn’t think much, other than okay. As if he had anything else to say about his situation.

His surroundings turned into a shapeless blur from there. Hands touching him, cold and unfeeling and clad in blue rubber. A couple were soft and took their time to stroke his hair, scratch the hard to reach place between his shoulder blades. He savored those moments, and tried to remember the hands and the face they belonged to, but none of it lasted.

Nothing ever lasted around him, it seemed. He couldn’t keep an owner for more than a few months, never more than a year. Couldn’t keep winning. Couldn’t keep anyone safe, even though that was the thing he was made for. The only thing that kept, were the scars.

And the fucking tattoo on his wrist. Not even the facility that had made him, wanted him back when the shelter called them about him. Too old. They had no prospects who would want someone like him.

That was what the visitors said too, few and far between as they were. Too old. Too big, too many scars, too scary, too ugly, too old, too dumb, too old again. They talked about him as if he wasn’t even there, huddled up in a corner just on the other side of the chain link.

He knew it was his fault. He should be, or at least seem, happier to see them. Smile. Wait at the kennel gate, like all the others did whenever somebody stopped by.

But to what end? Another owner who would put him in the ring again, just to be angry at him when he loses? Or someone he can take bullets for again, even though he isn’t quick and bright enough to anticipate them anymore?

He doesn’t dare hope that anyone else would want him, not in his condition. It’s true, what they say. He’s old. Scarred, slow. There are sunshine stories of even the most unwanted of pets, expenses in every way, who somehow end up on the couches of kind people who just want a companion, their head resting in their laps, petted by soft fingers.

Those people get platonics, though. Domestics. Even the occasional romantic can adapt to such a lifestyle.

But not an old ex guard dog, like him.

He’s no use to anyone, not anymore.

They remove him from the kennel one day. For a moment, his heart beats a little faster. He can’t tell if it’s fear or excitement, but it turns out neither is warranted. He’s taken to another room, a chain attached to his collar, the other end pin shackled to a ring in the wall. Another pet, younger and prettier, is put in his kennel. He can see them through the frosted glass on the door.

He turns away.

He doesn’t cry.

Visitors don’t come through this room, he realizes, and for the first few days he’s happy for it. Nobody talks about him now. It’s quiet and the cold linoleum floor is almost comfortable on his joints. The only bad thing about this room is the other pet, chained to the wall opposite of him. The man is curled up, breathing shallowly through dried blood in his nostrils, and the sound is annoying. He’s younger than him, and he was probably very pretty once, but now his face is bruised and swollen, and bloody in the crevices even though they washed him with a damp cloth when he came in. Hit and run, somebody had said in passing.

That was four days ago. The guard dog watches him, mostly because there isn’t much else to look at in here. His leg is in a weird position, he’s noticed. It’s as if the thigh has rotated where it attaches to the hip. He wonders if it’s supposed to be that way. It doesn’t look very comfortable. His stomach is weirdly distended, too. It looks out of place on a body that is otherwise slim and smooth.

Two workers descend on him one day, kneeling down beside the misshapen figure. They talk to him, sweetly, as they gently lift him over on a gurney and start wheeling him through another door. “You’ll feel a lot better when you wake up,” one of the workers say, a vinyl clad hand patting his shoulder. The one part of him that isn’t broken.

The guard dog catches the faint smile visible through a swollen cheek as they pass him. The other pet is happy they’re coming for him, making him feel better. Finally.

Maybe twenty minutes have passed when the workers come back. One of them wipes their hands on their worn jeans. “Glad that’s over,” he mutters. "Should have been done when he came in," the other says. The guard dog meets his gaze as they pass. Neither of them say anything.

They’d come for him a few days later. They wear the same smiles and the same gloves as they did with the other pet, but he doesn’t need the sweet talking. He goes with them willingly. He’d stopped eating a while back and his muscle tone had disappeared a long time ago, so it was easy for them to help him up to his feet. He’s taller than them, still, and keeps his head down the way he’s always done.

He’s known cold. Heat, pain, pleasure even, in small stints. Grief, fear. Rage. As he places one bare foot in front of the other on the beige linoleum, obediently following the worker in front, he knows he will soon know death.

And he isn’t afraid.

“You won’t feel a thing,” one of them says as they help him sit on the steel table in the next room, as if anyone has ever cared about how he’s feeling.

“You’ll feel much better after,” the other worker says, without specifying exactly what was supposed to be better, as they gently lay him down. The table has leather straps hanging down the sides, ready to restrain its more unwilling cases, but he doesn’t move and they don’t use the straps. In the corner of his eye he can see two syringes on the counter. One of them is skinny and filled with clear fluid. The needle is small and will slip into him easily. He’s had many needles before. This won’t feel any different, he decides. The other syringe is larger, the needle too big to be used on somebody who was awake feel it.

It doesn’t matter. He’ll feel better after. The guard dog refocuses his gaze on the bright light overhead. He closes his eyes.

“Small pinch, now,” one worker says, and he can feel a pinprick at the crook of his elbow, the cold liquid fanning up his arm as it is being pushed in. His heart beats a few more times before the serum reaches it. He can feel his pulse, docile to begin with, calm down even more. He feels sleepy, his body heavy, as if he’s being pushed into the table from above. The hard metal digging into his joints doesn’t matter anymore. He knows he won’t even notice the other syringe. He knows he’ll feel better soon.

A grating ringtone interrupts his silent mind. One of the workers picks up, speaking in a low voice. Sleep tugs at the edges of his mind, and he wants to follow. Right before he goes under, the sound of hard plastic hitting metal and a few words make it through the fuzzy walls inside his head.

“No trouble at all. You’re just in time, sir.”

to answer your other questions, anon: in the legal sense it wouldn't be murder, as the pets aren't people anymore, they're only human at the biological level (again, in a legal sense). it's necessary :) and humane :) euthanasia :). the pets aren't told anything/they're gently reassured and told they're going on for surgery, or something similar. i think "you'll feel better when you wake up," is a classic in these circles. i'm sure some understand what is about to happen (hence the restraints on the table), but the majority goes quick and silent. i have no idea what happens to them after though so don't ask me about that :)

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