RATING: A wholesome PG-13
AUTHOR'S NOTES: This is my first 'Alias' fanfic, and a story that had been running around my brain for a little while ... any feedback is greatly appreciated!!!
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. They're all JJ's.
'Sometimes', the doctor mused to himself, 'this job really, really sucks.'
Only three hours into his graveyard shift and already two MVAs had visited the ER, a 12-year-old GSW had bled out on his watch, and a leg lac downstairs had just developed a sudden, particularly nasty infection. The Chief of Staff was on his ass about overdue paperwork, nurses were whining about staff shortages and there were practically a million charts to finish before he could even think about taking a break ... Sighing, the doctor grabbed a fresh cup of coffee and wandered up to the third floor.
He paused by Room 308, home to one of his recent patients, a CIA agent injured in the line of duty. The man had been wounded abroad in some sort of hush-hush secret mission, then transferred to the Los Angeles hospital when his condition stabilized. The doctor gazed through the window, observing the lifeless figure. Still there'd been no change ... comatose, weak, but somehow alive.
Reviewing the patient's chart, he noticed a few more tests to be run, a couple more blood samples the nurses needed to take ... he didn't even see the woman until her voice rang through the hallway.
"Um, excuse me ... Doctor Harrison?"
He looked up and met an intense, dark brown gaze. Her sudden appearance had startled him. "Yes, what can I do for you?"
The young woman motioned to Room 308, eyes trained on the window. Her gestures were quick, nervous; her calm exterior forced."I was just wondering ... has there been any change?"
The doctor shook his head. "No, I'm sorry, nothing. He's still unconscious."
"Do you think ..." she trailed off into a weary sigh. Her voice was quiet, strained when she finally spoke again. "Is he going to wake up?"
A deep, honest sympathy was reflected in the doctor's usually-stoic features. "We're still running tests. His chances are fifty-fifty, to be honest, Ms., uh --"
"Bristow."
"-- Ms. Bristow." He regarded the young woman closely. Her straight, dark hair was pulled back in a sloppy bun, a frizzy aureole of loose strands framing her face. Eyes were glassy and reddened from constant rubbing; the premature creases of crow's feet appeared when she tried to smile. She chewed her fingernails viciously, gnawing at near-stubs, almost in a self-conscious, immature gesture. This Bristow woman appeared both incredibly young and seemingly ancient. "Are you a relative then?"
"No ... just, uh, a friend." Her tired gaze drifted from the doctor to the window, and beyond to the prone, pale figure laying between the sterile white of hospital sheets. His face was ashen; eyes ringed with deep shadows. Plastic tubes and IV lines attached like lifelines between the motionless patient and a cluster of machines that monitored every pulse, every heartbeat. "Can I see him?"
"For a few minutes, yes." The doctor pushed open the ICU door with a soft swish, ushering Sydney inside the darkened room. She offered a smile of thanks, moving past the physician and towards the bed. As the door clicked shut, Sydney exhaled a long, shaky breath, scanning the comatose figure in front of her.
(this is all my fault.)
The last rays of an evening sunset filtered in through the outside window, lending an ethereal glow to the surroundings. Sydney stood silently, bathed in colour and desperately wishing to be anywhere else but there. Her mind drifted to the laundry drying at home, the muffin she'd ate for breakfast, the last stupid romantic comedy she'd rented with Will ... Mundane. Normal. Boring. Anything to keep her thoughts from the sharp, stark profile of the man laying in bed ...
The dull orange hues danced across the tiled floor, twinkled merrily off the medical equipment. Sydney pulled a chair up next to the bed, the scraping of metal on concrete almost jarring in the near-absolute quiet. She sat down slowly, overwhelmed.
(itsnotmyfaultisweariswearnotmyfault)
Her stomach churned, reliving the past few weeks, knowing her role, all of it -- the incredible guilt, the sickly sweet hospital smell, the doctor's hopeless frown-- it was just too much. Somewhere, some logical side of her brain was screaming in protest ... the CIA's a dangerous job, he knew the risks, it wasn't you --
But it didn't matter.
She was there with him now.
That alone was a testament to her guilt.
(i'msosorry)
His hair was impossibly dark against the whiteness of his skin. "We all miss you," she murmured, looking everywhere but his face, so innocent and relaxed in sleep. "Your best friend misses you. I miss you." The steady beep of the heart monitor was the only response, shattering the room's eery, mausoleum-like silence. Sydney could feel the prickling of tears as she touched the cool skin of his hand, laced his unfeeling fingers through hers.
"I'm sorry, Eric," she whispered, swallowing hard against the sudden lump in her throat. "My mother ... I, I can't even begin to --" One hand reached out, tracing the bandages wrapped tight around his neck. Running her fingers across the rough cloth that covered his wound. The wound her mother had inflicted. The wound that just might kill her favourite co- worker, a federal agent and her lover's best friend. It had been two weeks. Two weeks and no change. They said with every passing day, it was less likely he'd even wake up. That if he ever did, it would be to a persistent vegetative state.
Brain dead, and that was a best-case scenario.
All because of a Bristow.
All because her family was incapable of producing anything other than pain.
And death.
And blood.
This time, she let the tears fall.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: This is my first 'Alias' fanfic, and a story that had been running around my brain for a little while ... any feedback is greatly appreciated!!!
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. They're all JJ's.
'Sometimes', the doctor mused to himself, 'this job really, really sucks.'
Only three hours into his graveyard shift and already two MVAs had visited the ER, a 12-year-old GSW had bled out on his watch, and a leg lac downstairs had just developed a sudden, particularly nasty infection. The Chief of Staff was on his ass about overdue paperwork, nurses were whining about staff shortages and there were practically a million charts to finish before he could even think about taking a break ... Sighing, the doctor grabbed a fresh cup of coffee and wandered up to the third floor.
He paused by Room 308, home to one of his recent patients, a CIA agent injured in the line of duty. The man had been wounded abroad in some sort of hush-hush secret mission, then transferred to the Los Angeles hospital when his condition stabilized. The doctor gazed through the window, observing the lifeless figure. Still there'd been no change ... comatose, weak, but somehow alive.
Reviewing the patient's chart, he noticed a few more tests to be run, a couple more blood samples the nurses needed to take ... he didn't even see the woman until her voice rang through the hallway.
"Um, excuse me ... Doctor Harrison?"
He looked up and met an intense, dark brown gaze. Her sudden appearance had startled him. "Yes, what can I do for you?"
The young woman motioned to Room 308, eyes trained on the window. Her gestures were quick, nervous; her calm exterior forced."I was just wondering ... has there been any change?"
The doctor shook his head. "No, I'm sorry, nothing. He's still unconscious."
"Do you think ..." she trailed off into a weary sigh. Her voice was quiet, strained when she finally spoke again. "Is he going to wake up?"
A deep, honest sympathy was reflected in the doctor's usually-stoic features. "We're still running tests. His chances are fifty-fifty, to be honest, Ms., uh --"
"Bristow."
"-- Ms. Bristow." He regarded the young woman closely. Her straight, dark hair was pulled back in a sloppy bun, a frizzy aureole of loose strands framing her face. Eyes were glassy and reddened from constant rubbing; the premature creases of crow's feet appeared when she tried to smile. She chewed her fingernails viciously, gnawing at near-stubs, almost in a self-conscious, immature gesture. This Bristow woman appeared both incredibly young and seemingly ancient. "Are you a relative then?"
"No ... just, uh, a friend." Her tired gaze drifted from the doctor to the window, and beyond to the prone, pale figure laying between the sterile white of hospital sheets. His face was ashen; eyes ringed with deep shadows. Plastic tubes and IV lines attached like lifelines between the motionless patient and a cluster of machines that monitored every pulse, every heartbeat. "Can I see him?"
"For a few minutes, yes." The doctor pushed open the ICU door with a soft swish, ushering Sydney inside the darkened room. She offered a smile of thanks, moving past the physician and towards the bed. As the door clicked shut, Sydney exhaled a long, shaky breath, scanning the comatose figure in front of her.
(this is all my fault.)
The last rays of an evening sunset filtered in through the outside window, lending an ethereal glow to the surroundings. Sydney stood silently, bathed in colour and desperately wishing to be anywhere else but there. Her mind drifted to the laundry drying at home, the muffin she'd ate for breakfast, the last stupid romantic comedy she'd rented with Will ... Mundane. Normal. Boring. Anything to keep her thoughts from the sharp, stark profile of the man laying in bed ...
The dull orange hues danced across the tiled floor, twinkled merrily off the medical equipment. Sydney pulled a chair up next to the bed, the scraping of metal on concrete almost jarring in the near-absolute quiet. She sat down slowly, overwhelmed.
(itsnotmyfaultisweariswearnotmyfault)
Her stomach churned, reliving the past few weeks, knowing her role, all of it -- the incredible guilt, the sickly sweet hospital smell, the doctor's hopeless frown-- it was just too much. Somewhere, some logical side of her brain was screaming in protest ... the CIA's a dangerous job, he knew the risks, it wasn't you --
But it didn't matter.
She was there with him now.
That alone was a testament to her guilt.
(i'msosorry)
His hair was impossibly dark against the whiteness of his skin. "We all miss you," she murmured, looking everywhere but his face, so innocent and relaxed in sleep. "Your best friend misses you. I miss you." The steady beep of the heart monitor was the only response, shattering the room's eery, mausoleum-like silence. Sydney could feel the prickling of tears as she touched the cool skin of his hand, laced his unfeeling fingers through hers.
"I'm sorry, Eric," she whispered, swallowing hard against the sudden lump in her throat. "My mother ... I, I can't even begin to --" One hand reached out, tracing the bandages wrapped tight around his neck. Running her fingers across the rough cloth that covered his wound. The wound her mother had inflicted. The wound that just might kill her favourite co- worker, a federal agent and her lover's best friend. It had been two weeks. Two weeks and no change. They said with every passing day, it was less likely he'd even wake up. That if he ever did, it would be to a persistent vegetative state.
Brain dead, and that was a best-case scenario.
All because of a Bristow.
All because her family was incapable of producing anything other than pain.
And death.
And blood.
This time, she let the tears fall.