This fic is based off the book The Thing They Carried, by Tim O'Brien. Needless to say, I don't own that or Fruits Basket.
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The Things He Carried
What he carried was partly do to his profession. Hatori Sohma was a doctor, the doctor for his entire family, immediate (although they were all dead) and extended. He carried a stethoscope, his white lab coat, tongue depressors, an otoscope, a reflex hammer that he rarely used, an instant read digital thermometer that he used much more often, a pen light, medical tape, ace bandages, gauze, butterfly bandages for particularly large open wounds, adhesive bandages, bandages decorated with animals and manga characters, hypodermic needles, and all things a doctor must have, especially candies for those really bad wounds when a bandage wouldn't suffice. He carried the responsibility for the lives of his patients and a calm and controlled personality that people said was the result of his profession, or the cause of it.
What he carried was also determined by necessity. Those necessities were, among other things, a wristwatch, pens and pencils, food bars, a bottle of water, legal pads and stationary, a bandana that he could turn into a make-shift sling or splint in seconds, a travel mug filled with black coffee or black tea for constant energy, a small foil encased packet of caffeine pills for those late nights or early mornings when he just couldn't stay up otherwise. He carried antihistamines, aspirin, isopropyl alcohol, dextromethorphan, ibuprofen, Epi-pens, acetaminophen in both pill and liquid form. He carried the knowledge of how to use those medications and more and what to do in emergencies. He also held a silent awe for the power of the things at his command.
Sometimes different situations required him to carry different things. During the flu season he carried flu shots. He carried vaccinations for school children and for infants. He carried the promises that his patients would get better. He carried the heavy burden of knowing that they trusted him to make things alright. He also carried the nearly suffocating fear of failing that trust. He carried crying children with scraped knees and raw hands back to their embarrassed parents and patched them up with a lollipop and a smile. He carried heat stroke victims, fainting victims, broken leg victims, and victims of epileptic fits. One especially stressful night during a blizzard, when it was impossible to get her to the hospital and there was no feasible way the ambulance would make it in time, he carried clean blankets, a bowl of warm water, wash cloths, extra sheets, pillows, and finally a squalling new-born to the mother's waiting arms. To situations he knew were going to be very bad, or he had a feeling that they were going to be very bad, he carried stronger painkillers like morphine, which, when used properly, could help a hopeless case in passing on with as little discomfort as possible.
He carried a lot of paperwork. Birth certificates, death certificates, alcoholism pamphlets, drug abuse pamphlets, pregnancy pamphlets, sheets recording medical histories. His office space was most taken up by filing cabinets filled with paper work. Each Sohma had a file containing their medical history. Akito had one entire drawer dedicated to his medical history. He carried post-it notes and sticky index cards and notepaper with his name and information on it for writing out prescriptions. He carried opinions from his patients on the best stores from which to buy cards celebrating births or marriages or promotions, or mourning deaths. He, like most people, carried photographs. He carried a photograph of Kana, smiling for all the world and, at one time, just for him; one of his late parents, his father's sternness and his mother's formality immortalized there, one of their hands each resting on Hatori's own eight year old shoulders; one of Momiji, the happy, kind, and quietly wounded Rabbit who was a like a son to him; and finally a picture of the Juunishi, himself included, surrounding Akito at New Year's. Kyo was missing from that picture.
Since most of his job was caring for Akito, there were things he carried specifically for Akito. He carried a number of different medications to bolster the god's weak and failing immune system, bags and tubes for IV drips of medications or nutrients when Akito was too sick to ingest them. He carried insults and barbs from Akito's less pleasant moods; tears and muttered words from when Akito was feeling vulnerable and clung to him. Hatori was one of the few Sohmas both cursed and blessed with the ability to somewhat control Akito. Shigure and Kureno were the other two with the same ability, with varying degrees of success. Hatori carried the idea that the Sohma family had always seemed to operate slightly outside the law, which was true. He carried a syringe in his white coat pocket; he had started doing so only in the past year. When Akito flew into a rage, one from which neither Hatori, Shigure, nor Kureno could calm him down or make him see reason, Hatori just needed a few seconds to prepare and deliver the sedative into Akito's body. Furious, Akito could do nothing as the drug quickly claimed his consciousness. He would be out for at least two hours after that. Hatori carried the secret belief that Akito might be bipolar bordering on manic-depressive. He had once suggested that maybe Akito should see a therapist; Akito had curtly replied that maybe Hatori should see an optometrist, for all the good it would do.
Hatori carried scars, visible and invisible, from Akito. He had learned how to carry himself after his depth perception went out the window; he no longer clipped his left shoulder on door ways or stubbed his toes against table legs. He carried visible and invisible scars from others as well. Not everyone understood that he did everything he could for his patients, and that sometimes it simply wasn't enough. He carried ghosts. He carried the last fleeting smile the departed gave, meant no doubt for some love or dear relative, not him. He carried the last shuttering breath of life. He carried the first cries of a new one. He carried the heavy memories of everyone whose mind he had touched, however briefly, in removing their memories. He carried the angry accusations shrieked in the heights of denial, that he had no idea what he was talking about, that he was wrong. He carried the soft, whispered apologies given when people had come terms with the truth in Hatori's words. He carried that oddly scientific, mechanical feeling sometimes, when he knew that he wasn't getting enough sleep or he was stressed; that weird feeling that made him stop seeing his patients as real people and more like whatever was wrong with them. Look, there's a heart attack; there's mononucleosis. That feeling bothered him. When he got it, he would use one of his precious few sick days, because at that point he was sick, mentally speaking, and spend the day sleeping and reading and looking at the garden, drinking green tea and recovering. Then he could get back to carrying things.
Hatori Sohma carried a lot of things.
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Akito: So, Hatori, exactly how do you carry all those things with you?
Hatori: I use Merry Poppin's bag.
Akito: ... Where did you get that?
Hatori: EBay.
Tell me what you think!