Reilly's losing it again. Or he thinks he is.
He can't smell the alcohol on his own breath right now, not yet, but he knows - he's pretty sure - that he hasn't, that... he's forgotten something.
Something important.
He's been working on something, and he remembers it in a morning-after haze.
This is one of his clear periods. It must be. Because what he remembers is fuzzy and uncertain, as if he'd come unstuck in time, existing only in the universe of his work.
And knowing that this is a clear period in the midst of single-minded concentration means one thing:
This has happened before.
The field of his vision opens up, dizzying and full of motion.
He's standing in the hall outside Doctor Prescott's lab, leaning against the wall, as if it could keep him from falling.
The people passing by are familiar, but he can't remember them distinctly. They could have walked straight out of a fever dream - he recognizes them, but he can't put names and faces to the blurry shapes that pass him by.
There's so much white.
He presses his hands over his eyes, shutting out the bewildering world outside his head. It's so confusing, and he's already got a blistering, stabbing headache anyway.
Something. There's something he's supposed to do. Somewhere he should be, something he should have done...
He sinks back, letting the wall take his weight, and sliding down until he's sitting on the floor. What is it?
What is he forgetting?
There's a name in his head, a diagnosis, a description, floating free in the space inside, as if it were waiting for him to notice it:
He makes the cognitive leap, understanding in one brilliant (sick) flash of intuition (you're sick).
Medicine.
They put him on medicine.
He's forgotten today's dose, at least. Yesterday's...
God. How long has it been?
And he's drunk, too. Or at least he can smell alcohol, strong in the air (reilly), pervading every inch of the space around him (Reilly)...
He looks up, uncovering his eyes. Someone is calling his name.
It's Jeb.
"Reilly. You doin' all right?"
Reilly peers up at him. Jeb's face is clear, at least. It's calming. Seeing something that makes sense.
"Yeah," he mutters. "I'm fine."
"You have tests to run, kiddo," Jeb says softly. "Subject Eleven, remember?"
"Uh-huh." Reilly's headache isn't a hangover - or he doesn't think so, he can't remember if it is - but it reacts to noise the same way.
Jeb seems to know that. Somehow.
"I'll go run those," Reilly says.
"Good. You just don't look so good, you know?" Jeb smiles, and Reilly feels like he's dreaming, because he's so rarely seen Jeb smile, ever.
Reilly can't think of anything to say, and after a moment Jeb moves on down the hallway.
He claws his way up the wall into a standing position. Things in his head are starting to fall back into position, after talking with Jeb. Things are beginning to make sense, to fit together...
He shakes his head. No.
Subject Eleven.
Trying to coax his subconscious into delivering up what he's supposed to do, telling him what he needs to be doing.
A manila folder in his hands... yes.
He remembers.
They're running a glucose assay on Subject Eleven. Blood samples.
He was going out to get a blood sample.
Now that he's remembered, finding his way to the animal-testing wing from the lab isn't hard. He knows the way. He couldn't give directions to it, but he knows the way.
It's fascinating, really, how... no.
He has to focus, for now, on Subject Eleven.
He almost walks into the door when he tries to open it, stumbles sideways and smacks into the doorjamb.
No one is there to see, but he feels ashamed anyway. For betraying the fact that, inside his head, he's so disorganized right now.
Medication. The little bottle of pills is standing on the table next to his bed. He can practically see it, his mind's eye clear and focused, the opposite of his thoughts right now.
He leans against the wall for a moment, trying to coalesce his far-flung thoughts back into his head, trying to convince himself that he can stay sane for a moment more. Long enough to do this. Doctor Prescott will understand if he has to leave for a moment.
When he's got enough of himself back to function, he goes to Subject Eleven's cage. He brought a syringe with him from Doctor Prescott's lab - lucky, because he doesn't think he could stay together and sane long enough to go back and get one.
He hears footsteps on the tile, and turns to look. It's Doctor Prescott. Probably just checking to make sure he's all right, but that doesn't prevent a tremor of nervousness from shooting down Reilly's spine.
Reilly can't draw blood from it while it's still in the cage, so he bends and unlocks the cage, opens the door, and moves to take it out.
It's so hard to stay put together. All his thoughts are shattering, shattering apart...
He's not paying attention, so it shouldn't surprise him, what happens next.
It bites him. Right on the hand, teeth clamping down on his fingers.
He doesn't think, just strikes out, hitting it in the face.
He's dropped the syringe, and it skitters across the tile, perversely just out of reach.
It's like the days just before his diagnosis (you have a problem), when everything seemed so clear.
All the terrible things he remembers doing...
Add another one to the list.
Songfic from January 2009, based around Placebo's "Meds". I've edited out the lyrics and fixed a minor formatting error, but other than that this is what I was doing two years ago.