No Evil Angel
Chapter 3
Of Battering Days
They take her to a hospital.
Not the kind she's used to.
Not a military hospital where she's handcuffed to the bed and repeatedly questioned, asked to tell the same story over and over so they can find discrepancies in her words, find the holes in her tale, and try to confuse her when she attempts to clarify or refine her story, try to use her own words against her.
From habit, she remains quiet in the cot they place her on.
Even when a female nurse comes in to clean her head wound, noting her old scar without a word, but with a fall in her face.
Eventually an older, male doctor enters the room, and tries to make what Cameron calls 'small talk' with her why he dresses her wound with little strips of plastic.
She doesn't answer in fear of recrimination, in fear of saying the wrong thing and being shipped back underneath the mountain for them to vivisect.
There isn't much more of her to cut away.
"There we go." The doctor offers her a calm smile that firms his sagging cheeks. He pushes away the little silver tray table and starts to pull his rubber gloves from the tips of his fingers. "Anything else hurting?"
She blinks, understanding the words only in the sense of her time in the SGC, something else for them to apply against her, something else to be used as a weakness. But the doctor must take her sudden attention to mean she is hiding more pain, because she hasn't responded to any of his other questions.
"Do you need anything else looked at?" The doctor waits, almost frozen in place, as if waiting for her to admit to something—perhaps they think she caused this explosion as well.
Something about his mannerisms make her wary of him.
"My husband."
But speaks for the first time since being brought to the hospital. Rode in the back of white armored truck while they hooked up medical devices to her against her behest.
They drove her away from Cameron.
"Your husband—" the doctor's brows furrow as he tries to translate her incomplete sentence. "Is he your emergency contact? Would you like us to call him?"
"I—" pauses and tries to think of the number he gave her for the mobile phone he keeps on him at all times, promises that if she calls from the stationary phone in the kitchen, that a special ringer will alert him it's her and he will answer.
"He was with me."
"He was with you?"
"Yes, downtown."
"Oh—"
Doesn't understand if the doctor's quiet response is from the poor outlook of those who were in the vicinity of the explosion, or how she has no qualms talking about what happened because it wasn't the worst thing she's experienced.
"Did he come to the hospital with you?"
She shakes her head, the sudden fear setting in. If Cameron is permanently injured or worse—she's barely capable of functioning on this planet without him. She has no mode of transportation, she has no monetary income, she has no support or safety.
She has no one to love and no reason to stay.
"Do you know if he was injured?"
She doesn't answer, just watches as the doctor's kind eyes shadow over as he starts to lie in order to let her find comfort.
"There's a possibility that if he wasn't badly injured that he's still at the location searching for you."
"I didn't want to leave." Her answer is almost too quick, trying to hard to alleviate the guilt caused by the doctor's insinuation. Had that man not found her and put her in the back of one of those white vehicles directed here, she would still be sifting through wreckage in search of him. "The man who brought me told me that Cameron would want me to go here."
"If he's a good husband, he would." The doctor nods in agreement, but something of his tone—an awkward silence, like if he speaks too loud she's likely to spook and run—is off-putting. "If you give me his name, I'd be glad to check to see if he's present at this hospital or any other in the city."
"Cameron Mitchell."
The doctor scribbles his name down on her paperwork, and then glances back up at her. "No one here managed to get your name."
"Vala," speaks absently, her gaze drifting to the window, where it's dark outside, and large, fat flakes of snow start to fall.
"Last name?"
"Mitchell."
The doctor makes no further comment, leaving the room silently with just a squeaky door. Through the window in the door, sees him have a conversation with a man dressed in a uniform—something she's come to be wary of—at one point gesturing back to her, until they both turn to stare at her, and the fear sets in—that they might call the mountain, that they might find out about the dreams that are still plaguing her and have been for the last several months.
If she posed no physical harm to them or their planet before, and they treated her in such a manner, she can't imagine what they would do to her with their security and way of life in threat—especially without Cameron around to act as a buffer, to be a voice of reason.
She drops her legs over the side of the bed, finding her balance a little precarious, but better than it was before. They offered to give her something for the pain, she didn't refuse, just didn't answer. Her coat is thrown over the chair meant to be filled with her worrying spouse, but it seems that the roles are reversed this time.
She made it out of whatever happened relatively unscathed, and now it's time for her to find her husband whether he's downtown, or at another hospital, or—
"Mrs. Mitchell," the doctor returns to the room, catching her in the act of putting back on her wool coat that does everything to hide her body, that has blood stains over the collars and on one of the shoulders. "Please sit, you've hit your head quite—"
Holds the coat in front of her like it can protect her from being restrained, like it will scare away anyone who wishes to get physical. "I want to find my husband."
"I know you do, but please sit. We have staff who will help locate your husband—"
"I don't trust you."
The doctor's sentence stops, his eyes squinting and his thick brows furrowing again. "Why don't you trust me?"
"I've only just met you."
"What would I gain by lying to you?" He lets the door squeak closed behind him, stepping to the room, but keeping a respectful distance from her.
She doesn't answer, because she can't, because whatever she says will incriminate herself further, and if she gives too much information away they're very likely to send her back to the mountain. "I just want to be with my husband."
"I understand." The doctor nods to reaffirm his sympathy. "You can leave the hospital at any time, it's legal for you to sign out against medical orders."
"Then why—"
"But I can guarantee you, that it will be easier to find your husband if you stay put."
"How do I know there's truth in that?"
"One hour." The doctor holds out his hand, raising one finger. "Give me one hour, and after that, I'll sign your discharge papers."
She has no reason to trust him, but his eyes are gentle, they don't waver from her, they hold her in a way she's barely experienced in her lifetime, as someone who respects her. Nodding, she pushes herself back up onto the bed, letting her feet dangle off the edge.
"You may have one hour."
A/N: Chapter title borrowed from Shakespeare's Sonnet 65