No Evil Angel
Chapter 5
Revolts from True
Nearing exactly one hour to the time allotted the first doctor returns. He has on small spectacles now, vaguely resembling Dr. Jackson—she had such complicated feelings, because when she thinks of Dr. Jackson, she initially feels a warm feeling—not exactly love—but belonging, near trusting, and then she remembers how he handled her when she returned from the Ori ship.
How he was implicit in the death of Birdie.
Immediately, the feeling wanes to a coldness, to a bitter vengeance that starts to roil around with in her, that starts to make her skin grow warm and the space between her fingers and toes perspire. A feeling that welcomes the destruction she's had visions of the ships filled with men wanting to do her biding, wanting to avenge her and her daughter.
"How's your head?" He's much more personable than the other doctor, one she wagers is a psychological doctor of some sort sent not only to gauge her sanity, but also to pick through her recollections of the bombing—for which she offered none—in order to feed that information to the police.
"It vaguely hurts."
"Would you like something for the pain? I can get a nurse to—"
"Do you think I'm a danger?" The question is loaded for multiple reasons. Foremost being that she is an actual danger, but also if they doctor is even somewhat aware of her history, or her difference, he'll get the officer posted outside her room to contact the mountain. "Is that why that officer is there?"
"I asked for the psych consult because I believe you've been through a great deal worse that what you experienced today."
Well, he's certainly not wrong, and although she doesn't offer him verbal affirmation, she turns her face away from the conversation, submissive at the suggestion.
"It's the same reason I've posted the security guard outside of your door."
"You think I'm a threat?" She surmises because she remembers how her freedom was only given to her in droplets, how even when she had her own room with an ensuite under that mountain, that there was a guard with a weapon posted outside of it in case she got any ideas.
In case she found out where the stargate actually was and flee to another planet with another enemy on her trail.
How she would leave her room in order to take lectures with Dr. Jackson—that warm feeling bubbles up within her again, and quickly wanes—or go to a scheduled doctor's appointment, and the same guard would follow her down the corridor always walking a short distance behind her.
"No, not at all," the doctor sounds completely shocked by her conclusion, after all, he's only known her as a frail soot smudged housewife who longs for her husband. But with added forethought, he adds, "should I?"
"No." She shakes her head. Her hair a light grey from the ash and smelling of a fire—the kind she smells in her dreams every night. The kind that burnt Denya away. "Please tell me you found my husband."
"We did, but—"
Her fingers still on the edge of the bed, her fingers burying in the mattress. "Where is he?"
"Mrs. Mitchell—"
"Is he okay?"
"He's in critical condition. He sustained some damage from the blast which aggravated one of his old injuries and the metal rod in his leg—"
"Is he here? Please, will you take me to him?"
"Mrs. Mitchell—"
"I want to see him."
The doctor holds up a hand to silence her, to slow her down. Perhaps to calm her. She doesn't realize it, but she is leaning off the bed with her excitement. "I need to speak with you about something, Mrs. Mitchell."
"And then—" she paused, the small amount of trust this doctor garnered fading quickly with his stalled conversation "—you'll take me to him?"
"Yes, if I believe there is no more to discuss, I will have an orderly escort you upstairs."
She calms, sitting straight on the edge of the bed, her hands folded in her lap trying to emanate the calmness and the poise that the doctor wants, while trying not to shift nervously, because she just wants to see Cameron. "What do you want to speak about?"
"I'd like to speak with you about your husband."
That makes the slight smile fall from her face, her lips drooping into a frown. "Is it his injuries? Is he—"
"Your husband is fine, I promise you." He takes off his small glasses setting them on the metallic table that the nurses cleaned in his wake. She liked the nurses. None of them tried to speak with her. "He's up in the surgical ward—"
"Surgery?"
"To repair the damage to his back and leg." He bounces his hands in the air again, suggesting that she not interrupt him further. "Please Mrs. Mitchell, I wish to speak about the dynamics between you and your husband."
Her eyebrows droop, her lips pulling to the side. "I'm not quite sure I understand."
"Is your husband a kind man?"
The question seems odd, out of place in the wake of the violence experienced downtown.
"Yes. He's very kind."
"Does he treat other people with respect?"
"Yes, he's quite respectful."
"Mrs. Mitchell," the doctor sighs, almost groans, like she's missing the point to the conversation entirely, which she very well might be. She doesn't understand the purpose of these irrelevant questions, unless they suspect Cameron had something to do with the uprising, the riots, the explosion which is unfunded because they barely leave their house.
Internally hardens, making sure she contemplates the implications of each question the doctor asks before springing to the answer. Although sincerity is a valuable trait, it's not always useful in every situation.
"Is your husband respectful of you?"
Immediately doesn't understand because her definition of the word 'respectful' differs based on the environment she's in. She's been respected by tens of thousands as Qetesh, who threw themselves at her feet just to clean the dust collected between her toes. They offered her sacrifices and bounties, bacchanals and festivals. They offered their own bodies.
Cameron doesn't worship the ground she walks on—she wouldn't want him to—but he'll rub her feet if the start to swell from the hot temperatures. He doesn't offer her extravagant festivals with live human sacrifice, but he'll bring home fast food if she's craving it. He doesn't offer her ornate ornaments crafted from gold and gems fought for over countless centuries, but he did buy birdhouse.
"I'm sorry," she draws her eyebrows together, trying to translate how she feels, trying to create an answer for a question that perhaps she's misunderstood. "I'm not sure I understand."
The doctor clears his throat, his one leg bouncing a bit to relieve the pressure of her staring at him, waiting for him to answer. "The way your husband respects others—does he respect you in the same way?"
"Are you asking if my husband salutes me?" It's the only example she can think of, of him actively respecting others, of getting out of his chair—even when his legs couldn't fully support him in his own—when anyone of a higher rank entered or exited the room.
Expects least a grin from the doctor, but instead he clasps his hands together, holding them against his knees, as he leans forward to continue the conversation more intimately. "Mrs. Mitchell, you have obvious old injuries—quite a bad scar on the crown of your head."
"Yes, it was an accident."
"And I'm sure if you submitted to an x-ray, I'd find more incidences of broken bones."
Now she really doesn't comprehend, but she knows by the intonation, by the way the doctor is staring her down, that there's something for her to fear in his words.
"Mrs. Mitchell, does your husband hurt you?"
"I'm sorry." She backs up from the conversation, the little area they've kept between them at the nature of his words, at the sharpness of them, how they cut directly into her skin with their implications. "You're asking if my husband assaults me?"
"There are certain criteria we look for when—"
She interrupts him before he can fully explain the reasoning behind his vile assumption. "My husband has never laid an unwanted finger on me."
"Sometimes acts of violence can be misconstrued as wanted—as love." He pauses apparently waiting for her to interrupt him again, but she agrees with his words. Remembers Lorne's hands holding her down, his hard palm on the back of her head pushing her forward, the bruises he left in his wake after finishing with her. "From what I've deduced from speaking with you, you've been through traumas—traumas that have affected you more than a domestic act of terrorism."
"I've been through traumas that you can't even imagine, Doctor." She pushes herself to stand from the bed. Still a little precarious on her feet, and snatches up her coat, no longer using it as a form of protection. "My husband has seen me through the majority of them—"
"Mrs. Mitchell, I'd just like you to speak with a—"
"I want to see my husband." She holds her coat weeping over her arms and stares down at the doctor. "Now."
A/N: Chapter title borrowed from Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet