A/N: What? Another update already? Yes, I'm on a roll (unfortunately, not the edible kind). Spoiler alert: this chapter is kinda fluffy. (But not as bad as that other chapter I can't take back. Ugh.)
Shout out to Courage and Love for reviewing! (They—apparently this is a shared account?—also added me to their Community, "The Best of MR." I'm totally flattered. Seriously!) And a small note to you: your predictions are close. Very close. But I don't want to give too much away yet.
"Come on, Nick, you can't die. You haven't had any of my cooking yet." I don't even pay attention to the endless stream of words spewing from my mouth as I pull up to the hospital. Up to, as in, five feet from the automatic doors. I don't even turn the car off before I'm pulling Nick from the back seat like Jeb used to pull twigs from our feathers.
"Almost there, Nick. Just hold on." My crazy parking job has attracted attention. When I sprint through the front doors, there's already somebody with scrubs waiting for me. Somebody else rolls a gurney in. I numbly lower Nick onto the bed, and then he's swept away through a set of double doors. When I start to follow, a gentle hand lays on my shoulder.
"I'm afraid you can't go back there, sweetie." I just stand there, deliberating the pros and cons of knocking this lady out and following Nick to the back anyways. Then I realize that I really don't feel like fighting any more tonight. I practically feel my body getting heavier with my exhaustion.
The lady must sense this, because she calmly leads me to a waiting room full of dismal people. "It's going to be okay, sweetie. Here, have a bottle of water. Why don't you tell me what happened?"
~xXx~
Dr. Loretta Sanders was bored. Already halfway through her twelve-hour shift, and she had already seen a dozen patients, but they were all the same. Routine. Not that she hoped something would go wrong, but Monday nights were just so. . . dull.
She didn't realize this would be a problem when she graduated from medical school. According to the media, being a doctor in a busy hospital is like being a superhero. There's entitlement; there's prestige; there's excitement. But there was no way she could glorify drinking her umpteenth cup of coffee and filling out paperwork.
Her pager beeped. Here we go, she thought, fully expecting another case of self-diagnosed "chest pain" or alcohol poisoning. But when she read her pager, her eyes grew wide. She sprang from her desk and sprinted out of her office.
She met the gurney halfway to the trauma center. The kid—he looked no older than sixteen—was a mess. At least, what she could see of his skin was bad. She wondered what they would find when they got him cleaned up. Her eyes drifted from his oxygen mask down towards a wad of blood-soaked fabric on his stomach. Keeping pace with the gurney, she peeled back the cloth and gasped. A knife was sticking out. Good grief, what had this boy gotten into?
There was no time to waste. Dr. Sanders and the kid arrive at the trauma center to a waiting team. While the nurses prepared the necessary equipment, the doctor took the boy's pulse. One hundred and two beats per minute. Too high.
"BP at 94 and dropping. Heart rate one-oh-two. Get the kid some blood." Dr. Sanders took scissors and began removing the boy's clothing to assess the damage further. She cut up the front and down the sleeves of his shirt and removed the excess cloth. A nurse was ready with saline-soaked rags to clean around the cuts criss-crossing his abdomen.
The heart monitor was finally running, and it wasn't looking good.
"We've got a Class Three Hemmorage. Where's that blood?" A nurse stuck an IV into the boy's arm and attached a bag full of O negative. Dr. Sanders cut open the boy's jeans next, revealing a deep gash across his thigh. She flushed it with saline solution. The heart rate continued to rise.
"He needs surgery."
"He's lost too much blood. Taking him into surgery right now could—"
The heart monitor flatlined.
~xXx~
"Miss? Are you alright?"
I snap back into reality. I don't know if it is the antiseptic smell, the white lab coats, or the harsh fluorescent lighting, but the hospital is taking me back to places I definitely did not want to go. I try to calm my breathing, noticing all the funny looks I'm getting from the other people in the waiting room and suddenly appreciating my decision to rinse off most of the blood. My eyes squeeze shut. It was just a daymare. Do those exist? Sure, because I don't want to admit that what I just experienced was a flashback from my childhood.
"You're Miss. . . " the nurse checks her clipboard, "Baker, correct? You're here with Philip?" I nod my head. "Do you mind if I ask you a few questions? It shouldn't take too long."
Here we go again.
To her credit, the nurse hands me a cup of coffee to sip while she interrogates me. She probably thinks I'll drink it, too, seeing as I've been awake the duration of the night plus Nick's four-hours-going-on-five stint in surgery. But even in my sleep-deprived, aching, starving state, I'm too paranoid to put this foreign food in my body. It still serves as a thing to stare at while answering questions, though.
"So Philip is your—"
"He's my brother. Step-brother."
"Okay. And your parents?"
"Um. They're out of the picture?"
"Aren't you a little young to be living on your own?" Yes. Too young to be dealing with a dying person and gang wars and mutant genes and a missing family. But I can't tell her that, so I give her a look instead. She backpedals. "Sorry, I shouldn't have—"
I give her what I hope is an easy smile. "No, it's okay. We get that a lot. Declared independence." I shrug. "In our case, the wicked step-mother was a real thing, you know?"
"Oh." Yeah, I don't know what I would say in reply to that, either. I go back to staring at the coffee in my hands.
"Do you have any of Philip's medical history?"
Well, considering that until recently I thought he was created in a test tube like me, "no."
"Do you know his blood type?"
He's not Fang, so, "No."
"Can you tell me what happened?"
"I already told the doctor."
"I know, and I'm sorry. It's just procedure."
I wince. 'Procedure' took Iggy's sight. "I'm not really sure what happened. We were in a car wreck. There must have been a knife in the glove compartment."
"Didn't you arrive in a car?"
I thought she would ask. "Yes, the person who hit us offered us a ride. He didn't stick around, though. He looked pretty shaken up."
"You don't remember anything else?"
I shake my head. The less I know, the less they'll pry. "Are we done here? I need to go to the bathroom."
"Just one more question. Are you okay? Your brother—"
"Step-brother."
"Philip sustained quite a lot of injuries during the accident. Are you sure you're okay?"
I hide how I hug my ribs by crossing my arms. Earlier, when I cleaned up in the bathroom, I examined them myself. The left side of my ribcage looks like a watercolor painting with purples and yellows and everything in between. "No, I'm fine." At her look, I continue. "The passenger side was hit."
"Well, honey—" I cringe at the use of that word. It reminds me of the brute I left at the warehouse. "The doctors are afraid you might have a concussion. Why don't you just come with me and we'll scan your head for any potential damage."
I lock up. No way I'm going back there. No examinations. The sight of my wings might freak people out. I need an excuse. A distraction. Something.
"Is Philip going to be okay?"
The nurse smiles a little. "I promise we'll let you know if anything changes." I curl my toes. She took the bait, but it doesn't mean I'm pleased with her answer.
"Miss Baker? Philip is out of surgery." This from someone with a clipboard who just walked from the back.
"Coming!" I self-consciously make sure my windbreaker is zipped, hiding the fact that I'm only wearing half a shirt.
"But first you need—"
"I'm fit as a fiddle. Please, I need to see my brother." The nurse hesitates, then nods. I smile. Ha! You'll never take me alive!
The lady with a clipboard leads me down white tiled hallways, past room after room filled with sick and dying people. My mutant abilities mean I can hear each tired breath, each moan of pain. I can smell the blood and bile. I can sense the danger—no. Calm down. There's no danger here. Deep breath. In—Ouch! Maybe not so deep next time.
"Here you go! He's still working off the anesthetic, so he might not wake up while you're here."
"It's okay. Thank you." The nurse leaves me alone in the small room with Nick. Of course, the first thing I do is scan the room for possible escape strategies, in case one of the doctors decides to reveal the more eccentric side of his or her personality. Hm, the windows are caulked shut, but not bullet-proof. I can always jump through them.
"Hey." I jump before looking at Nick for the first time since entering the room. The hospital gown does little to hide his skin, made a patchwork of bruises and cuts that I'm sure will scar. Several bags hang by his bed, their contents filtering into the IV in his arm. The white gauze wrapped around his stomach bulges under the hospital gown. To put it simply, he looks like road kill.
His face, swollen in several places, pulls into a frown. "That's not very nice." Oh, great, did I say that out loud? His face twists into a lopsided, goofy grin. "But it's okay because you're tough. You saved me." He slurs his words.
What kind of pain meds did they put him on? I want some. I walk up to examine the IV bags. Morphine. Of course.
"Heyyy. Your hair." Suddenly there are fingers running through my freshly cut, shoulder-length hair. I grab Nick's hand and disentangle it from my mane.
"Yeah. There was. . . I cut it."
Nick pouts. I tuck the image away into my mental memory bank. Nick may not be Fang, but he looks similar enough that that face—that face is precious. He continues, oblivious to my growing smile. "I liked it long."
I roll my eyes. "Don't worry, now your hair is more fabulous than mine." Without thinking about it, I add, "and your doppelganger's hair is longer." Nick stares at me. Oh, crap, I shouldn't have said that. Now he knows. . . Oh. He's staring because I'm still holding his hand. I quickly let go, but he doesn't. I swallow uncomfortably with the eye contact we're making.
"Um, Nick, on a scale from sober to hippie, how, um, conscious are you right now?"
Nick giggles. Giggles. That's all the answer I need.
A knock on the open door. A woman walks in, wearing a white lab coat. "Oh, am I interrupting something?"
I pull my hand from Nick's. "No! No." My cheeks burn.
The doctor gives us a weird look. We're supposed to be brother and sister, after all. Great. Gross. But the doctor—her nametag labels her as a Dr. Loretta Sanders—continues without any questions. "I'm Nick's doctor for the duration of his stay. I understand you're his sister?"
"Step-sister, yes."
"Then I'll explain what we've done so you can tell him when the anesthesia has worn off. I'm sure that won't be any problem?"
I look at Nick, who watches the doctor through droopy eyelids. "Nope, no problem at all."
The doctor explains the surgery, the blood transfusion, how long he'll need to be in the hospital. The knife hit some internal organs, and while the surgeon was able to sew them back up, Nick will be on a liquid diet for about a week. As of right now, though, his outlook is positive.
"It's a miracle, really," she says. "We actually lost him once." My stomach clenches. He died.
Dr. Sanders talks more about paying the hospital bill, calling the nurses if anything goes wrong, et cetera. I zone out, trying to deal with a nagging feeling in the pit of my stomach. This is not the School. Nick is going to be okay. Finally, the doctor leaves.
I stand up to pace and release my nervous energy. Nick's hand finds my jacket. I thought he was asleep. "Don't leave."
"I'm not going anywhere." And I mean it. I sit in the chair across the room and watch his eyes close and his breathing even out.
Somewhere along the way, I fall asleep, too.
"NO! STOP!"
Riiiiiip!
A terrible scream.
"What are you going to do, birdie?"
Riiiiiippp!
"STOP! I'll do anything! Please—"
A hoarse laugh. "Sorry, boss' orders!"
RiiiiIIIIiiiiip!
Loose feathers drift to the floor of the cave. My eyes follow the blood as it blazes a trail through the red dust. I can't watch.
"Don't worry, Maxie. We'll leave your wings attached." The Flock struggles as the Erasers drag them to the edge of the cave, kicking up a dust cloud. "Better to catch your friends with!"
And with that, the wingless Flock is shoved over the edge of the cliff.
"Max!" I wrench myself free from the hands holding me down. The Erasers don't keep me from diving over the edge. They know I can't save them all.
"Max!" Fang. My breath hitches. His face is purple and blue and swollen. His shirt has been ripped off, exposing the two long, deep sockets where his wings used to be attached. He reaches up for me. I reach a hand out. So close.
"Max!" We're too close to the ground. I can't. I can't catch him. I can't save any of them. I'm going to watch them die again. A sudden thought occurs to me. The Erasers aren't holding me back; I could smash in the ground with them. Just keep my wings tucked in.
Forty feet. Thirty feet. I can't keep watching them die.
Fang grabs my hand. I look into his eyes, preparing for the inevitable as the ground swells beneath us.
"Maxine Baker! WAKE UP!"
I jump into a defensive position before my eyes are adjusted to the dark. Unfortunately, I pull Nick with me.
"Ow."
I look down and realize that I have Nick's hand in my fist. "Oh sorry." I let go.
Nick fumbles to his feet. Wait a second. "Nick, what are you doing out of bed? You're going to rip open your stitches." And then all of your internal organs are going to spill out and I don't know if I could deal with that in my current emotional state.
Nick shrugs. "You were having a nightmare. I had to wake you up." I would be flattered if he weren't swaying on his feet.
I reach out to steady him. "Woah, there. Let me help you." Nick doesn't protest. I have to support most of his weight back across the room. Once he's settled back on his bed, I surreptitiously check the gauze taped over his stomach. Nothing has begun bleeding yet. "You need to stay in bed for at least a few more days."
Nick groans. The pain meds must be wearing off. "Don't remind me."
"Hey, it could be worse."
"How?"
"Don't be such a drama queen. You could have died."
"I did die." Yeah, I know. And you about scared the daylights out of me.
"Doesn't count. You were in the hospital."
"They had to use the paddles!"
"You should be happy you didn't die underground. You're lucky I got my butt down there to help you, especially since. . . "especially since your aunt wasn't about to. But the words get caught in my throat. Bess did show up, in the end. I guess she doesn't suck, but it's not like she stuck around, either.
"What?"
"Especially since I'm the only girl who doesn't have anybody to tell what a great damsel in distress you make." Nick rolls his eyes. Ah, that's more like it.
A nurse comes through the door, carrying a small cup of pills and a bottle of water, both of which he sets on the fancy table next to Nick's hospital bed. "Take these as soon as you feel up to it, okay?" Nick nods, already trying to open the bottle of water.
I interrupt him. "What are these pills for?"
The nurse smiles at me. "Pain medication. Philip is in a lot of pain, and these should help." I nod, pretending that repetitive answer is enough. The nurse starts to walk out the door, but hesitates at the doorway. "Is everything okay in here? I heard screaming."
I wave my hand flippantly. "Oh, I, uh—" Eloquent, huh?
"I had a nightmare," Nick says. I look at him in surprise. Okay.
The nurse nods. "It's common, with what you've been through. It should pass. In the meantime, we can get you something to help you sleep, if you want."
Nick looks at me. "No, I'm going to be okay." He then points at me, turning back to the nurse. "My sister has been known to put squirrels to sleep with her endless, boring prattle about fashion."
It's everything I can do to not strangle the boy.
The nurse raises his eyebrow, but leaves without asking any more questions. I give Nick a death glare. Well, not "death," more of a "maim" glare; he's injured, after all. He misses its full force, distracted by the water bottle he's trying to open. The IVs in his arms keep getting caught on the bed's guard rails.
Wait a second.
Nick's about to take a sip when I slap it out of his grip. Water spills down the front of his hospital gown. "Hey!"
"Sh! Don't drink that!"
Nick isn't paying attention. He's trying to sop up some of the water with the sheets. "What's wrong with you?" I bite the inside of my cheek. A heck of a lot, actually.
I truck on. "You just had surgery, Nick. They had to take out some of your small intestine."
"And?"
I whisper-shout. "And that nurse—who, by the way, is different from the one who's been waiting on you for the last few hours—just gave you solid food to eat. You shouldn't be eating anything for another week at least!"
"But it's just water—"
I point to the IV in his arm. "No, that's what this is. And it's supposed to be your pain meds, too. Earlier they had you on morphine."
"They—what? I didn't say anything stupid, did I?"
Heh. Yes. "Doesn't matter. Something's up." I drop the pills in my pocket in case he gets any ideas. "Wait here."
"But—" His words are cut off as I leave.
A/N: Oh, Max. You can't just leave things alone, can you? Of course, if you did, Nick would have died a long time ago, and you would never find out. . . but I'm getting ahead of myself.
Okay, so I would really appreciate some criticism, if you have any. Like, is my dialogue okay? I don't know if any of you noticed, but in the first couple of chapters the amount of dialogue was next to nothing. I'm trying to branch out and include it; does it flow naturally and stuff? Also, how am I doing on the Fax? I'm trying to drop subtle hints. Is it too obvious? Not obvious enough? I would love to hear from you! (Disclaimer: just because you say 'OMG I NEED FAX RIGHT NOW PLEASE' does not mean that I'm going to suddenly have them making out and making goo-goo eyes at each other. It's not Twilight.) But constructive criticism is what makes my writing better for your reading enjoyment!