A/N: This fic is an offshoot of Lines in the Sand. Find it among my fics.
"The terrorist Eldian Liberation Front has as of this morning been disbanded."
The news breaks over the radio while the ward's staff are on their afternoon break.
Hundreds dead. Dozens fled with their life intact. Only a handful were arrested but they got the leader. The fact that the Marleyans brought him out of the internment zone for his conviction says everything they need to know about the scale of operations and the seriousness of this stakeout. Marleyan police, Marleyan investigation, Marleyan executions.
For the first time in months, they can breathe again and the staff room collectively laughs out their relief. The nightmare is over. Marley no longer has to pick random Eldians to shoot at the central plaza every day until the Eldian Liberation Front comes out of hiding and surrenders. Friends and family no longer run a mortal risk and it's evident that there is unanimous agreement: the insurgents deserve the hand they were dealt after endangering the humble existence the Eldians of Liberio have built for themselves.
Quietly, Bertholdt disagrees.
No one is ever truly beyond help. Not the insurgents who illegally travel outside the internment zone, not the criminally insane who end up under his care, not even the Eldians.
True enough, the disbandment may cause further crackdowns and a reinforcement of stricter policies to ensure no replacement can form, but it is the price the insurgents were prepared to pay should they fail.
Nothing could be done. Marley does not see it that way and has locked their devil-blooded oppressors far away from the rest of humanity. They can surrender to their circumstances and live an acceptable albeit humble life within the walls, or they can die like dogs. Their reckless endangerment of their fellow countrymen which was all for nothing has cost them all sympathy they may have gotten.
Bertholdt grabs his pack of cigarettes and begins his way towards the gardens to escape the commotion and clear his head.
Reiner's decision has the entire staff on edge.
Barely over twelve and visibly malnourished, so far, their newest patient has bitten two nurses and a doctor before they could get a muzzle on him and pack him into a straitjacket. They had to strap him to a wheelchair because he would not stop escaping to headbutt several of the staff members using the metal frame of his muzzle, Bertholdt included.
They already deemed it a bad idea due to his aggression problems before he was brought in. Even after a hefty injection of sedatives, he still lies stiff in his wheelchair and his eyes glare up at the grey sky.
Reiner had him admitted to the hospital anyway, hopeful that he can be cured of whatever madness has taken a grip on his psyche.
It wasn't easy to find information about him, but after a thorough search through the archives, they found out that the boy's name is Eren Yeager and that he is three years older than he looks. The son of a doctor who was killed together with his wife in a case that the Liberio police considered to be a Marleyan culling. Probably knew too much, so they closed the case and didn't go digging anywhere that could make them next.
Rumour has it that the Eldian Liberation Front slaughtered the families of vulnerable children to eliminate the obstacles to recruiting them.
When Eren was arrested a few days earlier, there were two girls with him. One of them—an unidentified teen who took no direct part in their crime—was shot and killed while the youngest fled and only Eren remained to be apprehended. How they didn't shoot someone with such aggressive tendencies is beyond Bertholdt.
"He's on tentative parole," Reiner later explains at a meeting with his faculty members. "He was spared the noose because his involvement with Tuesday's shooting cannot be directly linked to him, but his violent behaviour led the chief to phone us. Prison would've killed him. The only ethical decision was to bring him here for reform."
"Ethical, perhaps. That doesn't change that he'll go through our entire stock of sedatives in no time. Supply lines have been scarce lately," Marcel is the first to voice his protest.
"He's going to bite off someone's finger," Porco supports his brother's concerns, picking at the bandage around his left hand. "I had to get my shots redone…"
"This isn't the first lunatic we've dealt with," Bertholdt chimes in.
"Precisely. We'll send him into isolation and keep him restrained. I'm the one who will counsel him, it's my hazard. Eren stays."
He's unexpectedly joined by Annie, who leans against the wall next to him and stares out at the garden pond in silence while he smokes. There's not much to talk about. She's there for the company.
"What do you think of the new patient?" Bertholdt asks anyway.
Annie shrugs. "Same as always."
Nothing she can't handle.
Bertholdt blows smoke out of his nose and crushes his cigarette butt against the wall before tossing it into the nearby ashtray. He bends down to the side, as per delayed greeting, but Annie pushes him away by the shoulder.
"Not after you smoked. Go wash out the smell first before you try anything."
Bertholdt hums in amusement. "Just this once?"
Annie is in no good mood, not even acknowledging Bertholdt's playful comment. She leaves his side again without a goodbye, but he's not quite ready to move on just yet himself.
Annie enters his office without knocking, heat in her heels and passion in the swing of her arms.
"What the hell is he doing?" she growls. Bertholdt looks up from the journal he's reading through. She carries a scowl on her face that can only mean one thing.
"What happened? What did he do?"
"He got another one."
"Oh."
Annie stops by his desk, tensely planting her hands atop it before her limbs go limp and she covers her forehead with a groan.
"You have to talk to him," she says.
"There's nothing I can do about this. It's his ward."
"You have a spine, don't you? Tell him that we're getting tired of it. We're getting too many lunatics these days and we don't have the staff to deal with them."
Bertholdt sighs through his teeth. "Is it the one who shot that woman?"
Annie nods, and Bertholdt stands up.
"Why is she here? This is a men's ward. Actually, why didn't they hang her?" he asks.
"Him."
"Hm?"
"They didn't hang him because the Chief didn't feel right about hanging a young girl and it took the police until after the conviction to realise that's not a young girl. That, and because he would've been given the chair had the Chief not intervened."
"Ah," Bertholdt hums. It's a mystery why they didn't take him out back and shoot him to quickly solve their little issue. Reiner's relationship with the Chief of Police is good and apparently, he has earned enough good standing for him to respect Reiner's request to bring the insane to his hospital instead of convicting them.
Reiner, just like Bertholdt, believes in the potential good of all—but sometimes, he struggles with accepting that safety takes precedence over their patients' recovery.
Bertholdt would be a hypocrite to ask him to give up on the few they can still reach.
But if Annie wants him to talk to Reiner, then he will.
"Come on," he says as he grabs his coat from the back of his chair.
The boy that sits slumped in the wheelchair parked in the hospital foyer is deathly pale. Long locks of dull blond hair hang off his scalp where the dermatitis hasn't caused it to fall out in patches. His skin is pulled so taut over his bones that he could very well be mistaken for a corpse. Bertholdt does not want to imagine what he must've looked like before they found him.
There's no way that he's over nine years old, but in his current state, his age is hard to assess and he would indeed be easy to mistake for a young girl. Why he's not currently getting food and water is a mystery.
"John?" Bertholdt asks, but he fails to capture his attention. The boy hangs loosely in his chair, though the fact that he sits upright and his unfocused eyes lack that typical dullness alerts Bertholdt that he hasn't been sedated, merely restrained and strapped to his wheelchair to prevent a second Eren incident.
"Yep," Annie answers in the patient's place. She lingers behind, wary to keep her distance despite his listlessness.
John has thus far only shown subtle signs in his body language that he has noticed Annie and Bertholdt's presence in the foyer. His medical condition aside, he looks fairly clean and nothing points to blindness or deafness.
"He's calm. That's a start."
"What do you think he has?" Annie asks in a hushed voice.
"Hard to tell. We'll see if it's lunacy in a few weeks, but the preliminary intake should reveal a few things about his mental state. Likely manic-depressive or dementia praecox, either of which would be bad news."
"Reiner will be the one in charge."
"So I thought."
"But we will be the ones who get close to him most often," Annie completes the sentiment.
It is true that their line of work always poses a certain risk, especially for the nurses—but Annie is the toughest woman he knows. Such a frail thing stands no chance against her, not even in a fit of mania.
But if she's worried, then so is he.
"Can you handle that?"
Bertholdt's eyes fall on Annie, who stands stiller than she usually would and shows a rare moment of vulnerability. It's the ward's first patient who has killed in a long time. The first one during Annie's employment. A manic episode could explain why this ruthless killer sits in his wheelchair as if dead. Caution will be in much higher order these next few months.
His fingers brush against Annie's hand and she lets him weave them together. Finally, she nods and he smiles on ahead at the confirmation.
"Then everything will be okay."
John Doe is a case of his own.
Admitted for pulling the trigger on an Eldian civilian in a seemingly random hit before fleeing the scene and disappearing for a month, he nothing resembles the cold-blooded killer that everyone expected him to be. They anticipated someone more like Eren and they intend to ask the latter to help them identify John, but it's something that can wait until Eren has calmed down enough to avoid triggering John's aggressive mania.
Not even after a week of intense assistance has John uttered a word to Reiner or the nurses. Too weak to receive chemical or physical treatments, there is not much they can do until he gains enough weight to survive his therapy.
He's indifferent to touch. Bertholdt has noticed that on top of the scratches and bites on his wrists, he has bloody marks in his palms from where his nails endlessly dug in. During his own session with John, he pries open the boy's clammy fingers and places a leather ball between them. It goes without visual acknowledgement but the effects are immediate as he squeezes and pries at the ball with both hands and his shoulders slump.
They have shaved his head to allow his dermatitis to be treated, and already, despite revealing just how infected his scalp is, he looks better than he did a week ago. Fuller, less scabbed, and Bertholdt is certain that if he is given the necessary time and space to understand that he is safe and cared for, his self-inflicted stress wounds will come to a halt eventually.
John does not reach their patient. Bertholdt suggests Johannes as a more personal name instead and Reiner adopts it, but just as soon as it started, Bertholdt's fruitless attempt to get through to him is over and Johannes is rotated on to the next doctor in a long lineup.
"There's a problem."
Bertholdt hums over his coffee, urging Reiner to specify.
"Marley has responded to our report of the insurgents."
Another hum as Bertholdt swallows his sip of coffee and puts his cup down. "That's not good."
"Monthly inspection's been changed to weekly."
"That's really not good," Bertholdt says. That means this will fall on his shoulders. "So instead of a monthly hour of being chewed out by a bureaucrat, it'll be a weekly affair."
"Show some respect," Reiner admonishes. "You two get along. I trust you can handle things without me. Nuame will be over this afternoon, I expect you to show him around and show him that our patients are in good hands."
"Of course." Bertholdt's voice is low and quiet. He'd rather not argue about this with his superior. "Is there anything new I need to know about Eren and Johannes? Nuame will want to see them."
"I'll have Eren taken out for the afternoon. Johannes will be with me in his room. You know the inspector better than I do. If you think it will make a better impression if Johannes is sedated, I'll make sure he's out by the time you make your rounds."
"No, keep him lucid. We can show that he poses no threat without the use of medicine."
Bertholdt will have to clear his afternoon to entertain the inspector. He should ask for a raise.
When Bertholdt walks into the hospital foyer, he can't look past the tall Agbowan man whose arrival he was notified of. With his full reaction held back inside his lungs, he approaches.
"Inspector Nuame. Good afternoon and welcome to our hospital."
"Please, Dr. Hoover," he responds with a hearty laugh, "it's been long, but not so long you have to call me that."
Bertholdt's smile is light and amicable. "In that case… Good to see you again, Onyankopon."
The two men shake hands and Bertholdt sets a step aside to let Onyankopon assess the foyer, not that the receptionist who's watching them is likely to be a part of the inspection.
"Are you aware of why I was sent here so soon after the last inspection?"
"I was briefed. You're here to ensure that we treat our insurgent patients, not harbour them."
"That's correct." Onyankopon fishes a piece of paper out of his coat pocket and unfolds it. "Those two boys from the Eldian Liberation Front. Eren Yeager and John Doe."
"We started calling John Johannes instead, actually. A meaningful name can create a meaningful connection that a generic name cannot."
"Wonderful," Onyankopon says with a smile that proves he's genuine. "But we will have to talk about the fact that you have still not unearthed his name. Later."
Bertholdt nods. Nothing that can be done about it. There are always dozens of reasons why Onyankopon needs to hold a long discussion in Bertholdt's office. He doubts that the increased frequency will cut these meetings any shorter.
"He hasn't been an easy patient," Bertholdt explains as they walk through the isolation wing. "He's afraid but shows it through dismissal. He doesn't want us near and he wants to go back home, wherever this may be. He's undergoing chemical therapy and we see slow progress."
"The agents?"
"He's currently on a barbiturate regimen and we have noticed visible improvement. We cannot yet diagnose lunacy with certainty, but in the long run, we're looking at insulin and metrazol in the hopes those will improve his wellness and stabilise his mood. Things would be easier if there were a more consistent opiate supply line, inspector."
Onyankopon nods as he scribbles Bertholdt's explanation down on the clipboard he's holding but doesn't respond. He's a wonderfully brilliant man and while he is no physician, he's been in the field long enough to know the rough workings of the medicine they use most frequently.
They stop at room 5 and he finishes making his notes before he taps his pen against the board.
"And is he safe to approach at this moment?"
"He's under."
"Then let's see it."
Bertholdt turns the key in his hand and inserts it into room 5's lock. Onyankopon walks inside, eyes cast upon a peacefully sleeping Eren.
"Fifteen, you say he was?"
"That's what all records say."
Onyankopon hums. "He's quite malnourished for a boy his age."
"Five years of fending for himself hasn't been kind to him. We expect that the comfort of food, water, and a safe place to sleep will do wonders for his recovery. He'll let us in eventually."
"Alright," Onyankopon says as he takes his notes. "Can you take off his jacket for me?"
He performs a brief physical examination before he does his usual nod and note act. Good as it may look, Bertholdt knows that there are always points to be discussed later.
For now, Eren isn't carted off to the station and scheduled to be disposed of for his inconvenience. It would be easier for everyone, but not even Eren is beyond help. It's a good thing that Reiner stands on principle in this case.
Johannes is the one Bertholdt is worried about. There's a hypothesis that the right unique trigger can awaken him from his catatonia and introducing new people is always a risk.
He sits against the wall of his padded cell with his legs pulled close to his torso, one hand rhythmically squeezing his stress ball as the other is at work solving one of the many wooden dexterity puzzles Reiner brought along for the day's session. Though his eyes stare into nothingness and he barely reacts to the intrusion, Bertholdt knows that his stare is one that attests to focus on his given task.
"Good afternoon, inspector," Reiner greets, getting up from his seated position next to Johannes to extend a hand. "Here to see how our patient is doing?"
Onyankopon shakes Reiner's hand in greeting, eyes pinned below. "That's correct. This is Johannes?"
"This is Johannes."
"How old is he?"
"We don't have a number. Initially, we thought him to be around nine, but judging by his teeth, he should be at least eleven. We have sent an appeal for the dentist to come verify that his secondary teeth have set in but we received no word back as of yet."
"Bring me up to speed when you have more information," Onyankopon says. "Is he eating?"
"Sparsely," Reiner answers. "But he doesn't resist the introduction of a feeding tube."
"He looks quite sick compared to the other patients, doctor."
Reiner hums out a laugh. "Well, he is sick. We're making him better."
"But of course. How are you treating him?" Onyankopon asks, facing Bertholdt in search of his answer.
Reiner is the one to answer. "The first step is to get through to him and establish communication. Before that has happened, there's not much else we can do. He needs to hear us."
"Ah-hah. What medicine is he on?"
"None."
"None?" Onyankopon looks over to Johannes, who has finished his puzzle and placed it down in his lap in favour of digging both hands' fingers deep into the ball. "He looks quite far gone."
"Been like that since we got him," Reiner admits. "Even before that, at the station. Chief couldn't get a word out of him, either. Even if he needed sedation, he's too malnourished to use our standard agent. Once he's got a little fat on his bones, it'll be safer, but he won't need it. He's calmer than the average sedated man."
"And the puzzles?"
"The boy's brilliant. He can solve just about any puzzle with no given instructions, one hand at his disposal, and his eyes pinned on the wall. Anything without numbers or a spoken answer, he can solve. We hope to spark his brain activity and challenge him to respond to us, but I've been working on some basic speech therapy in case he doesn't possess sufficient language capabilities."
"Wonderful," Onyankopon answers when he's done writing down Reiner's explanation and he flips through his notes.
Reiner shoots Bertholdt an accomplished smile that makes him feel less useless for standing around without helping. Onyankopon seems satisfied enough with Reiner's explanation, it should do.
"I'll just need… Ah. Take off his garb for a physical."
It's a nurse's task, but Bertholdt and Reiner are on the same page when it comes to the already extended duration of the inspection as they remove Johannes' shirts and pants and Onyankopon crouches to look closer.
"What happened here?" he asks as he pokes against the bloodied bandages around Johannes' wrists.
"Self-harm," Reiner answers. "Compulsive in nature. I gave him that ball to keep his nails busy during the day, but he always manages to get in some damage despite using his hands and having them restrained around the clock."
"That's quite unfortunate," Onyankopon says. He searches the rest of Johannes' body for any remarkable signs and brushes his fingers against the boy's ribs before he stands again with his usual nod.
"Get him back to a safe weight and get him to speak. We have to find out if there is any hope to reintroduce him into Liberio, and that won't be possible without hearing his thoughts about his crimes."
"Those are our aims, inspector."
Onyankopon looks at his watch. "Alright, looks like I'm done here. Dr Hoover, a moment of feedback at your office?"
Bertholdt perks up. He looks at Reiner for guidance.
"Go on, I'll redress the patient."
Bertholdt has to swallow his nerves when he walks into his office. After his short leave, it's been a while since he last got cooped up in a room with Onyankopon. The light curtains are already drawn, no one can look in.
Behind him, Onyankopon shuts the door before turning the key in the lock.
"So, Dr Hoover… We have quite a few things to talk about."
Bertholdt turns and leans his pelvis against his desk. "Better not delay, then."
Onyankopon doesn't linger by the door and marches over, pressing Bertholdt deeper against the desk as his arms swoop around his sides and their lips touch in a greedy kiss.
Three months. Bertholdt's been counting down to this very moment for three months and Onyankopon's breath tastes of a freedom he has yearned for in all that time. It comes to him as a relief that Onyankopon still wants him after not seeing him for so long, but the lust in his hands that settle on Bertholdt's behind and his passionate kiss hide nothing about how he's missed this as much as Bertholdt did.
Much too soon, they break apart again and they stand in silence, foreheads resting flush as they peer into each other's eyes and their hands fold behind the small of each other's backs. Words aren't needed. Soon, the silence will break; can't they have this one moment where everything is perfect and nothing keeps them apart?
Onyankopon recedes, only slightly, and his hand touches upon Bertholdt's cheek to caress him.
"Bertholdt, why did you let Reiner have the word when we were with Johannes?"
He's not disappointed, but the slight dip in his smile gives away that it's not just his inspector voice talking; he's concerned about this.
Bertholdt leans into the touch, letting Onyankopon's fingers prickle across his skin over the course of his next few breaths.
"Not my patient."
"I know. I know, he's not your patient. But you could've shown your boss that you're involved with him and gotten better odds to work with him. You have to be assertive."
"Well, I…"
Glancing off to his right, Bertholdt sighs. Onyankopon's hand guides his face back to look at him while his other hand grabs Bertholdt's from his back, bringing it to Bertholdt's thigh, where their fingers intertwine.
"Johannes fascinates you. A brilliant murderer who hasn't uttered a word since and whose fate hinges on whether you can get him to a point where the state may be convinced he can yet again integrate into society? He's a once-in-a-lifetime chance. I know you want to study him."
The corners of Bertholdt's lips stiffen.
"Maybe. But Reiner won't give him up. What am I supposed to do?"
"Hey. You can do this," Onyankopon encourages, his voice filled with confidence. "Show interest. Solicit him. Offer solutions. Even if they don't stick, it'll show Reiner that you're involved with the patient. God knows that he is busy enough as it is, he'll gladly let you take Johannes off his hands for a while so that he can deal with Eren."
A timid smile finds its way to Bertholdt's face, replacing the insecure tension that had overtaken him.
"You think?"
Onyankopon leans closer for another peck. His hand untangles from Bertholdt's and ascends to fiddle with the leather of his belt, beading sweat on Bertholdt's forehead.
"I really think."
"Wow, no smoke?"
Annie's voice fishes him out of his thoughts as she pulls up a chair and sits down across from him, arms crossed over the kitchen table.
"I suppose not."
"Good. Consider quitting while you're this far."
Bertholdt just laughs. Annie's tone is lighthearted. She could take it or leave it, but for her, he just might.
"I can see that the inspector's visit really cheered you up," she comments, picking at the skin of her finger with disinterest in the matter she talks about.
"Mhm," Bertholdt hums. He puts aside his book and gives Annie his full attention. "What's for dinner?"
"Haven't had time to cook. The lunatics have us too damn busy. It's messing with my schedule. Get used to packing a fuller lunch plate at the hospital."
Bertholdt's hand travels across the table and lands on Annie's arm in support, which breaks through her inattention and causes her to look, first at his hand before her eyes travel up and lock with his.
"Hey, ask Reiner for a raise. You're doing overtime, you deserve compensation."
"For a nurse?" Annie scoffs with a laugh.
"I'll talk to him about it," Bertholdt offers. "You rest tonight. If we have any soup left, I'll break open a can and heat it to eat with a piece of bread."
"Soup sounds fine," Annie says as she gets up and heads for the pantry. "Thanks, Bertholdt."
Bertholdt looks after her as she leaves. He runs his tongue over his lips and for once tastes not the tarry residue of a cigarette, but Onyankopon—and he has to cover his mouth with a hand to keep his beaming smile to himself.
The highlight of his month is now a weekly affair. Life couldn't be better.