A/N: Diabulemia is an eating disorder where a person skips their insulin dose and/or causes ketones to loose weight. I would argue that Sebastian doesn't have it, since he doesn't induce ketones for weight loss, but its up for debate.
He wants to throw his glucose monitor through the window. It will not stop alarming, and all he wants to do is sleep. There aren't any windows in his first floor room, and he can barely lift his arm without wincing, but that isn't the point. His father has stepped out for coffee, and the command unit sits outside his IV limited tether.
His clumsy, numb fingers fumble with the nurse call button. His hands shake slightly, and he wonders if he is low. He tries to test his mental acuity by doing math. Three and four is seven. The derivative of x2 is 2x, isn't it? He decides he must be low. He is a member of an elite group of math nerds who can drink and derive.
A nurse hurries in, responding to his page. She hands him the monitor, showing his once again plummeting sugar. She looks conflicted. After his seizure, the hospital staff will not leave him alone while he's low. But, there is nothing to treat the low in the room. Finally, she sticks her head into the corridor and gets the first person available to sit with him.
He's only half surprised when Dr. Blake comes in with a can of coke and two containers of apple juice. The doctor sets aside the soda, and pokes a small straw through the lid of the plastic cup before handing it to him.
A new electronic trill joins the cacophony of the glucose monitor. He has been on a pump long enough to identify an alarm, although it's not made by the same company as his.
"Don't your other patients notice that you're sick?" he asks, a little harshly.
She starts. "What d-d-do you mean?" She stammers, surprised. She unconsciously flexes her hands.
"You're diabetic," he sounds accusatory. He hates how she is playing dumb, sitting on her high horse with her probable history of perfect A1cs and good control.
She sighs and nods. Her face pales. Dr. Blake has lost her polished edge. "D-do you m-mind if I sit?" She asks him, before sinking into one of the seat and popping the tab on the coke. She takes a long drink.
"I saw your pump scars," he admits.
She gives a short, tired laugh. "I have a few." She takes another fortifying drink of Coke. "I earned them, wearing sites too long. It was easier…" She trails off. "Do you know what diabulemia is?" He nods. "I did that for … years. And, some days it's still a battle to take insulin and keep everything in check." She takes another drink. "You scare me, because you remind me of myself."
"Why do you do it, then?" The question slips out before he can stop himself. "Why not just let yourself go?"
She shrugs, "Because I like what I do. I like being a doctor, and I can't practice medicine when I'm on a diabetic roller coaster. Someday, you'll find something that makes you want to control your sugar."