That name had been circulating through the staff for the last couple of days.
Rottario, Secco.
Printed clear as day at the bottom of his newly updated patient list.
Evidently, whoever it was had proven enough of a nuisance that nobody wanted to deal with them. Either they were avoiding being assigned the room or they had been assigned, suffered, and immediately weaseled their way out of it.
It was a bit disappointing, really, their lack of adaptability.
But so be it, if they wanted to leave everyone else short-staffed and stick the newest hire with a problem, he wasn't opposed to a challenge.
As he made his way to the correct room he flipped through the records he'd been handed along with the new charge. He stopped short of the entrance, scowling at the utter lack of anything helpful. Aside from a name and a few arbitrary scraps of notes the entire medical history was empty. Looking at this mess he couldn't even find a reason for admission, much less reason to keep such a hassle in bed for what was nearing a week.
He rolled his eyes- it was likely some system error taking up everyone's time. But, perhaps he could swing this in his favor. The concerned innocent act was easy enough to keep up. He could pester one of the clerical workers into seeing if there was anything lost somewhere from the file. Even if it turned up nothing, he could talk his way through a couple of labs and in a matter of time the issue would be on the operating table where he could at least get something useful out of this.
He waltzed his way into the room, putting on his usual air of professional ease.
"Good morning," and when he received no greeting in reply, "How are you feeling today?"
The following beat of silence drew his eyes from the bundle in his hands up to the body it corresponded to.
According to his records, Secco Rottario couldn't have been more than a handful of years younger than his doctor was, though his rounded face and large eyes lent to a guess somewhere on the farther edge of that limit. His hair was a mess, shaken out of his eyes to better glare at this intruder. He was straining against the four point restraints of his bed, trying to sit up the small bit that he could.
"I know your name." he hissed, eyeing the surgeon as if prepared to attack the second he came close enough.
The accused remained silent, merely cocking an eyebrow and waiting for proof.
"Dolcio… Cioccolata."
Cioccolata slid into the nearby chair waiting for him, watching with matched intensity. The patient's words were shaky, the pronunciation off slightly, hindered by some soft accent.
"What else do you know?"
"Human bites are really dangerous. That's why none of those people came back."
An involuntary smile tugged at Cioccolata's lips. So it was true. He'd chalked up the purported "attacks" as exaggeration but evidently the restraints and wariness had actual precedent. He seemed almost proud of his own brutality. Still, his speech was slow and careful. Uncertain of his own word choice. Not a native Italian speaker. Perhaps a foreigner of some kind. Well… That would make this much easier.
His own joy, despite his attempt to smother it, still slipped through enough to be detected, Secco bristling at the perceived slight. He narrowed his eyes, baring his teeth like a feral dog. As if he truly believed a death stare would somehow rid him of this nuisance. It only served to further the doctor's interest, pressing a finger against his own lips to stifle his intrigue.
Oh yes, this would be wonderful. Such a desperate, openly vicious fighter; watching the resolve on his face drain away into anguish was going to be perfect.
But it would have to wait. First, he needed everything to go smoothly. He leaned back in his chair, folding his hands in his lap as he steadied his gaze to meet his target's.
"Be as stubborn as you like. I've got nothing else to do for the next, oh," he feigned a glance at the clock. "Seven hours or so. I'm happy to use them indulging this little staring contest of yours. But you'll have to blink sometime."
Even if it kills you .
The process had taken longer than intended, but at last, everything was in place. Interestingly enough, getting his newest guinea pig to agree to go under the knife had been a rather simple endeavor. And once the actual procedure he'd requested was complete, it would be easy to get away with his own experiments afterwards. He'd even gone ahead and prepped some forged documents that would cover for the post-op results and slipped it in with the other paperwork to get Secco's signature. The moment of truth was drawing ever nearer, anticipation thrumming through Cioccolata's very bones.
The solitude of the operating room was hardly standard practice, but the perks of being a large facility with frequent understaffing issues lent well to being overlooked in the best sense of the word. The cold of the room, the steady drone of machines, the scent of antiseptic soon to be marred by the heady smell of viscera. It all at once soothed over the stress of his more typical drudgery and set his nerves alight with excitement. He carefully positioned his trusted camera to capture his handiwork- and more importantly, his prey's reactions.
The neatly organized array of tools at his disposal were well familiar at this point, comfortable and easy in his hands as he began his work. It all ran on autopilot, just a matter of waiting for the miniscule dose to wear off and give his victim a rude awakening. The scalpel slid through layers of tissue, blood blooming in its wake, pooling on the surface of the table as it ran down over curves of skin. Retractors fit snugly into place, holding flesh out of the way. The initial operation was nearly complete by the time his quarry began to stir from the limited anesthesia. The chest cavity heaved under his fingers as he finished the final sutures there, a full breath that signaled growing awareness rather than the shallow rhythm of an unconscious body. Cioccolata willed himself to maintain his focus. He could have his fun soon enough, just hold off a few moments longer.
When the last loose ends were dealt with he straightened slightly, depositing the used supplies into their proper place before retrieving a clean lancet. He paused, poised for an abdominal incision and met with a deep breath. Bracing for whatever was going to come next. That clarified it- if he wasn't awake before, he certainly was now. Cioccolata permitted himself a brief glimpse upwards and while he found the briefest expression of dread, it was muddled in some strange determination. Those wide eyes paid no attention to him, blown out pupils focused entirely on the millimeters between his flesh and the blade. He held the breath he'd taken in, steeled for the sting of it. As it bit into him he stifled a sound, letting out a shuddering breath that became a high, thin whine the longer Cioccolata spent carving open his stomach. As he went on, he slowly wore down that stamina keeping the pitiful thing silent, but even then, much to his growing vexation, it never grew higher than what would best be classified as a whisper.
That is- until another sound joins the usual backdrop of slow mounting distress.
It takes him a moment at first to realize just what the sound is.
Underneath the slight wheeze of terrified gasping and pained whimpering, Secco is laughing .
He wants to be angry about it. He's supposed to enjoy this, not his patients.
But the fusion of sound hits a nerve somewhere, building in his stomach and working it way up to tap on his ribs, just for a moment.
The strange thrill leaves his mouth uncharacteristically dry.
In the back of his mind he nearly considers it a side effect of the drugs but he knows; there's no nitrous. The hospital doesn't even carry it. He personally saw to the preparations of both operating room and client. As usual, his favored blend; heaping with paralytics and not nearly enough anesthetic or analgesic. It should've left anyone immobile but awake and in pain.
"What, exactly, is so funny?"
He can't even manage to make himself sound irritated, the words coming out utterly bewildered.
"W-with the lights...You look like you ha-have a halo..."
Secco's words slur together, struggling against the neuromuscular blockers to be coherent.
The doctor pulls an indignant face, lips curling into a snarl behind the blank guise of his surgical mask. He lets out a slow breath to regain his composure.
"Delirium, then, is it? I should be so lucky," he derided.
"Are you going to kill me?"
The question caught him a bit off guard. He'd grown used to fear. To anguish. To incoherent sobs. To begging for their lives. It almost amused him that he granted their pleas on a technicality. Not out of mercy but out of necessity. The anesthesia fogged the mind enough all they were left with were nightmares. And any damage could either be attributed to exactly what he'd lied about to get them into the OR, or else couldn't be found without them going back into it. Nothing substantial enough to prove his crime.
But such pure curiosity had only ever been his own.
"If you are," his patient continues, the irony lost on him of any patience the role might suggest in name, "Can you make it mean something? Nobody's going to chase you down if you do. I don't have anybody to miss me afterwards, so could it be important? Even if it's just to you?"
There was no cynicism or sorrow in it. Just a neutral request; almost hopeful. Casual.
"What… A curious request,"
The pair were silent for a few moments, one waiting for an answer the other wasn't sure how to give.
"I haven't decided."
The lie slips coolly between his teeth, though it doesn't make much impact on Secco either way.
The next half hour drags on like a traffic jam, his usual entertainment rendered utterly joyless. While his victim maintained a pain response, any true despair was hopelessly lost to this session. Instead, what should've been the pathetic soundtrack of horror and melancholia had become a buzzingly low background noise, constantly interrupted by some asinine question or muttering after another. His usual route had yielded nothing but roadblocks.
Fine, if that's how you're going to play this, then let's play.
He could employ the social game just as well as any other. He checks the positioning of the mask and intravenous lines before he ups the dosage back to normal, the equipment working quickly to silence the irksome obstruction to his inquisitive itch.
He finishes the failed pleasantries on his own, cauterizing any troublesome spots before deftly administering sutures and staples in his returned isolation. As he tucks the camera securely back into hiding he makes a mental note to erase the useless footage.
What a waste.
On the bright side, the days following proved far less taxing. It was actually rather appealing, having someone as curious as he was to involve himself with on the occasion. Even so, Secco was as much a mystery to him now as he had been several days ago.
There was, still, the troubling issue of those spotty medical records to clean up. And even more so the fact that- aside from an unseen visitor dropping off a duffel bag filled with personal items- nobody had attempted to make any contact with the hospital to claim Secco as friend or family member; and the patient himself made no indication that he had information on how to reach anyone that could offer him respite from the following weeks spent in a ward that rendered him essentially nonexistent. So it hadn't been an exaggeration. It seemed there was not a soul in the world looking for Secco Rottario.
Aside from that, he didn't seem too displeased with his situation. A bit jumpy, certainly, and he maintained his tendency to lash out against strange people or objects that came within his reach. At least he'd calmed down enough post-op that he needn't be strapped to his bed.
Over the two ensuing weeks, Cioccolata found himself slowly spending the final hours of his work day in that room- if not attempting to fill in the egregious lapses in his records than simply enjoying a bit of silence or light conversation. At worst, he ended up playing begrudged babysitter, ensuring his stubborn confidant didn't break the proper protocol of his recuperation and put further strain on healing muscles and nerves.
But today was simple. Just filling in a couple of final missing injections.
Secco instinctively withdrew from the sight of the needle, even while it was still capped. Cioccolata pulled the room's chair close to the bed, so neither of them would have to move. He mumbled the steps as he went, words intended solely for the other half of the duo, wary tension fading out of muscles as he did.
"Which one is this?" Secco was turned away from him, refusing to look even as the tiny section of his arm was disinfected in preparation.
"HPV."
He made a short sound, silently requesting clarification of some kind.
"You really should've gotten this one five years ago."
"That doesn't answer the question!"
"And you didn't actually ask one. Don't pout- It's required. All you're missing out on is a nasty number on your immune system."
Secco shifted slightly, huffing as he leaned his chin against a propped up palm.
"Behave," Dolcio breathed, meaning 'hold still'.
A moment later the ordeal was over, the syringe dropped into the sharps box and other materials tossed in the trash.
Cioccolata returned to his seat, intent on burning the last dregs of his shift being at least mildly interested rather than badgered by his coworkers in the on-call rooms. Secco readjusted the nest of discarded shirts, jackets, and two pillows so he could lay more comfortably, turned enough towards his side that he could lean against the side rail but not severely enough that the resident medic would chide him for stressing his stitches.
Once they'd settled, their prior talk devolved into more casual discussion, needling each other about one thing or another.
"Aside from the boosters I gave you, did you take your medications today?"
"Mhm."
"I know you've been picking at your food, you are remembering to take those pills with your meals, aren't you?" Cioccolata pointed an accusing finger towards his patient, who halfheartedly pushed the hand down out of his line of sight, pinning it beneath his own against the bed railing.
"Yes. But if I have to choke down this shitty sick house food much longer I'm going to kill somebody."
Cioccolata hummed in amusement, trying to decide whether or not the statement was really meant in hyperbole.
"You've improved quite a bit since you arrived. I'm almost impressed. I wonder what might've had such an adverse effect on you before."
"I don't like hospitals," he admits with a yawn, tapping his thumb against the side of Cioccolata's. "And I hate doctors."
That explained all the hostility, even if it felt infuriatingly vague.
"You seem to have no issue with me, however," Dolcio prompts, unsure of exactly what he's hoping to get out of it.
"You're not a doctor."
Secco wrapped his fingers tightly around Cioccolata's.
"You're like me."