There have been readers according to my stats. I would really appreciate some feedback, guys. This is my first Avengers piece, so thoughts would be lovely!
-XXX-
The nurses come after far too long. They check his vitals, coo and cluck and sooth. But he doesn't need an ounce of soothing- - - our John Doe only has eyes for me.
He doesn't appear frightened or confused, or even mildly worried. In fact, he's a blank slate, contrasting nicely to my raw emotion. I'd just seen a man wake from the sleep of death. He looks perfectly fine, certainly healthier than he'd been in the coma. He hasn't spoken yet, but has accepted the various tubes and patches the nurses have either removed or applied. I sit back in my chair (slightly surprised no one has asked me to leave yet), observing all of this as he observes me.
It strikes me that no one has yet asked him the important questions. Such as, "Who are you? Do you know where you are? How did you acquire these injuries?" But no one thinks to ask.
But maybe they know better than I. Someone thinks to call Walker. Another leaves to order some mild foodstuff. When the room is emptied, we're left with one another.
Neither of us speak, but stare for a full two or three minutes. It's nearly a battle of wills, with the first to speak being the loser. Finally, I break the silence.
"How do you feel?"
It seems like a natural thing to ask. But he quirks his lips, smirking, before saying in a low voice, "Fine, thank you."
No croak. No rough, sandpaper-y voice. It's unnatural. I try again.
"Um, do you know where you are?"
"Not a clue," he says smoothly. The whisper of a voice sets me on edge. I decide not to respond.
"What is your name?" he asks, bright eyes sliding over me as though I am a butterfly under glass.
I find myself answering without thought. "Tatiana. Deror."
Instantly, I curse myself. For whatever cause, now awake, the John Doe is unsettling me.
"Tatiana Deror," he says slowly, as though tasting the words. "I suppose I should thank you. Your literary expertise saved me from many a dull evening. And…for finding me, too, I suppose."
"You remember," I breathe.
"Very much. And I thank you." He inclines his head, slight smile pricking his lips.
"It's nothing. I just thought maybe you would…would need some company." I dismiss his gratefulness to ask. "And your name…?"
He visibly winces. "Luke. Luke Laufeyson."
I tilt my head. It's a different name, but not totally unusual. Almost French, to my ears. "Are you from around here?"
He chuckled. This sounded appropriate-strained and harsh. "No. I should think not."
I am left unsure. I do not wish to tire him (which sounds impossible, considering he's spent the last month virtually asleep). But I also don't want to leave him entirely alone. Considering he's just woken up, that would be…cruel.
"I'm sorry," I say softly. "Is there someone I can reach…call for you? Family? Friends? A girlfriend."
Again he laughs, just a rough, but more bitter this time. "No. There is no one you can call."
All the more reason to stay. I sink further into the armchair, biting my lip. This entire situation is awkward. Nothing like I'd imagined it to be-then again, I hadn't spent much time dwelling on when my coma patient was going to wake up. His silent, sleeping form had become a fixture in my life, a small constant that needed me and that I needed, much like my cat. While he was unconscious, he could be anyone; a lover of Shakespeare and coffee. But awake now, I am afraid of not liking him. And then what? I like him in my life. Just not as Luke Lafeyson.
"I'm sorry," I say again honestly (though what I'm sorry about I've not the slightest clue).
He looks unperturbed. "Nothing you can help."
It isn't. But everyone should have family around them in a time of need.
"Do you…remember anything? I mean, where you're from, and-and stuff like that?"
Impassive expression, he nods. "Yes. I remember."
That's about when Holcomb appears again. Agitated, she insists that I leave. Lafeyson protests lightly, but Holcomb appeases him by promising (without my input) that I'll be back in the morning. Right now, the doctor was coming in on call to see him. I snag my worn copy of Hamlet off the bedside table and make to go, but not before looking back.
Those intense green-glass eyes have followed me, and stay on my form as I exit the room. I can still feel them on me while trudging down the hall to the elevator. It's unnerving.
I can't be back in the morning. I'm expected at the gallery at nine, and there is no reasoning with Charlene. It's move-in day for at least ten new pieces, part of our summer American Watercolours collection. There is no way around it. But, I comfort myself with the thought that Luke will be so busy with tests and psyc evals that he won't have time to miss me.
-XXX-
As it turns out, I'm entirely wrong. By the time I manage to arrive at the hospital (three p.m., approximately), Luke has woken from his noontime nap. Arms crossed, one brow raised, he's waited for me.
"You didn't come," he says, and it sounds like a heavy-handed accusation.
"I never said I would."
It's a fair point, but he doesn't like it either way. "I required you."
"Um…" I've not the slightest clue how to respond, so I stand in the middle of the room, rooted to the spot. "…okay."
Impatient, Luke beckons me to him. I approach, wary. I've long decided to not apologize. He makes me feel…challenged. Defensive. And when you're on the defense, apologies are weakness.
"Where have you been?"
I blink. Who is he, my mother? I've already got one of those whose just over-protective enough for me, thanks. And I have already moved halfway across the country to avoid her.
"I had work," I tell him, frowning. "And besides, visiting hours don't start till, like, ten. I had work at nine."
"Nine-thirty," he corrects. And then he smiled. "I apologize. I did not realize. I simply was…concerned."
I scoff, while secretly a little pleased. "Please, you're not the one who needs to worry. What did they do today? Figure out anything?"
The best approach is to be casual. Natural. Easy-going. While some might remain in distant formalities, I've decided this situation requires some ease to avoid the almost-certain awkwardness. Better we begin as something like friends. He watches me carefully, calculating my tone before he answers lightly. With this he reminds me of a fox. We had many around my home when I was a kid. They're fierce, wary creatures. Much like this creature, examining me.
"Some fellow came in for a chat…doctor of psychology…But that is all."
"You got your psych eval?" I sink into my usual chair. "How did that go?"
-XXX-
The doctor was a balding man, short and smiley. Loki instantly disliked him. Being a liar himself, he knows that those who smile so often usually have much to hide. It was a standard for himself, as he himself has employed the light smile around the Asgardian court to conceal his emotions. Typically, these feelings could be summed up under a few categories-rage, scheming, or inappropriate glee.
Dr. Philips settled in the chair beside Loki's bed-the reader's chair-and began his evaluation with a few simple questions. Name, age, etc. How was he feeling? Did he want to talk about his emotions? It was when he called the god of mischief "son," that Loki decided the charade had gone on long enough. He dropped all pretenses. And he let himself be known.
"You will recognize me as your king," he snarled. " You will record me as sane and reasonable-for I am. You will tell your people that I am righted, I have passed your test. And, you will allow Deror to take me into her home. You will welcome me, and insist that others do the same."
Since the man was weaker-willed, he was swayed quickly. Loki was recognized as his lord and king. The paperwork couldn't be helped. But it's results were sure, certain; the god would be leaving soon.
When it came to Deror, however, the man was resistant. After backtracking, the god decided for himself to be recommended to the reader would be a wise move. Yet Philips resisted. His thoughts dwelled on Tatiana - - -Loki could sense them, practically envision the woman through the doctor's mind- - - but he tried to shake her off. Protective. Philips was protective of the young woman.
Power surged at the god's hand. Admirable, but he needed the reader to like him.
-XXX-
"As well as could be expected."
Tatiana nods. She's considering. "Did they say anything…about you getting out?"
"Yes. It's a certainty. Tomorrow, at the latest. I'm to be under observation." Not something he wants to do, but he cannot afford to bypass too many necessary things. He doesn't want to attract attention. Not yet, anyways.
Tatiana appears crossed between pleased and worry. "Already?"
"Yes," he spread his hands, smiling slightly. "Already. Wonderful, isn't it?"
"Yes," she said quickly, echoing him. "But…what about…where will you go?"
This must be treated with care. It would mean the most. He wasn't willing enchant her, magically influence her mind. Something of a challenge, he's decided to win her over for as long as he can without using his limited stock of power. It would be quite tiring, besides, if they were to be living together. The long spent in her presence, the more the enchantment would wear, and the quicker he'd have to reinstall his charms.
Delicately, the god says, "I don't know."
She bit her lip. Hesitant, Tatiana speaks slowly. "I was thinking…I mean, I've already talked to Walker about it…if you need someplace…" She picks up speed. "I-I mean, you could crash at my place. I've got a guest room, so you wouldn't have to sleep on the couch, or something, and, I dunno, I just thought maybe-"
She is babbling. He quickly finds it annoying. Loki could wave his hand, stop her stuttering speech, but he simply waits, staring. Truth be told, it amuses him slightly. Tatiana stops abruptly, colouring.
"I accept," he says smoothly.
Something like relief gathers on her features. "Oh. Okay."
And that was that.
-XXX-
That evening, Dr. Philips calls me at home. He wants to talk about Mr. Laufeyson's transition into my home. His voice sound oddly strangled. The conversation is brief, ending on Philips enthusiastically ranting on what a good patient Luke is, how he'd polite, and all of this other crap I feel is entirely irrelevant to the conversation. I thank him quickly, then hang up and head for bed.
Upstairs, pulling the duvet around me, I stare out the window, into the starry night beyond. Win has taken up residency beside my shoulder, a smooth grey ball of cat, purring loudly.
Is this a mistake? Can I balance a houseguest with my job, my cat, my attempt at completing a master's degree, and everything else buzzing around my head?
I am a compassionate person; this is not opinion, but fact, universally agreed upon. I'd never claimed as much, but someone stuck the label on my long ago-and then it was something I've never been able to shake off. My heart is princess-tender. More than once I've stopped in the middle of the road to rescue some poor turtle or snake. I buy homeless people quarter-pounders. Many a co-worker has pleaded switching shift with me, and just as many had succeeded. It's just who I am.
But this time…is this the one-too-many? It's a person, not a puppy I'm taking in. A real, live, potentially damaged, male person.
And I don't even know why. I just feel compelled by myself, or maybe the universe at large, to help this guy. I don't even think I like him. And yet….
-XXX-
Thoughts? Critiques? Comments? I take 'em all.