Nightshift 47: Doctor's Office 2 [Dr. Stein]

[tightsofmight]

[From here. He's going to leave again in a bit, so don't be afraid to post and time warp like he's not there. :) ]

Luckily for him, he was correct about no one being inside. Checking behind the door and around the desk proved that much. That was one stone off the load on his mind. Now he had nothing to do but sit tight and hope that Luxord (and only Luxord) showed.

He coughed. The bridge of his nose creased in disgust, and he coughed again. God, how many smokes did this guy go through a day? They could drown the room in Febreeze and it still wouldn't cover the smell.

...Oh right. Badou.

Hastily, Peter rounded the desk and yanked open the first drawer. The flashlight turned to dip the contents in light - yahtzee. A pack of cigarettes. Peter scooped it up and flipped it open, pleased to see that while it wasn't full, there was enough left to make it worth offering to Badou. He couldn't for the life of him place the brand name, but he supposed he was hardly an expert on these things. The smell alone was enough to ward him off any interest he had in smoking.

The carton was dropped safe and sound into the pillow case and Peter punted the drawer shut, making his way back around to the front. If Luxord came and wanted to start something, it would be easier to hit him without clambering over a desk first.

He leaned against the edge and waited, stifling that telltale shiver that wanted to wreak havoc on his spine. He could handle this. He would. Luxord was just as human as he was.

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[tightsofmight]

Seconds ticked by. There were no clocks in here either, but Peter had developed a decent sense of the passage of time. He had countless nights spent bouncing around the city without a watch to thank for that. So as the seconds fled into minutes and those minutes ticked their way into an hour, Luxord's second impression leaned perilously clower to 'Cowardly Jerkwad Brit' territory.

By now there were only three explanations, the first being that Luxord was dead. This could be a very good thing or a very bad thing. The second was that Luxord had been miraculously delayed; whether by another patient or a monster or by getting dragged heels first up to Brainwash Central was anyone's guess. The third and most likely scenario in Peter's mind was that Luxord was a pompous, yellow-bellied sneaky son of a bad thing who had snickered like the Grinch and tiptoed in the other direction the moment the night began.

Douche.

By now Peter was shooting more steam than a train engine in the thirties. Fricking waste of his time, that's what this was. He had better things to do than wait around for some poker themed creepazoid who was so obviously chickening out on him. Oozing rage, the pillowcase audibly slapped against his shoulder as he swung it around, pushing himself off the desk and slamming the door on his way out. You best believe there would be a strongly worded letter to the man on the board come next morning, so riddled with smiley face stickers you'd think a hammered sailor had written it.

[To here.]

[idontregret.livejournal.com]

[from here (http://community.livejournal.com/damned/815674.html?thread=66605370#t66607930)]

Roland was dead weight, but Heat's anger made the load lighter. He hefted his dying friend down the nearest hall and into the first (and only) open room he saw. His own doctor's office. Later, he might ponder the irony.

The room stank of stale cigarette smoke, far from the familiar scent of a clean-burning fire the demon would have preferred, but bearable all the same. He laid Roland carefully on the floor, hoping to avoid jostling his injuries much further. The man's pulse was still present, but only just.

The very chair Heat had sat in during his therapy session the previous day was soon shoved harshly up under the door handle. If he was lucky, this would keep anyone else from trying to barge in while he dealt with things. Once he was certain it was secure, he returned to Roland's side. He spoke the man's name a couple times, slapping the palm of his hand against his cheeks - hopefully just enough to rouse him.

Perhaps... if the night ended...

[intoindra.livejournal.com]

Roland's vision had swam every step Heat had taken, and somewhere between standing up and walking along the hallway, he'd blacked out. For a moment, he'd thought that was it- he'd experienced death before, but it had been quick, a single flash of pain and then it was gone. This was slow, death by inches in a sense, and so it was terrifying. Last time he'd died as he had wanted, saving people and doing what he should have been. This time... this time it was a damn waste, punishment for being stupid and lazy. Every drop of blood was his fault.

But there was one thing he was certain of, as he felt a slap against his cheek and his name being muttered. As he clawed his way back to consciousness, Roland was certain of one thing- he was going to fix this mistake. He'd seen the dead come back to life here, and if he died, that wasn't going to be the end of it. Maybe they'd bring Indra back, without a human aspect to rein it in. Maybe he'd just be let loose like a dog, to eat whatever he could catch.

He couldn't allow it. He wouldn't allow it. And maybe his death could make one person stronger. His eyes were gray when he slowly opened them, and though his voice was faint, the fact he managed to say them at all showed just how desperate he was to be heard, just how much strength of will he possessed. If only that had been enough.

Just two words, but between the two of them, the meaning and the heavy responsibility he was leveling were clear. Just two words, yet they were perhaps the most important he'd uttered at the institute. "Devour me..."

[idontregret.livejournal.com]

As Roland spoke, Heat squeezed his eyes shut tightly, looking pained. It had never been difficult before. Consuming the flesh of others to survive, devouring your own comrades as they fell so that the rest could grow stronger and carry on - he was always the first to encourage it, had in fact been reprimanded on numerous occasions for taking it too far.

He hadn't even known Roland very well. The day he'd first seen him, standing among his former comrades as though he himself had been so easily replaced, the man had been just another enemy. Hell, it made it easier to hate them, seeing that unfamiliar face among their ranks. The afterlife does strange things to a soul, however. Even if what they'd seen of each other had been brief, he knew he deserved better than this. He should have been able to move on in peace, at the very least.

The demon hung his head, resting it against the chest of the Lokapala leader as that weakened heartbeat slowed and faded. When he lifted it again he nodded just once, no matter if Roland could even see it anymore. When a fallen demon asked to be devoured, you didn't deny them their wish.

The atma mark once again lit up right red, this time spreading the color throughout the rest of the arm as it went through the painful transformation. It would make things just that much easier to have his real claws to work with, if only for a short while.

Then he did what he had to do.