Jaguar (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
kittydesade) wrote2006-10-18 07:59 pm
kittydesade) wrote2006-10-18 07:59 pm
Entry tags:
[Fic] Room 426
Title: Room 426
Fandom: Kingdom Hospital
Characters: James Hook, Eleanor Druse, Peter Rickman
Prompt: Triangle
Word Count: 1,230
Rating: PG
Summary: Three sides of grief; three people who shared a significant event in their lives mourn the loss of a young girl and the loss of any chance to get to know her.
Hook had gotten to know grief on an intimate and personal level as a neurosurgeon. Later there had been a diagnosis and he had gotten to know a different kind of grief that happens before a loved one dies, watching the slow retreat of life from empty and shallow cells until there is nothing left but the quiet pass of dignity. He got to know grief a little better when he started working the ER, a screaming and frantic grief that knows nothing but its own pain and the attempt to deny a hole that exists for only a few hours before the numbness starts to fill it.
He's made his own little catalogue of different types of grief, a twisted attempt to cope, like the graveyard in what passes for his apartment. Probably, if Chris found out about that, she'd call it sick, too.
What he doesn't know is what the word is for this kind of grief, the kind that seems as though it's a little unjustified. He didn't know the woman, after all, and she's twice over dead. Both times long before he was born.
One hand covered the edge of the door and Hook leaned in the doorway and stared at the empty bed. It was supposed to be a good thing, albeit a miraculous thing and one quite unexplainable by modern science. After what he'd seen and done, modern science could sometimes go hang.
"Not a very appropriate thing for a neurosurgeon to say," he smiled a little to himself.
"I beg your pardon?"
Hook turned, forcing himself to shake off whatever temporary malaise of the spirit had taken over. "Nothing… Mrs. Druse." He smiled, though. Hadn't expected to see her here, and for some reason his mind appended the word 'again' to that thought. "Just thinking that if anyone heard me talk about what happened here last year they'd have me run through a battery of my own tests." He laughed off the idea.
"Well," Mrs. Druse smiled at him and winked. "I'm sure you could come up with something to tell them."
He nodded, never having planned on telling anyone anyway.
They were both staring at the door now, neither of them setting foot in the room for whatever reasons of their own but as though the bed still held Peter Rickman, whom it had sheltered for so long. Hook tried to tell himself it was more than a little ridiculous. It wasn't even the same bed, probably. He thought. They moved them in and out of there so frequently. As frequently as the patients, it seemed like.
"It's ridiculous, isn't it," he said after a moment, rubbing the three-day stubble Chris would shave off sooner or later.
"What is, Dr. Hook?
"Missing her."
Both of them turned around. Peter Rickman had on a very sheepish smile, as though he'd been caught watching something he shouldn't have been. Hook's face was that blank sort of puzzled he got when nonplussed was more than just a word in a half-assed vocabulary.
"Mr. Rickman," Druse, on the other hand, was not at all shy about greeting him with open arms and an open smile.
"Peter, please." He smiled, hugged her back.
"Peter. How have you been?"
"I've been all right…" But something in the way he said it, in the brittleness of his smile made Hook think he might not have been telling the whole truth.
"That makes one of us," he admitted with a tired laugh. "Me, I could use some more sleep."
Peter Rickman looked at him. "You too, huh?"
They both turned to look at Mrs. Druse, who shrugged. "Oh, I haven't slept as much as I used to in many years."
"I guess when…" Hook started to say something, but it was lost in a low rumbling that seemed to shake the hospital floor and might have rattled the blinds against their windows, or maybe the windows themselves for a moment. All of them held their breath, remembering. Held their breath until the loud horn of an impatient truck and the rumbling started up again. Just another delivery on the road in front of the hospital. He was almost disappointed.
And they knew it, or knew what he'd been thinking. Mrs. Druse gave them a tender smile and pushed between their shoulders to step into the room.
"Are you sure…" Hook started to say. There wasn't any rational reason he should prevent her from going in. The pod was empty, Stegman was gone, she couldn't do anything to hurt anyone.
The room was sacrosanct. Strange spirits had revealed themselves to the living world here. It shouldn't be disturbed.
"It's all right, Dr. Hook, Peter." Her hand patted the bed rail. "I miss her, too."
"It doesn't seem right," Hook admitted, coming up to the other side of the bed, as though the man standing behind him was lying in it once again. "We never really knew her. She was never alive in our lifetime, she lived a full life and died before any of us was even born."
"Oh, but that has nothing to do with knowing her. We knew her in our hearts, and we met her face to face, remember? We spoke with her, and we saw Antubis with our mortal eyes. That should be enough, even for you."
Hook smiled a little as she pointed at him, interrupted by Peter coming to stand at the end of the bed like the third point in some strange Freemason's symbol.
"It should be." Hook sighed. "I don't know. I just wish I had some kind of… sign. Some memory that wasn't all full of hoodoo that I could trust."
"You trust your feelings, don't you? Trust your heart."
"That's the problem, Mrs. D," Peter spoke up, reminding Hook that he had been unusually silent the whole time. Or maybe he'd just gotten used to Peter Rickman being a silent presence in the room. After all, most of the time he'd known the artist, the man had been in a coma. "How can we trust our heart when it keeps…"
"… breaking."
That was the word for it. A quiet heartbreak of a grief that shouldn't exist, for a girl they had never really known. An essential organ of the body shutting down and refusing to function properly or at all for no reason. It defied science, instinct, and rationality. It was a dissonance in the world. It was a disease of an organ he hadn't studied, and if there was a cure he couldn't find it. A category of grief he hadn't imagined.
Mrs. Druse's hands tightened on the bed rail, and for several minutes none of them spoke. Funny, that. He had expected her to come up with an answer, something in that kindly old woman's voice that was so effective, and it bothered him that even she didn't have one. She knew more about this than the rest of them. A veritable doctor of metaphysics.
"She is still with us," Mrs. Druse decided out loud. "As long as we three remember her, she is still with us."
Peter Rickman smiled. Made a kind of a rueful laugh. "Mrs. D, I'm not likely to forget her anytime soon."
"Me either." Hook could relate, even if he'd seen a good deal less of her than the other two. "Me, either."
Fandom: Kingdom Hospital
Characters: James Hook, Eleanor Druse, Peter Rickman
Prompt: Triangle
Word Count: 1,230
Rating: PG
Summary: Three sides of grief; three people who shared a significant event in their lives mourn the loss of a young girl and the loss of any chance to get to know her.
Hook had gotten to know grief on an intimate and personal level as a neurosurgeon. Later there had been a diagnosis and he had gotten to know a different kind of grief that happens before a loved one dies, watching the slow retreat of life from empty and shallow cells until there is nothing left but the quiet pass of dignity. He got to know grief a little better when he started working the ER, a screaming and frantic grief that knows nothing but its own pain and the attempt to deny a hole that exists for only a few hours before the numbness starts to fill it.
He's made his own little catalogue of different types of grief, a twisted attempt to cope, like the graveyard in what passes for his apartment. Probably, if Chris found out about that, she'd call it sick, too.
What he doesn't know is what the word is for this kind of grief, the kind that seems as though it's a little unjustified. He didn't know the woman, after all, and she's twice over dead. Both times long before he was born.
One hand covered the edge of the door and Hook leaned in the doorway and stared at the empty bed. It was supposed to be a good thing, albeit a miraculous thing and one quite unexplainable by modern science. After what he'd seen and done, modern science could sometimes go hang.
"Not a very appropriate thing for a neurosurgeon to say," he smiled a little to himself.
"I beg your pardon?"
Hook turned, forcing himself to shake off whatever temporary malaise of the spirit had taken over. "Nothing… Mrs. Druse." He smiled, though. Hadn't expected to see her here, and for some reason his mind appended the word 'again' to that thought. "Just thinking that if anyone heard me talk about what happened here last year they'd have me run through a battery of my own tests." He laughed off the idea.
"Well," Mrs. Druse smiled at him and winked. "I'm sure you could come up with something to tell them."
He nodded, never having planned on telling anyone anyway.
They were both staring at the door now, neither of them setting foot in the room for whatever reasons of their own but as though the bed still held Peter Rickman, whom it had sheltered for so long. Hook tried to tell himself it was more than a little ridiculous. It wasn't even the same bed, probably. He thought. They moved them in and out of there so frequently. As frequently as the patients, it seemed like.
"It's ridiculous, isn't it," he said after a moment, rubbing the three-day stubble Chris would shave off sooner or later.
"What is, Dr. Hook?
"Missing her."
Both of them turned around. Peter Rickman had on a very sheepish smile, as though he'd been caught watching something he shouldn't have been. Hook's face was that blank sort of puzzled he got when nonplussed was more than just a word in a half-assed vocabulary.
"Mr. Rickman," Druse, on the other hand, was not at all shy about greeting him with open arms and an open smile.
"Peter, please." He smiled, hugged her back.
"Peter. How have you been?"
"I've been all right…" But something in the way he said it, in the brittleness of his smile made Hook think he might not have been telling the whole truth.
"That makes one of us," he admitted with a tired laugh. "Me, I could use some more sleep."
Peter Rickman looked at him. "You too, huh?"
They both turned to look at Mrs. Druse, who shrugged. "Oh, I haven't slept as much as I used to in many years."
"I guess when…" Hook started to say something, but it was lost in a low rumbling that seemed to shake the hospital floor and might have rattled the blinds against their windows, or maybe the windows themselves for a moment. All of them held their breath, remembering. Held their breath until the loud horn of an impatient truck and the rumbling started up again. Just another delivery on the road in front of the hospital. He was almost disappointed.
And they knew it, or knew what he'd been thinking. Mrs. Druse gave them a tender smile and pushed between their shoulders to step into the room.
"Are you sure…" Hook started to say. There wasn't any rational reason he should prevent her from going in. The pod was empty, Stegman was gone, she couldn't do anything to hurt anyone.
The room was sacrosanct. Strange spirits had revealed themselves to the living world here. It shouldn't be disturbed.
"It's all right, Dr. Hook, Peter." Her hand patted the bed rail. "I miss her, too."
"It doesn't seem right," Hook admitted, coming up to the other side of the bed, as though the man standing behind him was lying in it once again. "We never really knew her. She was never alive in our lifetime, she lived a full life and died before any of us was even born."
"Oh, but that has nothing to do with knowing her. We knew her in our hearts, and we met her face to face, remember? We spoke with her, and we saw Antubis with our mortal eyes. That should be enough, even for you."
Hook smiled a little as she pointed at him, interrupted by Peter coming to stand at the end of the bed like the third point in some strange Freemason's symbol.
"It should be." Hook sighed. "I don't know. I just wish I had some kind of… sign. Some memory that wasn't all full of hoodoo that I could trust."
"You trust your feelings, don't you? Trust your heart."
"That's the problem, Mrs. D," Peter spoke up, reminding Hook that he had been unusually silent the whole time. Or maybe he'd just gotten used to Peter Rickman being a silent presence in the room. After all, most of the time he'd known the artist, the man had been in a coma. "How can we trust our heart when it keeps…"
"… breaking."
That was the word for it. A quiet heartbreak of a grief that shouldn't exist, for a girl they had never really known. An essential organ of the body shutting down and refusing to function properly or at all for no reason. It defied science, instinct, and rationality. It was a dissonance in the world. It was a disease of an organ he hadn't studied, and if there was a cure he couldn't find it. A category of grief he hadn't imagined.
Mrs. Druse's hands tightened on the bed rail, and for several minutes none of them spoke. Funny, that. He had expected her to come up with an answer, something in that kindly old woman's voice that was so effective, and it bothered him that even she didn't have one. She knew more about this than the rest of them. A veritable doctor of metaphysics.
"She is still with us," Mrs. Druse decided out loud. "As long as we three remember her, she is still with us."
Peter Rickman smiled. Made a kind of a rueful laugh. "Mrs. D, I'm not likely to forget her anytime soon."
"Me either." Hook could relate, even if he'd seen a good deal less of her than the other two. "Me, either."