Chapter Text
The phlegmatic temperament is attributed to an excess of phlegm in the body. Those who are phlegmatic tend to be level-headed in the face of tension, but this calm nature can easily devolve into complete apathy. They may, at times, seem to lack the ability to exhibit strong emotion at all. Their staunch resistance to change makes them incredibly reliable.
~
“You should go home.”
Francesca just stared.
“I can call you in the morning,” Dan continued, pulling both of them to their feet. He wiped a blade of dead grass off Francesca’s shoulder, as if that remotely helped. “Just. I have to… I have stuff I need to take care of. So you just go home, and- and I’ll call you in the morning and we can figure out… all of it. Everything. Okay?”
He didn’t wait to hear her answer, didn’t even bother to look her in the eye, before he turned away and ran to the mortuary.
The basement was a fucking catastrophe. Dan coughed, trying in vain to swipe some of the airborne dust away from his face as he fought his way through the wreckage that littered the floor. His sneakers stuck slightly to the half-dry pools of reagent that dotted the concrete.
Eventually, he made it to the other side of the basement. He grimaced as he stared at Herbert’s body, lying limply in the half-collapsed tunnel that had once connected them to the crypt next door. He had just barely dragged himself far enough to avoid the cave-in; if he’d been just a few inches further back, his legs would’ve been trapped under the rubble.
As he stepped closer, Dan took mental note of the few injuries he could easily see; a long scratch on the back of his neck, what looked to be a bite wound on his left forearm, mild bleeding from a scrape on his temple.
Dan gripped Herbert under the arms and began pulling him free from the wreckage, but was met with resistance, and paused. Peering more closely into the tunnel, he saw that Herbert had not been as lucky in avoiding the rubble as he’d originally thought, as his right hand was pinned beneath a rather large chunk of stone.
The debris was lifted and tossed aside, allowing Dan to confirm his suspicion that the hand underneath was incredibly, astonishingly broken, fingers bent at awkward angles and bruises already beginning to blossom under the skin.
No time to fret over that now. Dan could treat a broken hand. Herbert could live with a broken hand. The top priority was finding out whether Herbert was going to survive long enough to have a chance to live with a broken hand.
Dan pulled Herbert out with relative ease and maneuvered him into a loose bridal carry. The muscles in Dan’s arms hissed in protest, having already been sorely overworked over the last few hours. He laid Herbert on the nearby autopsy table, not particularly caring to put him down gently. The back of his head hit the table with a clang.
Dan stared for a while. His mind raced to present him with options for his best course of action as his eyes remained trained, half-focused, on Herbert’s face.
Perform as thorough an examination as possible, there’s no telling how many injuries he could have sustained. Slit his throat with that scalpel, he’s more than earned it. Don’t forget to put ice on his hand, it’ll help to reduce the swelling. Break his other hand so he can’t hurt anyone else. Find his glasses, he’ll want them when he wakes up. Leave him down here, lock the door and get the fuck out of dodge, let him starve, let him rot with the rest of them.
He felt sick to his stomach. The gut instinct to kill Herbert right there, in the middle of his lab- their lab- disgusted him almost as much as the thrumming, compulsive need to gently guide the man back to health.
He couldn’t do this. It turned his guts inside out, the idea of having to decide between getting his twisted, hypocritical revenge or granting some hollow forgiveness.
Dan could not see how either fate could possibly have been fitting. The West that had lied and stolen and mutilated had not earned the right to any sort of recovery, but the Herbert that had been loyal and supportive and occasionally even kind did not deserve to be split down the middle and left to decay alone.
He would never be able to choose. The fate of Herbert West was not something he wanted any part in deciding.
That did not change the very pressing reality that blood was leaking onto the table, and that a decision had to be made.
Perhaps, then, his decision would be not to make one. He would not be treating Herbert West at that moment, but rather would be treating just another of his patients. Patients were not to be harmed, regardless of who they were or what they’d done to him. So, in treating the man laid out before him, Dan was not making any declaration on whether he could find it in himself to forgive, let alone to forget. He was merely performing his duty. He was treating a patient.
His dedication was admirable, really.
Dan tore the front of the patient’s shirt open, sending buttons clattering across the basement. Now, with the torso on full display, it was much easier to assess the severity of the situation. There were scrapes and cuts littering the skin, none of them, thankfully, deep enough to be potentially fatal. These were easily accounted for, disinfected and covered with bandages, if necessary. A few of the cuts, two on the patient’s arms and one on his chest, were much deeper, and thus required stitches. Stitching had never been among Dan’s specialties, but he was able to get it done, although the sutures were a tad lopsided. But they would suffice for now.
He’d saved the worst for last and, after wrapping the last of the patient’s bite wounds with gauze, shifted his attention to the right hand. Upon further inspection, it could have been much worse. No compound fractures, which was good. No apparent damage to the wrist, either, but the index and middle fingers were definitely broken, and the tenderness and bruising of the thumb indicated a fractured trapezium. The metacarpophalangeal joints of the index finger and thumb appeared to be broken, as well. Not great, but far from the worse Dan had seen.
The process of setting the bones was slow and careful, but not too difficult, and Dan was able to correct them without much issue. Luckily, having two doctors in the house meant that the basement’s first aid cabinet was incredibly well-stocked, and Dan was easily able to find a splint. He let out a deep sigh as he finished fastening it, finally letting his shoulders relax and leaning against the edge of the table.
It was only then that he bothered to press two fingers to the patient’s neck, to watch carefully for any movement in the chest.
The heart beat. The chest rose and fell.
That was good, he supposed.
Slowly, Dan picked him up again, careful not to let his head loll back too far as he carried him up the stairs. The first floor of the house was also far from well-kempt, but it was infinitely easier to navigate than the basement had been.
Dan paused momentarily, considering where he ought to put him down. His bedroom felt like the obvious choice, but he was a very private man, and Dan had always been staunch about not crossing patients’ boundaries. But it felt unprofessional to leave him on the couch, and providing unsatisfactory care was not something Dan was willing to stand for. Despite his initial hesitancy, he knew that the patient’s bedroom was the only logical place to put him.
His arms still aching, Dan carried the patient to his room and set him down on the bed, overtop the covers. Dan quickly busied himself with rifling through the patient’s drawers for clean clothing. There was no world where Dan was about to haul the patient’s body into the shower, despite his grimy state, so he’d have to settle with just fresh clothes for now and clean himself off once he was awake and able.
It was frustrating, trying to wrestle a faded t-shirt and sweatpants onto the patient’s limp body, but he eventually managed it and let him flop back onto the mattress.
His face looked so different. Naked, almost. Dan had never noticed how tired he looked, either. The shadows under his eyes or the lines between his brows, carved there by countless hours of furrowing but usually hidden behind the bridge of his glasses.
Shit, right. His glasses.
Leaving the bedroom door open behind him, Dan made his way back to the ruined basement. He began haphazardly pushing things aside, searching for where the glasses could’ve skittered their way across the floor. Eventually, he kicked aside a cart, letting its creaking wheels slam it against the brick wall, and found the spectacles underneath.
Both lenses were smashed out, tiny slivers of glass littering the concrete around the frames. Dan didn’t even bother to pick them up, simply trudging back up to the second floor. Herbert was constantly breaking his glasses, and always seemed to have a backup pair conveniently within reach whenever he did. Where he kept this stockpile of emergency glasses, Dan didn’t know, and, quite frankly, didn’t care.
Dan continued to busy himself for the rest of the night, mostly by tending to his own litany of scrapes and scuffs. He took a shower, too, making sure to leave the bathroom door open so he’d be able to hear if any reanimated stragglers pulled themselves up from the basement. None did.
By the time the sun was rising, his patient’s continued unconsciousness was beginning to wear at Dan’s mind. He wasn’t nervous, necessarily. Off-put may have been more appropriate phrasing. They’d both had their fair shares of experiment-related injuries, but neither of them had ever been out cold for this long before. Dan poked his head into Herbert’s room every half hour or so, just to check that he was still breathing.
It was around nine in the morning when Dan peeked inside and was met with Herbert’s open eyes, looking at him blearily. They both stared at one another for a moment, neither acknowledging the other’s presence.
Eventually, Dan broke the stare by walking stiffly to the bedside and pressing his palm against Herbert’s forehead. No fever. Continuing silently, Dan used his thumb and forefinger to pull Herbert’s eye open wider, checking for any irregularity in the pupils. They were more dilated than they should be, and Dan made a mental note to check for further symptoms of concussion.
Herbert, to his credit, didn’t make any attempt to push Dan away from him. In fact, he didn’t do much of anything, his expression persistently blank and tired-looking as Dan continued to rush through a bare-bones examination.
“How are you feeling?” Dan finally asked, stepping back and straightening up. Herbert just barely turned his head in Dan’s direction, eyes gliding up to squint at his face, but he gave no reply. Just blinked owlishly, eyes devoid of recognition or thought.
Confusion, potential disorientation. Concussion is likely.
“Herbert?” he tried again. Herbert opened his mouth to reply, but only managed a wheeze and a cough, grimacing as his left hand cradled his ribs.
Dan moved quickly to the kitchen, filling a glass with a small amount of water and returning to another coughing fit that had Herbert gripping pitifully to the right side of his torso.
Herbert reached out to take the glass Dan offered, but froze when he noticed the splint around his outstretched hand. His eyes immediately darted to Dan, a silent confusion in his squint.
“Just drink for now,” Dan sighed, pushing the cup into Herbert’s intact left hand instead.
Herbert took a weak sip, spilling some on his shirt in his attempt. Dan watched, arms crossed, until Herbert handed him the cup back.
“What happened?” Herbert asked, voice still hoarse and groggy.
“A lot,” Dan said as he set the glass on Herbert’s night stand. “How are you feeling?”
“Poorly,” Herbert groaned back, left hand returning to massage his side. “Feels like I have some bruised ribs. Head hurts.”
“You probably have a minor concussion.”
“Lovely.”
Herbert was, to Dan’s surprise, far less snippy than usual. He answered Dan’s questions succinctly, kept complaints to a minimum, and merely nodded when Dan told him he’d probably need to be on bed rest for a while, at least until they could definitively uncover the extent of the damage he’d endured.
Maybe the concussion was more severe than he’d thought.
Herbert was damn near docile for the entire rest of the day. He spent most of it asleep, waking only when Dan would enter the room to bring him some light food, to replace the ice pack on his hand, to check his stitches and bandages. They exchanged no words, Herbert quieted by fatigue and Dan not caring to fill the silence. It was more like treating a CPR practice dummy than the man he’d lived with for years.
Dan was thankful for the disconnect.
By the next morning, Herbert seemed to be feeling a bit more himself, as Dan was woken just after sunrise by a shouted plea for ibuprofen from across the house.
Herbert had just swallowed the painkillers and was nibbling idly on a cracker when he finally spoke up again.
“What happened?”
Dan, who had already been halfway out of the room, paused.
“How long was I unconscious?” Herbert pressed further, squinting hard to try to make out Dan’s form without the aid of his glasses.
“A while,” Dan said, leaning against the door frame. “I came back for you right after I got outside, but you were already out cold by the time I got to the basement. Then you didn’t come around until… late yesterday morning, around nine, I think.”
“Hm.” Herbert took another bite of his cracker.
“Before you ask, I haven’t gone to check the basement since I got you out. I don’t know if any of those… things made it, and I don’t intend to find out.”
“Alright.”
“I fixed you up as fast as I could,” Dan rambled on, knuckles tight around the door frame. “You were in rough shape, we’re gonna have to watch out for infection on some of those cuts, especially the one on your chest. And for compartment syndrome in your hand, too, so make sure you tell me if you feel any abnormal pain or swelling.”
“I will.”
The conversation died quickly, Dan having absolutely no clue how to talk to a Herbert who didn’t bite back, didn’t make any snide comments, didn’t press for details. Just stared blankly ahead, taking minuscule bites of Saltine.
“Where are my glasses?”
“Oh, they, uh. Broke, so I left them in the basement. I figured you’d probably have backups somewhere, so-“
“There should be a pair in the bathroom cabinet,” Herbert cut in. “If you could get them for me..?”
“Sure.”
As Dan crossed the hall, he considered the lack of tension in his chest. As he opened the cabinet and grabbed the glasses, he found that his mind was abnormally clear. As he closed the cabinet, he stared blankly at the man in the mirror.
He looked more sad than anything.
He gave Herbert his glasses and left with only a muttered recommendation to open the blinds a bit, since lying around in the dark wasn’t actually all that good for a concussion (which, of course, Herbert already knew). Sitting down on their couch for the first time since before they’d pumped the Bride full of reagent, Dan finally allowed himself to relax, to step out of the role of physician and instead simply be an exhausted man in the relative comfort of his living room.
He was once again suddenly aware of the steadiness of his heartbeat, the ease with which he took each breath. The lack of tension in his shoulders, in his hands.
He wasn’t angry. Not in the slightest.
How pathetic was that? He leaned forward, cradling his head in his hands. Any reasonable person would be rising from the couch right now, livid, storming outside and slamming the car door shut behind them. Would never have returned to this god forsaken place to begin with, hell, wouldn’t have ended up living here in the first place. Never would have spent eight months failing and failing and failing to save soldiers he never had a chance to learn the names of. Never would have felt a surge of delusional relief as they learned their roommate had survived the hell he’d created, the same hell that had killed their fiancée.
But Dan was not, as it turned out, anything close to reasonable. All he could manage to be was a detached sort of perseverant. That was all that had gotten him through the past… however many years. It was hard to remember what had driven him before he’d been caught in the maelstrom that was currently coughing up a lung one floor above him.
Dan had always hated being angry, hated how it clouded his judgment and curled his hands into shaking fists and tensed his jaw until it ached. But god, how he missed it now. How badly he wanted to storm upstairs and scream his own lungs out, tear West to pieces- whether with his words or with his hands, he didn’t have much preference.
That was no way to treat a patient, though. So Dan stayed as he was, sank further into the couch. Breaths even, muscles slack. He was tired. More tired than he’d been since med school.
Much like in med school, though, he had more important things to attend to than his own fatigue. It had been a few hours since he’d checked and cleaned Herbert’s stitches, and he couldn’t risk letting them get infected. So he pushed himself off the couch, made his way back upstairs, and greeted his patient with the dull politeness of a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.