I'm on an Auggie Anderson roll apparently...
And I can't stop thinking about Dr. Morse's backstory (from my No more secrets fanfic), so heck, here it is!
It can be read separately I think. These are my two cents about Auggie's ability to adjust. I'd love to hear your thoughts!
Disclaimer: I don't own Covert Affairs or Avengers, Auggie, Mockingbird, Clint or Phil. But I'd sure like to have them on speed dial if they were real...
He felt the damped sheets under him and his agitated pulse and realized it was another nightmare. No sand, no screams, no explosions. Nothing except darkness. He tried to move his right hand towards his eyes but the v line pinched him inside out.
He tried his left hand and though it hurt like hell he took it to his face. He felt the cuts, the bruises, the broken ribs, and the gash on his calf. But the darkness, that was the only thing that scared him.
He tried to swallow and hear what was around him. Everything seemed too loud on his left ear and too quiet on his right. The big blow was on that side, made sense.
His eyes were covered with gauze patches. He could take them off before the nurse could run in the room and stop him. And he'd know... he'd confirm why the doctors have been ignoring him. He went through the motions before; the doctors were probably expecting someone from his family to tag along for the harsh news.
Because family members would be able to understand and support him... Someone else's family maybe. They didn't even know what he was really doing on Iraq. That was the life he had chosen for himself. That's the life that kept him from Natasha. That was his life.
His hand was slowly traveling through his hurt torso and into his face. No scars in his chin or his cheeks. Then a piercing pain in the side of his head made him scream louder than he would've wanted and he was caught.
The nurse was back, no one else in the room. No, wait, someone was at the door. The nurse adjusted his V line and threatened to tie him up to the bed if he tried to move again "You need to rest Mr. Anderson."
He told her about the pain in the head and she promised to bring in a doctor.
Could he have taken them off? Did he had the nerve to confirm his fears? Clearly he didn't. He did a foolish mistake and yelled to get caught. He was beyond self-deception.
The person in the door wasn't moving and was making him mad. There was a lot of anger in August Anderson. He had made it out alive, but no one else in his unit had. He heard the doctors talking on the way here, he heard everything, he just hadn't found the strength to talk.
He knew that half of his patching was done in an aircraft and that he was now on US soil. The iodine in the air and the nurse's southern accent could've been in some Iraquian safe location, but the person's cologne at the door... No one back at the front would wear aftershave in those quantities.
"Are you going to ponder by the door much longer?" the aftershave guy flushed some papers and came closer to him "Hello Mr. Anderson, I'm Dr. Hoban"
Going through the motions. Hoban's next line would be something like "I have some difficult news" and then he'd say everyone else was dead. And then he'd avoid his question about his injuries and then he'd say that his mom, no, his dad was on his way.
"Hello Dr. Hoban, how bad is it?" He heard the doctor pause for a second. He sounded young, probably still doing his residence. "Your optical nerve was damaged. You've been through extensive surgery for 2 days now." he paused again "The diminished hearing on your right ear will get better in the next few days." He nodded "The optical nerve on the other hand... was nearly severed and has sustained too much damage to function properly. You may never see again. I'm sorry to bring these terrible news."
Wow. "I think you need to work out on your patient talk doctor" his throat was dry, he needed water.
He heard the doctor get something from the nightstand and felt something near his mouth. A straw? The doctor spoke again, holding the glass (he thought it could be a glass) near his chest. "I didn't take you like the kind of man that liked bullshit Anderson, better cut to the chase"
Anderson didn't open his mouth. Opening his mouth to drink from a straw that someone else was holding would mean accepting this. He couldn't accept this. His job, his life was based on seeing.
He couldn't be a blind special ops operative. He couldn't be blind. He couldn't. Be. Blind.
"I know is too much to handle Anderson. It's gonna take time. First you need to heal the rest of your wounds. Then you'll get angry. Then you'll mourn and then it'll be time to accept and move on. It'll take time, but luckily for you, I'll be around"
"Well, you are the perfect intern for a suicide watch with that kind of pep talk" Hoban grabbed his left hand and gave him the cup. "The night table is at your 3 o'clock, you'll feel the edges at the same height of your bed. If you need anything, there's a button right on the left of your head"
And with that, the doctor took off. If he wouldn't feel incredibly lost and angry, he'd probably like this doctor. Auggie drank from the cup. He had to accept this. Accept. Accept that his life was gone. Accept that from now on he'd depend on someone else, probably someone annoying. Accept that field work was not an option. Accept that work whatsoever was probably no longer an option.
The loud thud of the cup against the wall told Dr. Hoban that his patient had skipped denial and jumped right into the anger stage of grief.
The smell of iodine and disinfectant was making Clint sick. Or maybe it was the cheap and watery coffee he was expected to drink. He hadn't slept in 32 hours now, he was ragged, he had debriefed every piece of the rescue op and gave a full description on the female that was fleeing the place when they got in.
Short, red haired, deadly. They didn't see her come in but the pile of bodies she left behind gave away she was there. When they came in for rescue, it was too late to get any reliable witnesses.
Any reliable witnesses.
He threw the cup of coffee and missed the trashcan, he didn't bother picking it up. Some nurse or janitor or a fucking doctor would. He looked up when he heard steps. Strong, steady, but quicker than usual. Very much like himself, the man coming through the corridor was a wreck. He hadn't slept in possibly 40 hours, was behind the com and listened to every piece of debrief from everyone before he was finally able to stay here, where they both desperately needed to be.
One of the few witnesses left from the op... The reason why the rescue op was run in the first place actually, was behind that half-glassed door, in life support. The five months and three weeks of captivity behind enemy lines got her there.
The doctors didn't know what was happening, what had happened to her. They could only form conjectures. 30 minutes after reaching the HQ, in the middle of the standard sweep of tests, her responsiveness and awareness of her surroundings started washing off... She made no sense and kept mentioning a red haired and saying she owed her. And then she started convulsing and he lost her.
The preliminary results stated that she had been under strong dosages of hallucinogens; she was probably suffering some sort of cold turkey situation. Oddly enough, he wasn't the one that grabbed the doctor forcefully by his coat. It was Phil, cool, always in control Phil Coulson.
"Are you telling me that no one in this top of the notch facility knows what the hell is wrong with my little girl? Haven't you been through med school? Doesn't anyone here can read those tests properly?"
The doctor didn't like the tone. He was clearly an intern, sent to deal with the husband and the overprotective supervisor. Clint thought for a second "Poor kid." Then he realized this intern had nerve.
"They don't, but I may have a clue. You need to get me a biochemist, one with enough clearance and brains to go over whatever you found on that place they kept her" Phil let go of him, this kid surprised him. And not many people did in their line of work.
"You got it. I want her awake and herself in 24 hours. Are we clear?"
The kid nodded. "She has residual doses of opioid in her system, but also something else I don't have the tools to figure out. She's been a test subject for months, she is going through withdrawal. The thing is, if we drug her with the wrong thing-"
"-you kill her" Phil was saying what Clint was thinking. He didn't recall being this in tune with his superior ever before. They were opposites and the one person balancing them out was on that hospital bed.
"No, they killed her, I just finish their job. I don't want to finish their job. I save lives. So does she for what I hear."
Phil took a deep breath and looked at Clint. For the first time in years of working together Clint saw him clueless. Phil spoke "You're her husband. I'm just- what do we do?"
Clint had to make the call. And if it was the wrong one, Nella was gone.
"What are the options Dr...?"
"Dr. Hoban. The safe bet would be buprenorphine, it's a synthetic opiod used for addicts. The crazy option would be treating her for lost of consciousness and post-traumatic stress, washing off whatever got on her system in the last day."
Phil nodded "Go for the safe bet" and then Dr. Hoban flinched and looked at Clint "You said she was aware of her surroundings, that she was just scared and only after 30 minutes here she started with the symptoms" Clint nodded "Yes but-"
Hoban raised an eyebrow "Did you see anyone injecting her something? Anything during the deployment? She could be having a reaction to Opioids, not withdrawal. Demerol can be found in every floor here" Clint tried to remember, there was that doctor that did her first sweep... He hadn't seen him again "Wait, have you changed shifts since we got here?"
Clint shared a look with Phil and he was on the phone trying to get anything on the shady doctor he remembered. Dr. Hoban rushed to her and called the nurse "Prep her up, we need to wash the meds off of her" the nurse was confused to get crazy orders from an intern.
"If we don't, she'll stay like this. Go!" The nurse looked at Phil, who nodded.