"Standard of Care" [pt. II]
— Victor Gideon x Fem!Reader (Resident Evil Requiem)
Pairing: Dr. Victor Gideon x Fem!Patient!Reader
Fandom: Resident Evil (Requiem)
Word Count: 6,3k
Part I
Synopsis: You’ve been a patient at the Rhodes Hill Chronic Care Center for months now, and despite their constant “treatment”, you never seem to improve. When a fellow patient points out that the center's director seems to have an eye out for you, you fail to notice ... Until he makes it clear just how much he knows about you.
Warnings: Explicit 18+, Fem!Reader but not explicitly described, Victor Gideon is a warning on his own, creepy behavior, emotional manipulation, mental health issues, implied self-harm behavior, doctor/patient power imbalance, predator/prey dynamics, non-consensual touching, kinda dub-con?, dk if this qualifies as Stockholm Syndrome or not, implied disordered eating, emotional detachment, mentions of childhood neglect, trauma,
A/N: Thank you all for your positive feedback and reblogs! I never in a million years expected that it would take a slimy scientist for me to finally get back to the keyboard. I was originally going to make "Standard of Care" a simple one-shot, buuuut ... might be three or four at this rate.
Following that night, time ceases to be linear.
On the surface, it doesn't feel like much has changed.
You still wake up (even as unpredictable as your sleeping pattern is), still attend your therapy sessions as scheduled, still take your meds without looking too long at them. Never mind the fact that they might not be your ordinary batch anymore.
Dr. Gideon hasn't talked to you one-on-one for a while, either. Maybe what happened was just a fever-induced dream? Maybe there's no immunity? No ulterior motives behind your father's avoidant tendencies other than the fact that he simply didn't like you.
No fake vaccines.
No shady shit.
Nothing to indicate that you're not somewhere you'd rather not be.
Dad, did you really hate me that much?
Or did you feel nothing, like I do now?
Am I the legacy you intended?
"I heard you almost died."
Once again, Selena disturbs the fragile tranquility of your morning.
Once again, your breakfast ceases to appeal to you.
"But I didn't."
She sits next to you, too close for comfort. Given the fact that she seems to be back to her normal self, if such a description could ever be applied to her, you'd never have guessed that she attacked the staff a short while ago and had to be sedated.
You should probably feel uneasy with having her at such proximity, knowing the damage those nails of hers can deliver.
You're not exactly in the spirit for any unnecessary outbursts, and the fact that you didn't sleep at all last night doesn't help improve your mood much either. Best not to test her too much.
"An alarm went off, you know." She leans her cheek atop the palm of her hand, elbow firmly planted on the table top as she stares inquisitively at you. "It was so loud, and there were so many people running to your room. All those people, just for you."
You couldn't have been paid to keep your sarcasm in check at that point. "Weird. It's almost like we're at a care facility where they're supposed to keep us alive."
It falls on deaf ears.
Selena doesn't bite. "So, what's wrong with you?"
"That night, or in general?"
"Were you sick?"
"Probably." You don't specify what kind of sickness it was.
It just so happens that the director himself is weirdly fascinated by your biology, and intentionally injected you with a monster-making drug just to test a hypothesis. Turns out your life is a life and that your old man made you some kind of mutant who can't get sick for shit. No big deal.
Yeah, no. You're not going to touch that can of worms with a ten-foot pole. Not on an empty stomach. Not with Selena Corey sitting right next to you.
"Just a strong fever."
Selena doesn't look too concerned with you, but she does look a little skeptical. Scratch that, her stare is prickly, but you decidedly ignore it for the sake of resuming with what you hope to be the remainder of a normal morning.
As you reach for your coffee and prepare to rejoice in one of the few things in life that can still release some dopamine in your system, a nurse promptly emerges and takes it from your hand. You don't even get to question it before she puts another identical one in your hand.
"Decaffeinated," she clarifies, at the sight of your arched eyebrow. "Dr. Gideon's orders."
"… Why?"
"It might improve your sleep."
You don't have a lot of enjoyments left in life, and he's seeing fit to deprive you of one of the few things that might just lift your mood, if only by a margin?
Really?
"It's really for the best," she adds, with a smile that borders on patronizing in nature. "Dr. Gideon knows what he's doing, and if he believes that decreasing your caffeine consumption might have a positive effect on your sleep, then there's a reason for it."
You take a cautious whiff of the drink she just handed you. It smells like coffee, tastes like coffee, so instead of making a big fuss out of nothing, you decide to let it slide.
The nurse smiles brightly, content with the results of her intervention.
"Do you have a cup of coffee for me, too?" Selena asks, beaming with anticipation. If she were a dog, her tail would swing strongly enough to knock a chair off its balance.
The nurse gulps nervously. She's probably already aware of the kind of danger she's putting herself into by contradicting Selena's demands. "I'm sorry, Miss Corey, but I'm afraid that Dr. Gideon specifically prohibits her from drinking caffeine. He's made no specifications regarding your diet."
Undoubtedly outraged, Selena prepares to shout something, but before she can get as far, the nurse is wise to leave and resume overseeing another patient at another table. Martin, you think his name is. Poor guy with a hypersensitivity towards everything related to sounds. Probably not the best idea to put him in the same room as Selena, given how he already looks on edge where he sits, but that's not your responsibility.
Selena yanks you by the shoulder. "What was that?"
"Coffee?"
"That's not what I mean." She scrutinizes you with something akin to accusation engraved in the corner of her eyes, and you can feel her nails start to dig into the skin underneath the fabric of your shirt. "What does Dr. Gideon suddenly want with you?"
"He's a doctor." You manage to take another careful sip of your beverage. If there's something else mixed into it, you can't taste it. "Doctors treat people."
"Yeah, but why does he treat you now?"
"Don't know."
She glowers. "You're lying. Come on, tell me the truth. I'm your best friend!"
Best friend? When was that established? How come you are the last one to know of this unexpected development?
"I'm not lying."
"You so are!" She stands up so that she can look down at you, and her grip on your shoulder doesn't lessen. Probably thinks the height difference might make you cower and give in to her demands. "He doesn't treat me to a cup of coffee!"
"He didn't —"
Then she says something so outrageous that it's a miracle you don't choke on your drink where you're sitting.
"You're fucking him, aren't you?"
"No —"
"Yes, you are! I can tell by your face! You so are!" Her lips part to display a near-manic grin, like she's the first one to learn of something scandalous. "I knew there was something there. I mean, I don't really get it, but surely he must be packing something long for it to win you, of all people, over."
Now she's really starting to get on your nerves, and you like to think you have a high tolerance for shit. You're halfway tempted to bite through the paper cup. "No. It's not that."
"Then why doesn't he see me when I'm feeling bad? I had a temperature of almost 100 last week, and he didn't even visit me!"
You sigh and put the cup down, careful not to position it too close to her. Hopefully, it will become lukewarm before she has a chance to weaponize it, if she intends on doing it. "Maybe he thinks that since Dr. Beckett is taking such good care of you, he doesn't see the need to interfere with what can only be a successful treatment plan?"
At the mention of Dr. Beckett, there's something vaguely resembling somberness adorning her countenance, and the grip on your shoulder mercifully lessens. A slight slip of the anger, but it doesn't make it go away entirely.
"Dr. Beckett hasn't visited me in days. He's probably off fucking someone else!"
Alright, too much information, too loudly. Doesn't she know that there are staff around to hear her openly admit that she's been screwing one of the primary physicians in the building?
Then again, subtlety has never really been her forte.
"And I'm almost out of shampoo."
Now that she mentions it, you haven't seen Dr. Beckett for a short while, either. Not even in the hallways when the physicians go on rounds.
You don't have much time to linger on the question before you have to physically keep yourself from wincing as you feel her manicured nails press even deeper into your skin.
"Did you tell him that we were fucking?" she asks, face closing in on you, and this time, she's uncharacteristically quieter.
Uh-oh.
"Tell who?"
"Dr. Gideon."
Technically, you didn't. You might have implied something, but you never outright said "Selena's fucking one of your subordinates". If he got that, he did so on his own, and that has nothing to do with you.
"I didn't tell him anything."
"Yes, you must have! You probably did it while he was buried deep inside your cun—!"
"Miss Corey."
Even if he didn't intend it, just the sound of his voice is enough to command the atmosphere of the kitchens. Selena included.
Dr. Gideon stands there, tall as ever, authoritarian. His coat is neatly ironed, his greying hair slicked behind, his countenance calm, but governing in a way that does not permit chaos.
His eyes flicker between the two of you, lingering on you for a concise moment, before finally settling on her. "I'm afraid I must ask you to lower your voice, Miss Corey. You are upsetting the other patients."
Selena visibly recoils, like a child being scolded for being too loud. You can see her teeth grind against each other under her lips, and her fingers clenching and opening several times before she finally answers him. You swear you can even spot blood under her nails upon release.
"It's not fair," she whispers under her breath, unable to look at him as she lets the long blonde strands of her fringe partially conceal her expression. Maybe it's embarrassment or shame that keeps her from loudly exclaiming what she previously said to you.
Dr. Gideon raises an eyebrow, as though completely oblivious to the spark that ignited this entire situation. Something in you doesn't buy into this ignorance he portrays.
"What is not fair, Miss Corey?"
"It's not fair. Why do you pay so much attention to her?"
You take another gulp of the coffee while you watch the spectacle. It's less warm now, but decent enough temperature-wise.
Dr. Gideon tilts his head a fraction to the side, observing her. There's a smile on his face, entertained, but far from pleased. "Because she is my patient, just as you are, Miss Corey."
"But it's not the same." She points an accusatory finger at you, and if it were a gun, you might have felt encouraged to feel more on edge. "She doesn't need you that much! She can't be feeling that sad all the time; she doesn't even cry!"
Then she proceeds to place both her hands on her chest. "I'm sicker! I need help! Every facility I've ever been to has dismissed me like I'm lying! They've written me up like I'm just this attention-seeking bitch! You don't do that."
She steps closer to him, and her voice threatens to break into a sob. "You actually listen to me, Dr. Gideon. You treat me like I matter. I just want to be taken care of. Is that too much to ask? I just want help."
Jesus H. Christ.
Dr. Gideon doesn't say anything at first. The placid smile stays on, but his eyes are … void. Even as Selena is gradually getting closer and closer into his personal space, he doesn't move, nor does he react in any visible capacity.
He's just … studying her.
"I understand why you might think that way, Miss Corey."
Selena smiles, and it's a genuine one despite the tears building in the corners of her eyes. Admiring, appreciative, like the way you might look at someone handing you a bottle of water after wandering the desert.
"You do? You really do, Dr. Gideon?"
"Hmmm, I believe so."
You don't believe so, but in place of a verbal noise, you take another sip. The coffee's cold now.
Selena exhales something of an amalgamation between a sigh and a nervous giggle, like all her fears have been put to rest. The change in her mood is something you don't believe you'll ever get properly used to. One moment, you're "best friends", and the next, she hates your guts.
She's an oxymoron personified.
She feels too much, too often, too quickly.
You feel too little, too infrequently, too late.
Maybe, if you were a little more tuned in to your emotions, you might have paid some more attention to the stuff going on around you before it was too late?
Or maybe you would have deliberately decided to ignore it regardless?
"However," Dr. Gideon adds, warningly in the subtle way that will undoubtedly evade Selena's suspicions. "I must ask you to abstain from aggressive behavior towards your fellow patients. This is still a care center, and as such, violence and harassment will not be tolerated in any capacity. Is that understood?"
She gasps, as if she had just been caught forgetting her manners. "Oh, I wasn't being aggressive towards her, I promise! We're best friends, right?"
She spins around and all but begs you to affirm her statement with her eyes alone.
Now, you have two options:
You can reject the notion, and possibly suffer a worse consequence yet. Or you can affirm it, and next time won't be any different.
You suppress a sigh. "… We're good."
Selena shines with relief. "See?"
You just wanted a normal breakfast, if one could call it that. A normal breakfast, a normal cup of coffee, and a normal morning void of any unnecessary additions.
Shame on you for getting your hopes up, rare as they are.
"Good." Dr. Gideon doesn't look convinced, but the smile masks any evidence suggesting as much. "Now, Miss Corey, I must ask that you return to your room for a few additional vitals. There were some abnormalities in your blood work that I wish to be further examined, if you wouldn't mind?"
"Of course not, Dr. Gideon! Whatever you say!"
Whatever you say …
You're almost envious of her cluelessness to what it is he truly has to say. You almost want her to demand more of his attention and time. Demand again that he pay the same amount of attention to her as he does to you.
Beg a little more.
Say more.
Ask more.
Come on, you're good at that kind of thing, Selena.
Sing for him.
Dance as you do at the lounge.
Just distract him long enough for you to get your hands on a cup of normal coffee.
But she doesn't.
She… walks past him, letting her hand lightly grace the sleeve of his coat, and just … leaves the kitchens. No screaming, no demand that he personally escort her, no tantrum whatsoever.
The doors close behind her.
Damn it.
As soon as she's out of the vicinity, Dr. Gideon brushes his hands over the fabric of his sleeve a few times, as though dusting off invisible particles only he can notice.
Then his eyes are on you again, and the placid smile that previously donned his lips turns sincere as he approaches your table. This time, he is truly pleased.
"I apologize for depriving you of your preferred beverage," he says, not sounding apologetic in the slightest. "I believe it is essential that you decrease the daily amount of caffeine you consume. It might be a contributing factor behind why you are not getting enough rest."
Sure, it's the coffee's fault …
"Yeah, the nurse mentioned that." You glance down at what remains of your drink. You're unlikely to finish the rest. "But I did sleep … some."
You didn't.
He doesn't look to be buying that, but the smile doesn't diminish. "Is that so?"
"So and so."
He doesn't need to know that you spent the first few hours lying in your bed, looking at the ceiling, and then the rest walking around to ease your restless legs. He doesn't know about the many hours you spent thinking through everything that had happened, the existential questions, the quiet acceptance, before eventually coming to terms with them.
You suppose a stable person would've tried to escape this place the moment you resurfaced from your fever-induced delirium. Break the window in your room, jump out, and never look back.
So, why didn't you? Why don't you?
You're not quick, but you've learned how to evade health care workers before, if you've really put your mind into it.
You can hide, wait for the coast to clear, and take a chance.
Sure, they always caught you in the end and injected you with sedatives as preventative measures, but the attempts still gave them a run for their money.
You can incite a hospital riot. You know, ignite Selena's temper to volatile lengths just by telling her "Your hair looks like shit", or dangle a piece of toast in front of either Tim or Tom and throw it towards a staff member like one would a bone with a dog.
If you really want to, you can make a mess. When you were a teen and didn't have half the kinds of meds in your system as you do today, you could exhibit quite a temper at the health workers' expense.
You used to act out in retaliation for their dismissal of you - they didn't understand what you felt. Didn't know what you knew, didn't know what you'd seen.
You thought that, by acting out, they would finally understand.
But they never did. They changed the circumstances, but never your situation.
You doubt that it'll produce a different result with the staff at Rhodes Hill.
By now, your ire has declined, and so has your will to do anything about it.
You just … don't see the point.
Even if you could run - this facility is listed among the best and most secure ones in the county. Where would you even go? Who could you go to?
Nowhere, and no one.
It's no longer a matter of "What will you do?", but rather "What can you do?"
Nothing.
Dr. Gideon's attention trails down to your breakfast; it consists of one apple, a piece of toast that's already begun to harden beyond chewability, a poached egg, and your almost-finished cup of (decaf) coffee. So far, before his arrival, you managed a bite or two of the toast, half the egg, but your teeth never even graced the shiny surface of the apple.
Balanced, nutritious, and hardly touched.
The starving population in the world would've cursed your name had they known.
"I thought we had an understanding." The emotion nestled between his words balances on a thin line between dismay and disappointment, concealed entirely behind the filter of softness through which he always speaks. "I don't believe I need to remind you of the nutritional deficiencies your body is currently suffering from?"
He doesn't. You both know he doesn't have to remind you of anything to get the point across.
"I'm just ... not that hungry today."
He tuts in a way that suggests he sees this as nothing more than a childish tantrum at worst. "Nobody benefits from your declining health. As I've said before, we need to take care of our bodies, or someone else might feel the need to do it for us."
You've heard it before from other doctors, long before you even became acquainted with this one.
But unlike the other doctors, you know he won't let it go. No, he intends to see it through, even if he has to do it himself.
You observe him from the corner of your eye, then let your eye trail down to your plate. It should be easy, you think. To just eat it. Make him and the nurses happy with any kind of progress. Something in the forefront of your mind tells you that it will make him, most of all, extremely content.
He'll be content, and you can get through with your day.
Without a word, you reach for the apple and bury your teeth into its red hide. Juices splash across the edges of your mouth, probably an unflattering and undignified sight to behold, but it lets you chew off maybe a fourth of its total mass. You don't even mind the seeds that join the bite, either, bitter as they are.
Is this what it felt like for those monsters back at Raccoon City to tear through the flesh of their prey?
Ignoring the way the flesh threatens to lodge in the back of your throat, you swallow all of it in one go.
Personally, you don't understand how either Tim or Tom can afford not to chew their food before ingesting it. It's not pleasant, it's uncomfortable as it slowly descends your throat,
But like with everything else in your life, you endure it until the bite has probably settled somewhere in your stomach, and wipe the juice off your mouth with the sleeve of your shirt.
"One of my Five A Day."
Dr. Gideon looks satisfied, even if his face doesn't change much. It's the crinkle in his eyes that suggests that, while he's not entirely amused by your display, he takes his victories in whatever small measures he can.
You almost fail to catch it, but you hear it just barely, hidden under his breath.
"Good girl."
He turns around and seems about to exit the kitchen, but then stops just as you were about to hope, and peeks over at you. "Why don't we have a little talk in my office?"
"I'm supposed to meet with Dr. Richardson shortly."
"Oh, it's no trouble. He was able to reschedule you for Friday." He gestures with his head to the doors. "Shall we?"
Seeing it as you have apparently no other option, you can only nod as you get up from your seat.
───
You ignore the inkling of discomfort that washes over you as you enter his office, with him following closely behind. "I would prefer not to get another 'B12' shot, if it's all the same to you."
He chuckles. "Rest assured, the test has been concluded. I won't harm you."
That's the first thing he says as he closes the door, leaving you entirely alone with him. Separated. Isolated.
His office is located further up on the upper floors to ensure maximum privacy, so even if you were to talk louder than at civil volume, you doubt many would hear. "I cannot fault you for being skeptical. I'll admit that my methods were rather … extreme. I apologize for that. That must have been uncomfortable for you."
You watch as he walks across the floor to his desk.
"Or perhaps you feel angry? Betrayed? Lost? Restless? It is perfectly understandable, you know? You won't be in any trouble if you decide to act on it." Not an assumption, but an observation rooted in truth you don't know how he acquired.
He gestures for you to sit on the plush chair positioned in the corner of the room while he circles to his desk.
You look at the seat, yet you can't feel an urge to sit despite how comfortable and welcoming the material looks. Velvet, if you are to guess. Probably primarily reserved for colleagues or other associates, not patients like yourself.
Taking your silence as permission to continue, he abides by it. "I'm well experienced with how grief can affect human behavior."
"Is that what you think I'm doing?" you ask, finally sitting down but not looking entirely at him. "Grieving?"
"How can you not?"
From one of the drawers in his desk, he takes out what you can only guess by the sound of shuffling papers to be documents. "Your father discarded you in life, long before death claimed him. Those incompetent fools at the facilities you frequented deemed your behavior irrational,—" He turns a page as he reads. "— Unstable. Dysphoric. Lethargic. Put you on more medication than I've ever known of, and I know of quite a few."
You hear his fingers tap sharply at one specific place upon the page, his voice shifting to a profoundly bitter shade.
"Clinically despondent." He scoffs. "As if they knew a semblance of the truth behind who you are."
"Do you mean that I'm not really sick, then?" You ask with a smidgen of sarcasm and will yourself to finally look at him in his entirety. "That everything they wrote is wrong? Or that it's all just a side-effect of something else? Something only you know of?"
Is he implying that everything you're feeling, and not feeling, for most of your life, is just a huge pile of misdiagnoses due to doctors not truly seeing the bigger picture, as he apparently can?
That the one thing that you believed belonged entirely to you, even if you did not want it, was falsely labeled?
Dr. Gideon glances sympathetically over at you, akin to the way an owner would look at a miserable dog. "Would it make things easier for you if you were?"
"… No."
"No, I do not believe so either." He puts the documents down atop the desk, as if he finds their content to be as intellectually stimulating as the morning newspaper. "I believe that the fools previously responsible for you did not know what they were truly studying, and that led them to neglect you, whether it was their intention or not. In fact, I do not believe your placement in the system was due to any mental diagnosis. Not at first."
You hold your breath as you process what he's telling you as best you can.
"A young girl, alone, orphaned, telling people she saw the dead rise up and eat people. You weren't eligible for any kind of NDA given your age, and you could go around babbling about what really happened, so where else could they put you, save for an institution to keep you contained and discredited?
What they did not understand, they confined you for it. They may have truly thought that they were doing it for your benefit, but ignorance does not equate a lack of responsibility." He rests his hand atop the table surface, his many rings illuminating with light from the corner lamp. "But you were alone, in a world where few know what you are, and where even fewer know your true value. How can you not grieve, even if you have no word for what it is you are truly grieving for?"
Grief?
The space in your lungs as you stop breathing doesn't hit you at first. The message he supplied compensates for that.
Is he suggesting that everything so far - every misdemeanor, every moment of neglect, every act you've committed, regardless of severity - has been a byproduct of unprocessed and unacknowledged grief? It's been theorized before by another shrink, but not in the same context as the one Dr. Gideon presents.
To other psychiatrists, it's been:
Grief brought on by your father's absence and subsequent death.
The destruction of your home city.
The violence and terror you witnessed.
The solitude of being confined to restricted spaces for the majority of your formative years.
But never loneliness. Not the kind he is proposing.
"Do you think you will have better success?" you ask, and you think it's a fair question, all things considered. Judging by what he's already committed himself to in terms of "understanding" you, you both doubt it and not. "A lot of different doctors have tried to understand me. To learn me. Why do you think you'll have better luck?"
"Oh, my dearest, luck has no place in my work." He seems almost appalled by the fact that you would even suggest such a preposterous thing. "It's because I've already learned in the last six months what they have spent years trying to scratch the surface of, and they never even scratched at the correct place."
He tries to conceal the smile you can already see stretching across his scarred lips. His hand leaves the table, and you watch with some tension in your body as he steps closer. Measured. "The matters of why and how are irrelevant. You are here now, exactly where you are supposed to be. Where you were always meant to be."
The finality in his tone leaves no place for objection.
Still, you ask. "Why here, of all places?"
He doesn't stop until he's positioned right in front of you, casting a shadow over both you and the chair. The absence of light does not grant him any favors in terms of appearing less menacing, if that were ever his intent. "Because I am not the only one who knows of your existence. I was just the first to find you."
Your eyebrows ascend a few inches, and the apple-bite you previously consumed feels heavier now in your belly. "… What do you mean?"
"While I did manage to recover most of your father's notes, I unfortunately failed to collect them all." Dr. Gideon looks genuinely regretful of what he just admitted. "A few previous members of Umbrella's faction got their hands on the rest. Insignificant people, but powerful in the currency the world dictates."
He must have noticed the shock spreading across your body; the emotions you so rarely let show on your face, in plain view in front of him, because despite the severity of his words, and the reaction you have towards them, he still manages to maintain that self-assured smile. "People, I can assure you, who would not hesitate to cut you open from navel to neck in order to take a look inside."
His left hand finds the back of your chair, effectively trapping you between without having to close the distance.
"To pull out and put in what they wish. Keep you locked up, chained, starved, and disposed of, once they deemed your usefulness ... expired."
He kneels until his head is level with yours, and whispers: "People who I can guarantee are far less lenient than me.”
The realization dawns on you only completely then.
You're being hunted.
You have always been hunted.
Your organs, your blood, and your head; all of you has a pre-existing price in a bidding war. Reserved for the highest bidder, like a beast at an auction. Like a pelt on display from a recent hunt.
The recovery of one of Umbrella's hidden trophies.
You just didn't realize until one of the hunters was already in front of you.
The feeling of Dr. Gideon's cold, large, yet gentle hand carefully positioned around the left side of your neck and cheek is what snaps you out of your overwhelming thoughts.
«But I don’t want that for you," he says with promise, soft and warm in contrast to his freezing grip. "I need you to understand that, despite the reservations you might have." His face leans closer into yours, nose inches away from making contact with your own.
"I want you content. To be free to walk around the premises as you please. Comfortable. Satiated."
You count the many times his fingers stroke your cheek. One, two, three … It grounds you, but while you know that you could easily escape his hold if you were to inch your face away, some subliminal implication remains in his fingers that won't permit resistance. "I will ensure that you will want for nothing. Doesn’t that sound like a much kinder option, my dear?”
If you have an answer to that question at that moment, which feels much more like a predetermined one on his side, you have no time to pronounce it.
“With me," he continues, "here, you will be perfectly safe. You will suffer no unnecessary harm, as I am sure you are accustomed to. I will not allow it. As to whether or not you indeed do have a diagnosis, I will admit that I find your demeanor, and opinion of yourself … concerning.”
He tilts his head a fraction to the side.
"We will have to remedy that, won't we?”
Remedy it?
A life of contentment, that's what he's promising you.
In exchange for what? Subservience? Compliance? Haven't you already provided those in spades, before even knowing of his true motives?
You're not like Selena, or Tim, or Tom.
You don't have the energy to fight anymore, or run, or fawn, or reject what happens to you.
You've spent years trying it, long before your shadow ever darkened the doors of Rhodes Hill.
Dr. Gideon injected you with viruses from a dead man's stash for half a year before admitting it, and you were none the wiser or caring before or after learning the fact.
He could've continued to conduct his research in secret without ever telling you, and you wouldn't have raised a brow.
And yet, here he is, telling you anyway.
Why?
Despite how often the doctors' notes have tried to depict you as such, you're no idiot. You know a cage when you see one, as gilded as it may be. You've already been tested on, confined, controlled, and measured one way or the other. It did not start with Dr. Gideon, and you doubt it will end with him.
However, based on what he's told you, there will be no one after him either. Not if he has it his way.
You can't distinguish whether that serves as a kindness, a promise, or a threat, but at this point, would it even matter?
Is any alternative better than this one?
You've been to other facilities and "treated" by other doctors. Some meant well, others couldn't care less. Some were kind and approachable, others felt more inclined to summon security, regardless of what you did and didn't do, and resort to medication to mold your behavior as they saw fit. You're not even sure you can properly recall how you were before all this.
If there was ever a before.
When you read your father's documents later the day they were presented to you, you learned the truth of your existence.
As a subject.
But when you look into Dr. Gideon's eyes, at the determination and finality in them, you can't remember ever seeing that kind of resolve in another doctor's gaze before.
You know he'll experiment on you again; there's not a shadow of doubt in your mind. He'll take more tests, conduct more research, but at least you will be provided for. You will, to some extent, be safe. Safe from the uncertainty that might pursue you if you ever were to try to leave.
Worse snakes are hiding in the grass, but this one permits you to look at him. To know what he is. A snake that will deliberately tell you before it bites.
Not even your own father could afford you such a luxury before he died.
The rest of the world you've experienced has tried to shield you from knowing their true motives, but Dr. Victor Gideon provides you with the truth as it is. Bare, uncomfortable, but honest.
What other choice is there to make?
You take a deep breath through your nose before you grant him a singular nod. Maybe one day, you will regret your choice, if there ever was one to begin with.
Now, you are tired.
"Alright."
At the sound of your acceptance, Dr. Gideon freezes for a split second, as if he did not expect this without further questions, or probing, or even a fight. It only lasts for a moment before something euphoric wholly takes over him.
He produces a noise from the bottom of his throat that might have sounded obscene to anyone walking outside his office, as would the depiction of that smile.
"Wonderful, my dear."
If it qualifies as a warning or a threat, you're unable to reach a proper conclusion before you feel your face being pressed tightly into his chest, the scent of chemicals and antibacterial soap borrows itself into your nose while his arms wrap around the entirety of your back. Wrapping around you entirely, as if shielding you from the rest of the world, yet ensnaring you against him all the same.
Tight.
You've never been fond of tight spaces. After all the involuntary psych admissions you've been confined to, all the padded cells that served to protect them more than they did you - even with or without any obvious hostile behavior on your side - you grew to associate them with entrapment. Restriction. Imprisonment.
You should feel that now, too.
You should.
You do.
Dr. Gideon fits all the criteria: Large, cold, suffocating; constricting your body the same way a boa would.
But despite the cold emitting from the body, the promises you know he will abide by, the studies and experiments you know you will have to endure, you don't feel it.
You feel … held, even if it's in a smothering embrace.
Seen, even if only under a scope.
Warm, like entangled under a cold blanket.
His large palm strokes through your hair and down your back, and you're surprised that someone so immense as he could exhibit such restraint.
For the first time in your life, you feel safe.
When was the last time you were hugged? Truly?
It must have been long because you can't even remember.
How could you not lean into that, if only a little? How could you not let your face rest against his chest when it feels so … good?
"My poor dear," Dr. Gideon whispers close into your ear, and just by hearing his voice resonate through your ears the same way a lullaby would, you swear you could fall asleep against him like this.
"You will be perfect."
