LOSS. / FLASHBACK.
Location: Terran Hospital / Home. Time: Early Morning / Anytime Closed for: @lilahkalashnx
TRIGGERS: CHILD DEATH TW, GRIEF/POST-DEATH TRAUMA TW.
It’s dropped like a lead weight on the desk in front of him – medical documents, the kind he’s seen twice over. It’s Drake’s handwriting decorating the papers, a near illegible script as iconic as any doctor’s really. But he knows his own scrawling’s, and so does the medical board – by default, so does Emerson. A kind of stare between Kalashnyk and the board that indicates there’s no admittance ready to be offered; accusations thrown about with regards to he and Delilah’s interference with certain paperwork; a few too many accidents that left a little too many questions. He hasn’t looked at which they’ve presented him with – it doesn’t matter all that much, he’s guilty of it, they know that as much as he does. Yet, there’s a twisted smile struggling to stay contained on the edge of his lips where he’s envisioning the board skinned and written down as a new form of document. Wonders for a moment if his wife in the chair beside him is thinking something similar – perhaps an even more creative of circumstance to befall them.
Perhaps even what they’ll do when the board dismisses them and they disappear off shift for a couple hours into a supply closet. Fabian’s not due to enter surgery for a few hours yet, a simple knee arthroscopy that he convinces himself could be done with one eye and one hand – though, probably not the best time to test the theory. Bad timing considering the harsh consequences that are being threatened to both Kalashnyk’s.
“We were going to deal with this as a standardisation, a revocation of your medical licenses and dismissal –”
Fabi’s tuned out, obviously, no counters readily supplied beyond the obvious – a genuine belief that two surgeons lost in Tera, both renowned in their areas; Drake’s orthopaedics more than exemplary and proven so would cost them far too much in regards to surgery, a still very in demand requirement in any case. But he’s picked up the past tense in their given words – were, implies, that’s not the outcome to be delivered; a reconsideration in response to their skillsets, most likely.
A trivial meeting nonetheless.
“—Emerson has decided to handle to matter directly,”
Drake’s attention is stolen back, fast. Eyebrows furrowing into a frown, the briefest of glance over to Delilah to assess if she’s sharing his expression. It’s strange, the figurations of scalpels in the medical board’s skin suddenly become obscured by Emerson’s face and while the pair of surgeons sit patiently for a verdict, Fabian feels a prickle of concern over the involvement of another.
And he had been right to be.
Because rejection to Emerson’s request after that, they should have realised wouldn’t sit well.
Afterwards, mere hours later, there are words that still haunt him now, because he’s said the words hundreds of times in a faux manner to loved ones of patients:
“I’m sorry Mr and Mrs Kalashnyk, but your son, Damian… he’s passed away in an accident,”
—–
There’s an irony in the sickening way the vicious cycle turns – a snake devouring its own tail in hunger insatiable. It’s a perverse karma; subjected to them with foul play; violent intent that rivals only themselves. Fabian’s grieving in any way a father can and in this moment, it’s lost in amongst the reassurance of being a good husband to his wife first. Before his own turmoil can manifest and be exerted in any detrimental way imaginable, they’re not surgeons by Terran standards anymore, not after everything. The refusal to be pawns in the highers games, the tragedy that followed –
– a kind that isn’t an accident at all.
Drake knows that with every fibre of his being, he knows better than everything, that kind of accident doesn’t just occur by mistake. Death certificate issued, cause of death – a fucking lie, a kind of insult to the man’s intelligence like he hasn’t forged tens of them and been the reason for their existence to begin with. But not this one, never this one.
None of it hangs in his mind for long when a kind of void; hollow in his chest is numb and endless. Only fills with Lilah’s tears as she lays over his thighs – he’s on his knees, arms wrapped around his wife as she lays sprawled over him on the ground a despair that he cannot, for anything soften. Murderers, killers with a method broken by a death of their own and weakened at the edges where barriers must reform.
“Lilah,” it’s soft, accompanied with fingers through her hair as he draws her to him, rests a tired head on top of hers, feels the vibrations of sobs against his chest where he sits, eyes closing – tries to draw more appropriate images of their children; their lost child that isn’t stained in red and mauled in a darker memory of what they, to the bottom line, caused.
Not that Drake will accept that. It’s a level of anger that boils beneath the agony of grieving. His wife first, then he’ll leave a stain elsewhere. “Delilah,” he murmurs again quietly, attempts to gain her attention through the drenching of his shirt, “Save the tears,” he doesn’t say why; it’s known between them silently. Like a code that only they can decipher, with a history like theirs, it only provides an already adept ability to return favours – patience, another trained quality in any surgeon. Once over the hurdle of this loss, the world will burn, whatever it takes. Fabian’s hand tangles in Lilah’s tendrils, takes a breath, inhales her scent like he might suddenly forget it and keeps her pressed against him, doesn’t dare let go in case she might leave too quickly. It’s whispered in a sigh:
“We have a job to do,”
TW: CHILD DEATH, MENTIONS OF MISCARRIAGE
The chair Dahlia sits on is uncomfortable and she’s contemplating on whether to throw a fit about it. The accusations held against them are indicated through the documents presented — each one a signed death by the couple. Accidents, they like to call it. Accidents because who would pay that much close attention? Delilah liked to toy with the line, see just how far they could go with letting a life slip through their fingers, and each time they got away with it, each time they had to tell a family member ‘sorry, but they didn’t make it’ brought on a fire in her to keep doing it over and over again. She says it’s for practice; they call her a monster for it.
There’s a struggle to keep the smug grin off her face as the board reads out their ‘crimes.’ They’re missing some, she notes. Date nights that end with blood on their hands with Drake’s wrapped around her pretty little throat as he pushes inside her. Date nights and these people look at them like they’re crazy. Romance truly is dead.
She waits for the punishment but there’s no fear. Delilah knows what she and Drake have to offer, knows that these idiots wouldn’t even dare to —. And then Emerson’s name pops up and the smile slips right off her face.
—
Drake has his arms wrapped around her and it’s the only thing keeping Delilah from falling apart. Her heart breaks and it’s reminiscent of the loss before Damian, the child she never had a chance to hold. And now the son she had the privilege of raising suffers the same fate. Death keeps taking what she wants and call it cosmic karma or universal retribution, but there Delilah sits, tears streaming down her face.
He says her name and it’s like an anchor but the waves of grief still hit against her very core. Delilah knows that he’s right, knows that composure won’t waste any of their time, but he gets the only shred of vulnerability she has. “What if they get Daisy,” and with this her eyes widen, chest heaving at the very thought. “Drake, what if they get her too?” They can’t; she won’t let them, but with Damian’s funeral already being arranged, she’s not too convinced of herself. “We can’t just trust them to not do anything if we do whatever they say.”
Ridiculous. The Kalashnyks brought down to their knees. The council better kill them once they have the chance.
