// @doctordonovan asked for pain ( inspired by a meme: sender has hidden an injury from receiver , and receiver finds out. )
“ –– when doctor donovan got shot.”
there was another half to that sentence, a beginning that cam was surely supposed to have heard and paid attention to. a half that was somehow important, the main part of the sentence by designation of grammar and of content. it’s in one ear and out the other, forgotten in the wake of the final five words. chill courses through him, and cam rounds on the poor lieutenant fast enough that, despite the months that current team has worked with him, the man still straightens sharply as if expecting a harshness cam will never offer. ❛ what do you mean, ‘when maeve got shot?’ ❜
he clings to self control by a thread, vowing to hold judgment until he has his answers despite the twisting in his gut. he reminds himself that he’s seen her, that she’s on her feet, no visible injury. whatever had happened, it can’t have offered too much risk to her life. it’s a paltry reassurance in the wake of the words when doctor donovan got shot. shock comes half from the reality of the situation, from the fear that he cannot quash even against the rational suggestions of his mind, and half from the fact that she neglected to tell him. for all plenty else has weighed upon their minds, for all he doubted, even for a flicker of a moment, where and when he was when he first saw her face, had maeve suffered such an injury, he ought to have known. she ought to have told him.
lieutenant jans shifts uneasily, from foot to foot, rubs at the back of his neck. “ we, er… we thought you knew. we thought she’d have told you. “
though cam’s impatient, that last thread of control fraying with each passing moment, and though he is of half a mind to give up on his nervous team and merely seek maeve out herself to demand answers ( something in him that he refuses to acknowledge quails at that suggestion, however ), he tries again, this time his words more precise. ❛ how did she get shot? ❜
it’s ackler who speaks up when jans still hesitates. “ you know there’s another you, sir. from that other reality. he… “ for a moment she hesitates, confidence quailing as if she realizes the impact of the sentence she has to finish. “ he shot her. in the arm. “ she glances fleetingly towards jans. “ it might’ve been worse, but jans reacted quickly. “
he’s unfamiliar with the stillness that descends upon his mind, with how, for just a moment, he, along with the rest of the world, freezes as if some deity hit a pause button. anger usually spurs him to action, drives him to lash out, or, at best, to need to move to work through the emotion. somewhere, in the back of his mind, a rational part of him recognizes immediately why his counterpart must have acted so — he had seen enough to know. still, understanding does nothing to combat simmering rage. his team awaits some reaction, even ackler ( usually the more brazen of the lot ) looking progressively less and less certain.
the gratitude he owes jans ( owes them all, he suspects ) cannot gain purchase in his thoughts, and though he’ll return later to offer it, when stillness breaks, it's with that need for action. the other cameron mitchell, the version of him who belonged to that other, hellish reality, remained yet in custody until such time as they could reverse his passage here. as he moves through the corridors, half-murderous and all too aware of the firearm he carries, strides long and relentless, those before him all too hastily move out of his way as if recognizing his mood. one or two braver souls call after him, asking if everything’s okay, but they receive no answer.
still, he’s descended only two levels by stair before concern outpaces his fury. for one flight longer, he hesitates, then redirects his course to seek out maeve instead. it’s still there when he sees her, for all he braces himself. the fear that spikes through his chest, the tension that courses up his spine and stretches across his shoulders, up his neck, and into his jaw. the insidious thoughts of events so recently past yet so vividly etched into his mind, of someone not her yet so so skilled at pretending. he grits his teeth and ignores it. instead, without preamble, without so much as pausing to catch her attention first, or without consideration of the fact that he distracts her from her work, here in the small laboratory where she passes much of her time, he demands, ❛ when were you planning to tell me he shot you? ❜ he lingers in the doorway, steps suddenly leaden, for all gaze looks her over for sign of injury, for damage done ( not by him, he reminds himself, for all the man responsible shares his features ).
still, speaking the words out loud inflames his former fury, and with it a nauseating sense of all that’s gone so very wrong, that he hesitates in her presence, and that another him could be responsible for hurting her.