To clarify: Nala had gotten off work early at 10pm at night!
She’d actually gotten off earlier, but she’d gotten caught up talking to a few people on her way out, and then Nala had realized she was blasted hungry and then she remembered that because of her schedule, she had not gone grocery shopping today. She had two options: take-out or the grocery shoppe. She decided to bite the proverbial bullet and go down to O’Hare’s for just a few things so she would not be in this position the next night. Look at her! Responsible! Practical! On top of it!
So with her bag of groceries in hand, which involved fresh fruits, vegetables, rice (she intended to make a stir fry), and a self-indulgent tub of delicious Rocky Road ice cream, Nala got into the elevator in her apartment.
Then she heard a familiar voice:
“HOLD THE DOOR!” the deep drawl of none other than Dr. Sweet called down the hall. Nala stuck out her hand at once and grinned sunnily at the good doctor as he jogged his way in.
“Ah, hullo, Dr. Sweet. Just off a shift?” she asked, adjusting her groceries in her hands.
Further Reading:
The Investigation Begins – Copper and Taka
Liars and Loopholes – Taka and Rodmilla
A Helpful Interrogation – Copper and Nala
Truth is in the Eye of the Beholder -- Simba and Taka
[Dated July 15th]
[tw for talk of death/murder/detailed description of injuries/thoughts of suicide]
NALA:
Nala needed to get a private audience with one Dr. Joshua Sweet. This posed a real big problem for Nala because of the following reasons:
1. She had finished her PT a couple of weeks ago and so she was not in the hospital nearly as much-- really,, she wasn’t at the hospital at all. She didn’t have any outstanding bills or reasons to come back, besides a few nurses who had become her friends.
2. Despite literally living three floors down from her apartment, Sweet kept odd hours and was never at home from what she could tell. In fact, he was always at the hospital, the very same hospital Nala didn’t have much of a reason to go to anymore.
3. She did have his number, but she didn’t think he was going to take her calls because--
4. Sweet hated her.
Ah, that last one really was the biggest complication of them all. The last time she’d seen the doctor had been a … mess. Before that, an even bigger mess, as she and Sweet rowed in the halls like two kids arguing on a playground. She’d felt awful just minutes after she’d walked away from that fight, had wanted to go apologize, but her stupid pride wasn’t going to let her. So no doubt, since Mr. Crowley’s death and everything that followed it, Sweet did not like Nala Calame and probably wasn’t going to help her break the law.
Oh yeah. Breaking the law. Should that go under number five?
Nala had to figure out a way around all these stupid complications, including her own pride, because there was no other way that she was going to get access to Simba’s medical records and get to the bottom of all the… strange, suspicious clues emerging surrounding Taka Lyons. Even going to Simba himself wouldn’t work; she knew Simba too well, and he would defend Taka to the death until he saw hard evidence that said otherwise. Not to mention speaking a word of the accident would turn him cold and hard before she got that far. So Sweet was the key, the only key that Nala had short of hiring a secret agent or donning a ski mask herself. She wasn’t there--yet.
So instead, Nala opted to… stalk Sweet. Lesser of two evils?
She contacted one of her better nurse friends, arranging a coffee date to “catch up.” Then, she slipped into conversation how much she wanted to apologize to Sweet. Make it up to him-- if only she knew when he was off his next shift. Then, when she had the hours in hand, Nala did what any normal, totally sane, not-desperate person did: she waited outside his apartment.
And when he came plodding up the stairs and saw her down the hall, Nala pushed off the wall and smiled at him.
“Er-- hullo! Do you, uh, have a second?”
SWEET:
Sweet had been at the hospital for thirteen hours. He was exhausted, which was so normal for him he barely felt the tired, even though it lay heavy in his feet and in the center of his shoulder blades. That was where exhaustion was carried, but he felt it there so consistently, it was practically natural at this point. The shift had been decent. He’d been in surgery for five of the hours, an appendectomy, easy but at least it let him cut. And, besides, these days he wasn’t feeling as eager anyway, what with what had happened to Mr. Crowley.
Yeah, he was trying not to think about that. Though, apparently fate had other ideas.
As he climbed the stairs to his apartment floor and opened the door from the stairway, he felt like he’d run straight into a wall. That’s what determination felt like—what stubbornness felt like. It physically ground him to a halt. It was that, more than the surprise at seeing Nala camped outside his doorway, that had him pausing with his handle on the door, as if he was considering turning around and just walking away.
He wasn’t considering that, he was trying to tear down that blockade mentally so he could step across the threshold. It took him a few moments, maybe a handful of them, before he was able to break through and cross the hall towards her. He was too tired, and more tired still from that mental exercise, to greet her with a smile.
“Nala,” he said as he got close enough to speak to her without raising his voice and disturbing the neighbors. He went about putting his key in the lock without pause, knowing that resistance was futile. She was going to say her piece whether he liked it or not. He didn’t mind, for the record, he’d never begrudge hearing someone out.
He was just tired. He needed a tea and he needed to take off his shoes, in which his feet pounded.
“Come in, I was going to put the kettle on, and you can tell me what you need to tell me.” He was too tired to bother with covering up the fact that he knew she wanted something, and that she’d stop at nothing to get it. Worse case scenario he just had to lie (it was not much of a lie) and tell her it was written all over her face.
Turning the handle, he opened the door, walking in first but holding it for her, toeing off his shoes right there in the hallway as she scurried in. He closed it and motioned for her to take a seat at the island as he went about preparing the kettle for tea.
NALA:
Sweet didn’t smile at her. Nala hadn’t expected him to. Still, he approached her with his drawn expression, his eyes heavy from a long day, she was sure, in the operating room or flitting through the hallways checking on his patients. She second-guessed her own strategy for a second. Maybe the hospital would have been the better place after all, maybe he would feel more open to talking, more willing to listen….
But even before the whole...Crowley debacle, she’d remembered the looks that he’d give her, spotting her in a patient’s room. They were half-amused, half-disapproving; Nala hadn’t taken them all that seriously at first. She didn’t see how her little visits could be such a problem. Wouldn’t it lift a patient’s spirits, make them stronger, more optimistic for surgery, to know they had people cheering them on?
But that was before Mr. Crowley. Now she knew. She had felt her own heart split, even though she’d not known the man for that long. Even now, thinking about Crowley in passing brought back a little of the pain, and the guilt, and everything else Nala had learned in her brief stays in the hospital.
Which was why she’d thought, hey, go to his home, don’t disturb him at work, show that she was keeping her nosy nose where it belonged-- uh, to an extent (ince of course, Nala wanted very badly to nose around the files that only Sweet could get access to). But was that the right choice? Was this mission doomed from the start?
Nala often felt hopeless tasks like that though-- she always tried anyway. So Nala took a deep breath and scurried into his apartment, glimpsing at the flag when she passed it. She already felt like an intruder, though maybe that was still her own guilt following on heel.
“Er, thanks. Promise it won’t take too long,” she said as she wandered toward his counter. She didn’t know if she should sit down, so she lingered there instead. She also didn’t know if she should apologize first or just leave it unsaid (what if he thought the apology wasn’t genuine considering she was about to ask a favour of him?)
Sweet bustled into the kitchen, Nala still standing there awkwardly. She bit down on the inside of her cheek. “Did you, er, have a good-- shift?”
Was small talk worse? Probably.
SWEET:
Contrary to what Nala thought, Sweet was not mad at her. Not in so many words. Annoyed? Yes. But, the whole issue of Crowley was a sensitive one for him. He hadn’t lost many patients in his time at Swynlake General, so of course, they always hit him hard. There was this—magic—surrounding Swynlake, where, for all the mayhem that was caused, hardly any life was lost, not really. People here died of old age, they died of disease, or their own stupidity, or random accidents, but the magic? Freak storms and lucid dreams and time travel? They didn’t. Not really.
Which meant, that when people died of disease—or surgeries they didn’t necessarily need…yeah, Sweet was going to take it hard. Of course, he knew that if he rewound time, he wouldn’t do anything differently. He hated sitting around and watching people die, withering away and letting their bodies eat at them until there was nothing left. Crowley had a fight in him, he was brave, up until the very end and Sweet—he believed that Crowley wouldn’t have regretted it either. Maybe he wouldn’t have done it, if he had a chance to do it again, but Sweet didn’t think his, hopefully at rest, spirit regretted the decision.
Maybe Sweet just thought that to comfort himself.
And, hey, Nala had enough loathing and sadness about the whole situation for the both of them. She looked at him like he was the Grim Reaper, and it wasn’t that far off from the truth. For handful of lives he saved, one slipped through the cracks.
That was just the way of it.
Now, he went about the motions of making tea, those blisters, now a month or so old, scabbing off little by little as Nala’s frazzled nerves picked away at them.
Glancing over his shoulder at her question, he sighed before turning back to pulling the stash of tea bags from the cabinet. “Sit down,” he told her, not harshly, “I’m not going to bite.”
When the water had been placed on the stove, Sweet brought the bowl of tea bags over to the island and slid it over to her. “Work was fine, tiring. Didn’t kill anyone, if that’s what you’re asking.” He raised his eyebrows at her a little, quirking his mouth in what could almost be a smile. Gallows humor. A specialty of doctors.
NALA:
If it was a joke, it was not funny. It was the opposite of funny.
She didn’t flinch, but she wanted to. Her heart pulsed in her chest, like it was an animal under the headlights. Is that what Sweet thought Nala thought of him? That he was a murderer?
She knew that their last meeting had been-- confusing and high-stress and her emotions had been frayed and she’d not been entirely herself. She’d said things she didn’t mean to say, things that she regretted even as they flew out of her mouth. There had been no taking them back. Now felt like the wrong time to take them back as well, so here they were, Sweet thinking that Nala thought he was a monster, and Nala thinking (no, now she was convinced) that Sweet hated her.
It was so uncomfortable, Nala wanted to wiggle out of her own skin. She hated people hating her. She also hated that Sweet thought she-- that she was capable of thinking--
“Of course not,” she said after that tense second. She dropped into the seat, her eyes darting away from Sweet’s toward the tea bags. She plucked one from the small bowl but didn’t put it in the hot water right away. No, she fiddled, feeling too many things at once right now. It was unusual for Nala not to know where she stood, not to know the right way to say something. She listened to her gut, but her gut was twisted.
Nala bit at her own lip then dropped the tea bag in the water, another second having floated by. She took a deeper breath and looked up at Sweet. And then she pushed away the rest, all that sordid history, all the things she wish she could say but couldn’t, not right now. She pushed away her guilt and her shame and her apology. She didn’t want it to be soiled by the rest of what she had to do here, tonight.
Nala was able to do all this because it was for Simba. That’s what she told herself. It was for Simba, Sarabi, InterPride-- it was for Mufasa, perhaps most of all. And she felt that now he was with her, and it helped her stay focused.
“I have a very big favour to ask,” she started. “And it’s a long story too. But I trust you and I think you can help me and my-- my family.” That’s what they were to her. Simba, Sarabi, Mufasa. Family. She’d do anything for them. “InterPride is trying to keep it quiet but you might have heard rumours by now that there’s an investigation. It’s on Taka Lyons, our CEO. Apparently there are funds missing, and the police has a reason to suspect criminal activity and all this has made me realize that--” she stopped, bit down on her own lip. It sounded insane even to Nala’s ears, but her heart was beating soundly.
“Three years ago, Mufasa was in an accident with his son. With everything going on, I have reason to believe that it wasn’t an accident. And the only way I’m going to know, for sure, is if you help me look at his and Simba’s hospital files.”
SWEET:
Oops.
Sweet’s joke had obviously missed its mark. He really had just been teasing. It was one of the only ways to deal with the kinds of things that he had to deal with on a day to day basis. His grandfather had raised him to believe that death was a natural part of life—which was hard to remember when it was you who ripped the pancreas out of a man and let him bleed to death on your table. It didn’t feel very natural then. Sweet counteracted the guilt the only way people like him knew how—to laugh about it.
But, he should’ve realized that it would upset Nala. He’d forgotten for a moment that she wasn’t as hardened as the nurses and doctors at work. He had only seen her, really, in the framework of the hospital. All of his memories of her were from there—except the one where she’d sat across from him on that very stool. His wires had gotten a little crossed, and he felt bad, but he just took deep breaths as Nala’s emotions scatted apart like dropped marbles across a hardwood floor. She gathered them up, one by one until it was solid again, just one emotion in her chest.
Determination. And—a warmth, brighter than Sweet had ever felt coming from her, but it was the unmistakable warmth of love.
He smiled at her and his head tilted. “Of course not,” he agreed softly. And, he didn’t think that, not really. Of course she’d been shocked and angry. She didn’t understand. To her, he’d seemed reckless, and in the moment, it had hurt, the mistake too raw still. But, well, Sweet was a man who learned from his mistakes, and Mr. Crowley would unfortunately be added to that list.
Pushing thoughts of Crowley aside, he watched Nala intently ready to listen intently to what she had to say.
And, boy, was it something.
He had heard the rumors. There was no better place in town to get rumors than the hospital. And InterPride was huge, the biggest business in town, employing near two hundred people, if not more. There were nurses and doctors with family and friends who worked there. Rumors had been plentiful. And many had surrounded Taka Lyons. He’d never met the CEO himself, but he had heard things. Things that were hard to reconcile with Simba, who he’d always been fond of, who always was so genuine.
And, he’d heard about Mufasa’s accident. When he’d come to Swynlake, it was just a month after, and he’d been greeted by a hospital of mourning. Everything had felt muted and quiet, as if Mufasa had been a personal friend to every worker. Sweet felt his spirit sometimes still, when people spoke of him. There were not many with a presence that could evoke something like that in people.
To hear that he had possibly been murdered, well, though it was not Sweet’s place to feel it, the grief yawned wide anyways.
“Alright,” he said as soon as she had finished. He didn’t need to be told twice. He trusted Nala. And Sweet was, obviously, not above twisting the rules for the greater good. He was a doctor and a Magick, wasn’t he? Illegal on all accounts. What was one more illegal thing? And, if it proved a murder, well, it would only do good. And, if it proved that the car accident was just that—an accident, at least it would put Nala’s mind at rest. To him, there was no other option.
“You’ll have to meet me on my next shift, which isn’t for another two days. Three PM is when I should get off. Have the nurse on duty at the desk page me. Is there anything else that I should know? That you need?”
NALA:
Nala really didn’t have any arguments prepared past Please. That was it, just one word. She knew that it was the right thing to do but she didn’t expect Sweet to understand. In fact, she expected Sweet to find her paranoid and crazy and honestly, she could be those things.
And she’d tried so hard to convince herself out of this. Ever since Copper had questioned her, she wrestled with her own instincts, the same ones that always screamed at her about Taka. She went through the same song and dance that she’d been going through for years. Look at everything he’s done for you and Sarabi and Simba. Look at how he stepped up. Look at the memorial he helped create. Look at all the projects he’s given you. Look look look.
And then her heart would snap back: But where was he before Mufasa died?
In the end, that was the kicker. For all of Nala’s life, Taka had been the colloquial thorn in the Lyons’ side, only Mufasa taking pity on him. Nala believed in second chances and she did think people could change, but it all felt too convenient. If she was wrong? The worst that happened was-- well, nothing. She was embarrassed, she wasted Sweet’s time, she apologized, she went back to beating herself up for what would just be her own prejudices.
But if she was right?
It was worth the gamble. It could mean giving Simba his life back and saving InterPride and avenging Mufasa all in one swoop. So yes, if Nala had to, she’d say please, and she’d find a way to put all of that into words.
Good thing she didn’t have to. Because it took one beat, and then Sweet agreed. Nala lit up, the surprise dancing across her face, though it quickly melted into joy.
“Really? I-- I mean-- thank you, thank you so much,” she nearly gushed, barely holding herself back. “I don’t think so, I-- is there anything you need from me?”
SWEET:
Sweet didn’t need to feel the joy to see it on her face and know he’d done the right thing--but he felt it anyway, like a firework in his chest, and it made him smile back at her and he knew he wouldn’t hesitate to do this for her. It was for the greater good anyways--this wasn’t selfishly motivated on her part. She was trying to help her friends--her family.
“Discretion,” he told her simply. “As I’m sure you know, I am breaking several rules in order to accomplish this for you. I will text you when I am ready for you, so keep your phone near.”
With that, they finished their tea and Sweet showed Nala out, promising her that as soon as he got the chance, he was going to text her. They parted ways and Sweet showered and fell rather quickly asleep, no anxiety plaguing his thoughts as he drifted off. He’d been caught doing worse things before, after all, hadn’t he?
It was another three weeks before Sweet got the opportunity he’d been looking for. It would’ve been sooner, but Swynlake had other plans in the form of a nasty snow storm that had the Hospital running on backup generators for 72 hours. Not to mention the influx of patients with frostbite, hypothermia, and pneumonia that trickled in throughout the rest of the week. There was also a slew of bone breakage from people slipping on the ice, not in the proper attire for the weather. They had been short-staffed and stretched thin.
But, eventually he texted her: Meet me outside of the morgue. Ask for instructions from the woman at the desk. Tell her you are coming to identify the body of Joseph Order.
Then, he leaned against the wall near the bathrooms at the opposite end of the hallway from the morgue, a pair of intern scrubs tucked under his arm, and waited.
NALA:
When Nala got the text from Sweet, a shiver had run up her spine, like another snowfall had hit the air and blasted through her lungs. It was a good kind of shiver though, not one of fear. No, Nala was excited.
She probably shouldn’t be excited.
She realized that, as she quickly rescheduled a meeting and cleared her afternoon for this jaunt into the bowels of the hospital. She was 26 years old and should have long ago outgrown her sneaking-around days. But it felt like primary, secondary-- even uni again. Like no time had passed at all from Simba calling her up on the phone with some kinda plan or another. Sure, usually their escapades were sorta silly, weren’t they? Sneaking into a party or spying on Mufasa. They’d never really done anything as illegal as what Nala was supposed to do.
She wanted to tell Simba so badly.
But she resisted. She knew that if she did that, Simba would be furious at the thought of Nala poking that nose of hers where it didn’t belong, and against his beloved uncle too. No, Nala had to get undeniable proof first so he couldn’t deny it and so he’d see exactly why Nala had to go with her stubborn gut. And it was with that mission in mind that Nala left work early, made a pitstop at her apartment to change clothes (couldn’t go on a covert mission in heels) and showed up at the hospital with her marching orders from Sweet.
“Oh, hey Nala!” chirped one of the nurses who was just coming around the bend. Nala smiled back and waved, but was glad that the nurse scurried on to wherever it was she was doing. She didn’t want any distractions and she didn’t want to be asked why she was here (she’d come briefly a few days ago just for a check-up following the snowstorm, but was cleared within a few hours; besides that, she and the hospital had become strangers again).
She started scurrying too, beelining her way to the counter. When she got there, she found the woman that Sweet had mentioned. It was showtime. Nala’s heart beat fast, but steady and strong. She wasn’t nervous; it was just that--that thrill. Maybe she wasn’t meant to outgrow it after all.
When she approached, she kept her face drawn, serious. “Er-- scuse me? Do you know where I’m supposed to go? I’m.. er, supposed to identify the body of Joseph Order.”
The woman nodded. “I’ll send someone to take you down.”
Nala didn’t have to wait long. Soon she was on her way, winding through the hallways to a part of the hospital she had never seen. She had to keep her eyes from lighting up when she saw Sweet waiting for her.
SWEET:
Sweet felt his heart tick up slightly at the sight of Nala, feeling her excitement in his chest. Typical. He really wasn’t surprised, which was why it was easy for him to keep his expression neutral as he pushed off the wall, keeping his arms crossed (the pair of scrubs tucked under his arm, hidden beneath his lab coat.) He smiled just slightly, a contained kind of smile, a smile of condolences.
“Oh! Hey, Dr. Sweet, what are you doing down here?” chirped Patrick, the nurse who had been guiding Nala.
“The grief counselor is not here yet, so, I’m going to be stay with--” he checked the clipboard in his freehand-- “Mrs. Order.”
“Right, I’ll leave you in good hands, then,” the nurse said, smiling at Nala and touching her elbow gently. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
Sweet watched as the nurse walked away, before pulling the scrubs out from beneath his coat. “There’s a supply closet over there--you should change into these.” He tilted his head in the direction of the closet. “I’ll stand guard.”
And then, a little smile did twitch on his lips. When she disappeared, he leaned up casually against the wall again, though, no one came by. The morgue was dead--ha. People only came down here when they needed to. Otherwise, they avoided it.
The door opened and Sweet turned to Nala, smiling again and snorting a little at her in the scrubs. “Suits you,” he teased for a moment before sobering. “Alright, here’s the plan: the man in there is Manuel. Almost everyone calls him Manny. He’s a friendly bugger, so you shouldn’t have a problem getting him talking. These are the papers for Joseph Order. Say you’re just delivering them down from the OR for Dr. Tibbs. It’s a simple job--why we make the interns do it.” He raised his eyebrows. “Strike up a conversation and keep him talking.”
“I’ll come in a minute or so behind you and head for the paper files. They’re in a backroom. I looked up the records on the computer--but there wasn’t anything. Though, I remember back in December when Simba came in for his appendicitis, there had been a report from the accident. It said--there were drugs in his system, but the detailed toxicology report hadn’t been completed. I’m hoping the original paper files have the correct information because it shouldn’t be like that. No nurse leaves that blanket, and our toxicology printouts have exact measurements.”
He shook his head a little, brow furrowing, disturbed at the level of possible deceit and corruption within the hospital.
“You should leave before me, just wait outside. If anyone asks what you’re doing just tell them you’re waiting for me. They’ll believe you. Got it?”
NALA:
Nala listened diligently to her instructions, nodding a few times-- almost bouncing on her toes. She knew not to do that, she didn’t want Sweet to think she wasn’t taking this seriously. She definitely was. To Nala, this might be the single most important thing she ever did, even if it was a glorified game of pretend. If it meant she was right, then a pair of these scrubs were going to go a very long way.
So she took those scrubs and ducked into the other room, wiggling out of her clothes and into her new disguise as quickly as she could. It was funny-- once a long, long time ago, when Nala was jsut a little girl, she’d thought about being a doctor. She’d had plenty of big dreams like that, every single one of them involving saving the world (at least, Nala liked to think so). She didn’t remember when those dreams had stopped, at what age, exactly, her daddy sat her down and told her of the great things InterPride could do, and how lucky she was to be a part of it.
Part of it. Nala had never been separate. Which was why this mission was her business, why she had a right to be down here, why she would not fail. So she rolled up her scrubs once (they were a smidge too long on her) and then slipped out of the room again, glancing toward the door. Her gaze snapped back to Sweet, more instructions tumbling out of his lips. She absorbed it all. Manuel-- Manny. Distract, schmooze, keep him talking, while Sweet found Simba and Mufasa’s files. It was a straightforward enough mission, as far as Nala was concerned. And she was good at her part, good at talking to people. Hopefully this Manny wouldn’t suspect a thing.
“Got it,” she said. “Good luck, Sweet-- not that you’ll need it, ‘m sure.” And then with a smile, she snatched the papers from his hand and sauntered her way to the door, shoulders back, chin lifted, confident confident confident.
She opened the door and Manuel looked up right away at her. Nala put on her sunny smile. “Hey Manny,” she said to him. “ ‘M just coming to deliver some papers.”
“Oh yeah-- is this Order?”
“Yeah. Tibbs sent them from the OR,” Nala recited her line perfectly. But she meandered a little, turning her head side to side like she was taking a tour of the place. “Y’know, this is my first time actually down in the morgue. It’s not as-- creepy as I thought it would be.”
Manny snorted at that. “Good to hear. You’ll be down here a lot more ‘fore you know it. A good place to come practice if you have the time-- you are one of the surgical interns, yeah? Tibbs, you said?”
Nala nodded. This reminded her of uni improv class-- she’d not been so shabby, though she was always at her best opposite Simba. “Yeah, he’s brilliant. Already learning a lot.”
Manny chuckled. “Bet you can’t wait to get cutting, eh?”
Nala had no idea what that meant. Cutting what? Into people? That’s probably what he meant if Nala was a surgical intern. “Oh yeah, you bet!” She said anyway, that grin of hers bigger than ever, though now her gears were spinning. She needed to turn the topic away from her. She could only bullshit for so long and she hadn’t even heard Sweet come in yet. Had he come in, and she’d just-- not noticed?
SWEET:
Sweet waited for Nala to bounce off and he did his best not to panic. He could potentially lose his job over this, but he trusted Nala to keep it together. It wouldn’t take him long, the files would be right next to each other--he just had to snatch them.
When the door shut behind her, he paced up and down the hall once before opening the door right as Manny asked Nala about cutting. Jesus. Maybe this was a terrible idea. But, he wasn’t too worried, Manny’s heart was beating a little fast as Nala turned her smile on him and Sweet knew it’d be fine.
“Hey Manny!” Sweet said with a bright smile and a wave. “Dr. Calame.” He nodded at Nala, knowing it’d be more suspicious not to acknowledge her. Manny might not be up on all the gossip, but everyone knew Sweet and Tibbs were connected at the hip.
“Oh! Hullo, Dr. Sweet. What can I do ya for?”
“Not much, just gotta grab a file. One of the nurses put it into the computer wrong when they imputed it a while back.” He shook his head with a playful roll of his eyes.
“Ah, you know where they are.”
“Thanks, Manny.” He nodded to the mortician before slipping away into the storage room.
He heard Manny lean in as he left, asking in a whisper: “What’s it like working with that guy?”
Sweet smirked. He was sure Nala would have an interesting answer to that.
The file cabinets were lined up in a row and Sweet found 2013 quickly and easily, pulling it open quietly. Lyons, Lyons, Lyons.
There they were. Sitting there innocently in their manila folders. Sweet plucked them out quick and easy. It was so easy. It made him incredibly sad. If what Nala said was true. If what Sweet found in these files were true, then the information had been just sitting here, all this time. Collecting dust. So easily accessible. But, he didn’t dwell. After a minute or two, he stood up and exited the back room, making sure the files under his arm had the names facing towards his body. Nala was no longer in front of Manny.
“See ya, Manny!”
“Til next time, doctor!” Manny replied with a wave.
He let out a breath as he went back out into the hall. Nala was waiting against a wall. As he walked passed her, he nodded his head slightly, so that she’d follow him into the supply closet. Soon as they entered and the door closed, Sweet flipped open Simba’s file. Quickly his eyes scanned over the file.
“Jesus,” Sweet whispered to himself with a shake of his head before closing the file and shoving it in Nala’s hands. He opened Mufasa’s next, his stomach sinking the entire time.
Cause of death: blunt force trauma, crushed windpipe.
Medical examiner’s notes: Patient deceased on arrival to the hospital. Windpipe injury in cohesive with other car accident-related injuries. Otherwise injuries were rather mild--concussion, broken leg, several gashes, internal bruising, but no bleeding.
Sweet looked up, his face drawn and serious. “Nala, I think you were right.” He didn’t hand her Mufasa’s file. She didn’t need to know those details. “Simba had a dangerously high dose of rohypnol in his system, along with alcohol. He could’ve died just from the combination if the car accident hadn’t had him rushed to the hospital. Does Simba have a history of drug use?”
NALA:
Sweet swooped in just at that moment, turning Nala’s head with the sound of his voice. She flashed him a polite smile, one that she had often given her teachers, which made sense if Nala was playing Dr. Calame (she felt all wiggly and giddy at the sound of it-- man, how she wished she could tell Simba all about this) and Sweet was one of her many teachers. It only lasted a second anyway. He came, he exchanged a few words, and then off into the files he went. Her heart thudded faster and she nearly didn’t turn to look at Manny when he spoke to her again. There was a beat.
But she wrenched her eyes away and smiled again, leaning closer to the man like she was about to impart some grade-A gold gossip on their mutual friend, Dr. Sweet.
“Oh, Sweet’s great, real friendly. Can talk a mile a minute I’m sure you’ve noticed. I’ve had to develop a different shorthand when I go on rounds with him.”
Manny laughed at that and leaned in himself. “I hear him and Tibbs-- that’s your supervisor right? They’re pretty close.”
Ooooo, now that was interesting gossip, especially because Nala knew Tibbs from her PT. Her eyebrows raised. “Well, they are real chummy,” she said, going along with the gossip. “You don’t think they…?”
Manny smirked and gave her a look that read: You know what I mean. He tapped the side of his nose. “Keep a look out.”
Nala nodded. “I-- certainly will. Thanks Manny. I should probably get goin’ or Tibbs will miss me. See you around!” And with a cheerful wave, she scurried out the door, letting out a breath on the other side. She had no idea if she had given Sweet enough time or if she should have stayed any longer but what’s done was done. She crossed her arms over her chest and keep her eyes on the tile. As long as no one came by…
The door swung open behind her.
Nala turned at once and saw Sweet with the files. His eyes were already on one of them, and she could tell, just by looking at him, that whatever was in those files was not good. Her heart plummeted straight into her stomach and she was scared to ask. She’d come this far and now, here it was, the truth at her fingertips. But Nala opened her mouth and no sound came out.
Sweet didn’t make her ask though.
Sweet looked up at her, the answer in his dark, soft eyes, and Nala felt parts of her crumple that she hadn’t felt in-- years. Since that night, when she got the call about the accident and she’d arrived in this very hospital in tears.
She was right.
Nala ripped open the file. She scanned it just the way that Sweet did, though most of it she could not understand. Rohypnol though, she knew. She knew because in her uni days she’d been an ambassador for the feminist group on campus and she’d led many seminars on date rape and similar crimes. And so her blood turned to ice and she couldn’t believe it. Though she could. Though everything was finally perfectly aligned inside of her for the first time in three years-- her head, her heart, her gut.
Her eyes darted back up to Sweet. “Nothing, just-- alcohol and a bit of weed here and there. Rohypnol, that’s-- that’s roofies, yes? Someone put it in his drink? He couldn’t have… been driving, could he? With that in his system?”
SWEET:
Sweet could feel Nala’s pain in her own chest. Shock was like a drain, like a plug had been pulled and all the sudden your emotions were swirling down through you. From your brain to your heart to your gut, all the way down to your toes sometimes. Sometimes the water was so hot it burned, but this time, it was cold as ice. It made Sweet shiver. Underneath that water, it took him a second to get his brain back in working order.
He should’ve prepared better. He should’ve delivered this news more gently. But, there was no way to do so. Sweet had told people that their loved ones were dead before. It was always that same feeling--that draining of all emotion until you were empty and cold.
His hand came up and he put it on Nala’s shoulder, squeezed it. Touched her face gently for a moment. He wasn’t supposed to do that. It was too intimate. But Nala had been a patient of his, he knew her better than some stranger in a waiting room. Not to mention, this was murder. Sweet had not dealt with those very often in his career. Such a thing shook even him. The idea of a human taking another human’s life so intentionally. Attempting to take someone else’s life? And no guilt at all, so it seemed.
“No, Nala, he wasn’t driving the car.” Sweet could say that with certainty, because there--right at the top of Mufasa’s file, it said:
Reason for admittance: Automobile accident -- driver.
NALA:
Nala had known the answer to the question that she asked, but she needed someone else to say it. She needed to hear her own thoughts said out loud so it wasn’t… crazy anymore. Simba was not driving the car. Simba was not driving the car.
All these years, he’d thought, and she’d thought, and Sarabi had thought. All these years, they’d all been in so much pain-- no one moreso than Simba. She’d watched him nearly kill himself. She felt every drunk word he ever used to lash out at her again, all at once, each one as sharp as a knife. And the worst thing was they’d all been pointless. Her tears had been pointless, the times she had begged him-- the three years he had disappeared without a word-- his family’s anger at him. Her anger at him. Pointless. Misplaced. She and Simba’s relationship had been shattered and crookedly rebuilt for… nothing. Taka had been to blame.
She should have known. How many times did she suspect Taka? How many times had she buried that doubt and beat herself up for it? It had taken her four years and all those days of pain to listen to her instincts.
Her hand shook as it held the file. Nala wanted to be sick all over it. When Sweet touched her shoulder, she flinched like she’d been struck, looking up at him. Sweet was still calm, solid, like a lighthouse shining through the storm. She blinked again at his hand on her cheek. It lasted hardly more than a second, but it moved through her like a wave. She wanted to burst into tears.
Nala sucked in a breath instead, turning her cheek and her face away from Sweet so she would not crumble. She could not now. What did she need to do-- ?
“I-- I have to, to tell Simba,” she said, with her voice shaking. “I-- need these. Can I take these? I can bring them back, I’ll bring them back.”
SWEET:
He knew that Nala was going to ask that and he frowned slightly. He didn’t think it was a good idea for her or Simba to read Mufasa’s autopsy report. That was the kind of thing you could never unsee. And when it was someone you loved, those facts, written so plainly, by someone who hadn’t even known the man. It was going to hurt.
But, he knew that she wanted them for evidence. Sweet didn’t know the specifics. If her taking them from the hospital would invalidate them as evidence, which was why he hesitated. At the end of the day, though, if it was what Simba needed--if it was what would make the poor boy see the truth. Sweet couldn’t begrudge that. He knew he couldn’t. All he could do was try to warn against the kind of trauma this could cause.
Reluctantly, he handed the file over to her.
“Don’t read it, if you can avoid it. Don’t let Simba read it, if you can avoid it,” he advised solemnly and took a deep breath. “And be careful, Nala. Make sure someone stays with Simba. Make sure someone stays with you. If you need anything, call me.”
Imagine his surprise when the day before Mr. Crowley’s surgery was scheduled, he was told by the man himself that he did not want to go through with it. Now, all week, Crowley had been badgering Sweet, antsy and wanting to get the surgery over with.
Now, all of the sudden, he’d changed his mind?
The old man had been stubborn about why he’d changed his mind, saying shit about how he just “wanted to live the rest of his life in peace.” He hadn’t given up. No one gave up that quickly unless they were presented with new information.
When he’d asked the nurses on rotation all they’d said was that Nala had been the only one to visit him the past two days.
Sweet didn’t need to hear anymore. He’d gone down to the physical therapy wing and sweet-talked the nurse working at the time to give him the patient schedule. He knew Nala always stopped in to see Crowley either before or after and so he’d foregone his desk, staking out at the nurse’s station until Nala showed up. Right on time.
Quickly leaving his seat, Sweet intercepted Nala before she could get to the door, crossing his arms over his chest, he started down at her--a hard scowl on his features.
“Sorry, Nala, Mr. Crowley isn’t seeing guests today,” he lied, swiftly and easily, not an ounce of regret to it.
She had obeyed Sweet’s strict orders not to eat the night before her surgery, and she arrived at Pride Hospital with a stomach rumbling and clenching its protest, Nala having not forgone a meal since Ramadan and Ramadan was not for another two months. And even then, she ate at night, then fasted through the day. She had not eaten last night and was being forced to wait, hospital gowned and bored, in her nondescript hospital room, with nothing to distract her from the gnawing inside. She was hungry. That’s what that gnawing was-- stomach curling up, gnashing its teeth, hungry.
She was also hungry for other things.
To run-- to jump-- to kick like she used to, extending her leg high in the air, in beautiful geometric lines that turned her body into living art. She was hungry for criss-cross-applesauce and to enjoy a shower again, not just struggle her way through it as her knee kicked up another fit. She was hungry for her health. She was hungry for her freedom. These things were so much more important than the protest of her stomach, the way it roiled and roared and made Nala, yes, very grumpy, very on edge.
She’d have her health back soon, that was what mattered, what’s why she could push down the fight deep inside her gut. But where in Allah’s name was Sweet?
She glared every time a nurse passed and didn’t duck in-- glared when they did duck in only to say it wouldn’t be too long now. Nala’s patience, a remarkable thing (she had to withstand Simba’s brand of hyperaction, remember), began to wear thin, until her hunger overwhelmed it and simply gobbled it up.
“I’ve been waiting forty-five minutes!” Nala shouted at some perfectly friendly nurse
“Alright, alright-- chill, girl,” said the nurse, earning her another fiery glare. “I’ll go track him down.” She scurried out.
It took another six minutes (Nala had nothing to do but literally count the seconds) and then Sweet swung in, jovial, his usual damn annoying self.
“And I was beginning to think you were gonna stand me up,” Nala hissed his way. Though the sight of him just made her stomach clench more.
Nala lived on the sixth floor of her apartment complex. Before she smashed her knees into absolute smithereens, she’d taken the stairs every day, even if she was in heels from work, even if she had three bags of groceries on her arm. She rode the elevator only with other people-- with Kiara when she met her in the lobby, with other work friends who stopped by for drinks or dinner. Otherwise, Nala took the stairs and loved the climb, loved the echoey chamber and how no one-- hardly-- ever seemed to appear on it.
Funny to think that one of Nala’s happy places were the stairs (and oh, Nala had many, her heart was too big and held so much joy, she had to pour it in places throughout the world). She hadn’t realized how much she enjoyed them until she couldn’t go up them-- until the quiet, intimate space of the stairwell was closed to her.
Now she took the elevator whenever she did go out into the world, which was not often because of her knee and her impending surgery. Today, she’d ventured for her apartment for a lunch date-- took a car to the restaurant like a good little patient, even though she’d normally walk. On the way back, Nala stopped in for a few groceries. Well er... margarita mix and ice cream.
What, she was going to have a relaxing easy-going night at home.
So with her purchases in her one plastic bag, she exited the car she took back (see-- still a good little patient) and then entered her apartment building. And saw the darndest thing.
The elevator was out of order.
For a second, Nala really didnt’ know what to do. Six flights of stairs was definitely not in her list of Sweet-approved activities. She could find someone, ask them what was wrong with the elevator-- when it would be fixed. Find a freezer for her delicious moose tracks and wait in the lobby. Maybe take a car to Sarabi’s or Simba’s or Kuzco’s and share her ice cream.
Or she could take the stairs. Six flights of them.
Six flights versus Nala.
Nala gritted her jaw and fixed her eyes on that door. She could do this. She’d take breaks at each landing, just a few minutes to catch her breath and rest the knee. Her ice cream would probably melt a little, but pfft, couple of hours in the fridge, she’d not know the difference. And that would be the perfect amount to catch up on her emails (Nala couldn’t help but work even on the weekends) and make her margaritas and order pizza and scroll through Netflix for about 35 minutes before calling Simba and making him choose what she should watch (and no, he wasn’t invited, this was clearly a Nala-night; his input was just welcome).
And so Nala began to take careful slow steps down the hallway toward the stair well. She pushed open the door and it swung shut behind her. The first steps came easy, like she’d been climbing stairs her whole life. And she had, you know. The air smelled a little like paint, but that didn’t bother her. Up she went, stair by stair.
But behind her, quite suddenly, she heard the door open and someone enter. A second later, her name echoed up the stairwell, uttered by a deep cadence that she’d only come to know too well in the weeks since her initial surgery check-up. Nala’s hand tightened on the railing. Caught. Red-handed.
Slowly, she turned and looked over her shoulder. “Dr. Sweet!” she chirped. “What are the odds, huh?”
I wanna preface this with-- they’d have SO many kids I feel. like three, four at least. maybe more. 5? idk i just feel like they’d have a big family. I won’t name them all or decide so i will just take idk uh first born-- boy. his name is Akinyi.
🌱- When is their birthday? Where were they born? What was the time of day?
Akinyi was born 9am in the morning his name literally means “born in the morning.” He is a spring baby uh-- April 12.
🔠- Who named them? What does their name mean?
wow-- this one goes to nala but his nickname whatever it is will go to Sweet. I’m sure he has a Dakota name too!!!
💤- Was it difficult to get them to fall asleep at night?
Oh nooo, he was a good lil baby honestly. He slept very soundly
🌀- Were they a social, giggly baby? Or were they a shy baby who did not like forced socialization?
Yes! Very happy and energetic probably didn’t take that many /naps/ which is why he slept so well at night
🍳- What is their favorite childhood dish?
uh idfek baby food. um. carrot mush. yum carrots. also probably was constantly eating like the best way to make himi happy is to give him food he just BRIGHTENED UP he was like !! food what !!
🐻- Did they have a favorite teddy bear/stuffed animal?
yes he DID have a teddy bear. in honor of his PAPA bear get it
🏡- What kind of environment did they grow up in? Was it in a rural or farmlike home? Or did they grow up in the cities? Or were they a small town/suburban child?
I’ve always headcanoned that Nala is going to move back to Kenya at some point because she’s rly passionate about water projects there. So I like to think they live in Mombasa where she finally has her nonprofit all set up and Sweet would work in a hospital. They live super close to the water and they go swimming all the time.
👦🏻- What was preschool/kindergarten like?
Akinyi loved it but probably got into so much trouble. Very energetic and also got his hands in stuff he shouldn’t. Ate glue and paper, that kind of thing. Made lots of friends though and always participated even if sometimes he forgot to raise his hand and just shouuuted out the answer...
👧🏻- What was elementary/middle school like?
Kind of in the same vein, though Akinyi probably wasn’t as enthusiastic about going to school because it’s more BORING NOW.
👱🏻♀️- What was high school/college like?
Mmm I feel like he’d find his passion points and his ‘group’ because he has two parents who are both passionate, driven people and he’d catch onto that. He’d become hyperfocused in those areas and let others slide. Can see him doing some sort of sport maybe. Or maybe doing student council or something like that because he likes to be involved with the more social aspects of school.
🌋- How often did they get caught doing something bad?
I feel like he was more problematic and more of a troublemaker when he was younger and once he found something to like direct all his energy, he mellowed out some.
🌡- Did they get sick a lot as a child? Did they ever have to go to the hospital for any reason?
I feel like he got sick a few times as a kid bc of doing dumb shit like EATING THINGS HE SHOULDN’T (as a baby, scaring nala half 2 death) and idk probably jumping off a roof. good thing his dad is a doctor ahahah
🎀- What kinds of games/activities did they like to play?
very active as a child, probably in a sport like i said. Loved to go swimming, probably wasn’t big into video games... uh... i don’t really see him liking poetry or art like his parents tbh but maybe?
🎏- Did they have a lot of friends? Can you describe a few?
yes he had LOTS of friends. he probably had girlfriends as a kid that’s how smooth and popular this kid is. i feel like he got a long with a lot of diff types of ppl, like artsy and sporty kids just talk to him.
💢- Did they ever have a rebellious phase?
SURE what child doesn’t. I’m sure he felt a lot of pressure because Sweet and Nala are both driven people and are very successful. And Nala would have high expectations honestly so who knows maybe he’d like get a secret tattoo and join a skater gang before he got his act 2gether yah totally
❓- Did they ask a lot of questions when they were younger? Did they like to explore the world?
Uh sure yeah. I feel like he was a liar tbh, he made up a lot of grandiose stories to get out of things or if he didn’t like his parents’ explanations, he just made up his own. he was a big mouth. he also liked to put things in his big mouth. dont sexualize that he is a child
🗯- How well did they get along with their siblings?
Depends on age differences and personaliTIES and i focused on ONE FOR A REASON PEOPLE-- he’d be obnoxious about being the oldest that’s all i know
🔷- Free question!
he and simba were thick as thieves and got into a lot of trouble im sure !!
Nala was back on her feet, ladies and gentleman-- well. Kinda.
Nala was BACK in a brace, ladies and gentleman! Following two weeks in her knee immobilizer, taken off only when she’d come to the hospital for initial physical therapy sessions-- all rather low-stress, not challenging enough, so boring she could claw her own eyes out-- Nala had graduated to a regular knee brace and had an entire world of fun, muscle-building activities ahead of her for the next eight weeks. And this was not sarcasm. If Nala loved one thing, it was a challenge. To her, eight weeks of physical therapy was summer camp.
She was practically buoyant as she strode down the halls toward the physical therapy room, the fire in her eyes again. She wasn’t paying attention. She almost didn’t see Sweet and maybe she wouldn’t have, if he didn’t leave a patient’s room right as she came by, nearly smacking right into his chest.
“Oi--” she started, then glanced up and saw who it was. Her smile broke over her face at once. “Hey! Sweet! Nearly knocked me out there and ruined all your hard work!”
Nala could see the light at the end of the tunnel.
It had been a very long eight weeks for her, eight weeks without working out--without so much as one run around the lake she had grown up with. She had hobbled for eight weeks. She had laid on her couch for eight weeks. She had watched all the seasons of America’s Next Top Model in eight weeks, and she’d also flown through her work, devoting any time not spent on the ANTM pity-party into the Lyons Foundation, into InterPride’s next financial quarter, into anything and everything she could get her hands on.
She’d fielded constant calls from her parents as well during those eight weeks, her mum insisting on the check-ins, her father running through a list of questions every day. Was she resting enough? How did her knee feel? Did she have enough help? And every day, Nala would tell the truth-- sort of.
She’d fielded bullshit statements from her mates too. So many times, she’d gotten comments like, Oh, at least you’re getting to relax! or You must be enjoying all this down time. It took all of Nala’s impressive self-control to bite down on the growl and stop herself from roaring just how relaxing having a shattered kneecap really was.
But today, she was scheduling a follow up procedure, and after that-- with just a few weeks of physical therapy-- she should be back to her normal self.
She’d get to run again. She ran in her dreams every day. She ran when she closed her eyes in the back of a car, she ran even when she was sitting down in the waiting room, filling out paperwork. She could practically hear the crunch of leaves and gravel. Soon. Soon. Soon.
Nothing was going to wipe the smile off her face. Nothing was going to take the trails away from her.
That was before the door swung open in her hospital room and some man she’d never seen before strolled in.
Nala blinked. “Oh-- hello,” she said, voice tepid at best. “Is... Dr. Warren going to be here soon?”
