continued | @stillresolved
It's always the kindest that foolishly bury themselves as deep as they can push their arms into soil. A fitting image, watching someone roll their sleeves up and go elbow-deep. Soil brown enough does remind him of the colour of dried, forgotten blood. Or maybe the easy association of earth with burials does it.
He's lived too long to pretend he doesn't understand why people... pretend. He's made an art out of it, almost. Could hold a few lectures on it, navigating the variables of sounding pretentious or cartoonish in his declarations.
It doesn't usually bother him when people like Calum do it. When they so very visibly trudge on like walking corpses, pale, tired, dragged along by the force of habit of heeding obligations than the wind in the back of those who find it easy to stomach to be alive in the first place.
It doesn't bother him because it's none of his business. And because he wants to lead by example, to be left alone in turn. Every person for themselves. Calum is an adult. A father. A medical professional. With all implications of capabilities that come with each status.
But if Patrick were good at making these decisions and sticking to them he wouldn't be here in the first place, now, would he.
If he believed any of those things. If it wasn't clear how much Calum tried. And how unjust it is, to always have to be strong.
It's not as difficult as some may assume to determine the likeliest place for people to be. A general grasp on perimeters and radius usually provides more than enough to work it out. Having met a someone in an area improves chances significantly of meeting them there again.
And it's easiest, and this is crucial, if you think about it a lot.
Patrick can almost see the lead to have substituted Calum's tongue. The weight of it, forced to move in an uncooperative space, words lodged somewhere far back to slumber and let the mind rest, shutting away from the needless burning brightness of existence as a whole.
With how ill he looks, be it from something in his flesh or something insidious in his mind, Patrick's fingers almost don't contrast against the skin of his jaw.
Honestly, if it weren't for the sight of him, Patrick wouldn't have approached him at all. Whatever vague interest he's trying to squash regarding Calum can be satisfied with the mere confirmation that he still exists. Sometimes that's enough. It's nice to know, in other words. He's out there somewhere.
Patrick removes his hand with the gentleness of someone who is releasing something likely to fall if not freed carefully, just a forefinger hovering beneath Calum's chin like part of him expects his head to fall forward if he fled as he'd like to.
"You look unwell," he assesses, stupidly. But it's important to say it out loud. Patrick would bite the head off of anyone who tried the same with him. Which is why he knows how important it is. Or believes it to be, at least. Pointing it out, it's more difficult to hide the blood once it's been acknowledged.
However valiant Calum's attempt is to throw a rug over the spot.
"Do nurses subscribe to the notion of 'a doctor's worst patient is themselves', too?"
Despite the timing and placement, it's not intended as a joke. Part of him sounds genuine, though he doesn't care much for the answer. It's simply an easier phrase to acknowledge than the finger he's sticking between Calum's mask and his skin.
"I don't need anything, thank you," polite, for the sake of it. He never does. What could he possibly need that life could give. "Except less formality, maybe, Nurse Reynolds. Feel free to be less polite, 'Patrick' is fine. Why are you out and about?"
