Chapter Text
Once Drogan had left the hospital, you found it surprisingly easy to put him out of your mind entirely, and you quickly lapsed back into your moderately comfortable autopilot. Over the next few days your usual duties continued with little excitement. You continued to examine and treat the guardsmen and officers of the regiment you’d become familiar with over the course of your current tour, and virtually no one else. Things were back to normal.
After handing over on the final evening of your stint, you left the gargantuan tent through the usual dark and musty tarpaulin tunnels, and, like every day, climbed into the back of one of the small, armoured Tauroxes that were idling by the exit, waiting patiently for the day crew to finish. As you strapped yourself into a free seat the engines, previously merely grumbling, roared to life. The convoy pulled away, and now that you could finally rest, your thoughts were not of the Inquisitor.
*
You pushed the button again, meeting resistance until you steadied yourself and put more weight on it, until it finally gave and snapped back into the plumbing all at once. The feeble stream of water trickled onto your hair and shoulders, rinsing off the lather but doing nothing to wash away the tension built up inside you from the past week’s events. That wasn’t important. Over the years you’d become very good at locking the day away and putting it somewhere far out of reach in your mind - even if it didn’t happen straight away.
When the water stopped again you grabbed your towel from its place on the dividing wall, wrapped it around you, drew the slightly mouldy curtain, and left the shower.
You made your way out of the porta cabin and across the camp. Since your clothes were in your tent you walked back across the sparse, dry patches of grass in nothing except the towel - which was common practice on the camp and nobody paid any attention as you crossed paths with the other civillians. By now the sun had set and two of the world’s three moons hung in the sky, bathing the massive camp in ethereal, blue light and throwing harsh shadows along the walkways as you passed tent after tent, until reaching your own.
You pulled open the zipper and made your way in. The space was large enough for you to stand and walk to your pod - a small zone set aside just for you and separated from those of your tentmates by tarps. A length of rope stretched from one side to the other. As you walked to your pod, you threw off your towel and hung it over the rope to dry.
Aside from your rummaging through a beat-up wooden wardrobe for fresh clothes, the tent was entirely quiet. If your tentmates weren’t all sleeping, some were part of the night crew and the rest would’ve already made their way to the mess hall. The silence was welcome - a respite from the non-stop noise and chaos of the last seven days, and you took a moment to relish having absolutely nothing to focus on.
Not bothering to dry your hair, you dressed in a plain T-shirt and sweat pants, slid your feet into a pair of sandals, and left the tent, crossing the humid camp until you came to the mess hall.
Like the field hospital, the mess hall was contained inside a single, massive tent - although certainly smaller than the one you worked in - and the space was filled with a buzzing chatter that hit you from all sides. But unlike the hospital, this tent was lit with warm, soft lights that put those within at ease. The conversation came without urgency or authority, the cadences bright and cheerful, interrupted by the raucous laughter of guardsmen every now and then. No screams.
Fold-out tables and benches had been placed in rows around the entrance, with enough space straight down the middle to form a generous aisle to the bar. Although it was well into the night, the mess hall was still as busy as could be as guardsmen and civillians alike made the most of what little free time they had.
After yet another long week, this was exactly where you wanted to be.
No one paid any real attention to you as you made your way along the aisle and reached the bar - there were several stools placed there and not a single one was occupied. There was no one behind the bar either. In your experience, most tours operated that way - there was never a dedicated barman, not usually. Instead, you served your own drinks and helped out those around you. The system usually worked well enough.
You pushed the small hinge door aside, knelt down to one of the cases stacked up behind the bar, and grabbed two cans of beer. There was a data-slate lying to your right, and you leaned over, setting your elbow on the bar and your head in your hand, and signed your name to evidence how many drinks you’d taken.
It was when you pushed the device aside and your eyes flicked up to the tables for the first time, that you saw him.
Drogan was sat at one of the fold-out tables. He stood out instantly due to his sheer size - something no less obvious even while out of the armour and dressed in civvy clothes. He was sat facing away from you, and deep in coversation with the four people at his table. One was a lanky woman with brown hair, fine and sharply cropped somewhere around her chin. Like Drogan, her face was noticeably scarred. There was a bald man, dark-skinned, with an augmetic set into his right socket instead of an eye. The red lens gleamed in the light as he sat there, alert yet relaxed, his arms crossed. The other man looked young, and quite pretty, with large, round eyes and dark hair that hung in loose curls around his shoulders. As you watched the group, he flashed a dazzling smile at the lanky woman for a reason you couldn’t guess. The other woman was uncommonly beautiful, with bronze skin and long jet black hair. She caught your eye - hers were a piercing green like emeralds - and shot you a look that could kill.
After that you decided to keep to your own business, and returned to the other side of the bar. You hopped up on a stool - still glad to be somewhat alone for the first time in days - and cracked open one of the beer cans. You drank greedily, and didn’t stop until you’d emptied it.
The mess hall was the only dedicated place for people at the camp to cut loose. You’d certainly had no trouble doing so. Yet tonight, there was an unwelcome tension creeping through your nerves that seemed to set your spine uncomfortably straight, and made it impossible for you to relax despite the alcohol settling into your bloodstream. You didn’t need to wonder why that was - and again, you fought the urge to turn on your seat and steal another glance at the Inquisitor. What were you hoping to achieve by staring, anyway? There was nothing to be gained.
It wasn’t Drogan’s fault that his mere presence in the room set you on edge. You knew that, on more than a subconscious level. But knowing that didn’t stop you feeling at least a little bitter that one of the few chances you had to truly relax, and let go of any real worry, had been taken from you.
It’s your problem, not his, you thought to yourself as you pulled the tab on the second can and started to nurse what you still had room for.
He was an attractive man, and he probably had that effect on a lot of women. It was up to you to find a way to separate yourself from that attraction - it was the only way you’d be able to share the room with the Inquisitor and find the peace you were craving.
You took another sip of your drink, wishing there was something a little stronger behind the bar, and rested your head in your hand again, letting your eyes close. Not a moment too soon, you became aware of the very welcome giddiness filling your head.
“Good evening, Doctor.”
Once again, you stiffened. You felt his looming presence next to you although you didn’t dare open your eyes to look. What did he want with you?
If you didn’t respond to him soon, you’d seem rude - and although you weren’t scared of an Inquisitor, you certainly didn’t want to needlessly piss one off. Throne… your heart was hammering in your chest. Ignoring it as best you could, you straightened up, turned to your left, and looked Drogan in the eye.
The Inquisitor was sat on the stool next to yours, his forearm resting on the bar. He didn’t have a drink of his own - depending on how long he’d been there he might’ve already reached the two drink limit. Or perhaps he didn’t drink at all. He wore a plain black T-shirt and khaki cargo pants, and still wore his hair in the same undercut as before - which was equally as charming as it was goofy. And he was no less handsome in civillian clothes.
You swallowed, all too aware of how dry your mouth was.
“Good evening,” you said, offering a polite smile. “I… didn’t expect to see you here.”
Drogan’s head lowered just a little.
“Our work is finished,” he said. “My men and I are preparing to leave.”
“Oh, that’s good.”
Immediately, you felt your very soul wither inside you as the words left your mouth. Why did you say that? What would Drogan think you meant by it?
You wished for the ground beneath you to swallow you up and excuse you from the exchange.
Since that didn’t happen, you had no choice but to continue. You raised the can to your lips and drank as much as you could stomach in one go. “Um… how have things been? With your injury?”
“I cannot complain. It has not hindered my performance.”
“That’s… good,” you repeated, still far too struck by the fact that Drogan had sought you out on his own terms, to really form coherent thoughts. “Since you didn’t come back I assumed you were on the mend. …Either that, or you’d died out in the field.”
You shrugged, and chuckled nervously. Drogan, however, merely frowned in return, his dark eyebrows knitting together just a little.
“-But I’m glad you didn’t, of course.”
“I must thank you,” he said. “Now that I have the opportunity. May I offer you a drink?”
You were aware of your upper body loosening, if only a little, as you shook your head. “Thanks, but I’ve already had my two. There’s a limit so everyone can have some.”
Drogan leaned in slightly - enough for you to smell his aftershave - and you felt your breath catch in your chest. “Do not worry, I have the authority to circumvent such rules.”
You smiled weakly, wondering whether he was looking for a chance to impress you with that authority - and what the implications of that were. …Was he trying to impress you?
Why were you overthinking this?
“Even so… it wouldn’t be fair on everyone else,” you replied, your gaze dropping to your half-finished beer. “It might make things difficult with my coworkers, and I’m here for a few months still.”
The Inquisitor gave a single, slow nod. “I understand. Alternatively I have liquor on my ship, which is docked not far from here.”
You spat out your beer, coughing and spluttering as you set the can down. Once again your face reddened, uncomfortably hot as you wiped your lips and chin with the back of your hand. There was no way to recover from this.
“What about your colleagues?” you asked, glancing over to the table, to the green-eyed woman who, while not looking up at you this time, sat with a dour look on her face. “Will they mind me joining you all?”
For the first time, Drogan offered just about the closest thing to a smile, the corners of his mouth crooking wryly. “It is my decision to make. And they will not be joining us.”
Your head was spinning - perhaps a combination of the alcohol, so much so quickly, and how overwhelming the situation seemed to have become. You had a choice to make - one you’d never have imagined.
While you took the time to decide, you finished what remained of your drink, and set the can down.
You straightened up. “Yeah, I like the sound of that. Something stronger would suit me just fine.”
Drogan wasted no time. He stood, and began to walk away, down the aisle to the exit. Immediately, you followed him out into the moonlit night, and the two of you stepped forwards onto the harsh, humanoid shadows that were cast down on the path before you. His was noticeably taller and broader than yours.
Although the main hangar wasn’t far from here, you still couldn’t shake the tension inside you as you walked the path. The two of you had fallen into an awkward silence and you didn’t know what to say to break it. Sure, you weren’t scared of an Inquisitor, but how could you relate to one? What were you supposed to talk about?
“Field hospitals are not commonly set up, even for conflicts of this scale,” Drogan said. If you didn’t know better you’d have thought he’d read your mind.
“Yeah, there’s plenty of Chirugeons out on the front lines,” you contributed. “But as far as I know, we’re acting as an overflow. By the looks of it… this war definitely needs us.”
Occasionally you crossed paths with people both in and out of uniform - some offered a quick bow of their head to the Inquisitor and others scurried away, doing their best to not attract his attention.
Still doing your best to match his long strides and keep pace, you looked up at him. His head was hidden in darkness for the most part but as he moved, the moonlight struck his wrecked face and cast shadows that made him look quite terrifying. That, along with an Inquisitor’s authority - not to mention the sheer size of the man… you could understand why people might wish to avoid him.
“...Does it bother you?” you asked somewhat timidly.
Drogan turned his head to meet your eye. It was then you noticed his blue eyes were actually glowing - not much, but just enough to be aware of. It must be obvious that he was a psyker, to everyone the two of you passed. He didn’t respond, only tilting his head a little in question.
“-People being afraid of you,” you continued. “Does it bother you that being an Inquisitor separates you from people? It… must be quite lonely.”
Drogan returned his attention to the path, not saying anything for a few seconds. As you’d predicted, you approached the main hangar.
“I am here to serve the Imperium,” he finally said as you passed innumerable rows of crafts in all shapes, colours and sizes. “Just as you are. I have not come here to make friends.”
The Inquisitor led you to one of the larger ships, and started to climb a set of steps that came down from a door on its side. You looked up - the craft would’ve been quite unassuming were it not for the sizeable glasscrete bubble set in the very middle of the fuselage. Some kind of gyroscopic design, you guessed. Along the metal body, the name Event Horizon VI had been embossed, and the letters gleamed in the moonlight.
“Maybe you’re not here to make friends,” you kept on, as Drogan lifted a panel on the door frame and punched something into a keypad.
The door lifted, sliding up into the fuselage, and Drogan gestured at you to come.
Without question, you followed him up the steps. “But what if it’s like that everywhere? Is it always lonely? You never said it wasn’t.”
As you both stepped inside the Event Horizon, lights on either side of you that had been hidden entirely in the dark, faded into action and lit your way through the corridor. You followed the Inquisitor along the path.
“Doctor, you seem to be under the impression that I have no contemporaries on the worlds I visit,” he said, still leading the way now that you could no longer walk in stride with him. “That I am not close with my retinue. Were you to share my experiences, you may understand better.”
Again, your face reddened. “Yeah, I never thought about it that way. Sorry.”
You both turned another corner, and Drogan opened a door at the very end.
“There is no need to apologise,” he said. “It is not a sin to be curious. Come.”
“So you… have your own bar?” you asked, following him into the room before the montion sensors registered either of you.
When they did, and the lights in the overhead chandelier grew brighter, illuminating the room, you realised that Drogan, in fact, did not have a bar on his ship. At least, not one he was planning on taking you to. The bedroom was spacious, and just as luxurious as you’d have imagined an Inquisitor’s living quarters would be - this would be his home from home, after all. Your sandals sunk into a plush, deep red carpet and your gaze travelled along the gleaming, golden fixings decorating the walls. The bed was the biggest you’d ever seen, even for a man of Drogan’s size. The covers were pristine, red and gold, with a purple quilt laid neatly on top.
In the corner of the room was a mannequin, dressed in armour you recognised from your first encounter with the Inquisitor - although part of the cuirass was missing.
Until now, you’d seen no reason to suspect that Drogan might want anything more from you than to share a couple of drinks, just as he’d said - just because your mind invariably went straight to the gutter whenever you saw him, there was no reason you could expect the feeling to be mutual. No evidence. That, however, seemed harder to believe, now that he’d taken you to his own bedroom to share those drinks. Was there nowhere more appropriate? Perhaps a common area?
You’d strictly denied yourself any thoughts - any fantasies - that this encounter might head in that direction. It would’ve just been far too good to be true. Handsome, rugged, intelligent men didn’t just drop from the sky and nominate you for a one-night stand. …Did they?
Then it all seemed to fall into place. Even if Drogan denied feeling lonely, Inquisitors moved from sector to sector for the sake of their work, hardly having the chance to stop and build anything close to a permanent life for themselves before embarking on their next quest - it must’ve been difficult for him to hold down a long term relationship given his lifestyle. If an Inquisitor had a girlfriend or wife in the picture, perhaps they could go years without seeing each other.
And when all was said and done, he was still a man - and surely had the same needs as any other. After a harrowing stint at the hospital, you drank to cut loose. Maybe Drogan f*cked to cut loose. This was a camp in the middle of a remote desert, not a city, and there were no brothels to visit. It was likely that that was why you were there.
The Inquisitor seemed to have been content to watch you take in the details of the room, however he eventually crossed the space and opened a cabinet - and turned around with a dark bottle in one hand, and two glasses in the other. You’d hardly taken a few steps into the bedroom, not quite knowing where to place yourself.
“Make yourself comfortable,” he said, gesturing towards the bed with his metal hand.
He approached and set both glasses down on the nightstand, then the bottle, and then seated himself on top of the satin quilt.
You remained frozen in place, scanning the minimalist room for somewhere appropriate to seat yourself, and finding nothing whatsoever. “Um… where should I sit?”
Drogan’s lip curled into the first true smile of the night, if only a little.
“Next to me,” he replied, the amusem*nt clear in his words. “I wish to share a drink with you. Or more than one, if you would prefer.”
Your steps were stiff and rigid as you approached the bed, and you made sure to place a courteous distance between the two of you as you set yourself down on the quilt, noticing there were snags all over the top, closer to the pillows. Your eyes drifted to the Inquisitor’s right arm, appraising the dents, gouges and rust that spared no part of the metal.
Again his aftershave filled your nose, and the tension in your loins was impossible to ignore. Despite the obvious attraction, you still had a decision to make. If Drogan had brought you here to help him cut loose - perhaps offering rare and expensive liquor as some kind of sweetener to the deal - how did you really feel about playing that part?
You hadn’t expected sex when you boarded the Event Horizon, but did you want it?
As Drogan popped the cork on that dark bottle and poured an amber liquid into each glass, you watched his every move, and studied his face - so bizarrely and uniquely handsome. He passed the first glass to you. The T-shirt was quite tight on his upper body, advertising the perfect muscles you’d already seen with your own eyes. You cast your mind back, just for a moment. You recalled how your jaw had hung at the sight, and how you’d whimpered, and the longing that had threatened to make your job impossible - and now, it hit you like lightning.
If you turned Drogan down, you knew you’d regret it for the rest of your life.
“Thank you,” you said, taking the glass and raising it in a half-cheer, before allowing yourself the first sip. Throne… you had no idea what it was, but surely distilled heaven was trickling down your throat in that moment.
“A few drinks would be welcome.”
*
*
At some point into the night, the four walls around you had started to spin and lean over to one side. More than once, the Inquisitor had seen fit to steady the glass in your hand lest its contents spill and ruin the carpet. He didn’t stop you from accepting drink after drink though. On the contrary, he was the one pouring them. Drogan himself hardly seemed tipsy - that made sense as a man of his stature would need far more alcohol than you did to be half as drunk as you were in that moment.
Needless to say, you’d definitely achieved your goal of cutting loose. Now your inhibitions were practically non-existent, all your previous tension had melted away and the conversation flowed naturally, like you were in the bedroom of an old friend, pouring your darkest secrets. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d laughed like this. The last time your thoughts had fully left the field hospital and all the difficulties you faced there - the last time you’d properly smiled.
Again you nearly toppled over where you sat, placing your free hand on Drogan’s rough metal arm to steady yourself, unable to control your peals of laughter.
“You can’t be serious! you shrieked, struggling to meet his eye because now Drogan had four of them and they were all evading capture. “You’re from Skyrro?”
The Inquisitor, more or less completely sober in comparison, tilted his head again in question, but throughout the night his smile had loosened up significantly, and it lit up his face and complemented all his best features.
“I do not see the humour in that,” he said.
You stifled your mirth as best you could. “You’re a Barbarian! Now a lot of-- a lot of things make sense!”
You did your best to straighten up, and took another mouthful of that wonderful drink. You still hadn’t asked what it was.
“But… seriously… you’re so… well adjusted given that’s your background… how’d that happen?”
Drogan looked off for a moment, somewhere just past your shoulder. “I suppose it began with the onset of my psychic abilities. I could not stay on my home world… unsanctioned psykers are a liability at the very least.”
“So Terra was more-- or less a finishing school for you?”
He offered that warm smile once again. “In a manner of speaking, it may have been that way. I was lucky to make it through the system alive.”
You were unable to stifle a hiccup so strong it hurt your back. “--How so?”
Again Drogan paused, evidently trying to find the right words to explain his story to someone of your clearance. “What I am about to tell you is merely a summary of a highly complex system, but I will do my best.”
You nodded enthusiatically.
“When psykers are processed, their assessors will assign them to one of several fates. Some are trained as Astropaths, who live short lives and burn out quickly due to the demands of their position. Others are used as fuel. Others may have already been reserved by - for example, an Inquisitor - to return to them once sanctioned. And those who can prove themselves worthy, can be offered a straightforward entry into such orders, and recruited by those who seek a student.”
“So you-- you proved yourself?”
Drogan nodded.
“But you said… you were lucky to make it out alive?”
“Skyrro is a devolved world. Its citizens survive on the scraps of resources that have long since been exhausted, and the wider Imperium can do nothing to save them as there are countless other worlds just like it - and as you well know, there are not enough resources to save everyone. Anything you would consider normal about society has been forgotten. The vocabulary is but a fraction of the Low Gothic you and I are speaking now. When I arrived on Terra, I could barely speak by their standards. Yet I had much to say, and no way to express it without the proper language.”
“...So what happened?”
“Since I could not express myself properly, I was frustrated. I expressed that frustration the only way I knew. With violence. Some of my assessors saw me as a lost cause and wished to assign me to the fuel supply. Luckily, some saw fit to test my capabilities in other ways. Problem solving. Combat scenarios with established goals. It was the first time I was given a book of any kind, and I could not put it down. I learned to read and write faster than my assessors had expected. Instead of turning me into fuel, I was given an education. Until I was ready to move on.”
“So did… did you dream of doing something like that?” you asked. “Being an Inquisitor?”
“I did not dream,” Drogan said simply. “I only survived each day. On my home world, there was no greater ambition than that.”
“Oh yeah… I guess that makes sense.”
“What about you?” the Inquisitor asked, his heavy-lidded gaze intense. By now you’d learned that he was not actually bored when he looked at you that way - it was just how his face rested.
“Did you always dream of becoming a doctor?”
Somewhere in the near distance, were the sound of footsteps on the metal floor of the Event Horizon’s corridors, and a woman’s raucous shrieking that was almost incomprehensible aside from a generous measure of profanity. Drogan’s entourage had returned to the ship.
You took another gulp of that delicious drink. “Yeah, I guess I’ve-- always wanted to help people in-- in some way. You get in with the right people, like I did-- …and suddenly you’re training to work in the hospitals. I couldn’t-- couldn’t complain, it was what I wanted. But…”
You trailed off, suddenly coming to your senses all at once and realising that speaking disparagingly about how the Imperium of Man operated to an Inquisitor of all people, was probably a good way to earn a bolt to the head.
However, it was too late, and you’d said too much. Drogan tilted his head again.
“But what, Doctor? Is it not what you hoped?”
There was no going back now. That bolt was yours no matter what you said, and in all honesty, you were bursting to say it after so long.
“Well… not really. I… I wanted to help people, save people. I had all the right training to do it. Just-- just they don’t give us the resources to do it.”
Drogan’s dark eyebrows knitted together as a frown crossed his face. “Explain.”
“Uh…” you were now the one pausing to form the threads of thoughts swimming around your hazy head into words. “I guess it-- started out okay. It’s never… good, so when it’s okay you tend to celebrate it as a win, which-- …is quite sad when you think about it.”
“What happened next?”
You let out a deep sigh, and averted your gaze to the carpet. “The Administratum said… they said that… tested against other field hospitals-- of a similar size… we… …had a greater than average-- amount of resources. Drugs, staff, you name it. So… they started bringing us into-- line. Bit by bit…”
It was all you could do to stifle the gas rising up your throat. “But it’s like-- that on every tour. Dunno if I’m just getting th-- the… unlucky with my assignments. It’s-- like you said. Not enough to go around.”
Rather than shoot you on the spot, Drogan’s eyes narrowed in understanding. But he didn’t say anything. After that, a silence grew between you - not because of any sexual tension this time, but because you were once again thinking about the hospital, and it would’ve been lying to say it didn’t threaten to ruin an otherwise perfect night.
You did your best to put it out of your mind, however. Forcing a smile, you returned your attention to the Inquisitor.
“So,” you said. “They… dropped surnames …on Skyrro? I don’t see that very often.”
He offered a warm smile. “They are not the traditional surnames as you are used to seeing, but they have not been dropped.”
“What’s-- your last name then?”
Whatever you’d been expecting, it wasn’t for Drogan to simply hold out his left arm and gesture towards the ancient, faded tattoo on his wrist. Still seeing double, it wasn’t easy for you to make out what it was - and the fact that you were still swaying where you sat certainly didn’t help. A hollow, slightly crooked stick-and-poke circle, its thick border intersected twice by two separate lines whose placements didn’t seem to have any connection to one another that you could tell.
“That’s it?” you asked, not intending to sound quite as rude as you surely did. “Does it… how do you say it?”
“It is a mark of the gang who raised me,” Drogan replied, fazed by neither your tone nor your line of questioning. “There are no words associated with these surnames, but their function is the same. They identify families.”
“Really,” you said, bracing an arm on the bed to keep yourself from keeling over. “I’d… not think I’d learn something like that tonight… makes you wonder… what different ways they do it on… other worlds…”
You trailed off, setting down your empty glass and placing a hand to your mouth. Each breath came deep and measured as you felt the ominous nausea rising in the pit of your stomach that only meant one thing.
“Doctor…” Drogan said, straightening up, yet you shook your head as best you could to reassure him, and after what felt like an age, swallowed down your body’s natural urge to vomit.
Though the immediate crisis had been averted - for now - you were only now all too aware of the state you were in. That heavenly liquor went down so easily, its effects had crept up on you without you noticing. Even if you made it through the night without throwing up on Drogan’s beautiful soft furnishings and decor, did you still have the capacity to enjoy what was to come? Maybe the Inquisitor would rather send you away at this point.
Maybe that was for the best.
“I’m good,” you finally said, your voice a little raspy. “Just… drank too much. No more for me.”
“Perhaps I can help.”
Suddenly, Drogan leaned in and placed his flesh hand on your torso, just below your ribs. You froze. The Inquisitor’s slight scowl was all the evidence you needed to know he was concentrating on something, but you didn’t realise what it was until the seconds passed, and for a brief moment, reality itself seemed to snap into place around you.
You stared in awe. You were no longer on the verge of puking, but that wasn’t all he’d done. The room no longer swayed dangerously and all of a sudden your normal hand-eye coordination had returned. He hadn’t just taken away your nausea. You were hardly drunk at all any more.
It took you a while to process the feeling of having the alcohol sucked out of your bloodstream in a single, swift pull of psychic power - and you stared up at the Inquisitor in stunned silence. He allowed you the time you needed. You could still feel the comforting warmth within your veins that accompanied a couple of substantial drinks, and that giddy detachment from all your troubles, swimming behind your eyes - although it was far less debilitating now, it was definitely still there. Drogan had apparently taken the alcohol straight out of your system, but he hadn’t left you completely sober.
“Wow… no hangover.”
You were relieved to have full control over your voice again, and you chuckled in elation. “That’s a talent, Drogan. You could-”
Now your brain was processing your reality somewhat normally, you were all too aware of the Inquisitor’s hand, still resting softly on your stomach. Of course you knew it was there all along, but now you were conscious of it. He didn’t lean away, and he didn’t let go. On the contrary, he braced his augmetic arm on the bed, getting comfortable.
You couldn’t help but notice the generous tent in his cargo pants. How long had that been… that way? Throne… a whole new nausea rose within your core as the two of you locked eyes - so close now, his gaze was intense, and terrifying for all the right reasons.
He was the one to close the distance, his lips brushing softly against your own, stubble grazing against your skin where his face met yours, until they parted, meeting in a slow kiss that sent the familiar jolt of electricity shooting up your spine. You hadn’t been wrong. This was what he wanted. This was happening.
Every moment with Drogan had so far been spent meticulously assessing the boundaries between the two of you, like a General at war - an unspoken dance of uncertainty. You hadn’t taken anything you couldn’t be certain was offered. All that had changed, and those mental walls that kept your body from intertwining with his, they were gone. Your hand placed to Drogan’s deep chest, fingers travelling, exploring the hard muscle over the clothing, relishing the moment that had been but a dream until now. You leaned in, deepening the kiss.
That hand pressed softly against the fabric at your stomach, it was still there, but now Drogan’s calloused touch moved across your body - underneath the T-shirt, up to the curve of your waist, fingers rough against your smooth skin as they glided up to your tit*. You moaned into his mouth as he squeezed, despite how gentle he was. Hungry for more, of him, you leaned further into his kiss, deeper, faster.
Your own neediness surprised you. This wasn’t like you, especially for a one-night stand. What was it about Drogan that made you this way?
The Inquisitor didn’t seem to care for being dominated, however. Despite the undeniable hum he gave into your mouth, he took control. He pulled away, smirking, pushing you onto your back and pinning you on the bed, the weight of his powerful form not forced on you, not hurting you, but certainly trapping you beneath him, reminding you who was in charge. His kiss was fierce this time. You drank it in, greedy for more. Each tiny moan, lost in Drogan’s throat, they were so small they were almost inaudible yet they were there, and each one sent a shock wave of arousal coursing through your body.
He ground his hips into yours - given how small you were against him it wasn’t a fluid motion, but clearly he had enough experience to know how to co-ordinate your bodies despite his size, and his arousal was stone hard beneath his cargo pants as it pressed against you. Again, you felt that stab of excitement. That chance encounter, days before… you couldn’t have possibly imagined it would’ve ever led to this.
Reluctantly, you broke the kiss to speak, pulling away as best you could given your position to make your intentions clear. The Inquisitor’s pupils were blown, and atop you his shoulders rose and fell deeply. Despite your intentions, he leaned in again.
“I just-- wanted to-- say-- thanks,” you breathed, getting the words out with some diffculty as Drogan captured your mouth each time you paused even a little. “Although-- I suppose it was probably-- for your benefit as much as mine--”
Drogan paused, surveying you through heavy-lidded eyes. His raven hair had fallen over his face and you hadn’t thought it possible that he could look sexier.
“What do you mean?”
“Well…” you replied. “If you hadn’t intervened I might be too drunk for this.”
Drogan’s expression didn’t change.
“I wanted to help you,” he said. “It would not have concerned me.”
He stole your mouth again, this time not coming up for air and once again pushing your head into the covers, and you realised with an undeniable stab of unease that your consent in this situation was just an illusion. He was an Inquisitor. They got what they asked for whether or not it was offered freely - surely from the moment you walked in the mess hall the night was always going to end this way, whether on a pristine bed, surrounded by luxury, or on a tiny camp bed that would’ve been just as broken as you after all was said and done.
However chilling it was to wonder how many women had tried to refuse him before now, you did your best to put the thought aside. Your concern was outweighed by sheer desire - you’d followed him on board the ship because you wanted to, and it was by choice that you were beneath him now, meeting the slow rocking of his hips with your own, his clothed erection stimulating your cl*t even through your sweat pants, over and over.
If nothing else, you at least respected his honesty.
Your hands continued to rove over his expansive back - no less in awe of the raw power of his form than the day you’d met - moving down his strong waist, sure to skim over the site of injury as it was sure to be painful still, reaching his toned ass, greedy, curious, wanting more, pulling him in each time he ground into you just to feel him press against you harder. You relished the low growl in his throat as you squeezed.
You reached around, making to undo his belt but Drogan pushed your hand away. He eased off you, standing up, and the feral hunger etched into his scarred face sent a paralysing wave of need through you.
He said nothing, instead commanding you to lie at the other end of the bed with a sweep of his metal hand, and nothing more, not breaking your gaze and still looking at you the way a starved beast from some far-flung world might gaze upon his prey.
Not needing any further persuasion you did as you were told, shuffling up the bed. The pillows were plump against your head yet you propped yourself up on your elbows, unsure of the Inquisitor’s intentions. You drew your knees up so your feet were planted on the quilt. Drogan kicked off his boots and pulled off his T-shirt, casting it aside somewhere you didn’t care to pay attention to. Now you had full permission to stare at the Inquisitor’s perfect body, take it all in, nothing else existed. Out of instinct, you looked to his waist, where he’d been burned, and your mouth fell open when you saw that there was no wound to speak of. Hardly even a scar to show for it. In all your years treating the injured, you’d never seen a burn like that heal in five days.
Drogan didn’t give you much time to ogle him, however, or ponder his astounding healing abilities. He leaned in and practically ripped off your sweat pants and underwear with a surprising balance of speed and precision, working them off your legs in only a few quick tugs, and throwing those aside too.
Once again he joined you on the bed, kneeling before you. Your thighs parted on instinct, but he didn’t undo his belt, even though his co*ck strained noticeably against his clothing, clearly desperate to be freed. Instead he settled between your legs, trapping you once again where you lay, and claimed your mouth again. Even if you could move, not even the God Emperor Himself could’ve made you as Drogan resumed rocking his hips into yours, teasing you, surely he had to be… he knew what you wanted, and just how badly you wanted it… His hands were all over you, everywhere they could reach. The rough warmth of his flesh hand weaved through your hair, then caressed your cheek while the cold metal of his right hand was under your shirt again, rolling your breast with his palm, gently squeezing your nipple.
Just when you thought you couldn’t take any more teasing, Drogan broke away. He planted small kisses on your skin - on your jaw, throat, clavicle, pulling down the neck of your T-shirt so hard the stitching snapped audibly and placing his lips on what cleavage he could reach. He travelled further down, pulling your shirt up and kissing your stomach, further, mouth grazing your mound, further.
Your thighs trembled as the Inquisitor’s fingers ghosted along them, doing your best to stifle a whimper of pure need when his fierce eyes met your own - and failed to keep it in when his lips pressed to your already soaked c*nt and started sucking your cl*t. He didn’t break eye contact, watching you writhe in response to the pressure and the precise roving of his tongue over your sensitive bud, caressing your ass, thumb occasionally stroking your still-shaking thigh. He started so gently it just wasn’t enough to sate the overwhelming arousal pounding just beneath Drogan’s lips, but it was enough to have you melt into the pillows, groaning, head rolling back on your shoulders.
Drogan’s eyes betrayed his smirk as he teased you, yet he wasn’t without sympathy to your plight. He sucked harder, pressure building up, and you gasped in delight when finally, two fingers slipped inside you, working you experimentally at first, the Inquisitor observing your response to every movement before hitting his mark within your depths and drawing out a fresh, wanton howl.
“Mmh… Drogan…” you crooned, your fists balling around the satin beneath you as he crooked his fingers up into your G-spot, hammering in perfect co-ordination with the ever-increasing pressure on your cl*t.
At some point you’d wrapped your thighs around his neck, the slightest squeeze in rhythm with his digits pressing into you, wanting more from his mouth. You had no idea when that had happened. The Inquisitor’s expert tongue rolled your cl*t faster now, drawing a guttural keen from your chest - you released the quilt and drew your hands up to his scarred head, pulling him in closer, wanting it harder, faster, hips bucking, doing your best to control the pace which still wasn’t enough. Your fingers rifled through the layers of his undercut, his hair was surprisingly soft and the metal plate on the other side was as coarse and corroded as his right arm when your palm grazed it.
The vague threat of your org*sm had started to form deep down inside you, growing by the second, and you were aware of the wet trail from your puss* down to your ass that was all Drogan’s doing, he was the one working pure magic on all your most sensitive spots, drip-feeding you heaven, straight into your nerves.
When he slid out of you, an indignant cry escaped your lungs. Still fondling hair and metal, you lifted your head, eyes wide in protest as they met his - there were surely a million ways he could’ve responded, but you couldn’t have anticipated what was to come.
That skilled mouth still worked you, tongue snapping over your bud, one side to the other as one finger, thoroughly lubricated with your juices, pressed into your asshole and eased inside. You registered a yelp of surprise leaving your own mouth. Your back arched and your muscles spasmed uncontrollably around the Inquisitor’s thick digit, one hand gripping whole locks of raven hair as he eased in further, further, further… Throne… it wasn’t actually unwelcome, not at all now the initial shock had worn off…
Drogan slid back out of you once again only to push back in, the slow pistoning of his finger more calculated than before, working in as deep as he could go, still working pure magic with his mouth, drawing you closer and closer to that explosive edge, threatening to burst inside you, red hot in your core.
Your hands had come away, now grabbing fistfuls of your own hair, biting down on your arm to keep from wailing in pure delight. You were so close now, violently shaking thighs gripping him so tight with every thrust into you, every movement of his tongue, that you feared you might break his neck. Some vague, subconscious hope lingered in your still-inebriated mind that if he went just a little harder, deeper, that you’d finally come.
Instead of giving you that sweet release, Drogan met your eyes again and came up for air, sliding his finger out of your ass and leaving you so empty it was almost painful. Your eyes were still so wide, pleading with him for more.
“Mmhh…” you whimpered, every inch of you trembling as he straightened up, looming over you.
Despite your pride, your weakness in that moment had found its way past your lips. You’d never beg him. Not verbally anyway. Every move you made betrayed exactly what you wanted and that was bad enough - but he had to give it to you sooner or later… right? He clearly wanted it too. How long could he keep his own needs waiting?
Drogan was atop you again, hot mouth at your neck, pulling away just to rip off your shirt, back again, sucking on your nipple.
He looked up to you. “What is the matter, Doctor?”
Internally you cursed his wry tone. He knew exactly what he was doing, he had from the start - and you were far too worked up now to play games.
“You know what’s wrong…” The words left you as something between a huff of frustration and a needy whine, and you didn’t quite know which was worse.
You pressed your hips into his. “Just…”
Finally, your wish was granted. Drogan captured your mouth again, bracing one hand somewhere near your head, and releasing his belt with the other. He pulled his pants and underwear down only enough to free his co*ck, which was oozing in anticipation of what was to come.
You hadn’t entered into this with any expectations, but you’d made an… educated guess… and could not deny what you’d hoped for. Your educated guess turned out to be spot on - as much as the rest of his body was perfectly proportioned to his height, his co*ck truly did have to be seen to be believed. The girth that made your heart flutter somewhat anxiously in your chest as your wide eyes fixed on him, and the undeniably daunting length that Drogan’s strong hand was absently jerking up and down - it left you wondering whether you’d actually be able to accommodate him at all.
There was only one way to find out.
The Inquisitor’s hands wrapped around your back, pulling you onto his lap without any warning as he straightened up. He claimed your mouth fiercely, guided your legs around his powerful waist, squeezing your tit* with his flesh hand, one after the other, positioning his stone-hard length against your c*nt after what felt like an age.
You sunk onto his dick without hesitation, savouring the shallow rocking of his hips, up into you, meeting your every move. He pulled out only to work his way in a little more each time until the shallow, experimental jerks became full strokes, burying his shaft entirely within you.
As Drogan’s perfect dick filled you up, you realised you’d been bracing yourself for at least a little pain, or some resistance purely on account of his size - however there was none, and you allowed yourself to truly relax. You couldn’t quite believe it. Pure ecstacy swam through your every nerve as the sheer pressure strained against your walls, stimulating the most sensitive places inside you despite hardly even moving.
You stole a glance at yourself - at the two of you - in the mirror across the room, eyes flicking over just to see… and could’ve come just from the sight. Your body, so small against his, clinging to his, so bulky, and immeasurably masculine, holding you against him with so little effort you wondered if you weighed anything at all to him. He was fully hilted in your wet passage, and you, with all your knowledge of human anatomy, could not explain how it was possible.
The Inquisitor’s hand cupped your cheek, turning your head to face him again, to address the lust burning in his glowing eyes. You knew in your heart that there were no gods among men, but in that moment… Drogan had you doubting yourself.
He rocked in and out, only breaking your gaze to place his lips to your hair, breathing your title into the locks in a hot, heavy sigh, controlling the pace by gripping your ass, moving you up and down like you truly were weightless to him, pleasuring himself with your body. Drogan started out slow, which may have been perfectly adequate for him… but you were already a trembling wreck from his mouth. You needed him to go faster, deeper - were it even possible - harder.
While you had the chance, you placed rapid kisses on Drogan’s smooth chest, leaning down, lips pressing to his abs with an undignified fervour, up on his clavicle, the remaining shoulder, worshipping every part of his body you could reach. The muscle, the breadth, you were in awe of it all. The scars and burns that littered his form - you wondered vaguely how he’d gotten them, what stories he could tell… what paths he’d travelled that had led him to this moment.
“Incredible…” you breathed. “Amazing… yes… more…”
So close to falling over the edge into perfect agony, it was all you could do to steady the rising and falling of your chest, pressing your body to his as you moved together in absolute harmony. His aftershave filled your nose like a drug.
You sighed out those small affirmations, over and over, not caring in that moment what irreparable damage you might be doing to the Inquisitor’s ego.
Thighs squeezing on his waist, unable to bear the hot pressure welling up between them, you tried to move faster, speed him up. Drogan’s response was to stop entirely. With pleading eyes, you stared him down - his narrowed into a cruel grin.
“Doctor…” he whispered, his rich voice a little raspy. “Do not make me remind you who is in charge here.”
With that Drogan pulled out completely, lifting you off his throbbing dick. The caveat of being so easy for him to carry was that he was more than capable of throwing you back down on the pillows and he did so without mercy, climbing over you again before you had a chance to recover from the impact, and burying himself inside you again in a single stroke. The sheer pleasure, crossing his scarred face as he pistoned in and out, it was addictive to witness.
Before long he was no longer grinding into you in a smooth motion, but rutting, selfishly, chasing his own satisfaction rather than help your aching core over the edge. He knew what he was doing. You’d come when he deemed it the right time - and evidently, he didn’t see fit to allow it.
His pace was no slower, the pounding of his dick into you, over and over, no less brutal as he buried his face in your tit*, licking, sucking at your nipples, placing the tiniest of bites on the curve. The Inquisitor’s heavy, desperate breaths were hot on your bare skin, his unabashed moans vibrated against your body as he f*cked you frantically.
It was all you could do to not declare your love for the god atop you, inside of you, f*cking you violently into the mattress. Your thoughts not forthcoming, you still knew you had to keep a level head - that was the oxytocin talking, the hormone probably taking up more of your bloodstream than actual blood at this point. Taking your eyes off Drogan’s was impossible, you couldn’t get enough of the tiny flutter of his eyelids and the twitch of his mouth, betraying his own approaching release. He had to be close now.
A disturbing tapestry of thick scar tissue met your fingers as your placed your hands to Drogan’s back. You trailed all the way down, descending the unique and tragic topography, fingers sliding under the band of his cargo pants, the underwear too, gripping his perfect ass, pulling him in with each rut, harder, faster, drawing out a fresh moan into the crook of your neck.
His metal fingers flowed through your hair and his lips crashed to yours, the Inquisitor’s kiss as violent as his now-frantic thrusts into you. Unable to come up for air, trapped in place, you keened into his mouth, aware of the rhythmic thud, thud, thud of the headboard slamming into the wall, and perhaps it was that, that broke you. You were getting what you wanted whether Drogan allowed it or not - back arching, pressing your body into his again and feeling his heart pounding, you wailed into his mouth as you came, and he drank you in. White hot liquid gold coursed through your bloodstream, setting every nerve ablaze, emptying your head and deafening you to even your own wanton moans that the Inquisitor’s mouth couldn’t fully stifle. You were aware of nothing at all except the mind-shattering agony of his shaft pumping into you, hitting its mark each time, your walls spasming uncontrollably around him.
Each frantic rut still felt fire against your G-spot as Drogan broke away. There was no rhythm at all in his movements any more. He stiffened.
“Coming…” he gasped, eyelids fluttering shut. “Doctor… I’m coming…”
Drogan shuddered atop you, and his cry of ecstacy was guttural as he pushed inside you, as deep as he possibly could, achieving his own org*sm and spilling himself within your depths. And after that, he remained in place, almost painfully deep, his dick still twitching a little while his powerful shoulders rose and fell dramatically.
And for a while, there was silence between you - and for the first time, it was anything but awkward. Only both your breaths, still heavy as could be, shared on each other’s sweat-slicked flesh, and the occasional noise from somewhere else on the Event Horizon that you were only now registering.
“Doctor…” Drogan breathed into the crook of your neck, burying his hot mouth there.
Despite yourself you beamed into his skin, tracing your hands back over the ridges of scar tissue on his back. “You… seemed like you really needed that.”
He only nodded in agreement.
“Well…” you chuckled. “I’m glad to have… been of help.”
That silence fell over the two of you again, and only then did the realisation sink into your gut like a pebble thrown in a pond - the situation was about to become quite awkward. You were not used to one-night stands, even if Drogan was - or if he was used to getting up, paying what he owed and telling the girl to get out.
You didn’t really know how to proceed from here.
Perhaps it would be better to be direct, as that had been Drogan’s approach all along. As you shifted from underneath him, he pulled out - his cum, so much of it, leaked out of your passage and onto the lovely quilt which was already soaked with sweat.
“Um…” you started, sitting upright and avoiding his eye, focusing on those countless snags in the quilt. “Should I go? Now that’s happened?”
Of all things, you didn’t expect him to shake his head, side to side.
“Not yet,” he replied. “You should stay a little longer.”
You looked up, unable to hide your surprise. “Why?”
“I do not need to explain why I enjoy sleeping next to someone,” he said simply. “And you aren’t working tomorrow.”
You realised that your suspicions had been correct - Drogan could read your mind at least to some extent. A hot blush covered your already-flushed face when you realised…
He’d known from the moment you set eyes on him.
Drogan pulled the covers aside and gestured for you to get in the bed - you obliged him gladly, and got comfortable.
“I never had to read your thoughts to know,” he said, absolutely in response to your train of thought. “You hid it badly, Doctor.”
Your face couldn’t possibly be hotter as you turned over, and the mattress dipped with the shifting weight of the man joining you under the duvet, wrapping his arms loosely around you, spooning you.
The lights in the chandelier started to dim until they faded out completely, yet there was a light inside Drogan’s augmetic arm that offered a comforting blue glow. You found you quite enjoyed it until your eyelids, far too heavy now, allowed themselves to close. His heartbeat had returned to normal now, slow and steady against your back. Should you get up and use the bathroom before you slept? It would only be worse later if you didn’t. As you pondered it, you found that you didn’t need to pee at all despite everything you’d drank that night. Maybe Drogan took that out of you too.
The last thing you remembered thinking before falling asleep was that you wished to have had more time, and the freedom to study Drogan more - learn everything his psychic powers were capable of.
*
Unforgiving sunlight spilled onto your eyelids even through the beige fabric of your tent - the thin material seemed to exacerbate the glare and blind all who dared look directly at it. Your protesting eyes opened, adjusting to the light. You were under the covers of your own camp bed, in your own pod - and your podmates could be heard behind the tarps, locked in conversation.
At first you were hesitant. The last thing you recalled was falling asleep aboard the Event Horizon, in the arms of the Inquisitor, in just about the softed bed you’d ever known - after a night that would be impossible to forget.
He’d f*cked you half way into the next galaxy, you were sure of it. But why were you back in your pod? Surely… was there any possibility you’d dreamed it?
You thought about it a little more, and pulled the thin bed sheet off your naked form - and studied your own body for signs of intercourse. Your inner thighs were sore, chafed, bruised, just how they always would be after getting f*cked by a muscular man. You appraised your naked form in the small, spotted mirror, noting the slightest of bruises on your breasts, betraying where Drogan’s teeth had marked you.
It was no dream. The Inquisitor had simply returned you to your pod while you - and evidently your podmates - slept. He had said he was leaving the next day. You wondered whether he’d already gone.
Of course, a part of you hurt, almost physically, thinking about it - despite how stupid it seemed to spend any time pining over someone like him. Even if he hadn’t yet left, would you go to him? What would that achieve? Did you think you could have something if you did? There was nothing more to be had with Drogan than what you’d already shared, and it had been perfect for you. And… you knew you were just one of many.
Soon, Drogan would be on his next quest, and surely his down-time would be spent between the thighs of some other woman.
And that was okay. You both had jobs to do.
You got out of bed - noting your clothes from the previous night had been folded neatly, and placed on the battered wooden trunk at the foot of the camp bed - and dressed as usual. You looked forward to the day ahead. It was going to be a perfectly ordinary one, and, after everything… you deserved that.
*
*
The reluctance hanging heavy in your heart was all too familiar as you boarded the Taurox, and began the journey to the field hospital. It was the first of another seven days - and were you not surrounded by your peers, you might’ve wept into your seat at the mere thought of returning.
You let your eyes close for the duration of the trip, trying to soak up every last second of rest while you still had the chance - until the force of the Taurox braking sharply threw you off balance, and the roaring engines stuttered into nothing. Around you, everyone unbuckled their seats and made for the now open door, and you did the same, making your way out of the vehicle and through the familiar, musty corridors of the complex, the stink of death dominating your senses more and more with each step. Soon, the dazzling lights greeted you once again into the hospital and all the chaos within.
Already, your autopilot kicked in, however as you walked through the massive space towards triage, something seemed different. In fact, a lot seemed different.
Wooden crates, branded with the Imperial aquila, were scattered everywhere, boxes of all sizes blocking the walkways. So many of your colleagues knelt at the open ones, and pried open those that were still nailed shut - taking far too much manpower away from the patients who needed you, you thought bitterly.
You arrived at triage, which had not been spared from the crate invasion, and immediately went to find Lucie, just to find out exactly what this was all about since there was still time before handover started - and found that she too was knelt down over one of those boxes on the floor. She was accompanied by a young man you’d never met before. Immediately you knew he was a doctor as he was dressed in the standard issue white coat of your shared position.
“Doctor, I’m glad you’re here!” Lucie callled you over the moment she spotted you in the crowd. “Will you help me unpack these?”
You eased yourself onto your knees on the hard, tarp-lined earth, and peered in. “What is all this?”
“Can you believe it?” she said, not answering your question directly. “I still think I’m gonna wake up any second now. Just scan in what you can… try and make room for it all, okay?”
“What…” you began. “What is this?”
Lucie shot you a wide smile. “It’s a sight for sore eyes, that’s what it is!”
You reached in and inspected the first tiny box, and then grabbed another, then a whole handful, disrupting the orderly array of neatly-stacked packets of drugs within the crate. They had to be so carefully organised just to pack them in.
This was… everything you needed. Absolutely everything was in there. In that one crate. Just one of countless others blocking the pathways in this gargantuan tent.
Words failed you. Why had they been sent here, why all of a sudden?
”You know what else?” Lucie’s voice snapped you out of your own head and back to the moment.
”Hm?”
She beamed from ear to ear. “The embargoes have been lifted. All of them. Go check our allowances now… I reckon you might cry when you see. Oh yeah…”
The lead nurse jerked a thumb at the doctor on the opposite side of the box, who had remained quiet until now.
“This is Stark. He started his tour yesterday. A lot of new people started yesterday. I’ll get you all acquainted.”
You offered a polite smile to the man, which he returned, and did as Lucie had asked - taking each small packet in turn and lifting their tiny markings to your data-slate so the device could scan them into the clinical system.
“Do you know why we’ve been given all these supplies?” you asked your colleague.
Lucie shook her head. “No idea. All I know is, allowances started going up. Supplies got shipped in. The Administratum’s got this attitude like they just have to be okay with it but you know they’re pissed about it and don’t have anyone to blame.”
She paused, apparently lost in thought. “Rumour has it the order came from way up above. But… no idea beyond that.”
You looked up. “You don’t say…”
“Yeah. Best to just take it as a win. Don’t worry about why, just be glad it’s happened.”
The bell clanged nearby to signal the start of handover, and around you, everyone rushed to the nurses’ station, data-slates at the ready. You, meanwhile, still knelt there, staring down at the packet of vials in your hand, and smiled.
