Chapter Text
wishbone
executor / doctor
“I can complete any commission, whether it is killing a living person on behalf of the dead, or creating a dead person on behalf of the living."
Executor levels his gaze toward an enemy that his commander can not see. He wipes blood from his mouth, and they wonder who it belongs to--it doesn’t seem to be his own. The doctor has been watching the fight from the start, running logistics upon logistics upon wishes. They wish for a clean victory. The people yearn for it, even though they do not have any experience with the word. “To yearn” is something that does not belong to them. Perhaps, to the person they used to be. The doctor does not worry about appearances. Executor does not either.
He is forever cool-headed and rational. The picture of stoicism. Sometimes it worries them. The helicopters descend and the rest of his team starts to make the move to come home. He does not.
“Executor?”
“Mission complete.”
They do not miss the way his voice sounds. They are used to his indifference, but the way his voice shudders, and the static crumbles, just so. Crack, crack, fizzle. The doctor clutches the receiver against their ear, and turns on their heel. Rhodes Island waits for their next call. Their sharp-eyed researcher bites down on her lip. The next call will not be a good one. She takes the break in communication to push her glasses up and sling her bag over her shoulder.
“Silence. I want every medic out on that field immediately. Bring him back in.”
Amiya is the next to act. She’s up in arms, shouting orders, throwing operators into their next assignment.
It is a hollow victory. There’s too much blood when he’s brought back to base. He is drenched in it, he leaves a trail behind him. His beautiful white coat is tattered and stained. Vermeil yells at him, for being stupid, for being stupid and dumb, for being stupid, dumb, and reckless--! and follows it up with a whole slew of expletives that a child shouldn’t be so well acquainted with. Haze is no better, she slinks up to the doctor and whispers, he did really well out there, a horrible grin on her face, she doesn’t bother hiding her glee with her oversized hat. It’s really cute, he works really hard for someone who’s so bad at expressing himself. I wonder what kind of reward he’s waiting for. Doctor--and before she can continue her verbal barrage, Mousse tugs on her tail, and Haze is noisily escorted away.
Silence examines Executor with a grimace. Shining is no better when it comes to bedside manner, instead she focuses on preparing vial after vial, a transfusion here, an anesthetic there. The doctor watches from the doorway, and then takes a step back into the hallway, where Amiya waits. Her ears twitch just enough for the doctor to sigh, and reach over to pat her back.
“Are you worried, doctor?”
“I am more worried about what comes next.”
Nothing more, nothing less.
Vermeil’s report of the battle does not match up with the condition they brought Executor back in. Flamebringer laughed when questioned about it later. That man, he said, baring his teeth, is a demon from the deepest pits of hell. I’d be careful about how much you trust him. He provided no further information, and instead raised his arms up and left the hospital wing. The doctor watched, and then, let another sigh out. Amiya takes that as her cue to leave, she runs back out into the commotion.
It is not a matter of trust, the doctor mulls it over as they light a cigarette.
It is a matter of business.
When the doctor asked Executor to be their assistant, they were fully prepared for a rejection. As much as they vied for his attention to detail and unbeatable work ethic, someone of his caliber certainly had other affairs to attend to. So on, so forth. It would be a loss for Rhodes Island but it wouldn’t be the end of the world.
So they were more surprised when Executor took a look through their files and then pursed his lips.
“Would this be a paid position? I would have to call Notarial Hall to have this sort of...work approved.”
Of course. That made sense. The doctor signed the appropriate paperwork and Executor was at their side, night and day. Rumor had it that he placed fragmentation mines around their office, but uh, that certainly had to be baseless gossip. Otherwise...otherwise...(otherwise, it would make more sense as to why he was particularly attentive of how they left the office. Sometimes he would say something like, to the right, to the left, and in their caffeine withdrawal stupor, they would simply have to listen.)
Nevertheless.
He is an efficient worker. They liked keeping him around, on and off the battlefield. He was in charge of other matters, sure, like his mysterious Notarial mission and his involvement in Vermeil’s sudden arrival, but that air of detachment never quite left him. It was as if he was interacting with everything and everyone through a screen, his elegant fingers pressing down on one figure after another.
He’s diagnosed with little fanfare. Most of his injuries were internal. Prescribed bed rest and physical therapy, after the fact. Shining said that the doctor should keep an eye out for migraines and if his condition worsened, well. That wasn’t something they needed to worry about. The doctor specialized in this sort of thing anyways, so Executor was guaranteed proper care.
The doctor had a stake in him. Watching the way he writhed under the fluorescent hospital lights, harsh and uncaring, it made them think. They spent a lot of time in his assigned room. They spent a lot of time thinking, during the time Executor was asleep, out of commission and out of their shared space. When they ran their fingers through his hair, they were careful not to touch his obsidian halo, the dark star over his head. When they pressed their index finger over his lips, they wondered. The emotion they attached to Executor was a complicated one.
“Oh. You’re something I can’t lose.”
They made sure to be out of the way when Executor woke up.
“I was informed that you require my assistance.”
“Yes.”
The doctor pokes their head out from behind a menacing stack of documents.
“I need all of these done by 18:00 or I will have to disappear under mysterious circumstances.”
Executor nods curtly.
“Of course. I understand.” He puts on his reading glasses. They make him look older, but without his coat, and his guns, he seemed younger somehow. Things to think about, the doctor spends so much time thinking about-- Executor is a paradox, simultaneously ancient and fragile.
[[REPORT 028:
[[REDACTED]] [[REDACTED]]The doctor’s office.
PLAY. Isn’t it weird for me to be talking about this? Someone like Amiya would be better suited for something that involves detailing the doctor’s private life...huh? I'm being annoying? Like you’re any better, idiot. Fuck off--
STOP.
PLAY. It’s a contained disaster, sure, sure. I understand that much. Something about a storm in a bottle, waiting to pop. There are potted plants everywhere. The operators from Rhine Lab come by every so often to check them out. Whenever they’re not there, Flamebringer takes care of them. I think the doctor originally bought them to force themselves to be responsible for something other than the day to day dangers of the frontline, but like other things
(memory, empathy, ambition)it’s a hobby that’s cost them more than helped out.Their desk is a disaster. There is no saving it. There are boxes filled with papers from before the accident, and twice as many from after. Coffee stains. The entire place smells like instant coffee. The sort of thing that permeates your skin when you stay for too long. It’s disgusting. Half-empty plastic bottles. Completely empty flasks. This forsaken table takes up most of the space, right in the middle. Both of their jackets (the proper Rhodes uniform and the shapeless gray duster) usually make a home out of one of the corners. The paint job on the oak is bad and the amount of chipped wood is a reflection of its owner. Magazines
(print and gun)litter the floor. The floor is an ugly vinyl that doesn’t match the rest of the facility.When you add in Executor’s mindsweeper set-up, it’s a real surprise the doctor can get in and out without a non-fatal incident or two. There’s a huge window. The biggest window you can think of. It’s covered in vines and ugly plastic blinds. The hum of the overhead lights, the kind that swing around and flicker in and out of existence because the doctor prides themselves on destroying their eyesight and refuse to get them swapped out until it’s really, really necessary.
The window. The window is so big. I think about Rhodes, in general. It’s such a gross place to live on. There are no colors, it’s a stark no nonsense base, you can hear the ocean. The ocean is so far away, somewhere beyond the gray buildings. The little tiny windows that don’t let you see further than the training grounds. The doctor’s window is different. You can see the ocean. The ocean is so big. The ocean is so, so big and yet--]]
[[RECORDING STOPPED]]
Executor and the doctor work diligently. Theirs is a quiet hum, and his, a furrowed brow. The doctor will twirl their choppy hair, bleached once, twice, and their assistant will run his hands through his soft hair. The doctor doesn’t say anything when he digs his nails in and drags. They don’t say anything because his hair is lovely, it’s softer than silk, and in the sun he is so translucent they wonder if he will disappear all together.
Focus. They focus on the way he breathes. They think about the transceiver message. The hitched breath and the blood dribbling down his lips. They do not want to think about that, and instead focus on the way his chest rises and falls. His muscles ripple under the tight black turtleneck that they are no longer thinking about, either. They focus on Closure’s budget proposal and the grimace is back to its permanent home. The doctor scowls so much, Jessica says that’s the reason they always wear their hood up. Jessica also says to not let the doctor know she said that, but Rhodes is a little piece of the universe, and secrets don’t stay secret too long.
Whatever.
They spend a lot of time in the quiet. It’s fine. It’s also very normal. At some point, the doctor decides they want some coffee. What time is it? Considering the amount of commotion outside, annoyingly within earshot (there is no need for this much noise! there are alarm systems all over the doctor’s office! they will be there! at some point! if called!), it’s probably lunch time.
“I’m getting more coffee.” There is a coffee maker in the office but there are no more beans and there hasn’t been a water pitcher in here either for at least a week.
“Sign off on this before you go.”
He slides a thick manila folder across the table. The force knocks down a broken snow globe.
Fine. They look over each individual piece of paper, and they really have to look at them because Executor is meticulous. He scans each signature like he’s going to find a forgery. Going for first place in “placing the completely unnecessary amount of effort” olympics.
“You really went above and beyond on this proposal. I didn’t ask you to remake these spreadsheets.”
Executor stares blankly. He offers a mere shrug.
“I’ve seen how Closure gets during fiscal close. I’d rather avoid having to talk to her as much as possible.”
“Hmm. I suppose.”
Another stack of papers. Executor stretches. His shirt rides up his stomach and the doctor wonders what Shining would say if she had to stitch a tongue back together.
“Have you gone to your physical yet? Dobermann doesn’t deal with foreign operators all that much but she’ll still wring you out if you don’t go.”
“I do everything possible to maintain myself in proper health. There is no time for organ failure on the battlefield.”
“Hmm.”
The doctor imagines Executor in examination scrubs. The fabric slowly slips off of his shoulder.
“I suppose that’s true enough. I wouldn’t want our medics to have to learn how to do an organ transplant on the field.”
Executor pushes his glasses up.
“The coffee.”
Right. They pick up another folder, with a hastily scribbled title in out of regulation red ink.
“Let me look at this before I go. Ah.” The doctor’s tone goes from that sort of disenchanted amusement that most operators attributed to them post-amnesia, to downright acerbic. “I’ve told Exusiai to keep reports professional and to the point.”
Executor takes the offending scrap. “This is illegible.”
“I’ll let you handle it. Do you want anything?”
“No, I am fine.” He is pensive, and then he puts his pen down. It’s probably the first time it’s been out of his hand. “Maybe something sweet.”
He’s ready to go into the logistics of his request, but (I would have never pegged him for a sweets fiend…). He watches as the doctor goes, puzzled by their reaction.
The doctor finally goes and gets the coffee. There must be a whacky two page discussion of the doctor getting harassed by other operators and their requests. It’s a circus out there, an absolute circus! The doctor is a hot commodity. They will leave it up to your imagination as to what wacky hijinks they get pulled into during the span of two hours.
Executor’s aura is murderous when they reunite. He takes the doctor’s arm and yanks. He yanks! He is a slab of ice, and his tone is even when he says “Doctor, please do not forget your duty.” It makes their hands all sweaty. Texas watches the odd couple go and Exusiai completely forgets about the conversation they were having beforehand.
“You are incorrigible.”
Executor continues his work, but not before chiding the doctor he has handcuffed to the table. He watches them mumble in their sleep. Forever a workaholic, even unconscious. They’re sprawled out over the mess, and all he can really do is pinch the bridge of his nose. This is a little pathetic, but at least he doesn’t have to watch them bite their nails anymore. It was easier to jab some pressure points and knock his horrible doctor out so he could focus on cleaning and finishing his job. How long has it been since they’ve managed more than a few hours of rest? Executor digs his elbows into the table and places his chin on his clasped hands. His current employer was indecipherable at times. He knows about his own reputation--his own difficulty expressing himself, but he does not mind the whispers that follow them. Ignoring others’ unnecessary commentary is common practice in Notarial. His line of work is full of people like him, ostracized and detached.
It’s fine. He works better without all the noise. His doctor does, too. He asked them, when he was simply in Rhodes Island for his clean-up mission, if they would be interested in a transfer. His district would appreciate someone like them. Their ears flattened, and they tugged at their sleeves. A curled lip, and a scoff. A full turn, and hands back in their pockets.
“I appreciate it, but I’ve got plenty of work to do here. This sort of job, and all.” He did not understand their choice of words then. Even now, it’s still foggy, their doublespeak, their cadence. (Was that hurt? Offense?) An impenetrable fortress. (And yet, they trust him to have their back. He drapes his coat over their shoulders, and they lean into its embrace, its warmth.) Executor leans back into his chair, before glancing back at the table.
During the scuffle that followed the handcuff ultimatum, Executor spilled the doctor’s cup of coffee all over the floor. His parfait remained perfectly intact, though. He reaches for the glass, takes his spoon, and eats in silence.
“Doctor.”
Hmm? They make what they are sure is a very attractive noise. Executor wasn't wearing his glasses anymore.
“It’s past midnight.” He is, however, horribly matter of fact.
They blanch, and slump back into the incredibly uncomfortable chair. They wipe the saliva from their cheek and it’s a double whammy of embarrassing behavior that gets pushed into the back of the brain because it’s the day after , and Rhodes was going to have to get a funeral ready on such short notice--
“Executor. Write my eulogy. Make sure Amiya wears something really nice for when she weeps at my casket.”
“There is no need for theatrics, Doctor. While you were sleeping I finished and delivered everything.”
(“An angel--he’s glowing, he is glowing and he is so bright, he will blind me!!”)
“I am nothing of the sort.” Executor is radiant and no longer on this plane.
He gives the doctor another furrowed brow, and leans down to pick up another folder from the table. The doctor leans forward to reach for his hair. A reward for such good work (who is this reward for, exactly?), it’s only fair! A ruffle, nothing else, but they miss, because they are an idiot, half conscious. Their hand awkwardly brushes against his chest, and in an attempt to salvage an already weird situation, they decide to (painstakingly) slowly put their hand down on the table and pick up a notebook.
“Is that all?” He zips up his jacket.
“Yes. Thank you for your hard work.”
The doctor thinks about Shining’s quarters. They think about the tongue on the operating table. They think about her overwhelming presence, a grim reaper come to sweetly ferry them to the next side, it was a good life, it’s a shame, with all the things going on that their beloved commander would have to die like this, but better out of embarrassment than at the hands of the enemy.
“Then. Let us go.”
Hah? “Hah?”
“Please do close your mouth. It is unseemly.” He waits for the doctor to return to their senses.
“Part of my responsibility as your attendant is to make sure that you are well prepared to do your job. I believe dinner is in order.”
Dinner...at this hour? A little over the top, even for him. He’s already packed all of his belongings, and in a smooth motion, pulls out the doctor’s chair so that they can get ready. They scramble to look presentable as they leave their war room.
“You are such a hardass, Exec.”
“Executor is my proper title, Doctor. I also believe that 'being a hardass' is part of my job description.”
He walks so quickly. It’s difficult to keep pace whenever they need to go places together. They end up in some desolate corner of the cafeteria. There is beer on tap. Executor does not drink unless someone else is paying and the doctor is a budget regular. He makes sure they eat in between refills, but a plate of fried squid did not offer the right amount of nutrients after a week of backbreaking work. The doctor’s ears twitch excitedly, though, and he cannot find the right phrase to correct the situation. He busies himself with his own stout.
“C’mon, have some more~ <3! It's only right, you've saved me!"
“You should not challenge my alcohol tolerance.”
“Are you scared?” He sighs. He sighs so intensely. He also resigns himself to carrying the useless doctor back to their office.
[[ENTRY 00672:
[[REDCATED]] [[REDACTED]] JOURNAL. POST-MISSION.
To think he's still sleeping. After cross referencing the reports from everyone, and the actual battle data, it is safe to say he's overexerted himself. It'll be a miracle if I can get the answer straight from his mouth, he's awfully picky about the things he is blunt about. Sometimes, I think I take his straightforward self for granted. He had a full team to support him and still went ahead...he's a sniper, for god's sake. I keep him in the back for a reason, and he still manages to find a way to bash someone's head in. Vermeil spat some choice words about the entire ordeal, but she also managed to put me in my place. He does this for you, you know. His all holy mission. What kind of survival instinct is that? It's gross. I've thought about it. I have accepted the blame.
Executor is kind.
He is so much kinder than he thinks. It’s difficult to gauge at times what he thinks of himself, and of his persona. How he interacts with others. For someone who doesn’t care about other people, about the ways relationships forged new paths, he was surrounded by people who couldn’t leave him alone. He is awkward and resolute and always finishes a mission, no matter the cost, to his body or to his brain--and that terrifies me.
He’s cold and difficult but his back is warm and his wings are bright.
I think that he is the kind of person I want to protect.
[[ENTRY COMPLETE]]
“Not only are you loud, you boast too much. It is illogical.”
“I’m not asleep...you’re too uncomfortable, Exec.”
“Do not make this more difficult than it has to be. Be quiet.” The doctor buries their face into Executor’s back.
“Hey. Exec.”
“Hmm?”
“You said any wish. You could grant me any wish.”
“I wouldn’t have thought you the yearning type.”
He’s softer now. He did not promise that. He promised any sort of commission, assignment. Wishes...? A different jurisdiction.
Quieter, he’s thinking to himself mostly. Rhodes’ doctor is a miracle maker. They are a jar of wishes, wedged in between broken ribs and stratagems. He is cut from the same bloodstained cloth. Perhaps not. That was something he would have to analyze further. They reach the final leg of their destination, the courtyard outside of the doctor’s quarters. He deposits his charge on a bench. They drunkenly claw for his jacket collar, their nails dig into the leather straps, if he wasn't careful, he'd lose more than just his name-tag. Their fingers brush against his neck and he doubles down. With their arms pinned to their sides, all the doctor can do is glare.
“I don’t care if it’s your mission. Part of your mission is here too. You said you’d complete it at any cost, and that means coming home. That means coming back alive.”
Strange. So strange. They look at him with glassy eyes and all he can do is tilt his head, and wonder how far this particular streak of selfishness goes. It would be easier to disengage with a platitude. It would be easier to lie and tell them that their gun was theirs only. That he was theirs to command.
Instead, he pulls his useless doctor into his arms and promises nothing. They react to things like touch, so... It should be fine. This should be enough. The rage subsides, they go limp, the exhaustion breaks the stalwart gate. Executor wraps his arms around them and they stand like that for a while.
At some point he will let go, they will make the walk back to the office together, Executor will say his goodnight piece, and he will leave. So that is what he does. The doctor crashes into the loveseat, but not before pushing off some books and assorted debris. Executor turns the light off before he leaves. He locks the door behind him and makes the walk back to his own apartment. The wind is cold against his skin.
A wish maker, huh. He wasn’t like that at all. It is simply his duty to oversee his master’s last will. That was all.
He does not have the capacity to encapsulate virtue. He does not think about the jacket he has left behind.