Strain

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

PG-13
IDW
Verity Carlo
warnings: some bad language and h/c
Written for h/c prompt "muscle strain or sprain" 

Yeah, I know. This is twice in a week where I'm writing about a canon, human, female!  *scared*   Think I'm getting her voice down, at least.  Set between the '-tions' and Last Stand of the Wreckers. No real spoilers

.

“Yep,” the ER doctor said, cheerfully.  Unlike TV doctors, he was not cute. Or even in shape.  He looked faded, his eyes bloodshot, and skin grey in that way that told an expert in such things such as Verity Carlo, urban explorer, that he lived pretty much on caffeine and cholesterol.  His hands were doughy, thin dirty blond hair wisping around a face that looked far too soft to Verity. Then again, she’d been living with robots for how long now?  Anything looked soft and padded compared to them. Verity wanted to punch that smile right off his face. In fact, if she could have gotten up off the damn exam table, she probably would have.  “Like I thought.” His hands were groping at her swollen kneecap. She wanted to get angry at him for perving her, but his eyes were distant, as though he wasn’t really seeing. Just…feeling.  “It hurts here, right?” He prodded an area in the inside of her knee.

“Yes—ow!”  She wanted to take a swing at him anyway.  Stupid doctors. She knew she hated them for a reason.  Only came here because Ratchet had insisted.  And…oh she wanted on the Wreckers so bad, she’d do anything. Yeah, anything. Even go to an ER.  Even lay here in a stupid paper robe thing that crinkled and chafed when she moved. 

Well, not anything-anything. She still had no intention of paying the bill. That was for chumps and suckers.  Which Verity Carlo was neither.  She fed off the chumps and suckers. 

Or had.  Now though, the chance for something…big.  It was a little dizzying, really.  When the Autobots had first shown up in her life it was like a door had opened she didn’t even know existed. Crazy stuff, but also, adventure. The kind she’d been looking for all her life. The kind she’d been running toward, as much as she ran away from dullness and stagnation and…normal.

“You gonna keep it to yourself?” she snapped.  She twitched her thigh, jerking her knee out of Dr Too-Happy You’re In Pain’s hands. 

His smile was condescending and plastic—she’d seen more sincere smiles on mouths made of metal.  Yeah, humanity was awesome when they treat their own injured like they were stupid on top of hurt.  Verity wasn’t stupid.  Maybe not book smart, but what the hell did any of that matter? How did that keep you safe when some pervert tried to feel you up at a rest stop?  Or some punk held a knife to your throat because he wanted your backpack? 

“It’s a medial meniscus tear,” he said.  “You have a pad of cartilage,” and he began some sort of dopey demonstration with his two fists, one up, one down, “like a cushion or a pillow, between the bones. And sometimes—“

“Can it and get to the fix.” She’d look it up later on WebMD. 

He looked a little crushed that Story Hour with Dr Creepy got cut short. Screw that. She’d much prefer Dr House to this smiling, round cheeked idiot.  Bedside manner was for weaklings.  She wanted results more than a lame puppet show.  She wanted her knee to stop hurting. 

“Well, in acute cases we can have surgery.”

“Fine.  Sign me up.” Get it over with.  And she could go back to her training. She was going to prove to the Wreckers she was good enough, tough enough. She glared at her knee like it was a traitor.  Slowing her down.  Keeping her back. The first time Verity Carlo wanted something…and couldn’t have it immediately. 

This was not a trend she intended to continue. 

Dr  Creepy’s smile faded, the washed-out blue eyes blinking.  “It’s not that easy. You’ll need pre-admission testing, and bloodwork and we’ll need a complete medical history.” He held up the thin intake form she’d filled out, as if pointing a dog’s nose at its mess.  “Better than this.  All your records, medical allergies and everything.” 

“Don’t have any.”

The smile returned, but it was a little sharper than before. “Unlikely. You’ve had immunizations.” He tapped her right arm. “I see a TB tine test.” 

She snarled. “Come on.  Can’t you do it without all that stuff?”

A shrug. “It’s not up to me.  It’s policy. I can refer you to our orthopedic clinic…?”

Right. Another run around. More bureaucracy. More paperwork.  More of a paper trail. Didn’t these people get it? Verity Carlo wanted to disappear. She wanted…poof! Bam! Gone! Disappear from the system that sucked you down, dragged you in, hollowed you out.  Made you…normal.  Which was like…dead inside. Zombies sitting down to watch nature shows instead of going outside.  Going to theaters to watch other people have adventures instead of taking a risk themselves.  Everything Verity was getting the hell away from.

With the Wreckers, she’d have everything.  Family. A real family. Real security. No fear.  She’d be as tough as they were.  She’d belong.  And she could guarantee that life would not be boring.  She’d see things that, shit, no human had ever seen before.  She was ready.

Except for her knee. 

It was going to take it all away from her. Everything.  One stupid piece of cushion or whatever was going to steal away the only thing Verity had ever wanted with all of her heart and soul. 

She felt her eyes prickle with tears, heat blotching her cheeks. Compounded with humiliation. No! Not here! Not now! Not in front of Dr Washed Up and Out! 

He knew more than he was letting on, she thought, looking up at him. He’s seen this before.  And the dim, exhausted pity in his eyes raised her hackles even as it ached inside her chest.  “I can’t,” she said. “Got something to do.” She scooted to the edge of the exam table, not caring that the paper robe was bunching up across her thighs.

He stopped her, one hand on her shoulder. The same touch that…shit. How many truant officers? How many school counselors? How many well meaning know it all dickheads used?  Like they had a class for it or something.  Here, the Condescending Shoulder Grab.  Live it, love it.  Piss people off with it. 

She shook it off, but he blocked her with his body. “Either way, you’re off that leg for a few weeks.”

“No!” she said. She shoved at him. “I can’t! I can’t!”  God, it was a nightmare. Not just losing the Wreckers but…not moving.  Staying still. Stagnating. She could already feel it beginning to suck her down.  Her fists balled, wanting to punch him, punch everything.  Just do something to move! 

“Your body can heal itself, but it takes time.  It just takes time.”  That soothing counselor’s voice. 

“Shut it,” she snapped.  “I don’t have time.”  They’d leave without her. Discard her. And she wouldn’t blame them—she was weak. Not tough enough. Not strong enough.  Not worthy enough.  For the first time in her life, that mattered what others thought of her.  It mattered that she should measure up. And the first time it mattered? She couldn’t.  That hurt way worse than her stupid knee. 

“You have time.  Sometimes injury’s your body’s way of telling you to slow down.” 

She sneered. Slow down. “Slow down when I’m dead.”

He sneered back and for the first time she saw a glimpse of something…not dead in him.  Something stirring behind the pale blue eyes.  “Slow down long enough and you won’t live your life through stupid cheap slogans.”   He stepped back. She watched, numbly, as he scrawled something on a prescription pad, tore it off with more vehemence than she’d expected. Maybe…she had pissed him off?  He slapped it into her hand. “You want to sign out AMA and go run a few marathons on that, that’s your choice.  You think the only way to live life is through your body? That’s your choice, too. We don’t prescribe wisdom here.” 

She looked at the prescription. Some medicine she’d never heard of.

“Anti-inflammatories,” he said. “Literally, the least you can do to at least pretend you want to get better.”  He grabbed her patient chart, heading to the door.  He stopped, one hand on the brushed steel lever knob, the light washing out his skin, highlighting blotches of rust-dark on his scrubs from accidents he’d dealt with far worse than Verity’s little case.  “Whatever you’re going to hurt yourself for,” he said, “Just make sure it’s worth it.” 

It is. It will be.  But by the time the words came to her, he was gone, and she was staring at her paper gown, her swollen knee, and the already-half crumpled testimony of someone who tried, even a little, to care about her.   



Comments

[caiusmajor.livejournal.com]

Oh, Verity. *shakes head at her* You do a good job of getting into her head, I think.

(And I'm glad you've found a human female TF squishy you like!)

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

I'm not sure I 'like' her, but she intrigues me, and she's got way less fanon than other canon characters. And she's kind of hard to Mary Sue. I hope. *nervous laugh*.

I'm glad you liked it: I'm trying to get better at writing closer to canon (like you do).

[femme4jack.livejournal.com]

You have convinced me yet again that I MUST familiarize myself with this particular continuity. I like your squishies. When are your con's gonna come play in the matrix? Not that I'm anxious or anything...

[quidamling.livejournal.com]

I like this. X3 She really is a human Wrecker, annoys the heck out of and is annoyed by the medics and everything. Nice.