Chapter Text
Wyll is no stranger to long, grueling days. Such is the life of a nurse, especially in a hospital the size of this one. In fact, this is his third consecutive shift that stretches out into the dead of night, and quite frankly, he needs some damn sleep.
He has just left the room of a patient who will be discharged in the morning. They were rude and impatient, and they treated Wyll more like a waiter than a nurse. As he heads back down to the ER to speak with their doctor, he finds himself grumbling about how people have the gall to treat him so poorly when he is responsible for their care. If he were a less kind person, he could really ruin that woman’s night!
He won’t, of course, but that’s not the point. He could , and he thinks these patients should remember that.
The one good thing about these late night shifts is that, once it hits about one in the morning, the waiting room clears out. All the people here for their sniffles and mild aches go home because they’d rather get some sleep, and only the actual emergencies remain. Today, there are not many left at all. A quick scan of the waiting room suggests it’s only a small handful of patients still waiting for triage.
He takes a breath and leans against the wall by the nurse’s station, rubbing his temples. His headache is starting to surge, not helped at all by the bright lights of the hospital. Gods, does he need a break.
“Still alive, Wyll?” asks Dr Hallowleaf, making Wyll jump. He hadn’t seen her approach. She flips her long, white braid over her shoulder and smiles at him, setting a handful of paperwork down on the station desk. “You look rather like a dead man walking, if you don’t mind my saying.”
Wyll smiles back, fighting off a yawn. “I feel like one too, Shadowheart,” he admits. “This is my third twelve hour shift this tenday. I might need to make use of some sick time at this rate.”
Dr Hallowleaf accepts her new stack of folders from the head nurse, then turns back to Wyll. “Do it! Don’t you have the better part of a month stocked up by now?” she points out.
Wyll sighs. “I hate taking off when I have patients,” he says, letting his smile fade. Shadowheart is a friend of his; she surely won’t mind knowing how he actually feels, right?
“Wyll, you’re a nurse. Every person in this entire wing is your patient,” Dr Hallowleaf says. She pats him on the arm. “Take some time off, get some rest. You’re not going to be of any use to us if you pass out on someone’s bed, you know.”
He knows she’s right. He always finds himself sucked up in these cycles, where he tells himself he can’t have a day off until one of his patients goes home. But by the time that happens, he has three more patients he feels beholden to. Aside from his one day off a tenday that the Prismatic Star Hospital is required by law to give him, Wyll hasn’t had a day away from this place in months.
Dr Hallowleaf glances down at her vibrating pager and sighs. “New patient,” she says, turning to go. “I had better not see you here tomorrow, Wyll!”
Wyll rolls his eyes and waves her away. She means well, and he knows it, but it’s just not that easy. He feels so needed here. There is no stronger siren song for Wyll Ravengard than knowing he’s needed.
The head nurse looks up from her work, catching Wyll’s eye. “GSW coming in from the ambulance bay. Can you get over there now?” she asks. Wyll straightens up and nods, already jogging down the hall.
A gunshot wound; not uncommon in this area of the Lower City. Baldur’s Gate is Wyll’s hometown and he loves it dearly, but there is an awful lot of crime percolating through the boroughs. Wyll takes a few steadying breaths in preparation, then jumps into action the moment the stretcher bursts through those doors.
The patient is a male elf who appears to be a mid-aged adult. His skin is ashen and his body temperature is dangerously low, likely a result of blood loss from the wound that brought him here. The bullet hit him in the stomach, which means they’ll be watching for intestinal perforations on top of everything else.
No ID on him, and no one near the crime scene to identify him. But by the looks of things, he’s a sex worker who was assaulted on the job. Wyll squeezes the bag-valve mask in a steady rhythm, watching the patient’s face as they rush him to an OR.
“Stay with me,” Wyll says as the dazed man makes eye contact. His eyelids are fluttering; he wants to pass out, Wyll can tell. “Can you tell me your name?”
“A… starion…” the man whispers, his breath fogging up the mask over his mouth and nose.
“Okay Astarion, keep looking at me, alright? Keep your eyes wide open; I need you to stay awake.” Wyll swallows, taking note of how sallow Astarion’s skin seems, how dark the bags under his eyes are. This man is in rough shape, enough so that Wyll is not feeling all too hopeful about his ability to pull through. “How old are you, Astarion?”
“Two hundred… and thirty nine…” Astarion manages to say, but he’s clearly starting to fade. He lets out a wet cough.
That catches Wyll off guard. It’s the equivalent to about 35 in a human, but Astarion looks older than that. His stressful lifestyle has not been kind to him, it would seem.
“Great job, Astarion, keep looking at me,” Wyll says, shifting his position to behind Astarion’s head as the gurney pulls up beside an operating table. “We’re going to move you over, okay? Just keep breathing, it’ll only take a second.”
Astarion whimpers hoarsely as his body is moved from one spot to another. Wyll winces with sympathy. “I’m… a…” Astarion tries to say, but his words are cut off by coughs. Wyll keeps squeezing the bag, forcing air into Astarion’s lungs.
“Don’t worry, Astarion, you’re not in any trouble,” Wyll jumps to reassure, assuming Astarion was about to explain his profession. It’s not uncommon for sex workers who come in injured like this to fear that they will be turned in to the Flaming Fist. “All we care about is getting you better, okay?”
Astarion opens his mouth to say something else, but before he can find his words, his eyes roll back in his head. Wyll’s heart lurches.
“Astarion? Astarion, can you hear me?” Wyll asks. One of the other nurses starts chest compressions, the sickening sound of cracking ribs filling the room. “No air,” he says to the internalist who just finished scrubbing in. “Might need to intubate.”
Things start to blur in the panicked bustle. Wyll holds Astarion’s head in place while the tube is forced down his throat, and then steps back when the paddles are brought out. No pulse, even after several shocks. Astarion’s body convulses from the force of the electricity, once, twice, thrice.
It’s such a helpless feeling, watching a patient slip away. But not even Wyll can be surprised when time of death is called. His heart sinks as the paddles are put away, as the tube is removed. There wasn’t much to be done for this one. He was already half dead by the time he passed over the hospital’s threshold.
That doesn’t make it any easier.
The body, already cold, is moved back onto the gurney and covered with a sheet. From there, Wyll is left to wheel everything away.
It all happened so fast . One moment, there was a frightened man speaking to him in a soft, breathless voice. Now, Wyll is escorting that man’s corpse to the hospital’s morgue.
He hates it down here. It’s so cold and sterile, even by the standards of a hospital. Wyll moves the body onto one of the autopsy tables, and then… all of the energy rushes out of him at once. He sinks down into a nearby chair and buries his head in his hands.
Most of the time, Wyll loves being a nurse. He loves helping people, he loves the hustle and bustle, he loves feeling like he’s doing good in the world. But these moments steal all that joy away. He failed this poor man, whose life was already so difficult.
It’s the betrayal of trust that truly stirs Wyll’s soul. His patients rely on him to keep them safe. This patient included. And Wyll failed to do so. Wyll let Astarion down in the gravest possible way. There is no greater failure than this.
“I’m sorry,” Wyll says, rubbing the sting of half formed tears from his eyes. His glass eye always feels so itchy when he cries. “I promise you that we did everything we could.”
As if that means anything. As if Astarion would care about that. He’s still dead, no matter how hard Wyll tried . What does trying matter if you fail to do any good?
“I hope you find peace,” Wyll whispers, clasping his hands together. “May Tyr guide your soul.”
“Don’t fucking… invoke the gods at me…” rumbles a faint voice from behind Wyll. He jumps out of his skin.
“How many times do I have to ask you to knock instead of sneaking up—“ Wyll starts to scold, assuming the medical examiner has arrived to begin the autopsy. But when he turns, it’s not them that he sees.
It’s Astarion, sitting straight upright on the metal table.
For a long moment, they stare at each other. Then, Wyll screams.
“Shit, sh, shh!” Astarion hisses, rolling off the table and landing nimbly on his feet. His shoes click against the tile floor, reminding Wyll that he hadn’t even undressed the body yet. “Shut up!”
Wyll claps a hand over his mouth and forces himself through some calming breaths, trying to get control of his panic. “You were dead !” Wyll gasps, watching Astarion’s very much not dead body move around the room in a harried rush. “How in the hells?!”
“Shut up, I swear to the gods!” Astarion repeats. “He’ll hear you!”
Wyll shakes his head. No, he can’t just accept this. Resurrection without even a cast of Revivify is a step too far.
“I-I need to get you to a bed!” Wyll says, still shaking his head, even as he drifts towards the morgue door. “We must have missed a pulse somehow, I must have missed it…”
Astarion growls softly. “No!” he snaps, closing the distance between them and grabbing Wyll’s arm. Without the table between them, Wyll can see the dark hole in Astarion’s belly, the blood that stains his pale white skin. The sight leaves Wyll feeling shaken. How can he be moving around like this with a wound that severe?! With a wound that killed him ?!
Wyll reaches up and presses two fingers to the major vessel in Astarion’s throat, catching him off guard. He has to recheck it. The only thing that makes sense is that he missed it.
But even now, on a second try, he feels nothing.
“Y-You have no pulse!” Wyll whispers. Astarion grabs his wrist and yanks his hand away.
“I fucking know that already!” Astarion snarls, tightening his grip on Wyll’s arm. “Now tell me where the exits are in this building so I can get out of here!”
Wyll lets out a frail, high pitched laugh. This is insane. “I can’t let you leave! You have a gunshot wound!” he protests. His body is trembling with the force of his shock, his confusion. “You need emergency surgery to remove the bullet and repair internal damages!”
Astarion laughs right back, his sounding sharp and cold, like the steel of the autopsy table. “That is the absolute last thing I need, darling,” he insists. “What I need is to get out of here unnoticed!”
Wyll just shakes his head. This patient was dead. He was definitely, without a doubt dead. No breath, no pulse, no body heat. And yet, here he is, back on his feet.
The hand on Wyll’s arm is still so cold…
“What are you?” Wyll breathes.
Astarion’s chest rises and falls with his urgent breaths. The eye contact Wyll sought from him earlier is made all too easily now; Astarion stares him down with a desperate intensity. But the more Wyll looks at him, the more… off things seem…
Are his eyes red ?
Astarion groans and looks away, grimacing. “You’re not going to let me go until I explain, are you?” he grumbles.
“I… I don’t…” Wyll whispers. Astarion groans again, this time even louder.
“Fine. Fine!” he snaps, dropping his hold on Wyll in favour of crossing his arms. He takes a long breath, then lets it out in a huff. “I’m a… a vampire. Well, a vampire spawn, I should say, before you get any ideas about finding a stake.”
Wyll balks, opening and closing his mouth soundlessly. What is he supposed to say to that? What could he possibly say?
“You… You were dead…” Wyll whispers eventually. Astarion rolls his eyes.
“I’ve been dead for two centuries, darling,” he explains. “Can’t get much deader than I already was. Now will you tell me how to get out of here?!”
Wyll is pretty sure Astarion could get deader, given that he is up and walking around. But this seems like a bad time to get caught up on quibbles.
“Wait, wait,” Wyll says, reaching out and catching Astarion’s upper arm in his hand. “I… You’re a sex worker, aren’t you?” Astarion’s face goes completely blank for an instant, then switches to an expression of anger.
“I don’t see how that’s any business of yours,” he says coldly. Wyll shakes his head, realizing he is being misunderstood.
“No, no, I just—why do you want out of here so badly if that’s what awaits you?” Wyll asks hesitantly. Even that is still an insensitive question, but the more he watches Astarion’s shifty body language, his rigidity, the way his eyes flick around the room… Something is off here, and it’s not just him being undead. “Are you… safe?”
Astarion stares at him. Then, he bursts out into laughter. Sharp, pained laughter, with a slight edge of hysteria.
“Safe!” he repeats, as if the idea could not possibly be more ridiculous to him. “I’m a vampire whore, and you ask if I’m safe !”
Wyll swallows. That’s… not good.
“If you’re being… forced into this profession, there are resources—“ Wyll tries to say, but Astarion cuts him off.
“Spare me the speech. None of that shit applies to me and you know it,” he hisses, his red eyes flashing. They are definitely, undeniably red. Strikingly so. “Shelters and help agencies have no interest in giving aid to the undead.”
Wyll wants to protest, to insist that there are people out there who will help him. But he knows better than that. It’s true. There are not many demographics of people more maligned than the undead. Most of these services explicitly exclude them.
“So, I ask you yet again, darling,” Astarion says with a sneer, “how do I get out of here? I have a master at home who is waiting for his dinner.”
Wyll stares at this man, this man who is still actively bleeding from a bullet hole in his gut. This man who is begging to be sent back home to a life that cannot possibly be comfortable. Based on Astarion’s body language, his agitation, the certainty with which he insists safety is impossible, it is likely a life of cruelty and abuse. Wyll has seen people like this before, people who have been beaten down so thoroughly that they can’t fathom any different.
Is he really going to allow this man to go back home to a situation like that?
“Astarion, you need medical care,” Wyll protests. “I can’t send you home when you’re still injured.”
Astarion shakes his head insistently. “You’re not admitting me. If you admit me, my master finds out I let myself get caught up by a hospital. That I let people discover what I am. What we are.” Astarion shudders at just the thought. Clearly, this is something with serious consequences to him.
But still, Wyll can’t possibly send him home, into the arms of someone who will only hurt him further.
“Please,” Wyll says slowly, choosing his words with a great deal of caution and care, “let me… let me take you home. So I can help you heal before you go back to your master.”
Astarion scowls, tapping his foot impatiently. “I don’t need your help. I’m a vampire; it’ll heal on its own,” he says, but he sounds a little less certain than he did a few moments ago. Wyll spots this chink in the armour right away.
“You need a safe space to rest in order to let it heal, don’t you?” Wyll points out. “I don’t know much about vampires, I’ll admit that, but I do know that you can’t heal if you’re starving and being hurt worse. Right?”
Astarion grits his teeth and stares down at the ground. He doesn’t respond, which is an answer in and of itself in Wyll’s eyes. He takes a careful step closer, resisting the urge to reach out for a gentle touch. Astarion does not seem like he’s in any state to accept that sort of reassurance.
“Please. Just for one day. You can give me that much, can’t you?” Wyll begs. “I just want long enough to monitor you and make sure you actually are healing. Then you can go and never look back.”
Astarion is quiet for another long moment. Wyll can practically see the machinery in his head turning as he tries to figure out what he wants to do. Wyll holds his breath.
Finally, Astarion lets out a sigh, his shoulders sagging.
“Not a word goes into this hospital’s files,” Astarion says. Wyll nods eagerly.
“I swear it. No admitting, no records. And you’ll be free to go as soon as you’re ready,” Wyll rushes to agree.
Astarion rubs his tired eyes. “Gods, what’s wrong with me… Alright, alright. Fine. One day,” he says, giving Wyll an intense glare. But Wyll feels nothing but overwhelming relief.
“One day,” he says, as earnest and serious as he can manage. “One day, and you’ll never have to see me again.”
Astarion shakes his head. “That had better be a promise, darling.”
Wyll finally lets himself exhale. He won’t fail. Not this patient. Not this time.