Doctor Koenig knocked on the doorway before stepping into the makeshift clinic. His brow furrowed as he saw the latest charity case sitting upright-- against his orders-- and writing something on a small notepad, his eyebrows furrowed in concentration.
"Did I or did I not tell you that you should be resting?" The doctor offered a stern glance with the rhetorical question, arming himself with a clipboard and a pen to take some notes of his own.
"I am resting," the patient responded quietly, pausing only momentarily before continuing his writing. Koenig sighed, rubbing at his eyes before venturing further into the room. His patient was a young man, mid-twenties, with a kind of determination that bordered on stubbornness and an untempered curiosity that defied reason. "Monique told me you tried to sneak out again last night. Do you really think you can make it back to your team in this condition?"
Something about that seemed to strike a nerve, as the patient stopped writing and firmly set the pen down with a tense hand. He leveled a one-eyed gaze on the doctor. He took a deep breath.
"You say team like it's a dirty word. They're my family. I haven't spent as much time around a single group of people since I was 16. Transfers every other month for five years. And I feel like- I feel like they're only here because I kept telling them we had to be here. I lost someone recently who was with us from the start. He said I should've just taken them to Siberia and lived a quiet life in hiding. In the outlands. But they're here-- WE'RE here-- and if they're going to be out risking their lives, I should be right there with them. Not sitting here and just, you know, taking a sick day."
"A sick day? You were knocked off the roof by a grenade going off practically in your face. It's a miracle you aren't feeding worms right now, to be frank."
The patient averted his eye. Muttered stubbornly, "Been through worse."
"I can't sit this one out. I-- it's also-- You ever been in love?" As he drummed his fingers idly on the notepad, Koenig's eyes were drawn to the wastebasket next to the bed. It was half full of crumpled-up sheets of paper.
"Once," the doctor says, attention shifting back to the young man's fidgeting hands. Not idle. Anxious. "What, you got a girl waiting for you?" He chuckles.
"I don't know," comes the reply, and the man looks down at the scarred nub where his little finger should've been. "Maybe. Or maybe I messed it all up. Been trying to do too much. I have, like, this responsibility, you know? I was trying to do what I'm meant to do, but I was trying to be happy at the same time, and, um, I don't know if that's allowed for me. Every time I try to step away from this, uh, this path that I see, it’s like-- something happens and jolts me back in line. Like, uh-" he lets out a dejected laugh, "Like one of those shock collars people used to put on dogs."
The doctor simply stares at the younger man. "Do you mean to say that you cannot do both? Be happy and fulfill your duty?" He slowly sets down his clipboard.
"Hah-- no, of course not. I think that's important, keeping people happy and making sure they have a sense of purpose. It goes hand in hand."
"And what about you?"
"Well, it makes me happy seeing them happy."
"...Are you sure?"
The patient gawks at him. "What?" he says dumbly.
"You don't look happy. You just look worried. Like a little kid who's expecting a scolding when he gets home. You fell off a goddamn building and your main concern was radioing an apology to your team."
"That's not--" He sighs, biting his tongue to cut off an irritated counterargument. "I'm sorry if I sound irritated. I'm just... I really worry about them. And I care about them. And not just because I'm, like, "their boss" or whatever. I was their friend first. Still am, in my eyes, anyway. Or... eye, I guess." The patient smiles, although it's clear he doesn't exactly think it's a funny joke, either. Koenig matches the smile politely.
"I wasn't exactly doing a good job. But I was starting to fix it. Be good again. We did a really good job messing up this superweapon south-ish of here. I hope they're proud of me like I am of them. They did a really good job on that. I was hoping I could keep up the good work and get them some goodies."
"Hence the grenade situation."
"Yyyup."
"Is that something you worry about?"
"What, grenades?"
"No, smart aleck. Disappointing them."
The patient closes his notepad, an air of insecurity passing over his face. "I... I mean, I don't have to answer that, do I?"
Doctor Koenig smiles. "No, you don't. I was a therapist before the portal storms." The young man in the hospital bed concedes with a grunt.
"You can't avoid that. You're only human--"
"That's what everyone keeps saying--"
"--You are going to fail. Pardon my french, but you're going to fuck up. You won't make everyone happy. But that's not the point. The point is that you're trying. You are trying, aren't you?"
One bright eye studies the doctor, before its owner quietly utters a small "Yes."
"You don't have to give everyone one hundred percent. Your friendship, your support, your honesty-- that's enough."
"...It is?"
"Kid, you're not in the cities anymore. These little creature comforts, trying to give everyone these big huge spikes of pure happiness? That's not sustainable. Not for you. Not for a permanent life."
Lucas stares up at him. "So what am I supposed to do, just say no? NOT give everyone everything they want from me?"
"That's not what I'm saying. I'm telling you that what you think they want from you isn't as important as what they actually need from you. Just be the person they know you are. Don't change yourself. Don't kill yourself trying to make them all happy. They just want you by their side. Everything else is sprinkles on top, trust me."
The patient hesitates for a moment, looks at his duffel bag on the other side of the room, then the window. Ground floor.
Koenig rolls his eyes.
"Okay. I'll make you a deal. Obviously your team-- er, your family-- needs you. But you still need rest. Two more days. Okay? Then I'll spot you some pills and let you hobble on out of here and tell the others I didn't see you leave."
"Serious?"
"I saw the way you were eyeing that window, kid. I couldn't keep you here without literally cuffing you to the bed. If you truly believe that helping them is more important than your own health, then I can't stop you. But if you want my professional opinion? If you don't stop putting all this weight on yourself, you're going to work yourself into an early grave, and that will not be something they'd want to see."
The patient nods softly.
"Thanks, Doc."
"Now, for the therapy, my starting rate is 250 credits an hour--"
"Okay, well, now I'm REALLY thinking of taking the window."
"Did I or did I not tell you that you should be resting?" The doctor offered a stern glance with the rhetorical question, arming himself with a clipboard and a pen to take some notes of his own.
"I am resting," the patient responded quietly, pausing only momentarily before continuing his writing. Koenig sighed, rubbing at his eyes before venturing further into the room. His patient was a young man, mid-twenties, with a kind of determination that bordered on stubbornness and an untempered curiosity that defied reason. "Monique told me you tried to sneak out again last night. Do you really think you can make it back to your team in this condition?"
Something about that seemed to strike a nerve, as the patient stopped writing and firmly set the pen down with a tense hand. He leveled a one-eyed gaze on the doctor. He took a deep breath.
"You say team like it's a dirty word. They're my family. I haven't spent as much time around a single group of people since I was 16. Transfers every other month for five years. And I feel like- I feel like they're only here because I kept telling them we had to be here. I lost someone recently who was with us from the start. He said I should've just taken them to Siberia and lived a quiet life in hiding. In the outlands. But they're here-- WE'RE here-- and if they're going to be out risking their lives, I should be right there with them. Not sitting here and just, you know, taking a sick day."
"A sick day? You were knocked off the roof by a grenade going off practically in your face. It's a miracle you aren't feeding worms right now, to be frank."
The patient averted his eye. Muttered stubbornly, "Been through worse."
"I can't sit this one out. I-- it's also-- You ever been in love?" As he drummed his fingers idly on the notepad, Koenig's eyes were drawn to the wastebasket next to the bed. It was half full of crumpled-up sheets of paper.
"Once," the doctor says, attention shifting back to the young man's fidgeting hands. Not idle. Anxious. "What, you got a girl waiting for you?" He chuckles.
"I don't know," comes the reply, and the man looks down at the scarred nub where his little finger should've been. "Maybe. Or maybe I messed it all up. Been trying to do too much. I have, like, this responsibility, you know? I was trying to do what I'm meant to do, but I was trying to be happy at the same time, and, um, I don't know if that's allowed for me. Every time I try to step away from this, uh, this path that I see, it’s like-- something happens and jolts me back in line. Like, uh-" he lets out a dejected laugh, "Like one of those shock collars people used to put on dogs."
The doctor simply stares at the younger man. "Do you mean to say that you cannot do both? Be happy and fulfill your duty?" He slowly sets down his clipboard.
"Hah-- no, of course not. I think that's important, keeping people happy and making sure they have a sense of purpose. It goes hand in hand."
"And what about you?"
"Well, it makes me happy seeing them happy."
"...Are you sure?"
The patient gawks at him. "What?" he says dumbly.
"You don't look happy. You just look worried. Like a little kid who's expecting a scolding when he gets home. You fell off a goddamn building and your main concern was radioing an apology to your team."
"That's not--" He sighs, biting his tongue to cut off an irritated counterargument. "I'm sorry if I sound irritated. I'm just... I really worry about them. And I care about them. And not just because I'm, like, "their boss" or whatever. I was their friend first. Still am, in my eyes, anyway. Or... eye, I guess." The patient smiles, although it's clear he doesn't exactly think it's a funny joke, either. Koenig matches the smile politely.
"I wasn't exactly doing a good job. But I was starting to fix it. Be good again. We did a really good job messing up this superweapon south-ish of here. I hope they're proud of me like I am of them. They did a really good job on that. I was hoping I could keep up the good work and get them some goodies."
"Hence the grenade situation."
"Yyyup."
"Is that something you worry about?"
"What, grenades?"
"No, smart aleck. Disappointing them."
The patient closes his notepad, an air of insecurity passing over his face. "I... I mean, I don't have to answer that, do I?"
Doctor Koenig smiles. "No, you don't. I was a therapist before the portal storms." The young man in the hospital bed concedes with a grunt.
"You can't avoid that. You're only human--"
"That's what everyone keeps saying--"
"--You are going to fail. Pardon my french, but you're going to fuck up. You won't make everyone happy. But that's not the point. The point is that you're trying. You are trying, aren't you?"
One bright eye studies the doctor, before its owner quietly utters a small "Yes."
"You don't have to give everyone one hundred percent. Your friendship, your support, your honesty-- that's enough."
"...It is?"
"Kid, you're not in the cities anymore. These little creature comforts, trying to give everyone these big huge spikes of pure happiness? That's not sustainable. Not for you. Not for a permanent life."
Lucas stares up at him. "So what am I supposed to do, just say no? NOT give everyone everything they want from me?"
"That's not what I'm saying. I'm telling you that what you think they want from you isn't as important as what they actually need from you. Just be the person they know you are. Don't change yourself. Don't kill yourself trying to make them all happy. They just want you by their side. Everything else is sprinkles on top, trust me."
The patient hesitates for a moment, looks at his duffel bag on the other side of the room, then the window. Ground floor.
Koenig rolls his eyes.
"Okay. I'll make you a deal. Obviously your team-- er, your family-- needs you. But you still need rest. Two more days. Okay? Then I'll spot you some pills and let you hobble on out of here and tell the others I didn't see you leave."
"Serious?"
"I saw the way you were eyeing that window, kid. I couldn't keep you here without literally cuffing you to the bed. If you truly believe that helping them is more important than your own health, then I can't stop you. But if you want my professional opinion? If you don't stop putting all this weight on yourself, you're going to work yourself into an early grave, and that will not be something they'd want to see."
The patient nods softly.
"Thanks, Doc."
"Now, for the therapy, my starting rate is 250 credits an hour--"
"Okay, well, now I'm REALLY thinking of taking the window."
