Work Text:
He was honestly surprised he made it home in one piece.
Hours at The Knick (and any other hospital) are known for being long and brutal and patients die and their blood spreads everywhere. There is no place in The Knick that hasn't had the blood of a patient on it. There's blood on the ground, the wall, their clothing, their hands. They're coating so deep in it and they have to clean their hands like it's nothing more than filth.
He's ruined deep inside.
He lays down on the couch, his shoes and jacket gone, he probably kicked them somewhere. His head throbs like a drill has been entering his skull for hours, his entire body aches like someone has been beating him up for hours. What a wonderful time to be alive.
“John.”
The voice of a woman. A soft voice. He enjoys her voice. He wants to hear it more.
“Get up, John.”
He manages to look up - and that entire act feels like a nightmare - and he wants to caress her face. Abby's face. Her beautiful eyes, her golden hair, her nose - not real - but beautiful all the same. She could never be hideous.
“Abby,” he whispers. He goes to cup her face in his hands, slowly, as if she's made of glass.
She doesn't move at all.
“You need to wake up.”
He ignores her. “Let's stay like this forever.”
“You're not looking at me.”
“Yes, I am.”
He wants to prove her right so he looks at her from nearby and he frowns when noticing the blood on her face that drips on the floor. Her nose is gone.
His hands are the ones covered in blood. She looks at him with an unreadable expression and when he looks back up from looking at his hands, she is tinier, younger. She is no longer Abigail, she is the girl he killed.
I'm sorry. You didn't deserve to die. I killed you.
He says nothing.
“Wake up,” she says with Abby's voice.
The last thing he remembers is Abby's unmoving body and his hands coated in blood.