Young hearts be free tonight

[nokeystomysoul]

Continued from here. Title comes from "Young Turks" by Rod Stewart and serves no purpose other than to be ruthlessly cruel.Melchior lies still, unconscious first from shock but as his blood collects around him on the ground, the chances of him coming to on his own start to dwindle. The gash across his chest is considerable, his right nipple an

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[00_doctor]

After my clinic shift that morning, I had stuck around to finish up some paperwork and then found myself tinkering with some on going projects in the lab. It was late before I realised that I'd been at the compound for rather a bit longer than usual, and Dani might be trying to track me down. Not that there were many places she would have to look, but I thought it was perhaps best on this occasion to save her the trouble and head back to the hut without delay

[nokeystomysoul]

Melchior really isn't sure what he hears; the island noises are blending together to make one faraway, constant, and almost comforting buzz of sound that his mind can rely on to be there and fill in the gaps of his thoughts, which are erratic and faint, like that noise coming at him from a distance. It's separate from the humming lull, and as his attention drifts toward it, he can sort of hear something, a word, half a syllable, that means something

[00_doctor]

Instinct and training told me that the groan, the movement, they were signs that I had been heard, that Melchior was trying to respond. It was the attempt that mattered, I could keep talking to him, trying to rouse him further and make sense of his injuries

[nokeystomysoul]

His brow furrows as he finds himself becoming more and more aware -- and farther and farther from that comfortable place where he couldn't remember anything or feel anything or think anything. With all this shuffling around, things pulling at his shirt and pressing against his chest -- which doesn't feel right -- it's hard for him to slip back into that easy, dark place.

"Nein," he mutters, his eyes fluttering open again. He can see better now, and he recognizes Bashir. It takes a second, but he recognizes the fear too, the urgency to his voice, and he tries to move but winces when the burning in his chest twinges threateningly. "Autsch!" he swears in German, and then it all comes together, the pressure in his chest, that warm stickiness, the urgency in Bashir's voice. He's hurt -- possibly badly hurt, and Bashir is asking him what happened.

Unfortunately, Melchior can't remember. "Ich weiß nicht... Ich weiß nicht..." He tries to breathe but finds the air shallow and insufficient; a part of him wants to look down, to see what's