The Glass Scientists micro-fanfictions

Quiet Rage

Why was it so very unsurprising that the damnable old bat still refused to take her - literally - bleeding medicine? Try as he might to help, it would have been easier for everyone if she had just choked on one of her lizards and died before she made herself everyone else's problem.

Shaking off the unpleasant thoughts that he could swear upon his life and his own eventual grave did not belong to him, Henry had to take a moment to steady himself. Rather than centering himself, he pushed any personal feelings deep down inside him until he could maintain the composure of a perfect gentleman, a trustworthy fellow that would want nothing but the best for everyone. Whether he felt so altruistic in the reality did not matter to him nearly as much as the illusion he created of it.

Noting the gloom the very second he stepped foot into the room, he almost lost a fraction of the smile that he had painted so elegantly upon his features.
"And now are we feeling this morning?" the good Doctor Jekyll asked, his tone honeyed and completely and entirely false, matching with his general demeanour far to well. He was well practiced in the art after all.
It did not surprise him one little bit that he was met with utter and complete silence, if one did not count what could have been a disdainful sniff coming from the direction of the bed.
"I'm sure that a touch of sunlight would do us all a world of good," he continued, not having hopes raised high enough to have been disappointed, "As far as I have observed, you are not a mushroom, and so some proper light would help up here," he tapped his temple, "As much as your medicine will be helping the rest of you."

"I do not want to hear the opinion of a dog of society."

The man gritted his teeth, not wanting to let on that the little old lady's words had set his figurative hackles prickling quite so quickly, and certainly not so easily. In a silent rebellion against his fallen hero, fallen both from graces and health, he set about drawing the curtains, letting the sunlight spill into the dark room.

"I had them closed for a reason."

"Perhaps so," said he, thankfully looking out into the streets still, as his lip had dared to twitch into the very beginnings of a snarl, "But, as your doctor I-"

"You are not a doctor," Frankenstein cut in, exhibiting a display of energy that it was a marvel that she could muster, especially in her pitiful state, "You are a puppet. An actor on stage, not a doctor and not deserving of the name scientist."

Of course, of bloody course she had to go on the attack. God forbid she ever think long to show even a single iota of decency, a single wee scrap of appreciation for the time he had wasted already ensuring she wouldn't choke on her tongue or crack a rib or some other fitting harm that she would have accepted above his care. It was maddening, and it was wholly unnecessary, really.

"Perhaps you might think so, but there are others that-"

"They made a mistake." she once more interrupted, sounding exasperatingly certain in this.

"Beg your pardon?" Henry asked, requiring far too much effort to keep his voice steady. He had his arms neatly folded behind his back, one hand clasping the other arm with such a force that it was certain that he would end up with a dotting of bruises, all in an attempt at forcing himself to appear calm and collected. His arm, an unwilling sacrifice, showed far too clearly that this was a losing battle.

"Thinking you are proper scientist. They made a mistake. Calling you such high terms is laughable and wrong, you wish to play the part but you are just a silly little boy that tarnishes the good name of mad science with every word said!"

"If we are speaking of mistakes, ma'am," he began, his face void of anything at all, voice flat as he strode over the short space to her bedside, "Perhaps we ought to begin this by mentioning a few of yours then, shall we?"

The hand he rested less than delicately down on her bedside table was shaking, though it was less nerves and more against the emotions, purely his own, that were racing through him in a way that he had forgotten that he could independently experience.
She opened her mouth to speak, to plead some case that she must have thought would make her case, but he raised a hand and shushed her, leaning over closer to the woman.

"Perhaps I am all you said and more, but what about you? What about Elizabeth?" It was a low move, he knew this, but if he were to make his point then it was necessary to swing at the shins every now and again. "No man is free of mistakes, it is what makes one human, but my mistakes, my dear Prometheus," scorn practically dripped from his words, coming with the same ease as the sickly sweet honey had, "Did not kill the one I claimed to love. I did not tear my very world apart pursuing some foolish vision that was little more than a delirium at worst and a drunkard's dream at the best!"
This was, however, precisely what he had done, even if he did not want to have to admit it even to himself.
"You tote around the term 'Doctor', Victoria, but it was self proclaimed, for you have not even the discipline to complete your studies, and yet you dare come here, asking for my assistance, only to attack the legitimacy of an honourific that unlike you I earned!" The words were coming faster and faster, and louder with each increase in speed, almost ironically making it harder and harder for him to breath. If he were to permit the cough that began to scratch in the back of his throat, he felt as if it would make him the same as the woman who lay before him, her forehead furrowed.
"At least I did not abandon the mistake that I was so willing to ruin my life to create." 

He almost slammed the medicine he had brought in down onto the table, but stopped himself just before it hit. It would have been a troublesome thing to have it shatter, not only because it would have wasted it, but also that it would have undoubtedly resulted in glass shattering into his hand. That was an experience that he would rather not have happen more than once in his lifetime, and the small scars upon his palm had left their mark from the first and preferably only time.

Had he looked back when he stalked out of the room, not waiting for her to speak, he would have seen the look upon her face that read clear as her being impressed.
Perhaps, the look would have said, he had more of a spine than she had given him credit for.

( Idea for this came from @Quillistic )