Running down the long, winding hallways of the compound was tiring in more ways than one.
Lacking an adequate amount of caffeine in his system, he was struggling to match Tord stride for stride as they practically sprinted down corridors, sweating and panting as he pumped his legs desperately. Bare feet slapping against the tile, the tight confines of his newly acquired booty shorts became even more of a burden, the stretched fabric across his crotch and thighs were pulled particularly taunt, clinging roughly to his skin as he flailed forward.
"Should I even ask you why you even own these?" Tom breathed, flashing a quirked, ironic grin.
"No!" Tord answered quickly, a huffing smile lingering on his face.
Thundering footsteps and screaming laughter probably wasn't the best way to wake up the rest of the members of the Red Army- from experience, Tom knew all too well of the unbridled rage and pulsing sadness that rocked his system when Edd and Matt decided to talk too loudly by his room before noon. Lengthy stares and low, bitter whispers was a tame reaction in comparison to the absolute tidal wave of chaotic emotion that he had released on his unsuspecting friends.
That didn't stop his flesh from crawling at the thought of being on the receiving end of those dark, judging eyes.
A corner appeared before them, and they rounded it, yelps of surprise spilling past their lips as they smacked into each other. Bumping hips, they side-eyed each other, equally knowing how much they were acting like flirty teenagers and not caring a single bit of how much of a racket they were making in the process.
Righting themselves, they shoved each other out of the way; goofy, tongue biting grins firmly in place as they squealed towards a dead end. Catching a glimpse at the large, rectangle sign posted on the bland wall, Tom quickened his step, pacing past the illuminated, bold text.
'HOSPITAL WING'
Stuffy, wooden doors lined the walls, each displaying a name tag- supposedly belonging to the different doctors that lurked within. Swinging his arms, Tom punched Tord in the side lightly, teasingly, "I have no idea where we're going! You have the home advantage!"
Smirking, Tord nudged him back with an elbow, "So? What are you going to do about it?"
Glaring, Tom chose not to answer, biting his lip as he mentally totalled up the rising sexual tension.
Maybe they really were teenagers again.
Gaining on the end of the hallway, Tom winced, grimacing his teeth as he attempted to slow down. Wobbling on his feet, the scraping appendage made a screeching squeak as he skidded to a rounded stop.
Unbalanced, Tord stumbled, colliding with the doorframe, snickering breathlessly as Tom smacked into his back. Panting heavily, Tord shook his head, light brown locks flying in all directions as he readjusted himself.
Placing a palming on his heaving chest, Tom uttered a quick, "That was obviously a draw."
Snorting in response, Tord gave a few rapid knocks to the wood, knuckles rapping loudly- almost echoing throughout the complex. When receiving no acknowledgement, he swung the door open anyway, shrugging carelessly.
Squinting, Tom gave the name tag a customary skim.
Dr George McIntyre
Huh.
Interesting.
Shouldering through the entrance, Tom quickly rejoined his partner, glancing around the clean space. Sides brushing, he shuffled awkwardly, feet cold against the spotless flooring. Pinned beneath the bright fluorescent lights, an overwhelmingly potent sterile scent seeped into his senses, causing him to wrinkle his nose in discomfort.
A textbook doctors office stood before him- bland white walls, a large office desk, a computer, several chairs and an examination table each present within the confines. Neat and orderly, every surface screamed of obsessive cleaning, not a speck of dust or dirt to be seen.
Or, in other words, very unsettling.
"I see that you have finally graced me with your presence, Red Leader." Came a voice, dull and thickly accented. It sounded dry and achingly sarcastic, "How fortunate."
From his place in his office chair, a tall thin man sat; sickly pale and openly overworked, thick black bags clinging sluggishly to the underside of his wrinkled sockets. Wrapped in a long white coat, he seemed to look deathly ill against the pure material, a stethoscope curled neatly around his shoulders, hovering closely near his boney chest.
"Indeed." Tord hummed non-committally, eyes half-lidded, "Where do you want me?"
Clearly exasperated, McIntyre motioned to the bed, picking up a clipboard with a heavy sigh.
After several minutes of various tests- ranging from blood to weight to height measurement, each conducted within relative, stiff silence, Tom began to feel awkward, uncertain in his movements. Forced to stand still, he jostled his leg up and down, paranoia creeping up his body.
Finally, after bearing it for no longer, he met Tord's gaze, "Do you have any idea how long it will take?"
"The operation?" Tord clarified. When he received a jerky nod, he flickered his attention back towards the doctor, "McIntyre?"
Fiddling with his glasses, the doctor didn't even look over to acknowledge him as he answered the huffed question. Instead, he had wiped the already spotless glass with the corner of his shirt, placing them delicately on the bridge of his nose, giving Tord a squinted, almost disgusted look.
Almost as if he was repulsed at the notion of breathing the same air as him.
It wasn't the first time he had received such a reaction from another person- his black unholy eyes often made him a target for new people, especially in public. Growing up from a nervous child into an insecure mess of a teenager, being ostracised by the general population had hurt; a lot. Bullying had obviously been an issue but, then again, it was for everyone else too- the problem was the rapid extreme of either being devalued as a human being, or glorified as a literal demon.
From screaming children that burst into tears at the sight of him, too large crowds of churchgoers whispering ironically very loud about the possibility that he was the antichrist- he had experienced just about every type of abuse possible from roaming strangers. Varying between awkwardly long stares to full-blown physical attacks- he was used to it, intercepting horrified mothers in broad daylight was practically as common as eating breakfast at that point.
But doctors? They were the worst.
Anyone from a mildly scientific background immediately rejected the possibility of anything supernatural plaguing his system- instead, most of them went out of their way to poke and prod at him with gross latex gloves, overly cautious about touching him, and yet curious enough to probe at his insides nonetheless. Several years of intimidating men sticking him with large needles, and analysing his various bodily fluids had worn him down- the cold, detached look in their eyes as they bent over him, humming clinically as though they had forgotten that he was human. Placed under a microscope, furiously searching for any lurking secrets, quickly becoming angry and spiteful at the lack of evidence they managed to scrounge up- as though it was his fault for being a puzzle too hard to solve.
With a quirk of an eyebrow, Tord smacked his lips impatiently, "Well, McIntyre?"
Clearing his throat, McIntyre spotted a look of absolute disdain as he replied in a clipped, professional tone, "The operation has been theorised to take about eight hours- however, I would say that it is closer to twelve, as we are working with very delicate machinery."
"Twelve hours?" Baulking in surprise, Tom took a step forward, eyes wide as he looked incredulously at Tord, "I know you want me to be there for the procedure but- twelve hours?"
That was a lot of time to get lost inside one's head.
A little daunting, if he was being completely honest, considering the monstrous being he was sharing a mindscape with.
"Yeah?" It sounded like a question, even though it had no business being one. Reaching into the loose pocket of his sweat, Tord tugged out his phone, handing it to him with a pointed look, "I'm sure you can find a way to entertain yourself."
Opening his mouth, Tom rolled the device into his sweaty palms, swiftly closing it with a soft click of his teeth. Turning it over, he took note of the cracked screen, a large spiderweb fracturing the glass in long, wobbly fingers.
It took a lot of trust and unwavering loyalty to hand a partner such a personal, intimate item. All the possible scathing secrets scratching at the pads of his fingers, begging to be discovered.
"What's the passcode?" He mumbled, finally.
With a quirk of the lips, Tord stared at him for a few seconds, eyes intense, "You're a smart boy, I'm sure you can figure it out."
"Classic, stupid Tom."
Flinching, Tom closed his eyes, an ebb of deep, profound pain welling up in his chest. Holding the phone to his chest, he gripped it tight
"Right."
—
A/N: *In a high pitched voice* I wanna diiiieeeee