After many visits to his clinic over the last three months, Doc had gotten to know Lyra a bit more than the other refugees. On first assessment, Ruben was in the worst shape, but those were recent wounds. Lyra had far more poorly healed old wounds. Re-breaking bones was no walk in the park, but she handled it without complaint. He was well aware of her outlandishly high pain tolerance. Therefore, that which caused her to writhe in this manner would likely cripple another werewolf, or at least cause them to pass out. In any case, he had diagnosed her as soon as he entered the room. There was not much he could do at the moment, and from the report he received, this wasn't her first or second time dealing with it.
He breathed in heavily, leaning back and scanning the room in disapproval. No matter how he looked at it, this space was a high traffic storage closet. He nearly hoped that this place was where they quarantined her during her episodes. But he wasn't so naive.
He shifted in his seat, adjusting his white lab coat over his blue plaid pajamas pants. He was shirtless, but didn't seem to care enough to close the coat. He never went anywhere without the coat when expected to do medical treatment. To the point that it was an indication if "the doctor was in." Basically, if the Delta was seen without his lab coat, he should not be approached about official business unless it was a dire emergency.
He spoke unhurriedly, "Hey what's up with this room? Don't tell me these are your permanent living quarters?"
"I like… huff… alone…" Like the rest of her body's muscles, her tongue was tonic rigid. Her words were slurred and strained. Doc understood her all the same.
So, it was her assigned room. And of course Lyra would respond so nonchalantly. Contrary to her dreary presence, she was a "glass half full" kind of person. Who else would look at this shabby corner and respond with a preference of solitude. Any normal person would at least complain through a thinly veiled joke. More likely, they would be outraged by the injustice. Here she was grateful to live alone. Doc wondered if that was her preference because of her past or was it to avoid the people who were obviously looking down on her? Werewolves are social creatures. That's why the dorms were ideal, not just for saving space, they thrived on physical contact and close proximity to each other. To isolate a wolf was more akin to torture or banishment.
"Fine." Doc signed, he truly didn't want to interfere with domestic disputes. He would love to distract her with conversation, but it was impressive enough that she was forming words in her state. She likely couldn't manage anything more engaging. In any case, he wasn't skilled with small talk. Whatever. Lyra wasn't much of a talker to begin with.
"If this is what I think it is…" he trailed off.
Leaning his head down and tilting it to level with her, he made eye contact. His peppered eyebrows knitted together. This was going to be difficult to hear. But he had a feeling this clever girl already knew what was happening to her. He pressed his lips, hit tongue objecting to even utter the nefarious words.
With great effort, Lyra nodded her head, "It is. I'll be- ugh… f-f-fine. It only lasts- oooaaahh… huff...an hour or two."
Doc raked his fingers through his bed head. Usually his hair was combed straight back, he was obviously brought out of bed for this. Lyra felt apologetic he was woken for such a useless thing.
"Why is it getting worse, though? You should have him-"
Lyra cut him off with a low growl. Unlike her words, the growl was unbroken, clear and resonant. He responded with his hands up defensively. He'd drop it for now, but he ought to bring it up later, when she was less sensitive. This was no way to live.
"Okay, okay. I won't pry. But you know, the pain would be more bearable if you shift." Doc maintained his casual, almost-lazy tone. He knew it would put her more at ease than if he was confrontational or fussing over her. Lyra was uncomfortable with any kind of commotion or attention on her.
"Ugh" Lyra was taking deeper breaths, the episode was starting to fade. Within a few minutes, she was calmly sitting cross-legged, wiping her face with the damp cloth the Doc handed her. She sighed, leaned into the wall beside her bed, then finally responded to his suggestion.
"I can't."
His concern grew and he tentatively added, "I heard some useless gossip that your blood is diluted and you're unable to shift. But mix-blooded children are born either human or were', there is no such thing as a half-wolf. Wait, unless… Is there something wrong with your wolf?"
He didn't know the details, but knew that Lyra had spent several years at the Sanctified Guardian Society compound, subjected to whatever their warped minds inflicted on her. The fact that she was still a functioning person was a feat in itself. So, to think her wolf had been crippled or even perished during her imprisonment was not a far-fetched conclusion. What would that mean, how could she survive with half of her being gone from existence?
Lyra shook her head. Her shoulders drooped.
This started off as a difficult subject for anyone to get into, and now it was diving into another sensitive area. Werewolves invested their strength and identity with their wolf. To accuse one of having a weak wolf was essentially calling them useless. And if it was true, her confidence would sink that much lower. It couldn't be helped though, Doc needed to know in order to advise treatment effectively.
"No, my wolf is fine. I don't mean that I'm unable to shift. I just... can't." She paused, adding softly, "He'll find me."
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