Can't Even Read The Signs

Cordova Police Station, 2:14PM

He felt it before it came. A good five minutes or so, the metallic taste of blood in his mouth, and a tremor that started in his fingertips and moved up his wrists. He put down his drawing pencils (the ones that Ramses had given him) and cleared his throat. He had a witness here that was supposed to be telling him about the man that had mugged her and she raised an eyebrow at him, tears streaking down her face. "Excuse me...." She said and he gave her a small smile. "I'm going to get someone else in here, one second."

He got up, leaving the sketchpad and his pencils behind, moving out of the room and bashing his hip on the doorway on his way out. That would bruise later, but he wouldn't be paying attention to it right now. Couldn't pay attention to it right now. He had to get out of here.

He peeked his head into a coworkers office and asked them to take over for him and without waiting for an answer (rather rudely, he'd apologize for that later), he wandered away to find an area that he could have his seizure in without injury, phone in hand.

He didn't even get a chance to send off an SOS to Connor and Jackie before he collapsed, convulsing. He'd never had a seizure at work before, this was a disaster.

  Every day offered something new. Usually that something was some kind of new suffering upon himself or the world. The line of work he’d chosen, and the dark corners he chose to occupy, all ensured that one or more dreadful occurrences or reminders was at least a daily event, and that thoughts of death should lurk behind every scene.
 There was peace to be had in such pessimism. Squall found it oddly liberating to expect the worst of suffering, because either his expectations were met or he was pleasantly surprised. The perspective made it easy to react when shit went sideways, like it did when he heard the heavy, hard smack of a body outside his office hitting the floor, and the wheezing of a human person in distress.
 The agent stood in his closet office and hastily moved to the door, pinching his piece beneath his arm and into his ribs, counting the bullets while he peeked out through the crack of the door. No threat, just a familiar face twisted in distress, his body lurching on the ground uncontrollably.
 "Mr. Payne." Agent Squall threw open the door and approached the convulsing body on the ground. He hesitated for a second, and then doffed his jacket to fold and place under the man’s head to stop it from crashing hard against the floor. He took his forcefully by the shoulder and turned him on his side, as he’d done with drug addicts before to stop them from drowning in their vomit.
 "Mr. Payne!" He spoke insistently, as if the authority of his voice might be enough to bring him back from whatever was happening. In the meantime he patiently tried to keep him in place but did not restrain his limbs or cry out for help, his mind racing with what else he could do, and coming up with little.

Kit continued to seize for a few short minutes, arms coming up to his chest and legs contracting. He'd count himself lucky later that he'd gone to the bathroom before sitting down with the tearful woman that had been mugged, but for now his mind was blank. His body went slack, eyes previously rolled up into the back of his head closed and his cheek finally rested on what was under his head.

It took a couple of seconds for him to open his eyes, head pounding with the pressure. He groaned silghtly and while he couldn't remember the last 10 or so minutes it was obvious to him that he knew what was happening. He was on the ground with several people starting to gather, his head on a... pillow? no... a jacket.... maybe? He felt disconnected. Like he couldn't focus on anything. Like he might throw up.

His eyes opened slowly and he blinked several times, not really focusing on anything in particular. He barely understood that someone was talking to him, but his mouth was dry and he needed some water. Where was he though? His eyes opened and he took in a ragged breath. Was that... his nurse? She was a little pale, wasn't she? No, no, that was a man. Ramses?


 There was no response at first. Squall repeated the command several more times throughout the course of the seizure, attempting to provide something grounding amidst the chaos, but he did not call anyone to aid. As far as he could tell, Payne was safe, and stable, and there was little to do but wait out the storm.
 At least he had hoped, and eventually was rewarded by the small, sickly man beginning to rouse.
 "Mr. Payne," he repeated, when he’d spoken, asking after someone who wasn’t there. "This is Special Agent Squall." Who was Ramses? A question to be shelved until later, but right now he had to be sure that he was okay. "Can you hear me?"

No. Not Ramses. It was his actual boss. He groaned, feeling awkward. "Yes, sir." Barely, mind you; but that wasn't new considering he'd been losing his hearing for quite some time. He squeezed his eyes shut as the sound of his own voice made his head pound a little harder. He took in a really deep breath and winced as his chest tightened.

"Did I fall?" He asked, trying to temper the headache with a softer voice. "Am in the way?"

Classic Christopher Austin Payne. Always worried about being in other peoples way instead of worrying about himself.

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