Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Being a guard at the Asylum is a tricky job, to say the least.

The inmates are always a handful and things hardly ever go as planned. It's a mess. Tonight, it's going to be worse than ever. There's a new patient being admitted, which doesn't happen often, even though you'd expect it would. But when it does, it always throws OverCast Asylum even farther into chaos. And that makes my job even harder and more awkward than it already is.

I sign inmates in when we do get new arrivals, and I'm relieved to hear the new one won't have a period; just earlier today we had a very bloody fiasco around three o' clock that cost me my lunch break.

"Name?" I ask the two guys holding the kicking, screaming new inmate.

"His name is Peter Kingston Wentz," one guy with insanely curly hair answers. I raise my eyebrows.

"Your name," I clarify.

"Oh. Uh-" the man in the middle kicks out wildly, and I wince as he hits the other man in the ribs. "Joseph Trohman." He says.

"And what jurisdiction do you have to admit him here?" I ask, wary. It doesn't happen often,  but I have heard cases where people are admitted illegally.

"We're his friends," Joseph says. I shake my head.

"Sorry, you have to be family or have his or his family's consent to admit him here." I switch my gaze between the two.

"Uh, we do have his permission," the other guy answers. It surprises me that an intimidating, buff looking guy with tattoos can be nervous around someone like me.

"Well, where is it? We need his written consent." Tattoos Guy shuffles around, managing to pull a piece of paper out of his pocket while holding on haphazardly to the grown man throwing a temper tantrum on his left.

I take the piece of paper, smoothing the crumpled document out on the counter.

Peter "Pete" Lewis Kingston Wentz III
Date of Birth: 5 June, 1979
Biological Gender: Male

This legal document states that if Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz III is ever to lose his mental status to the point of needing hospitalization for psychological illness and is either unable to or refuses to give consent, he is to be admitted by Joseph Trohman and/or Andy Hurley. This document therefore gives Joseph Trohman and/or Andy Hurley medical rights over Peter Wentz if he is unable to make informed decisions for himself.

Signatures

Pɛtɛʀ աɛռtʐ    Jօe Tɾօհʍɑղ  Aŋɖʏ Hųɾɭҽʏ 

"Peter Wentz" "Joe Trohman" "Andy Hurley"

It looks official, I'll give it that. "What part of the law makes this legal?"

"It's part of his will. It should be legal," the man named Joseph says. His friend in the middle, who I now know as Peter, or "Pete" has stopped struggling, and Joseph emits a sigh.

Printed on the paper in the top left corner is an updated photo of Peter. I hand the document to the woman at the front desk. "This should be legal, but double check," I turn back to Joseph and Tattoos Guy ( whose name I still don't know).

"I'm, uh, Patrick," I say, nervous now that I am not so concerned about the man trying to be admitted. I hold out my hand, and they look at me warily. I retract it, being reminded of the dead weight they share in the form of a squirming body between them.

"Well, uh, this way " I say, and lead them through a set of only one of thousands of wooden double doors crisscrossed with solid iron bars.

A few years after the asylum was built, an inmate managed to bust through the wood of the door and escape. Rumor has it the patient went on to be Jack the Ripper, but those were just rumors. Anyway, they added steel bars to enforce the wood.

"How long does intake last?" Tattoos Guy asks. He looks nervous again. Maybe it's just the fact that he's in an asylum, or that he's afraid for his friend. Either way, his shaky voice gives him away.

"Not long. We get very few new arrivals, since most of our patients are permanent residents," I say, and I see the fear in Joseph and Tattoo Guy's faces. I know I'm scaring them, but I only want to tell them the absolute truth. "And, intake is usually done without the patient. Most of them aren't cooperative and we prefer to get them settled as soon as possible after their arrival."

When we get to a door with the title ITEMS CHECK-IN, I take out my key ring and struggle to find the correct key. I really need to label these things. I have about a hundred keys, which open almost all the doors in the building. Most of them open more than one door, although the doors sharing a key are located on different floors for safety reasons, so most of the time I'm stuck struggling to find the right key.

It's always really awkward to have people stand there staring at you thinking you're  incompetent because you can't figure out how to open a door.

After the fifth key, I get lucky. The door pops open, and I gesture for them to go inside. We all shuffle in and I close the door behind us.

The Items Check In Room is filled with bins.

There are plastic bins lined up on the left wall for stuff that's to be trashed, along with a medical waste basket, a metal bin with a lock for recyclable items at the back, and one more lockable box that holds weapons. To the right, there's a bin for old clothes, and a hazard objects bin beside that. There's also bins that hold clean hospital gowns, slippers, and latex gloves.

"Check in is a process," I say, "First, we need any loose items Peter has on him." At this, Peter shrieks. I am not startled. This is common. Try to take something away from them, well, they'll often show you a reason to be admitting them here.

"Don't call him that. He likes to be called Pete. He will do that every time until you get it right," Joseph explains. I nod my head, knowing that most of the nurses will not care what he wants to be called.

I put a pair of gloves on and pat Pete down, finding a pack of cigarettes, a book of matches, and a bottle opener. I toss the cigarettes and the matches in the hazard box, and lock the bottle opener up in the weapons lock box.

I stand up. This is the awkward part. I actually get to leave for this part, thankfully, but it's still awkward as hell to explain the process.

"Well, um, I have to leave for now, because the next step isn't in my jurisdiction - I'm security mostly - but, uh, a nurse will be, um, coming in," I shrink under the confused yet still intimidating gaze of Tattoo Guy.

I clear my throat. This is so awkward. "Ah, a nurse will be coming in to strip search him and give him a shower and a hospital gown, and a few vaccines that are required. So, I'll be leaving. Um, you guys can come with me for the rest of the intake."

I sigh in relief as the door creaks open and a nurse in the usual white uniform pops her head in. I nod at her as I lead Tattoo Guy and Joseph through the door. "Hello, Patty," she says, and I sigh in exasperation.

"Don't call me that," I say. I absolutely hate that nick name.

The rest of intake goes smoothly. The paper work part, anyway. It doesn't go smoothly in my mind, if you know what I mean. And if you don't, then I mean I was internally freaking out the whole time.

This guy is a piece of work, let me tell you. History of Bipolar Disorder, suicide attempt (Joe and Tattoos guy, whose name I found out is Andy, say that there's only one official recorded attempt but are pretty sure there's been more than one actual attempt).

On top of it, he's had several explosive romantic and platonic relationships, which could be a sign of Borderline Personality Disorder or another illness, or possibly another side affect of Bipolar.

Those are the only solid ailments they have information on, but the list of individual symptoms is astonishing. Extreme irritability, nervousness, spacing out, among other things. The biggest thing they noted was that he says a lot of things that make no sense - like bits of poetry or song - and he spouts them randomly and for seemingly no particular reason. I know I'll have to write him down for possible schizophrenia or schizophrenic tendencies.

Their reason for admitting him is that he suddenly didn't remember who he was or who they were, though he's known them his whole life. He also spouts constant babble and seems to have hallucinations, although Joseph and Andy weren't quiet sure.

Finally I get the paperwork finished, Joseph and Andy decline the tour I offer, and  I can relax for my break before patrol starts again.

It's going to be another busy day. When my twenty minutes is up, I have two electroshock therapy sessions to oversee, along with evening commons time I have to be present for, then finally I have training.

I'm trying to get certified to be one of the very few male nurses, and training is fairly easy, but is very time consuming. I don't look forward to it.

*****

Only halfway through my break, as I'm trying to finish my first cup of coffee in time to chug my second, a nurse named Bertha walks in with what has to be the worst news ever.

I glance up from over the rim of my coffee cup as she leans over the counter I'm sitting behind. "Stumf!" She shouts, way too loud, getting my last name wrong. Again.

"I swear, Bertha, the 'H' is silent. It's S-T-U-M-P-H said Stump," I say, irritated. She ignores me, blowing her disgusting breath in my face as she gives me news I  would never be happy about even if I had a thousand years to think it over.

"You've got a personal project," she whispers. I am unsure why she's whispering as I'm three inches away from her.

"Huh?" I say, confused. I sip my coffee, stirring the contents left in the bottom.

"Peter Wentz is all yours, Stumf," she says haughtily. "Doctor Grayben says you get to take care of him personally as part of your nurse's training." I spit out my coffee all over the type writer in front of me.

"Damn it, I hope it doesn't get sticky keys," I whine, then snap at Bertha, "I can't. I've got security duties." At this, she smiles wider.

"Doctor says your duties as an officer are canceled. There's a new recruit to take the job." I take this moment to scream mentally.

Bertha sashays out after I start hyperventilating. Soon as she's gone, I bang my fists on the table. "Ah!" I scream out loud.

Now I wish I never tried to be a nurse. How am I supposed to take care of one nut job all by myself?

Chapter Text

I wake up not particularly happy the next morning.

I don't understand what Doctor Grayben is getting out of this, or why he seems to think this is a good idea. I'm still smack in the middle of my nurse's training, and besides, I'm probably going to screw it up anyway.

I'm seething irritation, getting dressed in my new work uniform, or trying to.

I gather my things, looking around my rather small apartment, hoping I haven't forgotten something again.

I always forget something. Every day, every single fucking day, there is something I forget. But no matter how many minutes I spend standing in my apartment, looking around, trying to figure out what it is, almost being late for work, I never know what it is until I need it, and then I'm fucked.

Maybe the reason I can't find anything has to do with the the instruments piled against the walls, the stacks of books and notebooks, one of many Leaning Piles of Sheet Music crammed into the corners that I always trip over.

I try to be a musician, a writer, I'm just not sure I'm getting anywhere. I can play perfectly - as long as its other people's music. Somehow, I can't write anything of original content. My own songs, my own guitar or piano, nothing seems to go right.

My apartment pretty much looks like the typical lovesick wanna-be songwriter recluse cave. And maybe it is, I mean its not like I go anywhere besides work. And it's not like I'm getting anywhere with the music but impeccable playing of melodies that aren't my own.

I gather my things, leaving my apartment and locking the door just knowing I am forgetting something even though I don't know what yet.

*****

I arrive at work after my usual mile walk (I don't have any other sort of transportation; besides, I like walking) disgruntled with wrinkled clothes. So much for looking good on my first day as a nurse.

It isn't even my fault, really. Something always happens to me on the way to work.

Today, a dog chased me for half the way to OverCast Asylum trying to fucking eat me or some shit. I'm beginning to think there isn't something bad that doesn't happen to me.

I clock in by the front desk, ready for my morning cup of coffee. I reach into my messenger bag...

... To find that I don't have my messenger bag. Oh, great, this means my coffee mug is  conveniently inside my apartment, along with my keys inside the messenger bag that I don't have.

Whatever. I don't want coffee anyway.

I ignore the coffee machine, earning a weird look from Bertha. I'm halfway down the hall when I break and have to go back and use a Styrofoam cup for my first dose of sickly sweet light brown coffee.

I chug it, and turn back around to go to my new patient's room. I really don't feel like spending a whole day toting this whack job around with me while Doctor Grayben laughs at me, let alone however long he decides to torture me.

But it's not as if I can afford to look for employment else where, is it?

I finally get to the door of Pete's room, which is open due to regulations since he's a new patient.

I push the metal door open the rest of the way as it is open but partly closed. It creaks on its rusty hinges.

Inside, Pete is lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling, not looking particularly pleased with the world.

It's not unusual for patients to do things  like this after they get settled in. After they stop screaming (as Pete did) they realize that they're stuck in here, definitely for a long time, maybe for life. That's when the real break down happens, and that's also where the real danger is. When they're alone with their own thoughts.

After I figure out I've been staring into space, I get Pete's attention by clearing my throat.

He looks over, a bored expression on his face until his eyes lock with mine.  Then he sits up, excitedly.

"Ah, can I come in?" I ask. Pete throws his legs over the side of the bed, patting the space beside him.

"Of course," he says, and I step warily into the room. I'd never seen a patient - or anyone, for that matter - so happy to see me.

I sit down on the bed. "So... Pete..." I begin, unsure of what I'm even supposed to say.

I can't say "Hey, I've gotta watch you, just the thought makes me wanna shoot myself, but lets be friends" can I? So I don't know what else I'm supposed to tell him.

He clamps his hand over my left arm. I jump. He's looking at me with more excitement than I really think necessary, with where he is and who I am and all.

"Ah, um, are you okay, Pete?" I ask. I don't mention that patients touching staff isn't allowed, and is against the rules, but I'm not sure if he's even been told.

"You called me Pete," he says, his tone calming a bit. "No one else here will call me that."

Oh. I haven't even realized I've been doing that. Doctor Grayben would chastise me for favoring patients (yeah, even in my situation) but it just seems so natural to call him Pete instead of Peter.

"Don't you like being called-"

"Hell yes! God. I hate the name Peter." He rolls his eyes and laughs. He removes his hand from my arm, and I give a relieved sigh. His nails have been digging into my arm.

He goes quiet, and I'm thinking about what to say to explain the situation. It really shouldn't be that hard, all I have to say is I'm his personal staff. It's not like he is anyone terribly important. There's no reason to be nervous.

"You look weird in that uniform," Pete comments, and I turn to look at him. He's giving my white slacks, shirt, and apron a once over.

"I'm changing professions, apparently," I say sarcastically. Pete laughs, and his laugh somehow sounds familiar, although I'm not sure from where or why. 

I clear my throat. "Ah, I'm sort of going to be your personal staff from now on," he stares at me, like he can't believe he got stuck with me of all people. I don't like the sudden change, and it pisses me off, but I don't say anything because I'm a coward and I'm too nice for my own good.

"Oh," he clicks his tongue. I look at him, trying not to give him the evil eye. My mouth may not show distaste, but I can give killer glares. Then he cracks a grin. "I'm just kidding, Christ, Patrick!" he slaps his hand back onto my shoulder. 

I wonder when I've told him my name.

I shuffle around, no longer uncomfortable now that he isn't actually clawing my shoulder but just resting his hand. I need to take him to breakfast, get his medication schedule, explain the rules, and I don't know how many other things. New patients are a lot of work, especially on the first day.

I sigh.

There are a million more things that can go wrong now that I'm a personal nurse, and I just know that all of them are going to happen to me.

I need another cup of coffee.

Chapter Text

I can't believe the amount of happiness Pete radiates around him. He's in a mental hospital, who is this excited to be in a place like OverCast Asylum, anyway? I don't even like it here that much, and I'm just part of the staff.

"I already ate breakfast," Pete says as he walks beside me, the swagger in his step obvious. I shuffle my feet forward, mostly looking at the floor and the walls. I keep my hands shoved deep into my pockets, missing the feel of my worn-in security uniform jacket.

"You're required to be escorted until you're approved to wander by yourself," I mumble, staring down at the cracked tiles in the hall.

"I was never told that. Or I wasn't listening. Either way, I never heard anything," Pete waves his hand as if he can wave the notion away that he, of all people, need to be escorted.

"Well, I'll be your escort from now on. And the person who gives you your medication, and the person that approves your clothes, and every other person you'll need, that will be me."

"I know, I know," Pete says, waving his hand again, shrugging, then giving a winning grin. "So, what are we doing now?" I check my watch, pulling up my stiff white uniform sleeve and squinting. It was hard to read the thing, but eventually I found it was around 8:30.

That's weird. "It's only 8:30, breakfast is at nine," I say, "How did you get breakfast already?" Pete stares at me.

"Patrick, it's 9:30, not 8:30." He shakes his head.

"My watch says-"

"You need your glasses, don't you?" Pete cuts me off. He takes my wrist and holds the watch closer to my face. I squint enough to see that it is indeed 9:30 and not 8:30.

"Oh," Is all I say. Pete shakes his head.

"You need to find your glasses," Pete says, "You probably lost them, but you'll find them in some pile of junk somewhere eventually." I stare at him apprehensively.

"How do you know my apartment's trashed?" I ask defensively.

"It's your style, Patrick. I just know you've got tons of music crap crammed into some little room," he talks like he has known me forever. It's creeping me out.

"How do you know that?" I repeat. He stops dead in his tracks, and I turn to look at him directly. He shakes his head slowly, almost sadly. Then he composes himself, looking back into my eyes while standing on his tip toes, even though he's taller than me.

"I know a lot of things 'Tricky," he says cheerily, back to his normal self just as suddenly as he'd turned dark. We start walking again, but I notice his step falters a bit.

"Oh, 'Tricky, if you only knew how much I knew... and why." Just barely audible, I hear him whisper to himself. He doesn't know I hear. The words startle me.

I don't know what he means, but it sends shivers down my spine.

Why does it unsettle me so much?

*****

"We've put you down for possible schizophrenia," I say, looking at Pete's charts. "And you already know you have bipolar disorder. Well, chances are, you're in for an electroshock session."

He gives me a scared look. "Why would they issue treatments so painful?" Pete asks.

"It's not like that- not painful, I mean," I clarify. "It sorta feels like falling asleep." Pete stares at me like I've lost my mind.

"Not painful? Electricity? In your brain?" He jabs his finger at his temple to emphasize each syllable.

"It's complicated. Don't worry, I tried it once, I would know. It's something to do with how your brain works or something, the electrical pulses your brain sends off, that's why it doesn't feel like your brain is cooking." I look at him out of the corner of my eye as I continue to scan the treatment charts. He expression is only slightly less worried.

All that's on here is vital states, medical history, and suggestions on treatment. Since he's my "project" I get the final say as to what his treatments are. I nod.

"I'll schedule you for tomorrow before lunch. It's better if you can eat afterwards," I add. "For now, I think I'll put you on group therapy with... um," I falter, flipping through the group charts to see if there is an opening for Pete.

Fuck. The only spot open is with Bertha. I groan audibly.

"What?" Pete asks.

"There's only one spot open, with this nurse, she's kind of um..." I trail off. What word could possibly describe someone as vile as Bertha?

"A bitch?" Pete suggests. I nod, smiling.

Maybe he's my kind of guy.

*****

Eventually I decide to put him in as personal counseling from myself, because I would rather stab myself in the neck with a knife than be anywhere near Bertha for any more time than I have to.

"So, Pete... do you know why you're here?" I say, tapping my pen nervously against the clipboard. I felt ridiculous before I even sat down. I wasn't a therapist for God's sake. I was supposed to be a security guard.

Pete shakes his head. "They tell me I don't remember who I am or who my friends are. Personally, I'd like to clarify that I do know who they are, but not here and not now."

I stop tapping to write down his words.

Knows friends; not at this time or place

"And... ah, what do you mean by that?" I ask, perplexed.

"They're different. Andy is scared of everyone, and that's definitely unusual. And since when does Joe go by Joseph? Um, never. Are you writing this down?" He leans over and taps the edge of my clipboard with his index finger impatiently. I jot down a paraphrase of what he's said.

Andy is frightened, and "Joe" goes by "Joseph." This is unusual.

Pete watches me intently before hesitating and saying, "There's something else... I feel like I need to tell you. You won't understand anything until you get the big picture, so..." he gesticulates with his hands, somewhat aimlessly.

I start tapping my pen again. "Well..." I motion for him to finish.

He stops, as if thinking, then blurts out, "We're Fall Out Boy." I stare at him, clueless.

"What?" I say dumbly. My mouth hangs open, and I'm sure I look pretty idiotic. I close my mouth, my teeth clicking together a little too hard, and lean back. The term "Fall Out Boy" sounds oddly familiar, though I know it can't be.

"We're... a band. You and me and Andy and Joe. We're in a band called Fall Out Boy, and we started out really small and kinda shitty but now we're like super popular!" I look at him, wide-eyed. I'm taken aback; I have no idea what he's talking about. It's probably the schizophrenia... or the bipolar. We're not even sure he has schizophrenia at this poi-

"You have to believe me, Patrick!" he grabs my shoulders suddenly and shakes me. I'm paralyzed as he leans close and says, "The only problem is... we're in the wrong place, and I mean you could go by myself, but..." he stops, takes a breath, then says very quietly, "I- we need you. I mean, me and Joe and Andy. Patrick, if I went by myself it would be a train wreck, because... my god, Patrick, I killed you in the other world! I crashed our tour van!"

His nails are digging into my shoulders. He's looking at me with a crazed expression. I can't move, can't speak, can't breathe. Sure, I've had to rush people, I've had to take down distraught patients and violent parents. But in all my time at OverCast Asylum, I have never once been attacked myself.

"Hey, so where do I- Whoa!"A young man stops in his tracks in the doorway, looking bewildered. He'd thrown the door open only seconds before but I hadn't noticed, being in the middle of Pete having an episode and all. Pete releases his grip upon noticing the man's presence, then moves sullenly back to his seat, like he was disappointed he hadn't been able to finish his prophecy or whatever crazy bullshit he was trying to spout at me.

"Are you guys okay in here?" The man asks. I swallow the insane amount of saliva that had collected in my esophagus from Pete scaring the shit out of me. I nod and sit up in my seat.

I clear my throat. "What did you need?" I turn to the man, whose hair is pretty much perfect (just saying) and matches his shiny black suit.

"Yeah, uh, Doctor Graybeard something or other told me to look for..." he looks at a blob of ink smeared on top of his hand. "Patrick Stump?" I groan inwardly.

"That's me," I say, wondering what new torture Grayben has in store for me. "What did he send you to me for?"

He gives me a smile, then says, "He said you were supposed to show me around, since I'm new to the nursing scene and all." He steps forward and holds his hand out to shake. I take it, and his hand is warm and grip firm. "You can call me Nurse Brendon." He winks at me as he drops my hand.

"I'm Pete!" Pete interjects. Brendon gives him an odd look, probably wondering who this guy is he just saw clawing my shoulders off.

"Hi, Pete," Brendon says warily with a small wave. He turns back to me. "So," he begins, "What the heck are scrubs?"

That's when I groan out loud.