I Know Places (Taylor Swift Imagines) (GxG)

I Wish I Could Believe Me, Too

surprise update! The Tortured Poets Department Part II

Taylor's eyes snap up at the sound of the door of her confinement unit opens softly. Cart wheels roll in, and she eyes wearily the pills she has to take today.

"Good morning, 0013," you say as you walk in, wheeling the cart along with you.

Taylor's eyes meet yours with a flat, uninterested gaze. She slowly sits up straighter, her movements languid.

"Morning."

After a brief pause, she asks, "Are you going to make me take those pills again?"

"Yes," you whisper, offering a smile, how ever small and sad it is. "I'm sorry."

Taylor's lips curve into a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes.

"Oh, no need to apologise, doctor. It's not like I have a choice in the matter," she says as she holds out her hand, her movements stiff. "Just give me the damned pills so we can be done with it."

"You're set for another session with the Neuro-stims*¹ today," you whisper, handing Taylor the first pill she's to take today.

Taylor's fingers curl around the pill as she nods in acknowledgment, her expression resigned yet steely. She knows the routine all too well — the clinical exchange of pills, the quiet compliance amidst the sterile environment of her confinement.

"I'll get through it," she murmurs, more to herself than to you, as she swallows the pill with a sip of water from the cup you've provided.

You watch her closely, your gaze lingering on the subtle tension in her jaw, the flicker of discomfort in her eyes.

Each pill represents a compromise, a surrender to the department's protocols and the demands of the experiments.

Handing her the next pill, you continue in a hushed voice, "And now the Emotrilene."

Taylor's gaze meets yours briefly, a silent acknowledgement of the emotional stability these pills are meant to induce. She takes the next pill without protest, though the lines of strain around her eyes deepen imperceptibly.

As the session progresses, you guide her through the regimen, each pill serving its prescribed purpose in the ongoing study. Taylor remains quiet, her focus shifting inward as she processes the effects of the medications.

"Thank you, Doctor," she finally says softly, setting the empty cup aside once she's taken the last pill.

"You're welcome, Taylor," you reply gently, a hint of empathy in your voice. Despite the clinical detachment required of your role, you can't help but feel a pang of admiration for her resilience.

As you prepare to leave the confinement unit, Taylor's voice stops you. "Doctor Y/L/N . . . Wait."

You turn back, meeting her gaze with curiosity. Taylor hesitates for a moment, as if searching for the right words amidst the controlled environment that stifles spontaneity and emotion.

"Is everything going to be okay?" she asks, her voice soft, almost pleading. Her eyes hold a vulnerability that pierces through the clinical façade, revealing the human beneath the subject number.

You pause, considering your response carefully. The truth is elusive within these walls, where optimism and uncertainty often collide in the pursuit of scientific discovery.

Tears well in your eyes despite the reassuring, "Yeah," you softly give.

"I wish I could believe you," Taylor whispers, her voice barely audible in the sterile silence of the confinement unit.

"I wish I could believe me, too," you admit quietly, your own doubts and reservations echoing her sentiment. In this place of controlled experiments and calculated risks, assurances are measured against the unpredictable nature of human experience.

Taylor nods slowly, her expression reflecting a mix of understanding and resignation. She knows the boundaries of your role as much as you do — the delicate balance between empathy and adherence to protocol.

With a final nod of acknowledgment, you turn towards the door, the weight of Taylor's question lingering in the air. As you exit the confinement unit and close the door behind you, the polished gold Serif of the placard catches your eye once more.

NS 0013.

Walking away down the sterile corridor, you carry with you the echoes of Taylor's voice and the weight of her unspoken fears.

*1: those machines in the music video that zaps Tay with the electricity