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11. Ocicat (Spam)
Oct. 26th, 2013 02:21 pm[Infirmary]
[He's here, every day, and sometimes at night. He isn't tethered to it like Morgana is, but that just makes him more reluctant to go. He hates leaving her alone with Bruce; and he likes to make himself available when Bruce is absent, when it's marginally safer for patients to slip in and out.]
[Banner isn't here today, so it feels safer to show affection, to be easy in how much they have come to matter to each other. He greets her with a kiss to the cheek, playful and friendly.]
Good morning, my Queen.
[On Deck]
[It is, frankly, stupid. It's incredibly public, and his role as a doctor doesn't protect him from everyone. But he needs to spend time here, needs to see the stars as badly as he needs water. He was never an astronavigator, but sometimes he thinks he recognizes a certain conglomeration of stars. It reminds him that their are worlds and worlds beyond this little Hell. Somewhere, there's his - as free and happy and safe as he had the power to leave it, commended completely at last to its own governance before he died, like a child growing up. He hopes they're well.]
[His Room]
[His own room is no infirmary, but he does what he can with what he manages to accumulate. And so long as he isn't being hounded by Bianca or Kelsier or Bush - and they can find him elsewhere easily enough, or summon him - it's as safe as anywhere else, gentler than most places on the barge. It's a comforting space, a tiny little slice of the Lily Palace where he retired with Anastasia, all warm light and creamy columns arraigned in flowering vines, fluting in soft harmonies where the air passes through their musically honeycombed bodies.
The bed is a self-indulgent nest filled with scraps of blankets, now that its previous nanosilks have been taken by Bush, but it's comfortable enough and warm; patients go on the gravity couch, suspended in empty air as gently as possible while he works.]
[Spam for Hannibal]
[He knocks on his friend's door, rapid and strained. He doesn't trust any of the things he's thinking to the communicators, whether he ends up going through with them or not.]
[Private to Barbara]
Can you let me in the lab, please?
[He has to ask every time. And she has most certainly noticed that he goes when Bianca isn't there.]
[Spam for Sylvanas]
[Mostly he doesn't exert himself seeking the wounded out; he has enough to do. But he makes a few exceptions, and Sylvanas is the only regular one. She needs care, almost daily. It is a horrible, futile grind, patching her up only so her grandiose mad dog of a warden can rip her apart again. There was a time Risen wondered if Arthas might pace himself a little more, if she had no one tending her; he knows better now. He would just let her die, over and over, and the toll is no longer reliable. She is barred from the infirmary and often hasn't the strength to stagger to find him, so he comes to her room, dwindling supplies in his hands.]
[He's here, every day, and sometimes at night. He isn't tethered to it like Morgana is, but that just makes him more reluctant to go. He hates leaving her alone with Bruce; and he likes to make himself available when Bruce is absent, when it's marginally safer for patients to slip in and out.]
[Banner isn't here today, so it feels safer to show affection, to be easy in how much they have come to matter to each other. He greets her with a kiss to the cheek, playful and friendly.]
Good morning, my Queen.
[On Deck]
[It is, frankly, stupid. It's incredibly public, and his role as a doctor doesn't protect him from everyone. But he needs to spend time here, needs to see the stars as badly as he needs water. He was never an astronavigator, but sometimes he thinks he recognizes a certain conglomeration of stars. It reminds him that their are worlds and worlds beyond this little Hell. Somewhere, there's his - as free and happy and safe as he had the power to leave it, commended completely at last to its own governance before he died, like a child growing up. He hopes they're well.]
[His Room]
[His own room is no infirmary, but he does what he can with what he manages to accumulate. And so long as he isn't being hounded by Bianca or Kelsier or Bush - and they can find him elsewhere easily enough, or summon him - it's as safe as anywhere else, gentler than most places on the barge. It's a comforting space, a tiny little slice of the Lily Palace where he retired with Anastasia, all warm light and creamy columns arraigned in flowering vines, fluting in soft harmonies where the air passes through their musically honeycombed bodies.
The bed is a self-indulgent nest filled with scraps of blankets, now that its previous nanosilks have been taken by Bush, but it's comfortable enough and warm; patients go on the gravity couch, suspended in empty air as gently as possible while he works.]
[Spam for Hannibal]
[He knocks on his friend's door, rapid and strained. He doesn't trust any of the things he's thinking to the communicators, whether he ends up going through with them or not.]
[Private to Barbara]
Can you let me in the lab, please?
[He has to ask every time. And she has most certainly noticed that he goes when Bianca isn't there.]
[Spam for Sylvanas]
[Mostly he doesn't exert himself seeking the wounded out; he has enough to do. But he makes a few exceptions, and Sylvanas is the only regular one. She needs care, almost daily. It is a horrible, futile grind, patching her up only so her grandiose mad dog of a warden can rip her apart again. There was a time Risen wondered if Arthas might pace himself a little more, if she had no one tending her; he knows better now. He would just let her die, over and over, and the toll is no longer reliable. She is barred from the infirmary and often hasn't the strength to stagger to find him, so he comes to her room, dwindling supplies in his hands.]
