turning out a good deed for a bad person. would that cancel things out, or would that make things matter even more?
[ rhetorical in spirit, moot in practice. she's pretty sure where she's headed when her time on earth is done. ]
i'm in st catherine's general. just past triage, but not quite in the scary ER cots. they don't ask very many questions here, not very nice for a hospital.
[ she's only mostly joking; the saints won't talk to her. something about the stain of saints repelling divine mortality. there are so many rules now. ]
good company in the face of isopropol and sutures? and maybe a pep talk. challenge ourselves a little.
ooh, a real challenge, then. can't say i've ever been the pep talk, but i'll give it a shot, just for you. see you in fifteen, j. tell the nurses i'm your estranged ex-husband, or something else equally fun.
[ fun probably isn't the best word for it, but she does take the remark to tell the attending nurse that her therapist is arriving to pick her up. it's been awkward, she says in a stage whisper. we were seeing the same person for a while.
the folks upstairs should appreciate the joke. she's trying her best. and when john does round the corner to where she's stationed— ]
Fourteen and spare change, [ she greets him, sparing a quick glance to her small-faced wristwatch. ] You really meant it.
[ A joke as much as any of the rest of it — he's fully capable of lying when it suits him, but with her— well, he's tried not to let her down. Now, for instance, he arrives with a tote bag slung over his shoulder, from which he produces a 6-pack of peach-mango juice boxes. As he takes a seat near her, he starts tearing the plastic that holds it together; when he manages to pull one box free, it's still one moment longer — taken to unwrap the straw and poke it through the little foil hole — before he hands it to her. He reaches into the bag one more time after that, retrieving a mini tub — just about the size of half a can of soda — of Maldon salt. ]
Who'd you get into a tussle with, then? Or, wait, does a lady never kiss and tell?
[ she murmurs a small thank you as she reaches for the little juice box, pursing her lips around the flimsy plastic straw as she drains the box in one go. a pinch of salt to wash the sweetness, sucking on her tongue, sticking it to the roof of her mouth.
salt to wash the wound; sweetblood to nourish. an echo of old habits, the consecration of the flesh. with her eyes falling closed she mouths along an old prayer, familiar latin but aimed a little lower.
the ache in her leg hums against her bones. she wants to reach for him. knee to floor, cheek to lap, fingers to eyes as cover. ]
[ He smiles, lopsided, as he watches her drink, only glancing away to set the rest of the juice boxes on the little table near them. Funny — he'd given up on any kind of prayer a long time ago, whether delivered up high or down, down beneath the earth. She still holds onto— something. He's not sure what. They haven't really spoken about it, not yet. ]
Sounds like a good kid.
[ That's about as far as he'll take the inquiry — asking whether or not she's dead seems uncouth, somehow. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
@gotten
turning out a good deed for a bad person. would that cancel things out, or would that make things matter even more?
[ rhetorical in spirit, moot in practice. she's pretty sure where she's headed when her time on earth is done. ]
i'm in st catherine's general. just past triage, but not quite in the scary ER cots. they don't ask very many questions here, not very nice for a hospital.
[ or very nice, depending on the need. ]
no subject
[ Just as rhetorical — he's made his peace with his lot after death, too. ]
not very nice, indeed. i'll try to call more nurses in when i arrive, shall i?
so, a juice box, a little salt — nothing else you need?
no subject
[ she's only mostly joking; the saints won't talk to her. something about the stain of saints repelling divine mortality. there are so many rules now. ]
good company in the face of isopropol and sutures? and maybe a pep talk. challenge ourselves a little.
no subject
ooh, a real challenge, then. can't say i've ever been the pep talk, but i'll give it a shot, just for you.
see you in fifteen, j. tell the nurses i'm your estranged ex-husband, or something else equally fun.
no subject
[ fun probably isn't the best word for it, but she does take the remark to tell the attending nurse that her therapist is arriving to pick her up. it's been awkward, she says in a stage whisper. we were seeing the same person for a while.
the folks upstairs should appreciate the joke. she's trying her best. and when john does round the corner to where she's stationed— ]
Fourteen and spare change, [ she greets him, sparing a quick glance to her small-faced wristwatch. ] You really meant it.
no subject
[ A joke as much as any of the rest of it — he's fully capable of lying when it suits him, but with her— well, he's tried not to let her down. Now, for instance, he arrives with a tote bag slung over his shoulder, from which he produces a 6-pack of peach-mango juice boxes. As he takes a seat near her, he starts tearing the plastic that holds it together; when he manages to pull one box free, it's still one moment longer — taken to unwrap the straw and poke it through the little foil hole — before he hands it to her. He reaches into the bag one more time after that, retrieving a mini tub — just about the size of half a can of soda — of Maldon salt. ]
Who'd you get into a tussle with, then? Or, wait, does a lady never kiss and tell?
no subject
[ she murmurs a small thank you as she reaches for the little juice box, pursing her lips around the flimsy plastic straw as she drains the box in one go. a pinch of salt to wash the sweetness, sucking on her tongue, sticking it to the roof of her mouth.
salt to wash the wound; sweetblood to nourish. an echo of old habits, the consecration of the flesh. with her eyes falling closed she mouths along an old prayer, familiar latin but aimed a little lower.
the ache in her leg hums against her bones. she wants to reach for him. knee to floor, cheek to lap, fingers to eyes as cover. ]
They had a kid. Pretty girl, about twelve.
Came home early from a sleepover.
no subject
Sounds like a good kid.
[ That's about as far as he'll take the inquiry — asking whether or not she's dead seems uncouth, somehow. ]
Good a reason as any to get distracted.