Absit Omen RPG
Role-Play Boards => St. Mungo's => London => First Floor: Creature-Induced Injuries => Topic started by: Margo Amherst on August 07, 2011, 03:53:22 PM
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What did one bring to a man sitting in the hospital? The real question was really what did one bring to a man in the hospital that had almost gotten mauled by a criminally insane homicidal maniac because you’d been staying with him, hiding from said maniac, and he’d broken into your flat? That was a troubling (and very long) question that Margo labored over a little more than she thought she would have. Finding Bagnold in her flat, just having that visceral feeling that something horrid had happened, particularly when she came in late at night and Bagnold was not there – and then everything that happened after… Margo felt like she owed him – well, she knew she owed him something.
After all, when she had visited the previous day, Bagnold hadn’t even responded to her presence. Although it was not the same way as when he would blatantly ignore her on purpose, she felt like even seeing him angry at her would have been better than the half coherent babbling and frequently passing out lump on the bed he had been. She had tried to make a joke about that with one of the mediwitches – you know, never seeing a man in that condition except after spending time with her – but apparently it was thought to be in bad taste. Whatever the case, Margo had spent several hours there until finally she was asked to leave – visiting hours being over and she not being direct family (apparently roommate did not count as next of kin), so she had to leave.
Plus, the protective detail assigned to his room really gave her the creeps. They were constantly staring at her. She figured it was because they were jealous that Bagnold had a pretty woman at his side the whole time – when his family wasn’t there, that was – and even then, she was friends with his sister… it wasn’t so weird.
She had spent the night in a hotel – her own flat being completely trashed from the confrontation that had taken place inside, and Bagnold’s being identified as unsafe and a target, so she was located somewhere different. It wasn’t the same, of course, and despite the comfortable mattress without human imprints on it, Margo couldn’t sleep at all, which was unusual for a woman who barely let anything bother her enough to interfere with her sleep. Margo assured herself that it was obviously due to the encroachment on her own home that had her so worked up – not any sentimental feelings she might have about her grumpy roommate.
So, instead, she sat up and thought about what she would do now that he was supposed to be fully awake. People brought things to the hospital for the people they visited. But what? Finally, at about five fifteen, Margo decided flowers were going to be the best option. Unfortunately, getting good flowers on short notice was just about impossible. So, Margo walked into St. Mungo’s with the ugliest assortment of green and brown insect eating flowers one could find and something that smelled a little off… but they were the best she could do.
At least the card was semi-decent. She had even tried to write something nice in it – which was completely against her nature. She figured after he practically died trying to help her, it was the least she could do. So, vase in hand, clad in her typical leather pants – though slightly more appropriate t-shirt than tank-top, Margo walked into the hospital, signed in – didn’t even need to ask where to go, and walked up to the first floor, and toward the men in long dark robes who stoically guarded the door.
They ripped the flowers out of her hands, inspected them – made a face when they sniffed at them, to which Margo shrugged, and then tried to reverse all charms on her – which only succeeded in frizzing her hair – to which the guard hastily reversed, much to Margo’s annoyance and pleasure – she wasn’t particularly sure. But finally, after that ordeal, Margo was allowed inside, holding her deemed safe (but ugly) flowers, and peeked around the swirly branches.
“Hey,” she greeted, “I got you these.”
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The hours since he'd awoken in St. Mungo's had blended together in a potions-induced haze. Kurby groggily remembered waking up, remembered the blur of people talking in barely-comprehendible voices over his head. He still felt too drained to complain or protest, but whether it was from the medicinal brews that the Healers kept insisting on dumping down his throat or the experience from two nights prior, he was far too exhausted to care.
Few things stood out in his recent staggered recollections. A muddled conversation with Adon Eleor the night before. A similarly muddled but much less reassuring one with his own brother, which he thought had happened earlier that day. And through it all, the constant sharp pain in his shoulder, which varied between something he could almost ignore and an aching, debilitating torment that made him grit his teeth. Potions couldn't heal werewolf bites, even when the werewolf hadn't been transformed. There were other things he didn't want to think about that healed even more slowly.
He was fully intending to simply sleep until such a time as he was capable of getting up under his own power (and leaving to go fecking murder Macduff), but yet again, the rest of the world did not seem inclined to cooperate. Kurby didn't want to fully wake up and deal with whoever the hell had taken it upon themselves to bother him this time, but instinct made him groggily crack an eyelid nonetheless.
It took a moment to really focus on who was standing there, to get his brain to start processing voice and vision well enough that he could put a name to the figure. The werewolf hunter closed his eyes, his throat tightening as he made an attempt to swallow. Trying to use words to explain why he didn't want whatever Margo Amherst had brought, why he didn't want to see her at all, not when he was exhausted and feeling more exposed than he had in a long time, was far too much effort. Even the thought of arguing with her hurt. He just wanted his sister's friend to go away.
But the moments ticked on and there were no departing footsteps. It could have stretched to five seconds, ten; Kurby gave an exhausted sigh. If there was one thing he had learned in the frustrating month of allowing Amherst to live with him, it was that she rarely gave up before she got what she wanted. Maybe if he said something, she'd leave him the hell alone.
Kurby grimaced, gritting his teeth as he tried to think. He had no idea what she wanted him to say; no clue what magic words would satisfy the woman and make her leave so that he could go back to sleep in peace.
"Yeah," he said finally, his voice hoarse and strained. "Thanks."
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Somewhere, deep in the back of her mind, Margo understood why Bagnold would close his eyes and try to look like he was sleeping, but Margo was not the type to actually let that impact whether or not she was going to walk in. Bagnold had done something for her, something he didn’t need to do – and while he was passed out the previous day from whatever potions they were giving him, she had said multiple times that he didn’t have to. She had also pointed out that when he healed, at least scars are sexy.
She figured she might as well give him something to subconsciously think about and ingrain in his mind. After all, it wasn’t a lie – there was a reason Margo always gravitated toward men in dangerous lines of work and dangerous lines of work herself, scars were cool – they told a story. She wasn’t sure, however, that Bagnold would appreciate this story. She was also fairly certain she knew him well enough to know that he wasn’t going to appreciate her presence.
But, she had never minded that so much before. In fact, she lived to do what was contradictory to the desires of others. She only felt slightly bad that he could not fight her off as he would normally attempt to – Margo had a sneaking suspicion that he only half fought anyway. Secretly, deep down, he did not hate her as much as he pretended to. He was just surly.
So, putting the flowers – at least what she was going to call flowers - down on the side table, Margo decided to make the best of the most awkward moment of her life and plop down in the chair by his bed. “At least they didn’t have to cut it off, yeh?” she quirked a half smile, leaning back in the chair.
“Plus, the pain potions aren’t so bad – I reckon you’re used to it anyway,” she babbled, just because she could – plus, if she didn’t act so awkward maybe he wouldn’t. “Must be in here a lot. I know I am – or was, really. Don’t get much of that in the office nowadays… but you know,” she shrugged, “After a leg and being mostly charred…”
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It would have been too easy for Amherst to get the picture and walk away. She wasn't even content to let him be miserable in peace: apparently opening his eyes at all had given her all the invitation she needed to claim the chair next to his bed and start prattling on.
Kurby did not care. He did not care what the witch had brought him, he did not care about her experiences in St. Mungo's, and he certainly didn't care what she thought he was or was not used to. Stints in the hospital were nothing out of the ordinary for members of the Werewolf Capture Unit, but his usual stays on the first floor were nothing like this. A bad scratch here, a broken arm there -- half the time, even his sister Rosheen forgot to send a card. It all came in the line of duty, and even the worst of his regular injuries were always matter of fact. So long as he didn't get bitten, he didn't give a bleeding damn.
But this hadn't been usual. He'd been bitten by untransformed werewolves before -- although only Godric Gryffindor knew if the goddamn direwolf curse would cause any complications -- but never in such a way that left him feeling this alone, this helpless. Kurby had pretended to be completely asleep earlier when a Healer had stopped by to talk of the potential lingering effects of the Cruciatus Curse. Like with Amherst, he simply didn't give a damn; if he was going to be doomed to helplessly mull over things, he'd rather mull over ways to successfully separate Macduff's head from his flea-bitten body.
No one had apparently sent Amherst that owl. She was still talking, and between the headache and the potions, his brain couldn't even process whatever she was complaining about quickly enough so that he could properly ignore her.
"Maybe if you stopped settin' everything on fire," he muttered at her, then gave a sigh. Even the effort of thinking enough to speak hurt. He opened his eyes enough to give her a tired look.
"What do you want, Amherst?" The words came out sounding more exhausted than exasperated, but Kurby was tired enough that he didn't care. He just wanted her to go away. "Leave whatever stupid thing you brought. I didn't ask you to come here."
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Margo was just trying to help. She felt responsible, like it was her duty to help in some way. It had been in her flat that he had gotten attacked, mostly because she hadn’t been there and dragged him into her messed up problems with Dugan. It was a dumb mistake, sure, and she probably shouldn’t have just gone home with some stranger that night – it was obvious that Margo had a very poor ability to judge characters. Getting herself tangled with Dugan was one thing – clearly she also couldn’t judge Bagnold’s character either.
He was being so rude. Not necessarily out of the ordinary, but still – it wasn’t like she had done something to actually piss him off. She was trying, at least.
“You don’t have to be such a prick about everything, you know,” Margo pointed out suddenly – there was a ruffling from outside the door – clearly at least one of the guards agreed about that, and instead of doing what she knew would make Bagnold happy, she sat firmly in the chair, crossing her arms over her chest and swiveling to face him more full on, rather than the kitty-corner the chair was in.
Before he had a chance to cut in, Margo continued. “I mean, I understand you’re tired and clearly irritable from pain or whatever, but you could at least appreciate someone came to see your sorry, miserable arse in this place. Now you might as well pretend to not mind, because I don’t intend to leave you here alone to wallow in whatever it is you’re currently wallowing in.”
Bagnold, despite all of his angsty whining, was really above feeling sorry for himself and shutting up inside of himself. Margo responded to tragedy with a fierce desire to bite it right back in the arse - Bagnold looked like he could just crawl into a ditch. Unacceptable.
She leaned back in the chair, fully content that she got that out and looked around the room – clearly, he had gotten a few cards, though nothing like her present. She took a moment, sighed and got up – discomfited by the awkward silence, but determined to do something productive and come back – maybe he’d come around with a moment or two alone. “I’m going to get some coffee. I’ll get you something if you want it.”