đ” đ đž đ« đ·đ¶ đ» (jukejoint) wrote in doorslogs, @ 2012-04-21 02:24:00 |
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Entry tags: | alistair, christine daae |
Who: Sam and Kieran
What: Inhaler procurement
Where: The Clinic
When: Earlier in the week
Warnings/Rating: Language
She didnât go by Kieranâs clinic until the day after her crap had been safely smuggled into her room at the Aria. She was still coughing sporadically from the smoke at the Studios, and she was counting on the Murse not charging her to place his cold stethoscope against her tits. Theyâd bonded, hadnât they? Surely taking a bite out of someoneâs neck while holding onto their dick counted for something.
Sam pushed through the doors at the clinic, and she didnât bother putting her name on the sheet that was affixed to the clipboard. Instead, she leaned over the counter, and she grinned. She didnât have any idea what Kieran looked like, not when he wasnât being some dapper motherfucker in a suit at a masquerade, and she just grinned at the person behind the counterâs bowed head. âIâm looking for Kieran,â she said, all Jersey and round vowels. âThe Murse.â
She was dressed in overalls and a wifebeater that was barely decent, so worn through was it, skin bared at the hip and no bra in sight. Yeah, she was definitely a free clinic kind of girl in her worn combat boots. Funny thing was, her heart wasnât in it these days, and she blamed Christine for that crap. But no, she was here to give the murse shit and get an inhaler on the house. No introspection; not today.
The woman at reception chuckled, âHear that murse?â The man standing behind her in green scrubs tried to duck his chin, hoping to hide his amusement somewhere in his paperwork to no avail. Scribbling a few few more lines onto his clipboard before setting it aside he walked up to the counter, the woman beside him shaking her head and going back to her own work, and Kieran looked over at the woman in the waiting room.
âThe Murse,â he drawled, dripping in mock seriousness, âat your service.â He had had a few phone calls for people coming into the clinic and had told them all to ask for him by name. That, his dual jobs and countless patients seen on any given day, and the fact that he was one of the few male nurses around - a dying breed, he would say, only they werenât dying or breeding - made it very hard to be bothered by not knowing the would-be-patientâs identity on sight. Though he didnât voice the question, it was all in the raise of his eyebrow and the lack of recognition as he scanned her face. âHow can I help you?â
Sam wasnât shy, and she looked him over from head to toe, stopping in places along the way to take in the way the green scrubs fit. Not bad, she decided, her lip quirking up in an indication that yeah, ok, he would do. She didnât straighten, and she only leaned further on the counter, her torso along the flat, cheap wood. It was indecent as hell, maybe. Cheeky as fuck, maybe. And she grinned, because she knew she was making a scene, and she liked it that way. It was a way to let off some steam, because things had been crap, and she needed some outlet. And the Victorian virgin in her mind didnât really allow for a whole lot of outlet now. Sure, masturbating on Neilâs bed was one thing, but now Christine just had annoying questions and a constant, annoying need to make sure no one had killed each other. It was a buzzkill.
âDo I need to grab my little red hood?â she asked, all smirk and glossed lips and trouble in overalls.
âAh the wolfâs arrived,â he grinned, leaning in as she did and letting his eyes roam over her as casually as hers did over him. The nurse beside him clucked her tongue, scandalized and disapproving, and it made his smirk widen, tongue flicking over his edges of his teeth in a quick moment. âFunny, you donât look sick. Or burned, if I recall that was the reason. Do I need to get a closer look at you?â Another snort to the side of him that he pointedly ignored.
She coughed and, ok, so maybe it was exaggerated, but only a little bit. âSmoke inhalation. I lived in that place that burnt like bad barbecue. How about an inhaler, Murse?â She straightened, keeping her hands on the counter. âOff the books?â That was a serious question, because she wasnât kidding about the whole no money thing. Almost everything she had went to her metals and, after losing the apartment, even most of that was gone. As was the potential to sell some drugs when things got slim. No way she was going to make contact with suppliers; she wasnât that stupid. Sheâd seen Clarissa come home roughed up before, and she wasnât going to play that game. Sheâd steal shit if she had to, but thatâs about as far as she was willing to go.
There was a flicker of a grimace, a quick look to see if his coworker was looking at them but she was ignoring them, thankfully. âCome on,â he said, a tilt of his head toward the back of the clinic before he moved there himself. He swung around reception to open the waiting room door, gesturing for her to join him on the other side. Might as well pretend to at least follow correct regulation. âYou live at the Willows too?â Small world, though he couldnât be too surprised by it. If he had known he might have reached out sooner. Then again, he might not have. He hadnât had much time to dwell on anything after trying to find a quick motel to crash in while the fire business sorted itself out.
âHell, no,â she said, following him like she had every right in the world to do so, coworkers, supervisors, or not. âI lived at the Studios. They burnt up the day before. You going to offer to save my homeless ass?â she asked, walking past him and into an exam room, where she slid up onto the white-crinkle paper covered table and swung her legs, very much like little red on the roof. She grinned, all certainty and brashness, and it made her look older, hid her age like makeup might hide it on other women. âRelax. Someone else already came to the rescue. I just need you to dose me up.â Then, without warning, her expression went more serious. âI am sorry, you know, about trying to devour you. Itâs normally not my thing.â
âMe? Be chivalrous?â At the corners of his mind he felt Alistair scoff in time with him. âNah, I was hoping I could crash at your fancy new digs since the motel life doesnât suit me. But I doubt your knight would like another damsel. I donât have the heaving bosoms for it.â He flicked the fabric of his scrubs as if mourning his flat chest before leading her into one of the empty patient rooms. As for the whole biting nonsense, âNo harm, no foul. Or maybe itâs no permanent harm, so no end to the teasing youâll get from me about it.â Such was Kieranâs sense of humor. What didnât kill him was joke fodder. âYou said inhaler, anything else? Manage to escape the fires with nothing more than a cough?â He was used to patients, not exactly lying, but skirting truth so he figured he might as well cover all his bases.
âJust smoke,â she said of her exposure to the fire. âIt was the unit downstairs, so we had time to blaze out of there before shit got too hot.â She quirked a brow at his very flat bosom, and she scoffed. âI donât think youâre Neilâs type, baby. Hell, Iâm not Neilâs type. Iâm not really sure what is, so, wait, maybe you are his type.â She grinned, swung her booted feet hard enough to catch him in the thigh, and then she gave him an innocent smile, as if she hadnât intended it at all. âSo, this is work, huh?â she asked, looking around. Somehow, sheâd thought suit guy on the roof would be rich, or maybe that was just because everyone was loaded lately. Even when heâd admitted to being a nurse, sheâd thought it was at some swanky private office. âWhy here?â
âOh, Neil, you say,â he asked in an over-the-top tone that belied any actual interest, a trait picked up when spending copious amounts of time with sisters or female co-workers, both of which Kieran had in spades. âWhy the free clinic? Isnât it obvious?â He turned to the cabinets on the far wall and gestured to the stark walls, clinical clean and dotted with the occasional body diagram or universal pain chart. âSure as shit not in it for the glory, or the pay. More for the work, and the need. Not everyone can afford the care and I have quite the bleeding heart.â He grabbed what he needed from the supplies and turned back to her, checking her face to see if she bought his lines. True though they were, he knew hardly anyone took what he said at simple face value. â âsides, everyone needs a hand. Even you did, though youâre all White Knight-ed. What do you need me for? Oh, right.â He shook her prized inhaler between his fingers with a grin.
âOh, shut up,â she said, sounding as young as she actually was, and she kicked her other foot at him and grabbed for the inhaler he was shaking between his fingers. âSmartass.â She wasnât sure if she actually believed him or not, and she hoped that didnât meant Christine was starting to fuck with her judgement. Because, obviously, Christine really sucked at life choices. But, yeah, she couldnât tell, and she stared him for a few seconds while she tried to figure it out.
âYou love it,â he laughed, fingers curling around the inhaler and pulling his arm back lest she actually snatch it away from him. âIf I give it to you and then what?â He gave her a long suffering sigh and a pout before making a great scene about slipping the inhaler in her palm. âIs that it? All Iâm good for is soothing your lungs and being your chew toy when youâre teething? Iâm hurt, Red. Wounded, even.â
She pouted when he pulled his arm back, because that was fucking cheating. âIf you give it to me, I inhale the thing and feel better,â she said, all cheeky retort, because duh. She closed her fingers around it as soon as he put it in her palm, and she popped the top and depressed the plunger. Two long inhales later, and she shoved the inhaler into the pocket of the overalls, because no way was he getting the thing back.
Is that all? Was it? Before Christineâs fucked up appearance in Samâs life, no, that wouldnât have been all. She would have considered sex on the exam table the obvious culmination of the visit, and she didnât like that crap was going sideways because of some stupid girl with visions of love and fidelity. It wasnât that she didnât like this guy, because she did, and that was the problem. Oh, screw this crap.
âOf course not,â she said, reaching for the waistband of his green scrubs and dragging him forward, between her thighs. She pulled him, and then she looked at him and, after cursing, she shoved him back. âMove. My inhaler and I are GTFO.â This was all Christineâs fucking fault.