Cian (thebettingsort) wrote in emillion, @ 2013-11-25 00:29:00 |
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Entry tags: | !complete, !log, !plot: as i lay dying, cian wilde, cormac hier, ridley irving |
Who: Cian, Ridley, & Cormac
What: A gambler collapses
Where: Mostly Cormac's clinic
When: Monday afternoon
Rating: PG-13 for all the cussing
Status: Complete
This fucking cold was going to be the death of him. He’d ignored it for days, working through it, dragging himself out of bed on little to no sleep due to congestion and coughing and aches and pains and fuck all knew what else. The potions that had suppressed the headaches at first weren’t doing much of anything anymore. He hadn’t managed to keep down any food since yesterday, and his vision was blurring pretty spectacularly if he turned his head too fast. He was never particularly cold in winter, but he was intermittently freezing and boiling; currently, even a sleeveless shirt didn’t seem scant enough clothing to keep cool. At this point, he could barely focus his eyes enough to read, even counting was getting to be a trial, and, all right, he had to admit it. He was sick, and not getting any better. Faram damn it all. He’d been trying to get through just one more day, promising himself an early night in a dark room and the next morning off to recover and he exited (more stumbling than walking) the eatery at the edge of the Bazaar, a covered container of soup in hand. He hoped it might agree better with his stomach, and if he could just get home and into bed with it, he could eat, sleep for twelve hours and then, definitely… He didn’t get to finish the thought. Depth perception was a tricky bastard when your vision was wavering. Either there was a step, or he tripped over his own two feet, or fuck, maybe the street rippled like a damn river, who knew anymore -- regardless, he found himself falling to the cobbles, the container of soup flying out of his hands. He hit the stones face first with a loud thump, completely incapable of breaking his fall; as his forehead met pavement with an audible crack, he dropped out of consciousness and into darkness. Coming up the road was a scholar who was particularly pleased to have been granted leave for a coffee fetching expedition. The clinic had become rather busy over the last few days, so she was grateful to have been allowed to pop out for coffee for Cormac. He worked hard, and deserved better. Ridley had been ready to switch hands when her fingers were sore from carrying, when she saw the man fall, colliding most painfully with the cobblestone. Without a care for the beverage in her grip, she broke into a run, coffee slamming to the ground. Only upon reaching the man and lowering to her knees did she recognize him: Cian Wilde. “Mr. Wilde?” she tried, hands reaching, hovering. To their left was a mess of soup; this hadn’t simply been a trip. Why hadn’t he broken his fall? Had he passed out mid-air? “Mr. Wilde?” No response. Breathing hard, she touched his forehead and shot off a Cure. This was not good. Cormac’s clinic was still some blocks away, and she couldn’t shoulder even a third of his weight. She couldn’t do this alone. “Excuse me!” The words spilled from her mouth before she could stop them, and a man down the block paused in his step. “Please, I need your help!” As the man jogged over, the blonde leaned over Cian, hair brushing his arm. “Please hold on, Mr. Wilde,” she murmured, concern hammering hard in her chest. Cormac would help him; she knew he would. They reached the clinic without a hitch, but the urgency was just as present as Ridley flew to the reception desk, miraculously keeping her voice calm upon requesting Cormac’s presence. The man who’d aided them appeared to be at his end, as carrying dead weight (who had been burning up the entire trek there) was hardly a walk in the park, but she insisted he please stay, the doctor would be right out, everything would work out. With a tissue from the waiting room, she dabbed at the blood by his brow. Cormac had been examining a rather interesting case. By interesting, he meant someone showing the symptoms of the common cold. It was that time of year again, but with the plague on the loose, he wasn't taking any chances. If it was was the sickness he'd seen in the outlands, it was currently in it's early stages. That was good, because someone had come to fetch him saying there was an urgent case in the front. "I'll be right back," he assured the man sitting on the table. After washing his hands, he headed out to where he saw a very familiar form leaning on a not familiar person. And then there was Ridley. "Into room two," he said gesturing toward the door, before taking up the man's underarm and helping to transport him over. "What happened?" When the stranger gestured to Ridley, the older mage's lips pressed in a flat line. Together they laid him out. "You wait in the waiting room," he told the stranger, before going back into the front and gesturing for Ridley to come in. "What happened?" Cian Wilde looked like death walked over him twice. She tucked hair behind her ears, feeling frazzled. Took a deep breath. “I was on my way back when he collapsed. He fell directly onto his face,” she admitted, the worry gnawing at her. “But he didn’t break the fall with his hands, as if he…” Lost consciousness on the stairs? Ridley tried again. “His name is Cian Wilde. We’ve met before. He suffered a laceration to the forehead, but I mended it with a Cure. He never stirred once.” While Ridley looked visibly distressed, she managed to keep herself cool long enough to explain what was happening. Cormac was actually quite thankful for that, having thought the girl might break out into hysterics. This was yet another sign that, yes, he had made a good choice in choosing to keep her around. As she spoke, his lips pressed into another thin line and then he coughed, before turning back to the patient on the desk. Then he cleared his throat and opened one of Cian's eyes while biting the inside of his lips and trying to look like he was seeing something very serious. "You," he started before clearing his throat again. "You did well in healing the," cough, "wound," he said with a furrow of his brows. He murmured something half under his breath. Wringing her fingers together, Ridley quietly watched, gaze flickering from face to face. “Are you well?” The worry was clear in her voice, but it didn’t waver. “May I help?” "Perfectly fine, Ridley," Cormac somehow managed without strain. "And you can help by going to room one and getting a recount of how he's been feeling since the onset of his cold." He had just up and abandoned the poor man. "Oh, and get the contact information of the fellow that came in with you if can." The young blonde was clearly pleased there were tasks for her to do, and with a nod and last glance at Cian, she fluttered out of the room to tend to their forgotten friend in the waiting room. Once the door had closed behind his assistant, Cormac's shoulders started to shake as his hand came up to his mouth attempting to keep from making too much noise. The mental image of Cian's face hitting the cobbles nearly brought him to tears. He took a few deep breaths and took the man's pulse. Still alive and in very bad shape. He checked the man's mouth and fingertips. Then prepped a needle with some of the potion he and his team were still working on. A moment later, he injected some into the man. Now all there was to do was wait. The waking up was nearly as bad as the falling had been; Cian had to groan as he opened his eyes. Everything hurt, bad enough that his head wasn’t even particularly worse than the rest of his body at this point. An improvement (or maybe something to worry about, but he was still too out of it to worry, so he let it go). His vision didn’t blur quite as badly when he opened his eyes, which was good. Cormac Hier was leaning over him, which was less good. “Tell me I’m hallucinating,” he muttered. Again, his mind helpfully supplied; he’d been hearing things the last few days that weren’t exactly there, so this seemed the logical next step. “The fuck are you doing here… where’s here… and where’s my soup?” Cormac watched patiently as the man woke up. Most of the symptoms seemed to clear, which was good, considering the man had just passed out on the street. When he finally opened his eyes, Cormac was indeed leaning over him. Studying the details of his face. When he spoke, he knew Cian was much better. "We don't serve soup in my clinic. You're free to get some after you leave, but it'd be best if you didn't for right now." “Why the fuck am I in your clinic?” His tongue felt heavy, but he was getting the words out, at least. “I don’t need a clinic. Just need some sleep. I’ll just get... out of your way.” Which might have worked better if he could get up; the attempt had his vision blurring all over again and his stomach lurching. It was fortunate he hadn’t had anything to eat since the day prior, or he’d have hurled right then and there. "Feel free to leave the moment you're able." Cormac's tone sounded encouraging. "Then you can do an encore of that performance you pulled in the bazaar district," he said helpfully, then thoughtfully added, "what did they call it? Face greeting to the cobblestones?" He reached out to steady the man with one hand and grab a bowl with the other. The last thing he needed was for the man to wretch up all over the floor. "I've got bad news and kind of good, but not so much news." At least, he was honest. “Must have tripped.” He didn’t remember tripping, but what else could it be. “Hope you saved my face, anyway. It’s useful.” It was, at the moment, the most humor he could manage. What the hell was going on with him? He’d felt shitty enough before the swan dive, and that was nothing compared to how he felt now. “Worst news first,” he said. Might as well get whatever it was over with. "Actually, you can thank Ridley for your face," Cormac said gesturing toward the door. "I can ask her to come while you're still awake." He still held the bowl at the ready, though. "Bad news. Right. You've got the plague,” he rolled out before continuing. “And the good but kinda not news is that I’ve got a plague suppressant formula, but it’s not a cure. So that not leaving suggestion…” “Who?” he asked. He wasn’t great with names to start with, and he didn’t recall this one at all. But he didn’t have much time to dwell on that, because the next thing the mage said had his mind going someplace else entirely. “The what.” He gave Cormac a look with no little bewilderment and anger mixed together. “You’re fucking with me. I’ve got the flu, maybe, and sure, I haven’t really done anything about it, but…” He trailed off, narrowed his eyes. He knew what honest -- or a very good impression -- looked like. “You’re serious.” Cormac was silent as he watched the man's reactions run through his face. It wasn't an easy thing to tell someone, but he didn't like to dance around things or break it to them gently. They could get that at another clinic. The man didn't hand hold, and Cian wouldn't want it anyway. "Quite. I can have a steady supply delivered to you, but it would be easier to monitor the effects of the potion and the progression of the illness if you stayed." “A steady supply of the medication that’s not a cure,” Cian said flatly. The idea of staying was not appealing, especially if he was understanding this right. But the word plague wasn’t terribly easy to misconstrue, in the end. “Let me get this straight,” he said, then had to take a moment to cough before he continued. “This motherfucking cold is killing me right now? Just want to be really clear on that.” "Yeah. That's about it. Still trying to find the cure. Working on refining the potions we're handing out right now into something stronger and more effective," Cormac said with a frown. "It slows the progression." The urge to throw something was only curbed by the fact that he felt too weak to manage it. As it was, it took most of his energy to drag himself to a seated position; another few moments and he stood shakily. It was a victory, apparently. Fuck it all, he didn’t want to die, and especially not like this. “I’m going home,” he announced. Maybe once his head cleared he’d manage something other than anger, but right now… he kicked the leg of the cot, nearly went sprawling as he overbalanced. What was the damn point of staying if they couldn’t do a damn thing except pour potion down his throat? And if this… this weakness and overall misery was only going to get worse? No, fuck no, he did not need anyone, Hier or otherwise, witnessing the descent. "Let me give you a prescription," Cormac said, quickly whirling around to futz around in what looked like a box. There was some tinkling and he really hated having to do this part by himself. "Look, just take this, " he said while scribbling down the dosage. "You'll want to keep a steady intake of this. It will keep you functional, at least." He dropped the vials into a bag and tossed the note in with it. He placed it on the table, next to the bed. "Look. Just stay here until you've got your bearings. I'll call a cab to come pick you up, and then you can go home. With the place you're at right now, you'll just fall over in the waiting room, and we'll have to drag you back in again." Cian set his jaw, gritted his teeth against the nausea, and repeated. “I’m going home. Now. I’m fine. Whatever you gave me worked fine.” Flat-out lie, and he couldn’t even summon the energy to make it believable, but whatever. He didn’t care. “Tell -- whoever it was -- thanks for my face.” He took the medicine after a moment of consideration -- refusing it would feel righteous in the moment but… “You’ve got shit to do. I’m going to let you get to that.” With as much dignity as he could muster (which was, really, not much at all), he lurched his way out of the examination room and through the lobby. There was really only so much Cormac could do without pelting the man with sleep. He didn't know how the potion would affect him when he was sick. He could've just shoved him over and restrained him, but there was no need for that, especially when he saw that he was taking the medication. He'd be able to feed himself just fine. He was an adult. "I'll let her know." If he remembered. He was going to say something about not overdoing it, but he was just going to keep going no matter what he said. He could see it in his face. So he let him lurch off, but not before grabbing the man's chart off the wall and filling out the information. This was so much less tedious when Cyclone was around. |