Who: Daryl Hockney and Jennifer Warda What: Daryl gets a visitor. Where: A nearby hospital. When: Evening of the bank robbery. Warnings: This log is so cute that it might give you diabetes. At risk individuals should proceed with extreme caution.
“No that’s everything, thank you.”
Detective Warda watched the woman walk back down to the nurse’s station. Taking note of the clipboard assigned to the door, she took a moment to browse the extent of the patient’s injuries before glancing inside. There was another bed in the way, and a curtain to obscure the rest of the room for the sake of privacy. A light was on at the farther end of the room however, enough to indicate the occupant hadn’t yet decided to flee. Her presence obscured by the curtain, Jennifer took a minute of consideration before entering the room. She hated hospitals. Fifteen minutes of standing outside with men and women who looked haggard and nervous, smoking in the tiny designated space along the walkway, each of them looking out to the parking lot with a bleak expression had given her some modicum of courage. After stubbing out her cigarette under the anxious heel of her boot, the detective walked inside and made an inquiry about a patient named Daryl Hockney. Badge dangling from her neck and paperwork in hand, Jennifer tapped her fingers on the counter, glancing anxiously from side-to-side as if she needed to consider probable methods of escape. A year in a coma did funny things to a person’s behavior.
The evening staff conceded to her request, of course, and provided her enough time to do whatever it was she was pretending to do. Jennifer had enough information, enough witnesses to take the investigation to the next level. Hell, with the afternoon spent chasing down cars and narrowly avoiding bullets and SUVs, no one would’ve blamed her for taking an evening off to decompress. Were she anyone else it might’ve been a welcome suggestion; Detective Warda, however, didn’t even understand the concept. So there she stood, contemplating her next move in the closed-off half of the room, a teddy bear tucked uncomfortably inside her jacket and a look of uncertainty writ plainly across her face.
Maybe she'd come back later. If there were anything certain in this world, it would be that Daryl Hockney would never, ever win a “Patient of the Year” award. From the second she was placed in an ambulance, she was nothing but uncooperative and stubborn. Whenever a paramedic attempted to examine her shoulder, she’d turn away and bark demands to see his or her certification and credentials. By the time they reached the hospital, Daryl had stopped trying to communicate coherently - she repeated “Dr. Cooper is my primary care physician” like a broken record, sentences punctuated by child-like shrieks.
After Jane - her emergency contact - arrived, things moved a bit more smoothly. The blonde doctor was able to convince Daryl to cooperate enough to let the doctors and nurses do their jobs. While her wound wasn’t terrible, it needed stitches to ensure proper healing. It was obvious that local anesthesia wouldn’t be enough - Daryl was very vocal about her aversion to being poked at - the decision was made to sedate her.
Lying in her white recovery bed, Daryl stared vacantly up at the ceiling. She had forgotten what time was, which meant that she had no idea how long she had been there. In the back of her mind, she recalled that Jane was gone - it had something to do with people requiring nutrients - but wasn’t entirely sure that she understood that concept. What she did understand was that there was a tube in her left elbow and she didn’t like it.
Digging her right thumbnail under the tape holding the IV in place, she squirmed in place. It wasn’t until she felt the strange sensation of being watched that she stopped, head rolling carelessly to the side as her slate gray eyes attempted to the focus. “Who’s there?” she asked, voice thick and hazy. “You’re not Jane.” Jennifer was content to stand back against the wall, unnoticed. Maybe take a moment or two to convince herself that the situation wasn’t nearly as dire as her nerves were making it out to be, and that she could spend the next several days working on the case unfettered by her own bothersome concerns. Arms across her chest, one boot pressed against the wall, Jennifer flinched in guilt as Hockney’s attention drew toward her.
Damn it. So much for being quick and subtle.
She huffed out a sigh as the woman lying on the hospital bed strained to identify her. Must’ve put her under something powerful--Jennifer couldn’t imagine Hockney to be anything less than impossible when it came to hospital care. Hell, she could barely tolerate even the detective touching her, let alone some unknown doctors prodding at a bullet wound. Jennifer walked over to the bed, her expression carefully guarded under Hockney’s clouded gaze. “Not Cooper,” she replied, one hand placed tentatively on the bed rail. “Just the Devil, come to collect her dues.” Reaching over to where she was starting to poke at the IV tape, Jennifer tapped her finger lightly against Hockney’s hand.
“Don’t touch that.” Were Daryl in her right mind, she would have been taking in every piece of Detective Warda’s body language. She’d have been focused on every weight shift, every facial twitch. But her eyes were hazy and difficult to focus, and there was something almost nice about everything around her. Though her expression was vague and not composed in the least, it didn’t split into a grin quite yet. She simply stared as the other woman approached, a brow arching at her introduction.
“You aren’t the Devil, Detective Warda,” she breathed, voice almost a gust of air rather than English words. “The Devil...is much taller.” She almost laughed at that, the half-smile crossing her face fleetingly before disappearing.
As the other woman touched her hand, Daryl wrinkled her nose unhappily. “Why,” she demanded flatly. “It’s in my way. Annoying. I don’t like it.” Jennifer’s grip on the bed rail tightened slightly at Hockney’s hazed expression, unsure whether to be relieved or concerned at the tiny, fleeting smile that crossed her lips. This whole scenario was new to her and the detective wasn’t entirely sure how to react to it. It was almost like taking a blind leap, not knowing for certain if her feet would find purchase on the other end.
The displeased wrinkling of Hockney’s nose at being touched, however faintly, she at least prepared herself for. “It’s necessary, your body needs the nutrients to heal itself. Take it from me, pipsqueek, I’ve been in enough hospitals to know.” She leaned forward a little, not looming so much as just--tentative, unsure. It was an odd fit on Detective Warda.
“Maybe you need a distraction,” she offered lightly. “You’ve got to be bored by now with this dreary room, right?” Once again, Daryl was at a terrible disadvantage. Detective Warda’s mention of experience in hospitals would normally have been picked at and pulled apart, brutally inspected. Instead, she simply took at face value with a slight pout. “My body is fine,” she grumped, moving her head from right to left to scan the room around her. “It has been given more nutrients and medications than ever before in its quarter of a century on this planet.”
What had once been an expansive, terribly white ceiling was now punctured by a dark head of hair and equally dark features, watching her with what seemed to be...something. The medications in her system made determination of anything very difficult, while simultaneously preventing her from caring. At her question, Daryl let out a very uncharacteristic groan, stretching her body out on the white cot with bare toes wiggling in the air.
“Yes!” she whined, plopping her right hand onto her face. It was presumed that she had been aiming for her forehead, but the palm ended up smooshing her snub nose. Dragging the hand away, she looked up at the detective, expression almost pained. “It’s almost quiet, but not enough. Everything is sterile and pre-sealed, and they all talk about it. They rustle and shake and wash.” Gnashing her teeth, she gestured to the needle in her arm. “Its most vivid memory is piercing my skin.” Her voice was choked with something, though it surely was a product of the drugs. “And it remembers. Over. And over.” She let out a low hiss. “And my stitches. They won’t shut up..” Jennifer listened to Hockney’s vocal and surprisingly animated response. A good thing, she realized, that the woman was too distracted to consider her expressions. She bit thoughtfully at her lower lip, trying to come to terms with the scene before her. Was this, she wondered, Hockney completely unguarded? Fidgety and impatient and...well, kind of bratty? Jennifer bit back a smirk. Very bratty, but it was different--natural, spontaneous, two phrases that she could hardly relate to the woman she was only beginning to understand. There was a stool not terribly far from where Jennifer stood and she turned for a moment to grab it.
“I’ve got an offer for you then,” Jennifer replied, reaching slyly into her jacket. “Someone to keep the rest of these busy-bodies in line.” She carefully pulled out what was revealed to be a small, stuffed teddy bear. She’d spent a good twenty minutes trying to find something appropriate, the little toy in her hands the cutest and least-ambiguous gift she could find. Hell, it even had a tiny blue bow-tie and most importantly it was the fuzziest, softest bear of the bunch--even if it did manage to look a little frowny. She set it down next to Hockney on the bed, resting her elbows on her knees, watching intently. “As for the rest, I’ve only got poetry,” she shrugged, tapping one of her boots against the stool, trying to ignore the way Hockney’s toes were wiggling. The way in which Detective Warda’s hand disappeared into her jacket was, for some reason, terribly intriguing. Daryl’s eyes widened as she stared, momentarily distracted from the image of a needle weaving through her skin in constant succession. As the bear appeared, she couldn’t help the very strange expression that overtook her face. It felt like a smirk, but slightly different - as if it lacked the horribly cruel edge that her smirks contained. However, she couldn’t think of that because the delightful little bear was beside her, too close not to touch.
Her movements were very careful and precise, almost strangely so. First she brushed her knuckles over the bear’s head, then her fingertips. Though there was a definite haze clouding her eyes, her fingers were measured and in control. Not once did her palms touch the toy, not even when she picked it up and settled it on her stomach. “Rachel would like you,” she murmured to herself, pressing a fingertip to the bear’s black nose.
As Detective Warda spoke again, she looked over at her, brows raised. “You always have poetry,” she replied, that strange not-smirk forming on her lips again. “That’s not unusual. I enjoy unusual. Unless you know an unusual poem.” It took several moments for Jennifer to process her reaction. Hockney looked--she looked like she was happy. Accustomed to the usual defiant smirks the woman often gave her, she wasn’t at all prepared for the way Hockney’s easy smile would hit her. Watching as she examined the gift, her fingers carefully tracing along its fur, Jennifer felt as if she was being tugged and pulled in all directions at once. It was a sensation almost painful in its familiarity, something she promised herself never to allow again. More and more the detective seemed to allow herself these compromises--not a wise decision in the scheme of things, and definitely not a safe one.
Who’s Rachel? Jennifer almost asked, her attention piqued at the unfamiliar name. If she thought about it, and truthfully she often did, Hockney was more than a bit evasive when it came to personal questions. As for the matter of asking...Words don't like being made to do what they don't want to, Jennifer. You have to let go, and then they'll come back and let you use them. She grinned to herself; Joss was probably right.
“Something unusual, huh?” Jennifer leaned back, rolling her shoulders casually as she thought on it. There was an idea, maybe, prickling at the back of her mind, something she didn’t like to share outside of family--her nephews, all of them serious and somber-faced as the rest. Even so, it seemed they always had time for Jennifer and her attempts at music; a distant memory, but never an unwelcome one.
“Do you like Jazz, pipsqueek?” Couldn’t hurt, she thought. After all, what were the chances Hockney would remember any of this come morning? Once the bear had found his place seated on her tummy, just over her bellybutton, Daryl let him be. She reclined against the slightly inclined surface of her cot, head rolling to the side to face the detective. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she wondered when Jane would return, but dismissed the idea. This company was just as good. Just as interesting. Jane had been yelling a lot when she was there, and though Daryl usually didn’t mind, the haze of her medicated state made even a loud voice sound dreadfully unpleasant. She speculated that this was probably why hospitals were told to keep the noise levels down - the heavily medicated patients would be so distressed by shouts.
At the first question, she nodded, lips forming a stubborn pout. “Yes. Unusual.” She always liked unusual. It was why she tolerated Mr. Morgenstern’s prolonged presence, obnoxious as it was. And it was why she found Detective Warda’s company intriguing. Though she acted the way one would often believe a world-weary detective would, there was something disingenuous in the way she acted. As if there were something just a bit not authentic there. She wanted to know why.
For now, she was content to simply speak with this woman. She blamed the medication. “Jazz?” she repeated, a brow raising. “Sometimes I listen to classical music when I work, when a distraction is acceptable as long as it’s controlled.” The words rolled easily off her tongue, lacking the forced tightness they often did. “Strings, mostly. But jazz is acceptable. Though it’s often loud.” Her nose wrinkled at that. Daryl didn’t like loud. She didn’t like these drugs. She didn’t like anything. Jennifer nodded. “I prefer piano, but this will have to do for now,” she replied casually, feeling strangely nervous now that she’d set herself up for this. “Something soft--guess I can manage that much.”
She tapped her boot against the stool, quietly filing through the songs she knew well enough by heart. None of that maudlin, clinging heart-ache she tended to sink into when crawling through bars alone, or even the more raucous numbers (Devil May Care tempted her more than it should’ve but she threw the notion aside). Jennifer raised a brow when she thought of something appropriate, standing up from her stool to move it toward the bed. Perched closer, the detective smelled like smoke and leather, the excitement from earlier still clinging to her jacket. Once she finally made it home that night, Jennifer would take a long, hot shower and try to wash off the sensation of broken glass still crawling across her skin.
Shrugging out from the uncomfortable memory, Jennifer leaned forward enough to be heard and still maintain a polite distance. Closing her eyes to keep herself focused on the melody (and not on Hockney), she took a steadying breath before beginning to sing. The song was soft, lilting, falling from her lips as easily and naturally as Jennifer danced. It wasn’t a skill she indulged in, and to a point found it nearly embarrassing--but for one person, one song, she thought it a small, acceptable compromise. It was obvious from the detective’s shifting movements that she was preparing for something. Looking up at the other woman with a hint of anticipation in her face, Daryl waited, eyes as alert as they could possibly be. The visions of a needle piercing her skin were gone, as was the aching thrum of her injury in her shoulder. Her entire attention span had collapsed and narrowed, focused only on Detective Warda.
As she began to sing, Daryl relaxed in her cot, watching her with slowly softening attention. She started as tense as she could be while under the influence of her medications, then relaxed seemingly against her own will. The words were barely noticed, just sounds that soothed her. Her head rocked back against her bed, falling heavily and sliding just slightly until her chin was threatening to brush her shoulder. Her gray eyes remained fixated on the other woman as she finished, lids falling closed for a moment of silence.
Eyes opening again, Daryl felt that strange not-smirk on her face again. “Excellent performance,” she said, tongue obviously heavy in her mouth. “You are very skilled, Detective Warda.” Her fingers bunched in the blue teddy bear’s stomach, pulling it close until she could perch it atop the swell of her chest. “I would ask for an encore, but...” She broke off to yawn, eyes squeezed shut as her jaw extended as far as it could. “It might put me to sleep.” At the moment of silence, Jennifer opened her eyes. She leaned back and watched Hockney with a carefully guarded expression. Hands neatly folded on her lap, posture straight, it would’ve been difficult for an outsider to place just how she felt in that brief moment. Jennifer’s cool gaze carefully regarded the way in which her hair fell across her pillow as she rested, shoulders loose from their normal poise and tension, her expression vulnerable and so painfully--
Jennifer tensed and resisted the urge to flee, even as Hockney’s eyes began to open once again. She nodded, accepting the smile and compliment without examining their implications, watching as she pulled the bear closer. Fondly, as if Hockney had already decided to make it her friend. Jennifer wasn’t entirely sure which cut deeper, the memories of her old wounds still scratching a familiar pathway across her skin, or the realization she’d have to forget any of this had ever happened. This wasn’t something she was ever meant to see, ever meant to be privy to, and there wasn’t a damn thing ever to be done about the way she was letting herself fall in love with Daryl Hockney.
“No--you’re right,” Jennifer agreed, taking a measured breath before she allowed herself to stand. “Some of us still need their rest.” Already halfway turned to leave, she let the words hang in the air for a moment--as if the detective wanted to say something else but wasn’t sure how. She briefly attempted to form a smile of her own but was afraid it turned out all wrong, like a poem strangled with too many thoughts, divided over feeling and purpose and collapsing in on itself at last.
“Call me when you’re feeling better,” she said seriously. Turning away, Jennifer walked out of the room and began to distract herself with the evening ahead of her, distancing herself as quickly as she could from the hospital room. Daryl was in absolutely no condition to analyze anything. It was strange, and a conscious part of her remarked on the oddity of just looking at someone without watching them. But anything more in depth than “she’s sitting down” hurt her brain, and the drugs had at least managed to take the pain away. She wasn’t about to create more pain - she was no masochist.
As the other woman stood, Daryl nodded. “I’ve been resting,” she replied shortly, as if that made a difference. “I can’t do anything but rest.” Which was true. She prodded at the teddy bear’s left ear, absently tugging on it as the other woman seemed all too ready to leave. With her final request, Detective Warda was gone, moving too swiftly for Daryl to respond before she was but a ghost of a memory in the room.
Tracing the tip of her finger over the bear’s face, Daryl sighed, looking back to it. She wanted to say something, if only to fill the void in the room, but decided against it. Her eyelids were heavy and there was a horrible weakness in her body. Holding the bear against her chest, she let any tension remaining in her muscles release as she drifted off into sleep.