Who: Mercy Thompson & Daryl Dixon Where:Infirmary When: After noonish What: First convo after their initial meeting, returning of stuff Warnings: None that I can think of Status Complete.
Mercy was restless. Someone had found her clothes - which included a tank top that avoided her shoulder - and jeans that mostly fit right. Adam had gone off to do something, leaving her alone for some time. She fidgeted. She had never just sat still very well. She liked being able to be on the move. And she felt the itch to change, but she ignored it. She didn't need to be Coyote, and it was a good plan to stay human for awhile. She shifted again in her spot and flumped back on the pillows, wincing as she hit her shoulder, grumbling a bit. She finally grew bored enough to hold her hands up, trying to lift her right one up as far as it would go. She told everyone she was good to go but she really wasn't. Which is why she was still stuck in bed. Angry. In the year she'd been running as coyote the dirt, grease and grime hadn't faded from the creases of her fingers. She studied them intently, her lips pursed. No matter how hard she tried she'd never be clean. She supposed it was okay in the end.
She let her hands fall and then moved to reach for the vest her shooter turned saviour had worn. She had requested some leather cleaner and clothes, and had gotten them. She'd worked in on every day since, carefully coaxing the blood from the leather, although to her nose it still smelled of her blood now mixed with leather cleaner, and giving it some good care. Mercy pushed herself up to sit cross legged in bed, and began to work some conditioner into the vest, meticulously cleaning around all stitching and creases. Mercy only paused when she hear footsteps, lifting her eyes long enough to see who darkened her door.