orangetoughguy

What robots do within the hospital can be summed up as a lot, in amongst the flesh and blood workers, none doing more or less so much as all that they can do. Peter puts in time here because it is familiar and because he knows someday he might return to just this, but just this is not so simple anymore and less a sentence to ordinary than it is a decision not to give up on people. It isn't easy, but no one said it would be, and in some respects the storybook boy can understand why; because nothing that matters is 'easy', because people are capable of more than they know, so on and so forth. Things are not as ideal as they once were for him, not in small part because the journey he began is not the journey he has ended with. Old friends--family--turned enemies and friends again have up and gone. And then there are the enemies that remain though only one to speak of in immediacy. Where the people from this place reside, sometimes he doesn't know. Robert Chase. Adrian Veidt. Penny. Max.

In the end his thoughts come back to Claire because she will be the one person he answers to when they return, however soon or far off that may be, but he tries to treat the life he has here with the dignity of at least realizing the concreteness of it, to not turn away simply because all here is temporary. Everything at home is (was) too, in a sense. So for that reason too he is at the hospital even now, pausing on the way to the room that seems to think ringing once isn't enough...or twice....or...well. Hm. Maybe the patient thinks it's broken? Peter can only guess as he steps into the room, door clicking shut behind him.

A once over is not required to know the man is stable. The room would be abuzz with hospital noise if he wasn't and that's that, save for a curse that would see fit perhaps to derail all machinery, but such a curse is not the problem for today, for which they can all be grateful. Peter is mindful to take shifts when he thinks people he doesn't otherwise know work in the hospital will be there. Granted he is not always right and those people tend to work a great deal, but often enough he is able to guesstimate within the framework of close-counts. It suits him more to leave coffee for Chase than it suits him to work in the same vicinity at the same time, but it is nothing personal. Peter would feel this way about anyone he might live with.

One wonders what the man wants at this hour but it could really, literally be anything, and suddenly he wonders how much this same man has been told about the City, and more importantly, how much he believes of it. Looking at him, the brunette honestly has no idea, but usually if people want to talk, they will and if the opposite, then they don't--simple as that from time to time.

"Need something?" he asks, to the left of the patient's bed, peering down and wondering with the morbidity of immediacy whether or not this person makes it in his own world, and it is telling of Peter more than anyone else that his initial feeling is to hope that he does even though he knows nothing about him.

"Hey." There's nothing small enough to grab and throw to stop the ring noise, "recuperating here." Larry has been napping off and on. It is the drugs. He's never been too big on napping.

"You trying to call collect?"

One; this guy looks nothing like Dr. Cameron. Two; this guy looks nothing like Nurse Francine. Three; he knows off the bat charming a face like that into turning a blind eye to smoking in a hospital is highly unlikely.

At least he doesn't start by asking where's the nurse. Think fast, Freddy.

"You got anything in here besides that," he points the device at the monitor on the other side of the room. Three's Company reruns. Classy.

Hearing his voice stills him. He looks over to Larry.

"You awake?"

It's like asking, how long have you BEEN awake?

"Can't sleep right now. So yeah, I'm awake." Though he suppresses the impulse to yawn.

"I didn't think this would be the ending. S'not so bad. Nurses and docs help." Obviously, that's what their paid for. He means some other kind of help.

"You're doin' pretty well." All things considered. No, he doesn't think he needs to specify what.

"Same to you. Feeling okay?" Especially since he's the guy who was a human fountain not too long ago. May as well have been a goddamn horror movie.

Edited 2010-08-09 06:29 (UTC)

Which one? Does Larry know Freddy's seen a few? Want to make a Johnny Depp comparison?

"I'm okay," he echoes words that seem like they occurred days ago instead of hours, or well, a near full day. He rubs at his eyes. "What's next?"

Yeah, he's asking you.

The ones where they take the insides out and rub it all over like Pine-sol.

"Told you you would be fine," Larry says that with supreme confidence. Hopefully his doubts at the warehouse with Mr. Pink weren't overheard.

He scratches his chin and looks at the ceiling. "We get a car. We get a car and get the hell out of here. Staying in one place on the West Coast wouldn't be a good idea right now."

Eden's been on the job ever since Frankie told her that he's be going drinking; it's a good way to get extra practice in. She's not a nurse, but sometimes she does venture to where the patients are, if only to pick up blood samples and charts.

She wanders into the room, a stack of charts in one arm and she's headed for the one at the end of this guy's bed.

Hey Camp Crystal Lake is pretty fine this time of year.

As for Mr. Pink, he was genuinely passed out that time so no worries there. Larry's suggestion on the other hand evokes worry and amusement. Does he know what it feels like to have both? His stitches doth protest.

"Ever thought about crossin' the border?" I did. No but really, his expression changes. "They ain't cuffed us to the bed yet, they don't know shit."

Note, he almost said you.

"Hey. Any idea when we're gettin' outta here?"

No hello, no nothing, only because she moves like someone who prefers to get straight to the point, exemplified by how she goes right on to the chart. He's too weak to make any attempt at seeing what's written on it.

Eden looks at the man who is currently too weak to move and raises an eyebrow. Young, maybe in his twenties at most, then looks at his chart, looking it over once, then twice. She's not a doctor - hell, she's not even a nurse - but she does know how some basic times in and out of hospitals.

"Yeh're in here for a few days, boyo. Rough shite, what they pulled." She raises an eyebrow. "Why, yeh got someplace to be?"

Irish? Just the sound of her voice has him quirking a brow. Weird.

"What do I gotta do to make that happen--" He snaps his fingers to indicate faster, while giving Eden a smile. It's supposed to be a winsome smile. It will either succeed or fail. "I ain't a fan of hospitals," he says like rehearsed line.

How about Sleep Away Camp?

He's easy with his answers, not worried in the slightest. After all, it's just his fellow criminal, his comrade. Even less to worry about with no nurses or doctors to look out for.

"I have. My Spanish is shit. Helps if you know people. Maybe an acquaintance or two is still in good standing down in Baja. Hard to say the way the cartels run." Though they do have true Mexican food. Speaking of, all the shit they say about hospital food isn't that true. It's not great but nothing worth bitching that much over.

Larry rubs his nose. "They don't need to know. I called it a driveby. It was the best I could think of. Besides, it's LA. Could have been some street trash with something to prove." Being alive and getting away is always the best option.

Northern Irish, no less. But she doesn't seem to notice the quirked brow, only the slight smile. Eden's immune. But Eden's also not a stonewalling nurse, or Doctor Cameron. She hates being cooped up inside hospitals as much as the next sane person does.

She looks over his charts again, and thinks about it. "Yeh've got a real fuckin' number to heal up from. Can yeh even lift yehr soup spoon?" She flips through. "I'd say if yeh shut up and do what the bleeders tell yeh, and hope yehr body cooperates, yeh'll be out faster, but no guarantees. Cameron likes her shite done right the first time."

Death by curling iron is not the way to go.

Freddy doesn't even try to bullshit his way through that one so he lets Larry do all the planning. Oh but when he calls it a driveby he can't hide the slight grin. Lawrence Dimick, victim to a driveby? Maybe in some cop's dream.

"Thanks." He calls LA home, gosh. No need to get into this West Coast vs. East Coast vs. Mid West vs. the South or whatever regional differences. His fingers drum on the covers, craving a cigarette. "I talked to a couple people." This is going somewhere but he's taking it slow.

It's a miracle he understands what she's saying, or maybe not because he can be a pretty speedy talker himself. Tonight's just not one of those times, bedridden as he is.

"I don't care much for soup," he shrugs. See, he can lift his shoulders to shrug? "I got it, do what Dr. Cameron says," relenting, and taking mental notes on Cameron. Eden's next. "First time I seen you around," he says, a fishing line for her name.

Ah, the luxury of watching other people experience death that you'll never meet.

"Yeah? I had some Skipper doll tell me something about traveling to different places mysteriously. It didn't make sense. This place is off." And he's no detective. Even if he was, Larry's done enough and deserves to lay low. "Learn anything?"

Eden raises both her eyebrows. "If yeh tell her that she might reduce yehr sentence, boyo." There's a slight tug at the end of her lips, like she might smile, but she doesn't quite.

"I don' usually meet patients," she explains. "But night staff's a bit short, better pick up the charts meself than make the nurses keep hoppin' up to the lab." She pauses for a second. "I'm Eden."

Edited 2010-08-09 07:38 (UTC)

"How many places you know called the City?" The answer; a lot, but he knows they didn't ride in no damn chopper. Freddy would remember that, well, unless he slept through it.

"Private hospital? Could be unrelated."

He's using the same hand that wants a smoke to gesticulate. Whoever Joe tried to rob could easily have their own underground ties, making Larry's plan the soundest if a third party came to pick them up before the cops did. The very thought gives him reason to run his palm over his face. It's not good but he can't bring himself to tell the guy I can't come with you. He tried to tell Larry, he really did. But Freddy won't cry about it anymore, at least not while they're surrounded by others who could walk in. Some who could walk in with guns. How do they know some doll of a nurse won't come in only to inject the IV with a killer?

"No more than you," he shakes his head, "one a'them asked me my name." He wets his lips.

He gives her a wink for that bit of advice then slowly extends a hand to her. Shake on it?

"Nice to meet you, Eden."

She reaches out with a bit of a grin; she can't help but respond to this guy. He's sitting in bed, hooked up to machines, and he's still trying to be social. Most patients just grunt and stare. She shakes. "Likewise, yeah?"

"There are tons of cities. This has got to be one of them. I don't even know what happened. I remember," he makes a gun out of his hand and mimes shooting in two directions, "that's it. Next I know, we're on the street. Some girl came along."

He doesn't know who. Clearly they got from there to here. Nothing is coming into the foreground as far as clarity is concerned.

"Yeah? Did you give your name or did you stick with John Doe crap?" Yeah, it's crap. Life saving crap. "We should be careful." Word through the grapevine travels fast. Especially if it's bad news. The cops will want em, no shit, and whatever connections Joe was holding could come around.

It's like magic, the very reason he's in the position he's in. Just ask the guy on the other side of the room. Of course Freddy's no saint either and he's been rude more times than he can count. Just ask some of his colleagues, not that any are around to ask with the exception of Larry.

Back to the handshake though. He does his best to make it a real genuine one which falls short of his goal but who can blame him in this state?

"Yeah..." He smiles, hand falling away to settle on the bed. "Thanks for comin' in."

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this is the closest thing to disaster ... the kind of thing you laugh about after

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