Company Time


deckard4_icon.gif veronica3_icon.gif

Scene Title Company Time
Synopsis Veronica imposes herself on a recuperating Deckard to keep him company — though it's probably more for her sake than his. Awkwardness ensues.
Date May 22, 2010

Fort Hero Infirmary

It's late. So. The infirmary is quiet.

Because most humans keep a human sleep schedule. Most of the humans here (apart from being sedated) performed the tasks assigned to them earlier in the week very well and have little to worry about that might keep them restless or otherwise awake. Most of them didn't attempt to fill a fellow agent with lead because they were politely asked to.

Flint's elevated at a half sit by the cook of the cot raised at his back, chilly eyes heavy-lidded with indifference to his current setting and situation fueled by painkillers. The lights are low overhead, dimmed to a practical minimum around monitors of medical machinery and fellow patients alike.

His charts say he's been more talkative when asleep than he has been while awake. Also that he's already pulled his stitches once.

Also that an increase in his medication is probably warranted to mellow him out. Not in those exact words.

There are murmurs outside his door. Veronica Sawyer has come to the infirmary to have someone look at her throat, laryngitis not seeming to improve even after hours of not talking to anyone. The doctor on duty is walking with her in the hallway after giving her some medicine - antibiotics and anti-inflammatories to reduce the swelling. Getting nearly asphyxiated didn't do her already sore throat any favors, leaving swelling on both sides of the voice box for the already husky-voiced woman. After taking the two bottles of pills and thanking the doctor, Veronica thought to ask about the other agents' well-being, and so the doctor nods to Deckard's room, indicating he is awake.

The door is knocked upon lightly, and then opens slowly, to give him time to yell for privacy. She enters the door, dressed in her tank top and yoga pants, flip flops on her feet. One would think it were spring — it finally very nearly is, in climate as well as calendar.

"Agent Deckard?" she rasps, peering toward his bed. "Just coming in to check on you."

Less cadaverously pale now that he has some blood back in his system, Deckard doesn't look great by any stretch of the imagination. He's dark around the eyes, sockets sunk in with a resilient kind of sleeplessness in addition to existing trauma. Bruising is spidered and mottled dark across his chest all the way up one side of his neck, brown and black offset by a touch of old blue ink just visible under his clavicles. His upper right arm is bandaged with a protruding drain. So is his side. …Probably. It's hard to tell with the gown.

He doesn't look up with she knocks. Or when she comes in. People do that. Sometimes they have questions for him. If he's unconscious enough he may answer them. Right now he seems to be pretty busy looking at the wall. "Okay."

Despite the fact that she has no injuries aside from bruising, most of which is invisible, Sawyer looks ill and exhausted, face pale and a touch sallow, dark circles bruising the spaces beneath her eyes. When he speaks, she moves forward, the unmistakeable, though probably near-forgotten, sound of her flip flops smacking her heels and floor as she moves closer to him, then perches on a chair near his bedside.

"You look like crap," she says, pot to kettle. "I'm sorry you were injured. First big job and all. It's not always this bad. This hard. And it's not always our own people trying to kill us."

Lucid enough for a subtle lift at his brows against her assessment, Flint doesn't leap to deny it. He doesn't leap much of anywhere, really, movements slow and deliberate all the way down to his breathing. Probably because he's on drugs. Also because he hurts anyway.


Getting shot. Getting shot by your own people. Getting shot by your own people in the process of trying to shoot other people that are also yours. Not only does it happen to him, but it seems to happen a lot lately.

Deckard sinks deeper back into the infirmary cot with a sift and a rustle, privately undefined dejection written in fuzzy lines around his mouth and through the downward slanted slope of his shoulders. "What now?"

What next indeed. Veronica frowns. "It shouldn't happen. But it does." She hasn't read the report yet, and her stay in the labs means she hasn't talked to most of the other team's members, so she only has a sketchy idea of what happened at the other site with Ichihara.

"What's next. I'm not sure. They've re-configured us a bit. New bosses, I guess. Crowley's no longer IA and now we have a new snitch on our backs. Smellier shit, different name. I'm not sure. Other than that," she says, and she reaches over to smooth a bit of blanket where it's caught on the gurney, "you just need to rest and recover. So you can get shot again." There's a slight smile, but she's only half joking. "Can I … can I bring you anything? Music, books, magazines?"

It's a while before Flint shakes his head 'no.' It's longer still before he actually looks at her, blue eyes too bright in their hollows to be easily missed despite the skulking, sideways nature of his study. Brief, too, read assessed in a sluggish beat that soon sees him with his long face tilted back at empty wall.

Four bulletholes in two months. New bosses. Snitches. His attention ticks belatedly down after her fix at his blanket and he swallows, bearing some vague resemblance to a snail toeing cautiously around the edge of a potentially steep fall with an unhurried extension of translucent probes. But whatever he's evidently decided he might want after all — he doesn't ask for. Awkward silence fills the gap.

Her eyes are dark and somber, sad in their own way, though no one really knows the whole of it — what it felt like to watch Paulson die… the team that heard him speak to her about her father might think they know, but they were not trapped with him on a subway car in the snow. They were not the bearers of ten years of grief for a lost father, as many of hatred for his killer, and a year of struggling with the desire to avenge that death once she knew the killer was in the Company.

They couldn't understand what it meant to see him turn on them only after she'd let go of the hatred. To watch him die only after forgiving him.

She swallows, the mechanism of that motion hurting her swollen throat. "Do you want me to go?"

"I dunno," could be a quietly polite yes. Or a no. Flint being Flint, it seems more likely that he really just doesn't. Know, that is.

He has decency (or intact shame organ) enough to glance apologetically back at her whatever the case may be, bony fingers drawing his sheets up closer to his middle with a hint of an unsteady rattle around the wrist.

Veronica stares back at him for a moment before she lets out a soft huff of a laugh, shoulders rising slightly and falling. Honesty is a rare thing, and there's something unsettling about Deckard's lack of guile. It'd be refreshing if it weren't a little creepy, especially to someone like her, who until recently, has spent the last ten years of her life being anything but real.

"I thought maybe you wouldn't want to be alone," she whispers — the doctor told her it's worse for her voice to whisper, but it hurts less so she does it anyway. It sounds less painful than her raspy voice in her ears. "But I can go. I'm not the best at making friends. I don't really remember how to start. And the whole idea is absurd in a way you probably don't appreciate. Ironic to the core." She babbles a little, and shakes her head, knowing that it's a sign she's not all right.

"Sorry. I'll let you rest."

Something that looks a whole lot like self-consciousness hardens the harsh angles of Deckard's face and hollows his jaw down off the sloping jut of his cheekbones and overlarge ears at the sound of a laugh, soft or no. If he was unsettling when he was just being queerly honest, he's a whole lot moreso now. All hatcheted edges and eyes rounded cold and lambent in the low light.

He watches her babble that way, still unable to stare her down head on. Too sideways. Mongrel in a cage. Bound to snap if anyone's hand gets a little too touchy-feely.

The lack of any verbal cue to stop her from leaving has her up on her feet. "Sorry to bother you," she says in that whisper. "Let … tell the doctor if there's something you want me to get you. Books, movies, something to eat besides jello. I'll find it for you, if I can. I've … I've been there before. Here, before." She nods to the infirmary room. "Not like what happened to you," she adds, knowing that what happened to him was nightmarish in a way her injuries of the past can't compare to. "You can get a bit stir crazy. I'm just… you know. Let me know. Just trying to help."

The once over-confident Veronica Sawyer babbles again, before shaking her head at herself and turning to flip-flop her way across the linoleum toward the exit.

Deckard's nod is warier in return — just the one slow incline of his scruffy head to indicate that he's heard. And probably understood, even if he doesn't look all that likely to take her up on it with the way he's (still) eyeing her. Less intently than he could be, granted. He blinks slowly and often enough that it's getting harder to stay focused, his unshot shoulder pushing carefully back to sit him up a hair straighter as if he thinks that'll keep him from succumbing.

He watches her go in the same silence, not letting himself settle back into his pillow enough to give into chemically induced relaxation until the slap of her shoes has faded a ways down the hall.

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