Participants:
| Scene Title | Get Well Soon, Minea! |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Bolivar comes with accusations, requests/demands, and a well-wishes balloon that he leaves outside. Despite being ripped full of holes, Minea does her best to be courteous and graceful. Kayla Reid remains deliberately absent. |
| Date | April 28, 2009 |
St. Luke's Hospital is known for its high-quality care and its contributions to medical research. Its staff place an emphasis on compassion for and sensitivity to the needs of their patients and the communities they serve. In addition to nearby Columbia University, the hospital collaborates with several community groups, churches, and programs at local high schools. The associated Roosevelt Hospital offers a special wing of rooms and suites with more amenities than the standard hospital environment; they wouldn't seem out of place in a top-rated hotel. That said, a hospital is a hospital — every corridor and room still smells faintly of antiseptic.
The cops of course know who's in the hospital. IT was blasted all over the news, they'd had to show up, homeland screaming about it's two agents down. Bolivar of course knew before that Minea was a homeland agent, but now he knew where she'd be. Pinned down likely if she was like most other agents, but at least she was in one spot.
The breakfast had been dished out and finished, leaving the disheveled brunette in her bed, sitting up, another person there - not a nurse - Helping set up a laptop. She's going to be laid up a week in this place, by god she'll plunk away at reports at least. Those she can take her time doing in between naps.
Ding dong, the bitch is laid up in bed. Maybe Bolivar had hugged the television when he'd first heard, or the cop who'd told him. Granted: unlikely. His small shape does not quite fill the rectangle of the hospital room doorway, khaki-coated shoulders and black trousers falling in straight, severe lines parallel to the doorjamb.
"Buenos dias, senorita. If I believed in karma, I'd say it was a bitch, but it seems like you get to cover that by yourself, eh?"
He steps in. Over Bolivar's shoulder, the metallic-shiny string to a 'Get Well' balloon is abandoned outside in the hallway. It had been part of his super special disguise to get into here, but really, only that.
Plink. Plink. Plunk. Pause.
Minea looks over to Bolivar as he fills her doorway, the scarr'd half of him, and for once, without his dogs. "If by Karma you mean that now I can't have children on my own, perhaps" Minea answers. "Officer.. Rodriguez-Smith. TO what honor do I owe a veritable stranger into my hospital room?" Her eyes are slightly dilated, likely caused by whatever flows into her via the thin tubing that is the IV.
They don't like dogs in hospitals unless there are bombs to go with them. Ungrateful fuckers. Bolivar is indeed unaccompanied. "I didn't know you used to be a hermaphrodite and I thought those are normally sterile. I guess that makes sense." He stops at the end of her bed and stares down at the chart spread out there on her tray table without any real interest. He does so dislike reading.
"Anyway. You abducted la chica who saved my life and fixed my health. On the job, right?" He doesn't tilt his head. He's small and asking questions from a drugged-up ninja, though, so it would probably be appropriate to tilt his head. Unfortunately, Bolivar has always lacked for coyness.
"Funny asshole" That's about the only dignity she'll give that response. "Didn't abduct her. If you forget, I stayed with you and was filling out forms from here to eternity" He can be grumpy, she can too. Only different is she can escape to the comfort of the medication in her IV. He can't.
No, but he could go home and sleep. Which he has been doing a lot as of late. And his home is nicer than this hospital no offen— oh, who're we kidding? Bolivar means all the offense in the world. "Did abduct her. I didn't forget. She isn't anywhere in the hospital system, she isn't on the fucking Registry. I know a little bit about dyslexia, and I'm pretty sure not even you could've fucked up the paperwork so bad to make a whole woman disappear."
He sounds somewhere between annoyed and pissed off, or pissed off but also something else; either way, there's a certain proportion of 'pissed off' in the mix somewhere, but it lacks the scatological excess and shouting heat that one might otherwise have expected. He turns his head to study her IV drip.
She see's his gaze going to her IV. "You want to scream at someone, you can up three floors to the woman in the ICU on life support. Much like your friend is, the healer. She's recovering, and sadly, it's taking a long time. I don't know why, but it is. I can't make her heal faster. That's all I know. Homelands giving her the best care that they can"
"I don't want to scream at some random fucking vegetable," Bolivar responds on simple terms. "And Kayla Reid isn't my friend. She might be now, if I could see her at all and we could fart in tandem and play video games and talk about boys together, but she's in an ICU on life support somewhere.
"According to you."
There's a scuff of skin, both keloid-rough and smooth from health, against the fabric of his clothes when he puts his hands in his pockets somewhere below the visible level of the bed. "Fuck it. I know you're as dirty as law enforcement comes. I also know that there isn't one fucking thing I can do about it, short of killing you myself. I want to get Reid a message, though. For when she's awake. Or see her, but I guess that isn't exactly a realistic possibility any point in the near future, eh?" Lowered to her bed level, Bolivar's eyes look surprisingly pale— from the light reflected off her pillow case, refracted on the medium hue of irises.
"There's not a thing I can do about it either Officer. But she is alive, and she is healing. If you want to give her a message, can tell me it. When they let me out of here, I can find out where they're helping her and pass it along. I can do that for you. And you can think i'm crooked but if we hadn't have helped her and I can't stress that enough, helped her, she wouldn't be alive. She'd be dead. What she did with you was nothing short of a miracle. Now let us work our own miracle and get her healthy so she can go back home. She hasn't done anything wrong, quite the opposite. She's getting the necessary medical attention from people who know how best to care for her and her specialized needs"Minea's brown ones are tired, a dark brown, and still affected by the drugs coursing through her system to keep her various bullet wounds from bothering her overtly.
The elevated tilt of Bolivar's eyebrows indicates on no uncertain terms that he lends the woman's words only very limited credibility. "I know HomeSec's mandatory Registration protocol. Everybody knows HomeSec's mandatory Registration protocol. It's like the moon, while you're rotting comfy under your linens all the way over here. Don't fucking insult my intelligence. I'm not trying to start a fight."
Yeah, he said that with a straight face and everything.
"I'd appreciate it if you let her know Bolivar's grateful for her stupidity." The mutter with which the cantankerous half-Mexican says this implies a somewhat greater level of emotional commitment than he's comfortable with, despite the choice of words. He doesn't particularly need Minea to understand, but on some level, he suspects that Kayla Reid will.
"You don't register a woman when you don't know whether she'll be alive or not. You wait till their awake and understand that they're being registered" Duh. Same as you don't Mirandize an unconscious person. They don't understand. "redundant paperwork" But he's got a message and she plucks away at a few keys to make sure she remembers it, saves that file to the laptop and then looks back over at him. "Why stupidity? If saving a life is stupid then news flash, your the king of stupid and i'm the queen, because that's our job day in and day out."
The Miranda and the Linderman Act are to things unalike, and Bolivar doesn't look particularly amazed that Minea is refusing to grasp the distinction. He doesn't remark on it, however, because she's typing up his words and they're important words. "Yeeeep," he answers, turning away with a flare of coat panel around his swinging leg. "King and queen. Only, Reid gets extra kudos because she isn't fucking getting paid, is she?"
Because the salary makes it worth this. The hospital stays, the tar on one's conscience, hammering away at paperwork while holes heal in one's flesh. Bolivar starts off, back toward the door with a solid drubbing of footfalls back toward the open door. The balloon string continues to coruscate dully in the fluorescent light. "I can get you a hamburger or some shit if you want. You can call it a bribe."
"Don't need to bribe me but thank you. You'll find I'm not like other homeland agents Officer. I actually do have a heart in my tin chest" And some courage, and a brain, and she doesn't need to click her red heels to go home. "I'll get it to her, and if she's awake and able to pass one back, i'll get it to you the moment they turn me loose. I'll find out for you somehow. If only cause your a friend of Kitty's."
It takes Bolivar a moment to remember who 'Kitty' is. Felix Ivanov. His— friend. Well, perhaps in the very loosest definitions of the term. He glances over his shoulder, a black eyebrow looping higher on his forehead to indicate that her phrasing leaves something to be desired, if not too much. He's NYPD, she's HomeSec. The loosest definitions of the term frequently apply.
"How about: I'll believe it when I see her?" he offers, offering a backward wave with a hand. He steps out of the threshold, snags the balloon from the hallway ceiling between a scar-ravaged forefinger and thumb. The inflated bauble bop-bop-bops away after him as he goes.