tampered | (no subject)

(no subject)

When; December 10th at the Hospital
Rating; PG-13 for blood and swearing
Characters; Office Staff + Brocklehurst + House
Summary; Styles infamous ulcer finally exploded
Log;

It had been months of agony.

The past two weeks had been the worst - stomach pain after stomach pain, and no medicine would quell it; nothing pink, chalky or with the worlds "antacid" would fix it. Finally Styles just began to deal with it, but vomiting blood in the office had been the last straw.

He thought Faye was going to start screaming when she saw him, or heard Weasley drop the coffee, but she managed to drag him to the hospital.

He distinctly remembered the words, "Don't tell Brocklehurst" come out of his mouth, but he may have hallucinated it. But then he also remembered Longbottom calling for help...did he call Nicholas?

He hated blood.

[ooc: Okay, people! If you were in the law office, you would have seen the eruption. It's up to you if you want to post here - it will go from an open to the office staff post to a closed one quickly - it will be clear when. Any other questions, feel free to IM me~]

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Faye wasn't sure how she'd managed to keep her mouth shut. Of all the stupid, fucking, idiotic things... Stomach ache her ass.

She didn't know how she'd managed to get him here without tearing him a new one--not that he needed something else to deal with on top of this--but as soon as he was deemed fit enough to handle her foot in his face, she'd gladly take care of it for him.

It wasn't that she had been worried. Not at all. Not remotely. Just... a little surprised with the scene. It was completely ridiculous.

"This is completely ridiculous," she said, wanting, above all else, to smoke an entire pack of cigarettes right there.

"Ridiculous that you had to bring him here instead of calling for an ambulance," said the Corinthian. But this was the City, such services from the world with which he was most familiar wasn't common place. He too had a craving for a cigarette. One of the nurses here could just smell nicotine addiction on the two. She gave them a cruel suspicious eye.

"You think he was poisoned," asked the nightmare while peeking through the door. Was it all right to invade his privacy? He thought so.

Styles felt his stomach twitch, threatening another explosion great but he held it together. He hated hospitals. Hated them. Hated doctors, hated nurses, hated IV's, hated the smell the food and the color of the walls.

He muttered something and then grabbed the trash can for another pint of blood. Degrading, more than ridiculous.

"Corinthain..." he muttered through bloody gobs, "Stop...Brocklehurst...at...the door."

He hoped that they could hear him.

Neville glanced over, peeking into the room, nervously hugging his arms. He'd disobeyed direct orders and called for Brocklehurst.

At hearing this last request, the teenager glanced to the Corinthian and shook his head. Damn getting fired, Brocklehurst would want to see it for himself.

Elle looked from one of the so called sympathizers to the other. "Which one of you cunts did it?"

Someone needed to say it. May as well be her.

Edited 2007-12-10 21:14 (UTC)

"You really think someone poisoned him?" Faye asked, wandering across the room and throwing herself down into one of the horridly uncomfortable chairs. She looked at Elle when she asked--women sticking together and all that--though the question was open to any and all. Even Styles, if he'd stop heaving long enough to chime in.

"Fuck that, you really think someone in here did it?" she rephrased, digging through her pockets for those cigarettes.

The nightmare glanced to the boss again, barely hearing that request under the heaving. He turned his toothy gaze hidden by sunglasses to the wizard boy then shrugged once. Let Neville deal with Brocklehurst, the British sticking together and all that. Cori then upnodded to Elle, "I'm barely there, who's been handling the lunch? Or the coffee."

Styles glared over at the throng of idiots he hired to handle these things. Weasley? Poison? Next think they'd be accusing Neville of illicit sexual affairs with high-class hookers.

He pushed at the bedside, but got no answer. The doctor, nurse, someone, was already pushing the gurney out the door.

"Idiots," he tried to say, at least with his eyes. He had a good glare. He really wanted his casefiles. It was Monday - couldn't this have happened on Friday?

Neville leaned against the door anxiously, glancing between the other coworkers and Styles laying in his bed. Where was Brocklehurst?

Tentitavely, he began to inch his way into Styles' room, staying clear of the nurses and doctor bustling around him.

"Mr. Styles...? Er...Mr. Brocklehurst says he's on his way."

What else was there to say? How are you feeling? What do you need? Am I going to get fired for this?

How about Please don't die?

"I only suggest," Elle had to pause above the gurgle a moment before continuing, "because if you dislike someone enough to poison them to slow, showy death like say, vomiting blood, you'd stick around to watch."

She took to leaning back against the wall, taking in the whole tableau.

The mumbling Brit kid mentioned Brocklehurst. Now this would be interesting.

"Well I didn't do it," Faye was quick to supply. Maybe it sounded a little defensive, but, hey--who in their right mind would poison Styles anyway? He paid them, didn't he?

Speaking of the man of the hour, she thought she heard him mumble something about idiots. Not really a nice sentiment, but she could hardly blame him. He was surrounded by the oddest assortment of individuals this side of the Underground. That didn't stop her from wanting to tell him to shut up in the nicest possible way.

She ignored that urge for the time being, however, turning her attention to that kid Longbottom. "Brocklehurst is coming?" she asked, cocking an eyebrow. "All we need now are a couple clowns and some popcorn and we'll have a real circus going on here."

The Corinthian gave Christopher a smirk veiled by a smile. No wonder the man refused to drink up alcohol like it was water. And the nightmare had such high hopes for his southern liver too. His stomach had to get in the way. Cori then turned his attention back to Neville.

"There's four of us and one of him," he shrugged once, grinning.

"I didn't do it, not my style. You can check him for stab wounds and bite marks," Cori raised his hands in faux defense. "You can be a stripper," that added to Faye's remark.

Styles listened to this banter as they headed him down to the room for treatment (was the hope) and rolled his eyes.

He hadn't been poisoned, he had been ulcered - if that was even a verb - and he should have probably taken care of the damn thing when he suspected, but he didn't, and now he was here and miserable.

Brocklehurst. What the hell would he have to add to this mess?

Neville turned his head back to Faye, guilt and worry visible in his face.

"I sort of...gave him a call. When it happened. He would have wanted to know."

[ooc: And my battery's about to go, so feel free to skip Neville next couple of turns]

"Early Christmas party at the hospital. Joy. You're sufficiently decorating the inside of that trash bin, Christopher." Doctor House was wearing a white coat for once and walked beside the wheeling, upright gurney.

"You know, they weren't going to let me into this place without a coat on. Apparently that's what makes me a doctor. Sssh, secret." He patted the man on the shoulder and looked to the motley crew around them.

"Save your breath and finger pointing. If it were poison, don't you think he'd be hallucinating? Uncoordinated? He's just bleeding internally and in pain."

Faye thought she was about to be bleeding internally and in pain, if the look of this guy was anything to go by. Doctors had never particularly been her favorite, and doctors who ruined perfectly good comebacks aimed at most deserving nightmares were definitely not her favorite.

I better be getting paid extra for this, she thought, (no matter how untrue) and decided to man up and plow on through this mess. She'd even keep her comments to herself, just this once. Maybe.

"You just missed the eggnog, but I'm sure some of that punch Styles was spewing is still in the waste bin, if you're interested," she chimed, flashing a smile. But then it was all business. "What caused it? Extreme stress?"

She wouldn't exactly write that one off, even if the good doctor suggested otherwise.

"House," the Corinthian greeted the grinch of a doctor, "he seems to be under the impression that he has work to complete before you guys can treat him." Cori shrugged, as if this were hallucination enough.

Ahh and the nightmare with his supernatural senses caught the sound of another pair of footsteps thudding down the hall... He pinched his shades, directing his attention back to Styles' present 'staff' in the room. Hmm as he mentioned, four against one, but that one was a particularly influential presence.

"Incoming," he mentioned to the others.

Stomp stomp stomp.

"I want full access to his blood test results whenever they're available. The sooner the better. If there's any discrepancy about insurance the Palace will cover the expenses," the whole damn lot owed him for the T-Virus immunization, even though he'd had the dose delivered to the hospital anonymously.

Brocklehurst's heavy steps took him to the appropriate room, blazer left open, tie loosened from being windswept on the Honda Fireblade, LEE'S Honda Fireblade.

He heard the voice angrily asking for results as he got the tube from the emergency endoscopy removed from his throat and frowned. Talking wouldn't be easy, but he would manage.

He watched as Brocklehurst marched in the room, wondering how he had gotten there. Did he run? Fly? Had he bullied Joshua, or something?

He crossed his arms and scowled.

Did Brocklehurst stomp?

"Interesting order," he said to the curiously disheveled businessman, "but I'm sure Santa and God have heard it all. The blood tests are mine and, boss, no big secret."

He looked to the room that Styles laid in and then to Brocklehurst and sighed. Oh these complex romances, they just made him ill.

"I'll tell you only if you you are finished proving your levels of testosterone are normal, the patient is in recovery."

House was no brick wall of propriety but sometimes just sometimes, the nice approach worked. "It's not poison, just a peptic ulcer that caused the bleed."

All looked well enough. Dr. Limpy arrived on the scene and Elle was itching for a cig. Even with Nicholas here. She briefly wondered if he came armed. This scenario had so much potential.

Reaching for her cigarettes, Elle Driver realized that she was bored. Maybe she should poison someone sometime. If only to shake up the norm.

"I'm going for a smoke," she said to anyone who would listen. Chances were that there would be just as much tension when she got back. At least she didn't have to be lacking nicotine then.

For a moment Faye thought about taking a leaf out of Elle's book and joining her, but curiosity (and possibly the need to play referee?) kept her rooted. If she wanted a damn cigarette, she'd just smoke it in here. No big deal.

The stiff medical world didn't exactly catch her attention so much as the possible unfolding drama staring them all individually in the face. Styles. Cori. Brocklehurst.

How nice.

All she could really offer was a snippish, "Told you so."

After seeing Nicholas enter the room, House's response to him, Elle's departure, and Faye's nonchalance, the nightmare offered a wave to the bounty hunter.

"Good luck, sweet cheeks," he said over his shoulder, offering her a grin as he followed Elle's lead.

He gave House a stern look, a look he knew wouldn't accomplish much in the realm of his profession. So Brocklehurst went to Christopher's bedside, having 'flown in' on his (Lee's) metal horse. "You're going to be all right," Nicholas said to the brunette. His blue eyes lifted from Styles back to the remaining office staff, silently waiting for them to take a hike damnit. But he wouldn't voice this sentiment, only express it in the lines in his face.

As Faye was the only one left, Longbottom having followed the others (he needn't worry, being the one who called Brocklehurst in the first place), the Englishman gave her another look: Please?

People don't die of ulcers, Nicholas, is what Styles wanted to say. It was too natural to snap at him.

But he wasn't angry. The reassurance was more welcome than he'd like to admit. He looked over at Faye, raising an eyebrow, then over at House.

He stopped scowling, his face softening as he examined every line of Nicholas' worried face.

He wanted them gone too.

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