log | ongoing | [semi] open

[stacked]

When; early Wednesday morning, after Sylar lays a smackdown
Rating; I can't imagine it would creep above PG-13 for language.
Characters; Faith Lehane [thesecondslayer] and Lorne [deformiwhats]; also, anyone who would logically visit Faith in the hospital (for visit, read: come to call a dumbass, mostly) or be in charge of her care. (Sup Chase.)
Summary; And when you can't crawl, you get someone to carry you.
Log;

The beep and click of machines, the sterile smell and the blinding white of the walls are like something out of Faith's worst nightmares. She's bloody and pale against itchy sheets again; small and broken and delicate-looking like she never is when she can move.

Lorne sits vigil by her bedside, occasionally reaches over to stoke her hand and mutter nonsense words of comfort when she whimpers, strains against whatever's holding her, wherever she's disappeared to. They've done this before, too.

[ ooc: Opening on Lorne and an unconscious Faith; threads can take place later and with different people as we need. LET'S GO. ]

Comments

[worksmart.livejournal.com]

He's quicker, pushing the dose through Faith's IV port before her legs can work up the energy to take her anywhere. Her feet hitting the floor might be enough to make her rethink any plans, but he'd rather not risk dislodging the bone further. Clean breaks are something to be grateful for, where she's got them.

No chances taken, he moves to prep a second syringe, watching the first take effect. Somewhere between it knocking her out and her knocking him out for giving it to her would be ideal.

[stacked]

Whatever he just injected her with moves pretty quick, and Faith can feel it spreading through her body, slowing everything down and keeping it there. Glaring up at Chase with all the heat she can manage, her hand moves towards the IV, with clear intent to just rip it out. (He used a needle, shot something into her veins, and everything is just muddled enough she can summon up outrage and fear because she doesn't touch needles, doesn't leave them lying on a dirty carpet and pass out on the couch. She's not like that, never will be.)

She's leaving, and that's it. The drugs only slow her down, they don't keep her trapped.

[worksmart.livejournal.com]

They both reach for her right arm at the same time, Faith's dulled reflexes putting her about even with Chase on his best day. Lucky that the doctor has both hands free, one to twist and hold her back, the other to administer a second shot to her system. If she can hold onto the adrenaline of the panic attack through this much sedative then she must have the the constitution of a bull elephant, and for all her claims to the contrary, Chase doesn't think she's quite on that level.

Dropping the fill syringe to the ground, he gently brings her left arm back across her body and lays it down.

"It's okay to be scared, plenty of people don't like spending time in hospital. But don't be stupid. Nobody here wants to do anything but get you better and get you out as soon as possible; you're not going to be doing yourself any favours if you rush it."

One eye on the bed he resumes the business he started, keying in a new dose on her morphine dispenser and writing out instructions to have it kept at that level, alternating the sedatives so her system can't get too used to what they're pumping through it. If his own heart is beating slightly faster, at least there's no monitor to show him up.

"I'm increasing your pain medication, you should feel some relief in a couple of minutes, but I'm going to need you to let someone know if you start feeling nauseous at any time. Then we can take a look at getting the swelling down in your feet so they'll have you in surgery."

[stacked]

"I'm not... scared." She has to fish for a moment for the right words, concentrating on keeping them in line. The hospital room has gone pleasantly hazy, a little wavery around the edges, and while Faith is sure she should be furious right now that anger keeps slipping away along with the words; it leave her feeling hollowed out but calm. "Just don't need this."

She lays back in the bed, disoriented a bit, eventually just closing her eyes and breathing. She's aware of Chase messing with things next to her, but not aware enough to care.

"Don't need surgery."

[worksmart.livejournal.com]

"You need surgery." He runs his tongue between his lips, dotting the i's on the medication form and setting it down for now. "Sure, you'll heal without it, but you'll heal badly. You want to walk with a limp for the rest of your life? You'd also highly increase your chances of snapping it again any time you gave something a hard kick. But, fine, if you don't think you'll need your feet in future, feel free to turn it down. In the meantime-"

This sentence cuts off as Chase crouches by the end of the bed, getting something hooked up. A hand holding some stylish looking blue slippers eventually waves into sight, "Got you some new shoes."

[stacked]

"I'm a Slayer," she repeats, mulishly stubborn. She doesn't want to be here, doesn't want any of this. She'll be fine-- or what's under that, buried in the places that don't have words, she should have just died-- and any opinion to the contrary is just bullshit.

But it's just easy now to sink into whatever he dosed her with, not hurting and not caring. Faith was always the weak one. "Whatever." And she lets her eyes close, lets herself go. She can fight them on this later.