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Tarrant does not, in fact, sleep. Once the first level of druggage wore off and
he's just on to the maintenance drugs, he is, in fact, relatively coherant,
excepting a random tendency perhaps to be a little too honest. Instead in the
dim evening light of the room, he's watching you as best he can, hand still
carefully holding onto yours.
Corian sleeps for a bit longer, allowing you to watch her in peace for a while.
Then, gradually, she wakes, eyes opening slowly. There's a moment of
puzzlement, as she attempts to remember where she is, and what this is that's
holding her hand. "Good evening," she murmurs, sitting up but apparently
forgetting about the location of her hand, as she doesn't try to retrieve it.
"How are you feeling?"
"Good evening," Tarrant replies, offering you a half-smile. "Not so bad. Better
than I did." He doesn't call attention to the hand, knowing you'd be likely
to remove it, and that's the last thing he wants. "How about you? That chair
can't be the most comfortable."
Corian shifts somewhat in the chair, looking slowly more awake. "It is not that
bad," she replies, with a smile. "And I am just fine, of course. I was not
the one who was shot, after all."
"I was not shot that badly," Tarrant looks a bit sheepish, "Or rather it would
be very difficult -to- shoot me badly. I think poor Clara was confused.
Perhaps though she will let me escape soon enough."
Corian suggests, with a very quiet sigh, "Why don't you let Clara decide that,
van'chela? She is the doctor, after all." She lifts her free hand to rub
lightly at her eyes, adding, "She was confused, though, yes. I did not think
it quite my place, though, to explain." Lowering her hand, she realizes the
location of her other hand--namely, that you've got it--and blinks. "Oh...
forgive me, I didn't realize..." She reclaims her hand, yup, and tucks it
into her lap. You were right.
Awww, she took the hand away. Tarrant cannot quite wipe the puppy who has been
deprived of his frisbee look off his face immediately, although he does pick
up control quickly. "Yeah, she's the doctor, but my medical records are
hardly complete by any means. But I won't leave until she says I can. I have
been stupid enough for one day."
Corian, alas, misses all but the very tail end of your puppydog look. She doesn't have a frisbee, though. "Thank you, van'chela," she replies, with a smile. "I am most glad that you are being sensible about this." After a brief pause, she inquires, "Can I get you anything? Are you thirsty, or hungry?"
Tarrant tugs absently at the blanket, bringing it up a bit further. He's as bad
as Corian about being covered, although not from any shyness, he just
dislikes cold. "No, but thanks. I'm all right." He hates having things
brought to him normally, he's hardly going to do anything like that in a
situation like this. "I do not suppose I can really be termed sensible with
whatever the hecl is in this IV. I like not being in pain, but this is an
-odd- sensation."
Corian ventures a slow, careful stretch, then replies, "It is cortrazime, I
believe Clara said. Perhaps its presence will not be necessary for very
long." Shifting to sit tailor-fashion, she adds, "And you seem to be making
sense, if that is any consolation."
"It is, and I appreciate it. I am just having the worst time keeping myself from randomly yammering. I have this sudden desire to just randomly tell people my life story or something." Tarrant half-snickers to himself, "Scare the wits out of random people, yup. Hopefully not long. I would really rather not be attached to machines. And for goodness sake, I live right down the hall from here, even if it is a closet with an evil bed."
Corian just looks at you for a moment, then shakes her head. "Clara is the one who must determine that. If she finds it necessary that you stay here, then you should do so. Besides," she adds, "This is a lovely room, and much more comfortable than your closet. Is it so difficult, staying here?"
"Not as such," Tarrant replies quietly, "After all, you are here, if only for
the moment. But my place has a lock. I am afraid paranoia is not something I
am without."
Someone's knocking on the door. Maybe it's Clara. (If you like, you can 'reply
<words>'.)
Corian smiles at your words, though she can't quite keep back a bit of a blush. She murmurs something that is, alas, cut off by the knocking. She glances to you for the letting-inness. After all, it's your room.
Clara comes in from the Housing Hub.
Clara has arrived.
Clara lets herself in quietly, a stethoscope hung around the back of her neck
and for once no lab coat. "Hope I'm not intruding?" she asks quietly. "I just
wanted to check in before going off duty and finally dragging upstairs to
drop," she explains with a grin.
Tarrant is awake, and rather reasonably aware, just perhaps a little over
likely to volunteer random comments because of the drugs. He offers something
of a wave with the IV'd hand, as the other is well hidden under blankets. He
likes blankets. Besides, the hand was rejected, now it's hiding and being
depressed. "Not intruding, nope, not unless you don't like random discussions
of locks on rooms and scaring people."
Corian is perched in the chair, her own hands in her lap. One of them was evil and did the rejecting, so there. Clara gets a smile, despite the hint of a blush on her cheeks. "You're certainly not intruding," she agrees softly.
Clara glances from Tarrant to Corian, and very carefully controls herself from
rolling her eyes and smirking vaguely. Instead, she manages a warm smile and
tucks her stethscope ends in her ears and moves to the patient's side to do
doctor things. "Locks? No lock on that door, but I can post a Security guard?
They're used to the request."
Tarrant shakes his head slightly, "No need to. I was just explaining about paranoid and why my closet is nicer despite this room being more comfortable. It's a nice place you have here, see, but I would very much love to escape."
Corian tacks on to that, as she tugs her legs into the chair to sit
lotus-style, "To which I replied that it was your decision when he left." She
seems to want to drive that point home, yup. Her hands, by the way, rest on
her knees. Maybe they're taunting Tarrant's hands.
"Is that a fact?" Clara responds absently, having pulled out her scanner and
examining the readout. "Whatever for? You prefer living in a broom closet?"
She glances back at Corian and grins slightly. "Actually, it is my decision,
yes. For gunfire wounds, AF medical senior officer gets the decision. Lucky
you," she adds to Tarrant apologetically.
"But I was -designed- to be shot. Well not really, m'parents were. And even
then it was meant more for other kinds of intense heat, but it's one of those
side effect things." There's a bemused pause on Tarrant's part, "Actually the
closet is awful. B'still."
You faintly hear a chime mark the hour.
Corian pauses a beat as Tarrant launches into his admittedly convoluted
explanation, brows inclining fractionally. She doesn't look surprised at the
content of his words, mind, but that he's -giving- the explanation. She
doesn't comment, though, instead shaking her head slightly and murmuring
something not especially clear, in Kashidian.
Clara stops scanning, expression clinically blank as she regards Tarrant very, very intently for a long moment. "This is why the injury wasn't as bad as it should have been considering the diameter of the burn." She continues to concentrate hard enough on Tarrant that she doesn't even try to puzzle out the Kashidian. "Designed? Engineered?" The scanner gets another narrowed glance.
Tarrant is on -exceptionally- happy drugs, hence his random tendency to ramble.
"Mom and Dad were, and their classmates, yeah." He's not really all that
helpful, but still, a great deal more than he normaly is. "Long time ago.
Project was written off though."
Corian ventures another of those very small headshakes. She leans against the
back of the chair, maintaining radio silence, gray eyes flickering between
the others.
Clara glances back at Corian, allowing a faint hint of troubled expression
flash through her face for a moment before peering intently back at Tarrant.
"Gengineered," she murmurs, tone unreadable. "Humans originally? This would
explain...a great deal." She inhales a sharp breath and forces a smile.
"Tarrant, why don't you think hard about what you're saying, hmm? I'm pretty
sure you don't want me to know any of this. Now...how's the side feeling? Any
pain?"
Tarrant is brought up short a few moments, simply blinking in mild confusion.
After a brief sigh of exasperation with himself he shakes his head slightly,
"No, none at all."
Corian returns Clara's glance with a pleasant smile, nodding once at the doctor's cautionary words. See, that particular phrase was what she wasn't saying, but wanted to say. She carefully reties one of her shoelaces, then, after a pause, reties the other as well. Have to have neat bows, after all.
Clara finishes scanning, then snaps off the instrument and reholsters it, smile warming easily. "Excellent. Now the answer is, no, you may not leave yet. Don't even try. I will hunt you down and shoot you with a tagger pistol. And then I'll toss you in Short Term Care and let Giani flirt with you."
Corian pauses in her bow-tying at Clara's last statement, though she doesn't look up. She doesn't like the thought of the flirting--there's hope!
"When doctors decide to go in for big game hunting, next on Fox. Do you wear orange when you go shoot patients? So other doctors don't accidentally shoot you?" Yep, these are cheerful drugs. Tarrant's question is entirely innocent.
Corian does, however, look up at that. "You qualify as big game, van'chela?" she inquires, voice serious, though her eyes are not.
Clara blinks for a moment, flickering an unreadable glance back at Corian
before she dissolves into snickering. "Of course not. That's what sniper
black is for. Well, that and it hides ten pounds," she explains with a grin.
Corian's question gets another stifled snicker.
"Well, I don't think I'm -small- game. I mean, last I checked I was bigger than
a rabbit. And I could probably growl or something if called upon to do so. I
think I qualify." Tarrant ahhs quietly, "Sneaky big or perhaps medium game
hunting doctor."
Corian finally does chuckle at that, with a shake of her head. "Game hunting in varying sizes. Perhaps -that- comes with a side of french fries."
Clara flutters her lashes innocently, still trying not to grin outright. "If he growls, let me know, Corian. I'll turn up the cortrazime." Pause. "He comes with a side of fries?" she asks in mock-awe, glancing sidelong at the patient.
"Nope, I'm sorry, I don't come with fries. But I don't smell like an albatross either, last time I checked." And what scary is that's a completely coherant and non-drug induced comment. Tarrant is just odd after all.
Corian follows the statement, which is also frightening. Lips quirking with amusement, she nods to Clara. "I will certainly do that, yes, though I fear for what would happen if he were to have -more- of this drug in his system."
Dutifully confused by this, Clara nods slowly. "You don't look like an
albatross either, for that matter." Corian gets a wry grin. "You should have
heard your brother on this stuff. He said -lots- I don't think he meant to
say. Not that he'll ever admit it."
Tarrant absently brings up his opposite hand to poke lightly at the IV line.
"It is -evil-." Of this he is firmly convinced. "I mean I'm thrilled it works
and all, but this is a really -odd- sensation."
Corian, giving a shoelace a final switch, casts a vaguely amused smile at Clara. "I can only imagine, and for that I am most glad. It must have been... somewhat entertaining." She eyes Tarrant as he pokes the IV line, but refrains from poking him in return. She's just tempted.
"Stop poking! Of course it's evil. I'm a doctor. Evil is what I do...it's what
I -live- for," Clara offers in her calmest and smoothest, dropping to her
native accent. "Still, if I take it out, you'll be all brave and try not to
admit the pain. And it would -hurt-. I had to cut the damaged dermal tissue
away."
From the startled look Tarrant gets at Clara's admonition, he obviously did not
realize that poking was such a transgression. In fact he looks rather like a
cat that's been caught on the counter. Who me? "No, I mean I'm sorry, the
pain deadening property is great. It just feels exceptionally weird. I did
not mean to offend or to belittle the festive drug option, merely to indicate
that I think my brain has become a popular dessert offering containing
gelatin."
Corian almost absently reaches over to take Tarrant's hand. If she's got it, he can't use it for poking purposes. That's why she's doing it. Yeah. No other reason. "Well, then, we shall have to find the whipped cream," she muses. No, she really is innocent, she doesn't mean what Kathlyn would immediately think.
Clara is equally innocent and simply smiles and nods, seemingly mollified by this explanation. "You'll be fine. I do need to know one thing, though," she asks of both of you. "Did the shooting occur here in the Complex?"
Tarrant's hand is obviously more than willing to forgive its prior abandonment, although it tries to be careful and not startle off the other hand. Hey you, you have fingers, so do I, maybe we should hang out? Tarrant shakes his head slightly, "Nope, a different world altogether. Corian came to the rescue."
Corian nods at the start of Tarrant's explanation, though she adds lightly to the latter, "It was not so difficult a thing, van'chela. We were lucky, in that." Her hand, for that matter, doesn't seem quite as easily startled as it was. Maybe it's trying to apologize for the aforementioned abandonment?
Clara's brows lift at Corian in surprise, although she simply nods slowly. "I
see. How...how...kind of you," she finishes somewhat lamely, very
professionally not noticing the handholding. "Well...it's late as can be, and
I've been on duty since a frightening time. Can I get either of you anything
before I skip out?"
Tarrant shakes his head slightly, "Get Corian to go home and get some sleep maybe?" Okay, perhaps this suggestion is a little ridiculous considering he's holding onto her hand in a vague attempt to keep it fron escaping.
Corian returns Clara's surprised browlifting with a smile of polite and pleasant incomprehension. She looks quite innocent, doesn't she? She certainly couldn't have accomplished anything -that- difficult. Really. She starts to shake her head as well, though she pauses at Tarrant's words. "If you would like me to leave, van'chela... after all, it is late, and you should rest..." Of course, she doesn't actually -finish- that offer to leave.
Clara lifts her brows significantly at Corian, dropping to painstakingly slow
and cautious Kashidian to get out haltingly, "Think on what I said before
...uh, taking my leave...er, a few nights ago." Back in Standard, but
somewhat wearily, she simply smiles at both. "I'll leave you two to argue it
out. Goodnight," she offers, then turns to escape.
Clara leaves the room.
Clara has left.
Tarrant squeezes your handly gently, blinking slightly as Clara leaves. "I
don't -want- you to go. I..I.." He pauses a moment, "I'm just worried
about'cha."
Now whatever that Kashidian was, it makes Corian go slowly and steadily
scarlet. She casts a look after Clara that is half annoyance, half
embarrassment. Turning her attention back to you, she says slowly, ignoring
her flaming cheeks, "There is no need to worry about me, van'chela. I was not
injured, after all."
Tarrant doesn't speak more enough Kashidian to have even the faintest clue, but he does look baffled by the effect. "I could poke her for whatever she said?" He shakes his head. "Just seems you've got better things to do than be here."
Corian shakes her head firmly. "You saw how she reacted when you merely poked your IV line," she says, tone one of somewhat forced lightness. "If you poked her, it would likely be somewhat worse. She was merely reminding me of some... advice she gave me. And if I were not here, I would likely be asleep, or seeing what work has made an appearance during the day's absence."
Tarrant squeezes your hand again, very gently indeed, perhaps not even intentionally. "Perhaps you ought to be asleep, yes? It's been a long day. And you've been having the trouble with your implant."
You faintly hear a chime mark the hour.
And she didn't do much in the way of sleeping last night, though she's hardly
going to mention that. It is perhaps because of that, though, that she
admits, "I am somewhat tired, yes." Of course, she adds quickly, "But not so
much so that sleep is necessary. I can stay with you until you sleep, if you
like." She casts a glance towards the exit, then shakes her head slightly,
with a very quiet murmur about meddling doctors.
Tarrant half-smiles at that, albeit rather sleepily. "I'd like that. Very safe.
But you really do need to get some real sleep."
Corian replies softly, "I will get some real sleep, van'chela. I promise you
that." Her voice has dropped to that soothing tone once more. Perhaps, during
the times she has spent as tutor to small children, she picked up on the knack
of talking them to sleep. In any event, she's attempting to do that. "But you
need to sleep as well. Your day has been somewhat difficult, and you need to
rest, so that you can recover quickly."
And with this much cortrazime in his system, talking Tarrant to sleep is by no means difficult. His eyes sag shut despite his best attempts, and with a murmured, "'Night..." he is fairly quickly asleep, his hand still holding onto yours although the rest of him is a relaxed puddle.
Corian regards you for a moment with a fond smile, then turns her gaze to the
hand in question. Her own hand looks up at her with puppy dog eyes. It's warm
here, it wants to stay. But, no, Corian is evil and cruel, and, very
carefully, attempts to extract her protesting hand.
Tarrant stirs in his bedrugged sleep as the hand is extracted, and unable to control his expression in sleep, he looks measurably sadder as it is taken away. And of course his hand itself is inconsolable.
Corian gets to her feet, watching you silently for a long moment. Movements carefully light, she brushes the hair away from your face, fingertips lingering for the briefest instant on your cheek, then murmurs softly, "Chiat'a bei kruzon, van'chela." With that, of course, she turns to leave. She couldn't -stay-, of course, much as she would like to do just that.
Tarrant snoozes fitfully on, altogether quite small in the oversized bed,
unaware that he's now alone.
You leave the room, pulling the door shut behind you.