[ Karl smiles, harmlessly. (Nothing to see here, folks, move along.) Then he gestures at Crane's face, the contusion that has swollen around his temple and the fine series of lacerations that have collected along it. ]
Gotta be careful with things like that. Infection's not pretty. [ Trust him, he knows. ]
[There's a spark in his eyes once he remembers, shoulders jerking softly before Crane brings a hand up to his face, fingertips never quite touching skin. He forces a little smile.]
Oh--yeah, I know. I-I'm taking care of it, don't worry.
[It's practically apologetic. Somehow Crane always looks like he's admitting guilt to something.]
Yeah, sure you are, [ he says, kneeling in front of her, a tiny flashlight in his hand which he shines into one eye and then the other, watching her pupils dilate and contract. ] Can you tell me what year it is? Who's president?
[ It takes her a moment not to snarl at him, though there's a definite aggravated twitch to her lip. ] It's 2012. Obama's the president. Seriously, I'm fine.
[ The corner of Karl's mouth twitches, but in a way that's nothing more than politely uncomfortable. He's a good doctor and he's a good liar and by now the script of his life is near to perfect, not a single beat missed.
(—you think you know better, you stupid fucking cunt, who's the doctor and who's the bitch with the head full of glass—) ]
Listen, lady— you might think you're fine, but I've got a job to do. [ He gives her a look as he drops the the flashlight to this side and squares her eye to eye. His smile crook a little like he's asking cut a guy some slack. Friendly, friendly. (Not a single beat missed.) ] The sooner you let me do it, the sooner I'll be outta your hair. I promise, okay?
[ He's a good doctor, he's a good doctor. Really, he is. ]
[ It's not the first time she's had a head full of glass, but she's not going to tell him that, just like she's not going to say that her boss can handle it if she really needs to see someone -- especially since Coyote would probably tell her to go to the doctor anyway. She bristles instead, knowing better than to fight her way out of this (they don't need the extra attention and she can't do her job if she's sedated, which is part of why she's so against going to the doctor in the first place, on top of hating to have to ask for help). ]
Fine. [ Her hands are curled into fists, nails digging into her palm. ] But only because my boss will kill me if I walk into work with glass shards falling out.
[ Karl gives her a look, one that lingers for a moment longer than is polite, but it's brushed that off as assessment easily enough as he flashes her another brief smile (thanks; no, really. Then he turns, wheeling himself away from her in his little office chair, propelling himself the short distance to the opposite side of the small visitation room. He's been in practice for a solid decade now and while his private practice is four days a week, on Fridays he's here, at the hospital.
It doesn't take him long to find the things that he needs. Gauze, wipes, swabs, thread; a tiny pair of tweezers, a set of gloves from the box on the wall. He makes chitchat while he collects these things and arranges them on a small wheeled cart. ] I can give you something for the pain, if you want. Not gonna lie, it'll hit like a Mack truck but the stitches go down a hell of a lot smoother. [ He glances at her, a sterile packet of needles in his hand. Karl shakes the contents and holds it up to the light. ] Your call.
[ Polite. Pft. Jaye doesn't really expect anyone to be a professional. That said, she doesn't expect him to look at her longer for any reason other than the fact that she's a pretty (even with glass in her head) face. If there's some other reason, she's missed it and probably will continue to miss it until it hits her in the face. ]
I can sit still. [ It's not an overestimation of her abilities, not really. She's had stitches before, and not always from an actual licensed doctor. ] No narcotics. [ She'll take an aspirin or something if she has to, later, and Kane and Coyote will probably notice that she's grumpier than usual due to pain, but they'll deal. ]
He hates pretty women, almost as much as he hates ugly women. Because at least a pretty woman gives him something to look at and pull apart and rage against (so what, you think you're fucking better than me; you think you're special; do you, do you); an ugly woman's just a big fucking waste (he can't get it up for one, no matter how big her tits are).
Karl looks past the packet of needles at her, thinks idly of all the ways he'd like to test that assertion, and then shrugs before tossing the packet onto the tray with the rest of the lot. ] Like I said — lady's choice.
[ He wheels himself over, the tray in toe and then settles in front of her, gloves laid out (one on each knee). Karl asks harmlessly: ] So what's a girl like you do for a living, huh?
[ Underneath it all, he's not a friendly person, but he likes to keep up appearances. And part of being a doctor is bedside manner. (Especially when there's someone on the slab.) ]
Or that's what she would say -- underneath the exterior, the dangling earrings and the long, blonde hair and the freckles and the way she snarls and scowls, Jaye is still a scared sixteen year-old-girl, holding her little brother's hand and watching everything they've ever known burn. She's still the girl who ran that day, who whisked Scott away and who never reconciled with her parents. Eleven years later and she still avoids that part of Detroit like the plague. ]
I'm a personal assistant who hits people.
[ There's some evidence of that, bruising around her knuckles, faint scars (though many are from before she met Coyote, too), but for someone who's half bodyguard, the evidence is pretty low. Maybe that means she doesn't run into trouble, or maybe that means she doesn't always use her fists.
It does, but she doesn't use a gun, either -- even if that is often the default assumption. ]
Edited (i can close html tags i promise) 2012-05-12 22:55 (UTC)
[ Karl is snapping on his gloves, one after the other, though that motion slows when she says the phrase 'who hits people' because fucking christ, what's today — fucking Christmas? A girl with that kind of bone structure and tits that are just asking for it and it's a shame she isn't a brunette because you know, sweetheart, you remind me of my wife; and I fucking loved my wife. He doesn't look at her straight away, just continues ripping open packets and threading needles, though he's got to shift his weight cause just the thought makes him hard and this isn't the time or the place.
(—bet the bitch is frigid; bet she'll laugh if I ask; bet she thinks she's too good for my kind of fuck—)
When he eventually looks up, gauze in hand, he gives her a brief little smile (neutral, like this is no big deal). ] Well that 's definitely a first. And I've seen a lotta shit. But you don't look the type — no offense.
[ There are a lot of men who don't get excited about that kind of thing and Jaye doesn't think anything of the motion slowing either, just sort of absently glances around the room. She's in the middle of cracking her knuckles when he shifts and she looks back at him, head tilting to the side, hair falling down her neck.
Truth is, Jaye doesn't have a lot of standards when it comes to who she fucks. She just has tastes. Men who are a little rough around the edges, who look like they can take it, are her first pick. A good roll in bed would be a nice reward for going to the fucking hospital and putting up with stitches, but of course, that all depends on what his type of fuck actually is.
She laughs, showing her teeth. ] I get that a lot. It's an advantage. [ No one expects the tall blonde to turn into a grizzly bear and rip their fucking throat out. ]
deedle dee probably hitting you up like 2468438 times GET READY
It's been weeks since she last ate. Her skin is pale, cheeks hollowed out, hair swept back, sickly but ordinary. It's the only reason her cuts don't stitch themselves up on their own, staying open and bleeding though, bit by bit, the wounds mend themselves anyway. The changes aren't so subtle that they won't be noticeable at all, but there are only so many ways out of this kettle (no pun intended) of fish and the doc is cute enough, so she sits still. The car accident hadn't been particularly pretty, after all. ]
No shit, [ she says, though her voice carries less animosity than it could. ]
[ It's a small accident. The vase drops and of course the shards go everywhere. (At least the flowers are thrown away first.)
The aftermath isn't too bad. It's just one foot that gets cut up, the trail of blood across the kitchen floor suggestive of something out of a horror movie rather than a relatively everyday incident. Elizabeth sits on one of the stools around the kitchen island, one leg stretched out.
She doesn't bother saying anything yet. After all, sorry or I should have been more careful don't make any difference at this point. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
no subject
Sorry--?
no subject
Gotta be careful with things like that. Infection's not pretty. [ Trust him, he knows. ]
no subject
Oh--yeah, I know. I-I'm taking care of it, don't worry.
[It's practically apologetic. Somehow Crane always looks like he's admitting guilt to something.]
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
(—you think you know better, you stupid fucking cunt, who's the doctor and who's the bitch with the head full of glass—) ]
Listen, lady— you might think you're fine, but I've got a job to do. [ He gives her a look as he drops the the flashlight to this side and squares her eye to eye. His smile crook a little like he's asking cut a guy some slack. Friendly, friendly. (Not a single beat missed.) ] The sooner you let me do it, the sooner I'll be outta your hair. I promise, okay?
[ He's a good doctor, he's a good doctor. Really, he is. ]
no subject
Fine. [ Her hands are curled into fists, nails digging into her palm. ] But only because my boss will kill me if I walk into work with glass shards falling out.
no subject
It doesn't take him long to find the things that he needs. Gauze, wipes, swabs, thread; a tiny pair of tweezers, a set of gloves from the box on the wall. He makes chitchat while he collects these things and arranges them on a small wheeled cart. ] I can give you something for the pain, if you want. Not gonna lie, it'll hit like a Mack truck but the stitches go down a hell of a lot smoother. [ He glances at her, a sterile packet of needles in his hand. Karl shakes the contents and holds it up to the light. ] Your call.
no subject
I can sit still. [ It's not an overestimation of her abilities, not really. She's had stitches before, and not always from an actual licensed doctor. ] No narcotics. [ She'll take an aspirin or something if she has to, later, and Kane and Coyote will probably notice that she's grumpier than usual due to pain, but they'll deal. ]
no subject
He hates pretty women, almost as much as he hates ugly women. Because at least a pretty woman gives him something to look at and pull apart and rage against (so what, you think you're fucking better than me; you think you're special; do you, do you); an ugly woman's just a big fucking waste (he can't get it up for one, no matter how big her tits are).
Karl looks past the packet of needles at her, thinks idly of all the ways he'd like to test that assertion, and then shrugs before tossing the packet onto the tray with the rest of the lot. ] Like I said — lady's choice.
[ He wheels himself over, the tray in toe and then settles in front of her, gloves laid out (one on each knee). Karl asks harmlessly: ] So what's a girl like you do for a living, huh?
[ Underneath it all, he's not a friendly person, but he likes to keep up appearances. And part of being a doctor is bedside manner. (Especially when there's someone on the slab.) ]
no subject
Or that's what she would say -- underneath the exterior, the dangling earrings and the long, blonde hair and the freckles and the way she snarls and scowls, Jaye is still a scared sixteen year-old-girl, holding her little brother's hand and watching everything they've ever known burn. She's still the girl who ran that day, who whisked Scott away and who never reconciled with her parents. Eleven years later and she still avoids that part of Detroit like the plague. ]
I'm a personal assistant who hits people.
[ There's some evidence of that, bruising around her knuckles, faint scars (though many are from before she met Coyote, too), but for someone who's half bodyguard, the evidence is pretty low. Maybe that means she doesn't run into trouble, or maybe that means she doesn't always use her fists.
It does, but she doesn't use a gun, either -- even if that is often the default assumption. ]
no subject
(—bet the bitch is frigid; bet she'll laugh if I ask; bet she thinks she's too good for my kind of fuck—)
When he eventually looks up, gauze in hand, he gives her a brief little smile (neutral, like this is no big deal). ] Well that 's definitely a first. And I've seen a lotta shit. But you don't look the type — no offense.
no subject
Truth is, Jaye doesn't have a lot of standards when it comes to who she fucks. She just has tastes. Men who are a little rough around the edges, who look like they can take it, are her first pick. A good roll in bed would be a nice reward for going to the fucking hospital and putting up with stitches, but of course, that all depends on what his type of fuck actually is.
She laughs, showing her teeth. ] I get that a lot. It's an advantage. [ No one expects the tall blonde to turn into a grizzly bear and rip their fucking throat out. ]
deedle dee probably hitting you up like 2468438 times GET READY
It's been weeks since she last ate. Her skin is pale, cheeks hollowed out, hair swept back, sickly but ordinary. It's the only reason her cuts don't stitch themselves up on their own, staying open and bleeding though, bit by bit, the wounds mend themselves anyway. The changes aren't so subtle that they won't be noticeable at all, but there are only so many ways out of this kettle (no pun intended) of fish and the doc is cute enough, so she sits still. The car accident hadn't been particularly pretty, after all. ]
No shit, [ she says, though her voice carries less animosity than it could. ]
no subject
The aftermath isn't too bad. It's just one foot that gets cut up, the trail of blood across the kitchen floor suggestive of something out of a horror movie rather than a relatively everyday incident. Elizabeth sits on one of the stools around the kitchen island, one leg stretched out.
She doesn't bother saying anything yet. After all, sorry or I should have been more careful don't make any difference at this point. ]