ArchivedLogs:Bedside Manner

Bedside Manner
Dramatis Personae Cage, Trib
In Absentia	2014-04-10 Or lack thereof. (Takes place the morning after Storm Fronts. Part of Perfectus TP.)
Location <NYC> The Mendel Clinic - Lower East Side
With its sharp crystalline edges and sleek lines knifing up into the sky, this building is one of the most /distinctive/ new additions to the neighborhood. An angular structure in glass and steel, the tall tower has a deceptively slender look to it that is belied by the heavy security as soon as you enter the doors. The front doors are frosted with the Clinic's logo -- a rising sun over a rod of Asclepius -- a motif echoed in many places throughout the building. Visitors to the clinic must first pass through a small mantrap, guarded by some of the Clinic's security guards; once they make it through the metal detector and airlock's double doors they emerge into the much more hospitable lobby. With dark wood floors underneath and comfortable black and red couches at its edges, the high windows give the room an airy feel. A bank of elevators to one side carry visitors to the many destination floors, while the wide welcome desk at the other side is manned by a security guard ready to help point visitors in the right direction. Luke Cage was admitted to the hospital late last night. When he got off the phone with Chelsea, he called Alison to fill her in while she's still in California this week, and then he texted Janice and Trib one more time to let them know where he is as well. His mom came in earlier and is gone now, leaving a vase of flowers with a 'Go Mets' tinyFlag stuck in them by his bed. Now, midmorning on Thursday, Luke sits in his bed which has been cranked up to bring him roughly upright, and the TV is on showing a rerun of the Mets spring training game he must have missed. Janice is sitting nearby in a chair, /knitting/ what looks like a black skull cap. Or the beginning of a knit hoodie. Who knows. Luke is hooked up to several monitor devices and is wearing a hospital gown under the blankets, but there are no IVs. He seems alert and is able to move his head about, and even his torso as he shifts, but his arms and legs are strangely... still. A tray of half-eaten hospital food is close at hand too, but pushed away. Trib is not having a good morning. After tracking down the kid who lifted his phone at the gym and getting it back (after searching all night and threatening a couple of gym workers), his phone had been full of messages from Cage alerting him to the previous night's activity. And his current location. When the boxer pushes in through the door of Cage's hospital room, he is dressed in roughly the same clothes from the night before; a pair of jeans and a dark-green henley with some suspicious dark spots on the sleeves, and his trademark black knit cap jammed low on his brow. His eyes are burning pools of gold as he takes in his boss and his current condition, and he inhales deeply before he speaks -- a little more loudly than he probably should in a hospital. "You gonna die?" "/Ret/ritbution," Janice says firmly, disapproving of Trib's question, apparently. She stands and steps closely to Trib, pulling him into a hug /anyway/, long enough to whisper barely loud enough for Trib to hear, "Don't touch his arms or legs. At all." She clears her throat and nods. "Well, leave you boys alone for now. I'll be in the cafeteria if you need anything." Luke shakes his head with a weak grin at Trib's question and gives Janice a tired nod when she leaves. When it seems like she's out of earshot he grumbles, "The woman refuses to go home and take the day off-" From just out in the hall Janice says, "Go fuck yourself, Cage." Luke sighs and looks at Trib with a raise of the eyebrows, instead of a shrug. His body is just so... still. If his barrel of a chest weren't pumping air in and out he might seem like a zombie. When he fixes his gaze on Trib more properly, the big man's pupils are almost entirely dilated, though he still seems somewhat focused. "Doc says I'll make it. Plus, they give me all the morphine pills I want." Trib's face is impassive at Janice's warning, but his hug for the older woman is remarkably warm. He snorts at Janice's reply, and there's a flicker of amusement that burns away almost immediately once they're truly alone. There's the smallest of chin-jerks from the boxer when Cage gives his prognosis, and then he's folding his arms across his massive chest, and looking away from Cage, at the monitors. His jaw shifts audibly a couple of times, and when he speaks again, his voice is softer, and tight. "You get the kid out?" Luke looks down, and then nods his head at the remote, and the TV in succession. "You wanna switch that off for me?" His expression is decidedly disappointed. "Afraid I didn't make much account for myself in there. I'm told they got all the people out, but I went down in the first round. Added myself to the number of people they had to haul outta there. Lady... fucking exploded my insides or some shit. I don't even know, man. Doc says my muscles look like shredded beef." A muscle jumps in Trib's jaw as he listens to Cage's story, and there's a thunderstorm brewing somewhere around his eyebrows when he turns to look back at the older man. He does switch off the television, opting to turn it off directly rather than risk touching the bed-ridden Cage. There's more grinding noise as he considers the older man, and his nostrils flare. "Sounds like some serious shit." Clearly not as observant as he usually is, Luke misses Trib's facial cues and turns his hazy eyes to the window for a moment. Looking back, he clears his throat and nods. "Serious as a fox," he says, and then his brow furrows and his fuzzed mind hints that that may not be how the saying goes. "Just glad we got those people out." The grinding sound ramps up from Trib as he watches Cage, and his eyes narrow into dangerous slits for a long moment. Then all the tension drains from his face, and he drops his face into his hand. "Well, that's good," he says in a bleak sort of voice. "I guess." Luke takes a deep breath and squints a little, forcing himself to focus when Trib drops his head. "Hey, are you ok, man? All the good guys got out. Only dead psychos left in that place." His tone is firm enough but his expression seems confused by Trib's body language. Luke's definitely not in top form. "No," is Trib's reply, low and growled from somewhere deep in his chest. "I ain't all right. I should have been there." Luke's voice softens and he shakes his head. "Honestly, brother, I'm glad you weren't. That was not our party. You and me, we're on the shitkickers team, but they had people I couldn't even touch." Luke shifts slightly which causes his right arm to drag across the bed an inch or two, and the huge, invincible man /winces/ as his breath catches. He clears his throat again and adds, "They had this dude chokin us like fuckin' Darth Vader, this chick throwing ice, this other throwing around black holes or some shit, and the chick who blew me up from the inside. There was nothing guys like you and me could bring to that show." The rest of the tension drains from Trib's frame at Cage's story, and his bleak expression now is one of dawning realization of the actual danger involved. "Fuck." Doesn't seem to quite cover it, but it's all he can manage. "Then /you/ shouldn't have been there." Which seems redundant, at this point, and the boxer exhales through his nostrils. He moves forward, then, gently plucking the remote from the bedcovers and snagging Luke's uneaten toast as he moves to Janice's vacated chair. "You're a fuckin' mess, Cage. You're goin' to fuckin' kill me one of these fuckin' days." He drops into the chair, and thumbs at the remote, bringing the game up again. "So," he says, munching into the toast. "How bad a spankin' are the Mets gettin', anyway?"