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Latest revision as of 19:37, 23 May 2020

Blood
Dramatis Personae

Lucien, Steve

2020-05-21


"What did he want?" (set just after luci talking to malthus.)

Location

<NYC> Mount Sinai Hospital - Upper East Side


On the cutting edge of many medical technologies, Mount Sinai Hospital is often ranked as one of the nation's best hospitals. The medical school attached is one of the best in the world, meaning that even your med students know what they are doing. Chin up, then -- when you come in here badly mutilated after the latest terrible catastrophe in Times Square, you're in good hands.

If Steve is much disturbed by the brief, tense encounter at his room door, he shows no sign of it. He is, however, slowly coming more cognizant the longer he is out of contact with Lucien, his vitals shifting though never quite reaching human average. It is only when the room door closes that he makes any noise at all -- a low, quiet groan of discomfort. His eyes struggle open, bleary and unfocused. "...Bucky?" he murmurs, his voice dry and hoarse.

Lucien has just pushed the door closed, quiet. For just a moment, wilted heavily in against it, hand clenched hard against the handle and his forehead tipping heavily against the smooth wood. There's a quiet rustle of paper -- a takeout bag, lightly shaking where it hangs from his wrist.

Only for a moment. The breath he draws is slow, and deep; his shoulders are steadied again by the time he straightens and turns towards Steve. He does not answer this sleep-murmured query. Just settles himself by the side of Steve's bed with a light press of his fingers to the back of Steve's hand, an easy spill of comfort flexing out to ease the pain and discomfort back away. Replace it with a gentle warmth, soft and soothing.

"I do hope you are hungry." His quiet voice is mild, as always -- and as it so happens there is a flicker of appetite awakening in Steve, nausea conveniently pushed aside. He sets the bag down beside his chair, starts to unpack its contents onto the bedside table. A small stack of hotdog cartons from Dogtown. Five of them. "Tony Stark has seen fit to send you a small feast."

Steve's eyes track toward Lucien at a delay when he moves -- toward, and then past, and then finally locking on. His pulse speeds, his blood pressure spikes, he starts to sit up, but relaxes back down, presumably with recognition. His eyes flutter shut at Lucien's touch, and his aching muscles unclench. "My friend," he rasps, "you are an angel of mercy." Then, quickly, his eyes opening again. "Meaning no disrespect to your beliefs, I just -- thank you." His eyes are slow to pick up the food in his peripheral vision. "Didn't think I would be, but that does smell awfully good. He ah...he's a man of his word, that Tony Stark." He pushes himself closer to upright. Freezes, a sharp wash of dread briefly overwhelming even Lucien's carefully engineered chemical comfort. "Was anyone else hurt?"

Lucien quirks one eyebrow. "My beliefs coexist quite comfortably with many others, but -- ah. You seem to be recovering well enough." He sets a soda down beside the food. Picks up one of the cartons, offering it out to Steve. The food inside is fresh and hot; spicy mustard and caramelized onions for toppings. "You gave him good reason to be thankful, tonight." His head shakes, once, small. "You were hurt quite enough for two. The shooters were apprehended. Whatever their motives, it seems Mr. Stark was the clear target. They made no attempt on anyone else."

Steve nods, settling back down again. "Thank God." He receives the hot dog eagerly, though he takes a sip of his soda before tucking into the meal. Once he does, though, he wolfs it down with startling rapidity even by his usual standards. Blushes faintly after, taking another drink. "Sorry. Been a while since supper, I guess. That surgery felt like it went on forever. Lead surgeon looked like he could probably use a stiff drink or three by the time they closed me up." He's already picking up a second hot dog, his appetite undimmed by the recollection.

Lucien's lips press thinly together. His eyes lower; his nostrils flare on a quiet huff. "I imagine this falls just slightly out of the purview of most surgeons' usual practice." His green eyes fix on Steve's face thoughtfully; after a moment he plucks his phone from his pocket to tap out a note. "No doubt you could, as well. I doubt your doctors would look too kindly on me slipping you a whiskey in here, though. One more reason it will be good to get you home quickly."

Steve has downed the second hot dog by the time Lucien finishes speaking, and takes another sip of his soda before reaching for yet another. "I have it on good authority I make a poor patient," he admits, nonchalant, "despite a lifetime of practice. But considering they administered 'as much anesthesia as they dared' and it did hardly anything to me to all, you'd think they wouldn't worry too much about my having a drink or -- five. I'll not argue with going home, though I doubt they'd look kindly on that, either." He starts to take a bite of hot dog #3, but hesitates, his eyes sweeping over Luci speculatively. "Have you eaten? You were on the clock before, and you've been here the whole time, I'm sure."

"I have not historically found doctors to exert a lot of common *sense* when making such judgments." Lucien lowers his phone. Lifts his eyes to settle somewhere on the ceiling, a very small upward tic twitching at the corner of his mouth. "We don't *all* of us require sustenance every half-hour. That, I believe, is part of your own tailor-made super-soldier package." His fingers curl just a touch more firm against Steve's free hand, his eyes slipping half-closed. "You had a call from an authentic Captain Rogers, while you were out. No relation, I hope."

"Probably been a bit more than a half-hour," Steve hazards, lifting one eyebrow, "and I'm sure you've been busy all the while." This does not, however, stop him devouring the hot dog in his hand. He huffs a soft laugh. "I don't think it was all that tailored. I was an experiment. They got the strength, speed, and stamina they wanted -- everything else was just..." His expression twitches briefly into something complicated, and in his biochemistry Lucien can read a jumble of emotions ranging from fury to amusement. "...errata? I'll still take it over the asthma and all the rest, though." At the tightening of the grip on his hand Steve looks up, pale blue eyes much more alert now than just a few moments ago. Studies his friend. "Army? What did he want?"

"Marine," Lucien's correction comes offhand. Light, amused -- though his grip does not slacken. "What does the military always want? Blood."