Silver Shot

LOG TITLE

daniel_icon.jpg finnegan_icon.jpg

Where: A small clinic in Van Nuys
When: July 6, 2020
What: Wounded wolves end up at the same clinic in the aftermath of the bombing.

Advice is seldom welcome; and those who want it the most always like it the least. - by Lord Chesterfield


It's been a hard night to live through. But, live he has. Earlier, Daniel found himself stumbling through the dark night not long after the nightclub chaos found him and stabbed many pieces of shrapnel - silver, wood, and iron bits of metal alike - into his left arm and shoulder blade. Unaware of the extent of his injuries at that point besides the intermixed feelings of stabbing, burning and throbbing pain emanating from his left side, the man had just enough sense left to find a doctor - the kind who doesn't ask too many questions. A few bills thrown in encouraged a more speedy appointment, which was followed up by stitches, a sling, and a bit of plain ol' sleep.

So it is that hours later after the traumatic event, Daniel is making his way out of one of the back rooms. Looks like this Dr. Eddy of the local free clinic has also seen fit to outfit him in some beat up jeans, a decent washed (if dingy-white) t-shirt and standard 3-dollar flip flops from the convenience store just down the street usually reserved for those of far less fortune than one like Daniel.

Coming in much later — after a few hours of denial, because anything resembling an infirmary is his least favorite place to be — Finnegan comes stumbling in to the office. He must have made it home, because he has a shirt (and the last Daniel saw of him, he was in wolf form carrying his pants in his mouth), but it's seen better days, the gray jersey spotted with blood along his side where he had been caught by a silver knife that had been loaded into the bomb that night.

Finn too looks worse than he did the last Daniel saw him — he looks feverish, which means some bit of silver is probably still caught somewhere in his flesh, and he stumbles to the window of the small clinic. "Need to see the doctor," he mutters.

As if that wasn't totally obvious.

The open window of the counter allows him to look beyond the nurse to the hallway where Daniel stands, and he shakes his head at the other wolf. "Great minds and all that," he quips.

Stopping to lean (lightly) against the hallway, Daniel looks up upon being addressed. "Followed the scent di'n't you," he counters wryly. The lawyer's voice slurs on an edge almost towards what's construed as mixed foreign accent and intonations, though far more likely a product of painkillers, exhaustion and lingering pain. Fishing about his pocket with his good hand, Daniel finds his cellphone and checks the time. A brief grimace ensues at the late (or early) hour. Then, he's looking back to the other man and examining the extent of his injuries, now in a better, more sterile light. "Guess we're both lucky enough that this is L.A., because the woman back there's pretty much an angel. Wouldn't treat her to your wonderfully glib mannerisms," he adds with a smirk. Humor is the best medicine, they say.

"She'll be with you in a bit. She had to run down the street on an emergency. Go ahead on to Room 2, Jamie," says the nurse with a nod toward the hall and a smile for Daniel at his advice to Finn.

Before she can say more, the phone rings, and she turns to take it — the sole nurse-slash-receptionist in the place has a lot of hats to wear.

"Dr. Eddy likes my wonderfully glib mannerisms, I'll have you know," Finn retorts, opening the door to the hallway and making his way toward the room indicated. "Not every woman goes for suits and $50 haircuts."

The little jab might feel sharper if he didn't stumble into the door frame on the way in, causing him to reach for something to regain his balance and disrupting a tray full of suturing equipment. The clatter is deafening, and has the nurse putting whomever it is on the phone on hold to yell down the hall, "You okay?"

"Jamie, is it," Daniel echoes to solidify the name somewhere in his memory cells. A name to go with the face, now. He's too out of it to stop the stumble and subsequent clatter of equipment, but Daniel is quick to move in an effort to help clean up. Not a smart move, of course, given his condition. The man sucks in a breath and bites away the initial sharp jolt traveling down his arm. "We're good," he says to the general area and with a look to the nurse-receptionist. "But here," he then says with a turn to Finn, "I'll see you to Room 2 then. Lovely little joint it is, too."

"Most our kind call me Finn," says Jamie-Finn-Finnegan, stooping to pick up a pack of gauze and a hemostat.

"I got it. Been here a few times," he says, with regards to Room 2, but as he rises, leans against the wall, a fresh glaze of sweat on his brow from the exertion. There's a fresh spot of blood on the gray shirt as well. He begins to move, but slowly, and while the clinic is small, Room 2 seems a long walk for someone who looks like he might collapse any moment.

A roll of stitching thread also goes on the tray, dropped there by the lawyer. Daniel might be hurting too, but his expression to Jamie-Finn says most of what he thinks in one disapproving look - a look reminiscent of a shared biological parent, no less, and definitely one that he's unaware of. "Finn, you look like you're about to pass out. At least let's get you to the room before you do." A beat skips. "And I'm Daniel." While he doesn't offer a hand, Daniel remains walking beside his fellow werewolf until they get to the destination.

There's a huff that might be agreement or at least is a lack of argument as Finn begins to move slowly toward the room. "Not usually such a lightweight," he mutters as he moves, a little breathlessly. "Thought it was a clean cut but must have gotten some shrapnel in there." Even if it was a clean cut, it obviously needs stitches, but the fever says it's more than that.

"You got banged up pretty good yourself," he adds, with a nod toward the sling. "Did Corona make it out all right?" Figures, the bartender thinks of the other werewolf in terms of her signature drink.

Every few steps, there's a sidelong glance from Daniel to his injured company to check on the progress. "3 bombs, 2 molotovs, and a soon-to-be if not already pissed off Otherworlder," Daniel takes stock at a discreet volume. "I think considering the circumstances, I've done pretty well." It takes him a moment to parse the nickname, but realization finds him. "Ah, Izzy. She got out, yes. Glad she did, because she seems like the last thing she needs is a visit from inquiring minds wanting to know." And then, at an even lower volume (practically inaudible, even), «Good to know there's some kinship about in this part of town.»

Finally making it into the room, Finnegan eases himself onto the gurney-like bed there. His feet too are in flip flops, though more like the $40 surfer-variety than the $3 Wal-Green special that Daniel's feet boast.

"Ryel, man. I would not want to be on the receiving end of his wrath. Not to mention Keles," Finn says with a low whistle just contemplating it. "Izzy… with the fizzy limes…" apparently that's funny when you're a bit anemic with blood loss, because Finn chuckles at his own weak joke. "If you say so. I'm not really one of the club, if you know what I mean."

Murmuring agreement in regards to Ryel and Keles' wrath, Daniel finds himself a seat in what would be the doctor's chair later. A chuckle strays from him too, the play on names and rhyme amusing the drugged as much as the anemic. At Finn's admittance of "party lines", he musters a raised brow. "So you're a loner type, but you're in and out of Ryel's," he remarks skeptically.

There's a lift of one shoulder even as Finn reaches to the side tray for some gauze, sliding it under his shirt and holding it in place there with a wince. "You don't have to be pals with him to take the cage, or else he wouldn't let vamps downstairs. I get money, he gets money, everybody's happy. Doesn't mean I'm gonna go play his political games just because he came from the other side, you know?" The Virginian accent is thicker with his fever or his fatigue, or both.

"So the cage fighting is still a Thing." Sitting back, Daniel breathes out a slow sigh of things weighing heavily. His gaze falls on the other, evaluating those injuries again but also taking in this man as one would judge fitness of a fighter in the ring. And Daniel looks like he's had his experiences there. "I wish I did know what it's like about these sorts of politics, but I'll be honest. It's far easier to fight it from the same side than against it. Not saying it's an easy life. But, it's the one given us."

What sounds like unsolicited advice earns Daniel a narrow-eyed glower from Finnegan, who chooses not to respond to that part of Daniel's speech. "Don't you go lobbyin' none against the cage fighting. Can't make my car payment without it. And," he adds, "I like it." As if that settles things. "You don't have to sit here and babysit me. The doc'll be here any second."

And as if by cue, the doctor steps in, taking one look at Finnegan and shaking her head at the sight of him. "Five hours too late, and probably twenty bucks short, as usual, Finn." As she pulls on gloves, she nods to Daniel. "Thanks for looking after him. Did you teach him any manners? Out with you, you need some more sleep in a real bed, yourself."

Holding his hand up to placate, or perhaps act as if in promise, Daniel answers the glower with reassurance. "I'm not that kind of guy. Just a lawyer," he says before using the hand to push himself up. He's in mid rise when Dr. Eddy fills in the empty part of the medical room. A small laugh is checked with another glance back to Finn for the manners comment, but Daniel reserves any words. "Aye," he returns, giving up his seat for the woman. "Thanks Doctor. It really is too late to be sticking around too long, I agree. Though, I think I left my car back at the club, too," he muses aloud. But a quick examination would show that Daniel is in no condition to be driving. A sharp Look from Dr. Eddy shows Daniel out, followed by a request to the nurse to call a cab for Daniel. Doctor's Orders. And one last time, the hand goes up to placate and to wave-salute a short goodbye to the werewolf on the gurney-table. « Be safe… » The parting pack mind comment stops just short of being too familiar. At least there's a line he keeps.

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