Dr. L. Larsen

and here we are again: alive.

[mouse--quinley]

paws || lorelai + mouse

[lorelai-larsen-blog]

mouse--quinley:

Which Disney movie’s that then? [He had limited selection as a kid—lots of Star Wars, and yeah a few Disney but it wasn’t by any means a complete collection. He’d spent more time reading, since the littles usually crowded the screens they had, with all their noise and mayhem.] 

[He has to grin at her bacon comment, and Copper licks his fingers which makes him snicker and ruffle the dog’s ears again, ever-obedient to requests for scritches.] I do prob’ly smell a bit like that, yeah. Price of chores. In all seriousness, he’s like, the best thing I’ve seen in years. How’d you keep him, through everythin’? [Underlying, not spoken: how did you keep him from being eaten?]

[She gives her name, and suddenly he’s saddened—more than he thought he’d be. He pauses, for a moment. Yeah, he knows who she is. NWRF. And a doctor, one of theirs, hands down. And fuck, he’d liked her. It hurts, knowing he can’t just let it go, and his face falls, he has to look away for a minute to figure out how to react. Mouth dry, he backs off a step.]

Nice to meet you, doc. The both of you. [Wooden and rote, but he can’t avoid that. She might’ve seemed reasonable, and the dog was nice—definitely not his fault his owner’s who she is. But she probably hates his guts, despite that they’ve never met. He really just wants to bolt, so as to not feel her disgust or hatred, whatever will come up when she realizes ‘what’ he is.]

[Is it wrong for him to judge her before he knows her? Maybe. But it’s self-preservation as much as anything. He would like to believe some of them are different, but he prepares for the worst.] 

The Fox and The Hound...? [She braces slightly, knows how it ends. Before happy endings became the standard. Before happy endings became a fossil of the past. She can’t even remember why she knows that movie.] Borderline heart breaking for Disney, although from what I understand it was prior to their real zenith of popularity. I won’t spoil it for you. 

[Copper’s tongue lolls, his ear turned inside out by the ruffling, the pink underside vulnerable and silly. And Lorelai’s pulse upticks. Chores, then. Her smile tightens.] In all honesty, he’s far more independent than he lets on. Easier to get shamelessly spoiled when you’re a proper hunter, like he is. [A remnant, a ghost from the last chapter of her life. A puppy left behind by a family devastated by the outbreak. She wasn’t completely without heart, and Copper really did adore sinking his teeth into a squirrel. Which made him valuable, perhaps the most valuable thing she had.] 

[She’s been waiting for it, and it still is a kick to feel the way everything drops. To watch the boy duck his head, force a breath of space between them, even as Copper tries to follow. Lorelai digs her hand around his collar, uneasy and nauseous with it. She’s hyper conscious of her bare arms, exposed and soft, and the chill now that the sweat has dried. The itch of dirt over her skin. 

They’re unpredictable at best. Prone to damaging emotional outbursts.

He’s nothing more than a boy.

What do we do, when we don’t understand an infection, a virus?

She steadies herself, briefly hollowed out. But the moments of evidence so far only shows that he’s not violent, that he’s in control of whatever manifestation has invaded his body, his blood. Empath... her records are mulled and muddied in her head, perhaps he doesn’t welcome the illness any more than she does.

His attempt is polite, and if nothing else she appreciates it, even though they both can hear how it falls dull and lifeless between them both.] Nice to meet you as well. [There’s sincerity there. He’s not wholly responsible for his own condition.] You’re welcome to visit with Copper any time, you know. [He’s still just a boy. Ravaged by the spread of something unknown.] He sleeps out here, mostly. Too many rules to break to get him inside.    

[celeb33]

[lorelai-larsen-blog]

elsa--copland:

[Elsa is, at least for the time being, relieved to be in the doctor’s office. Other than the smell of harsh cleaning solvents, the room has an airiness that slowly calms her. In a moment of peace, her eyes feel heavy, she’d spent too much energy flailing around in that man’s arms.  A yawn threatens to escape, but then, a sharp click snaps her attention back to the doctor who begins her examination. 

The air moves as the doctor’s swiftly motions between each of Elsa’s eyes. When the doctor pauses a moment at the discovery of her sightless eyes Elsa flutters them smartly as if they are suddenly responsive to the light that has been left blaring in one of them. It is something she can sense based on the sound of the doctor’s movements. The slight joke is as much humour she can muster in her current spirit.]

You tell me? Aren’t I in need of serious medical attention? After I was so gallantly rushed here. [Her tone is dry and missing the intended inflexion. Elsa sighs, she should try harder not to take her mood out on this girl. She is, after all, doing her best to be composed and welcoming in spite of how she’s feeling. Unfolding her arms, she rests her hands on her lap and extends her leg slightly.] 

Feels like a slight sprain is all. I’m no stranger to minor injuries. [She shrugs, a scraped face and bruised ankle is nothing but a slight inconvenience.] 

[Lorelai is grateful in a way for the tone match, the bite that tells her this girl is no more fainting dove than she herself is. It also seems a bit of a blow-back, an overcompensation for a perceived slight or flaw or discomfort. Common, really.] 

I suppose I’m required to assure you that we treat all injuries as gravely serious here, Miss ... ? [She leaves the verbal lilt, but hopes that her wryness comes across. Truly, the heavy sarcasm floating across should send her hackles rising but in this sense it feels more shared than barbed.] If only for the liability factor... the optics and all. 

[Wouldn’t want another death on our hands.] 

[Those phrases were throwaways, meaningless, nothing other than a tone match she hopes is read. What even qualifies as ethics in a world that none of them were prepared for? Is it ethical to let an infected inhabit the same space as a civilian? Given their vastly different thresholds for chaos? Is it ethical to draw their blood, study their every function, to better understand how they might help heal others? But there is little Lorelai takes pride in any more, outside of her ability to heal and her oath sworn so many sunrises ago that she is still trying to make good on. She is still trying, however else she’s perceived. As ethical as this world allows her to be.] 

[She pockets the flashlight, steps a breath closer.] I’m going to test your range of movement. Let me know at what point the pain sharpens. [She narrates, the way she would for any other patient, but doesn’t touch the girl until she’s sure she’s heard her. The facial injuries seem surface, and another minute won’t affect how they heal. She takes the girl’s delicately lifted calf lightly in her left, while flexing the foot and gently rotating the heel to the right. Dorsiflexion. Plantar Flexion. Most sprains involve rolling the ankle inward, stretching the ligament farther that it is was intended to. There’s already swelling, the joint stiff and thick under her hands.] 

[simply-canine]

JTR_2670 by Justin Regan // Rhodesian Ridgeback

[lorelai-larsen-blog]

bobbie-wright:

[Her pleasantry is met with pushback, so she lets it fall away completely, hating how her face colors with mild embarrassment and moves toward the back wall to scrub up. She doesn’t need the woman telling her how to clean up, she’s been a nurse long enough, but she doesn’t say anything about it, instead lifting her shoulders in a small shrug and focusing on scrubbing up. 

She doesn’t manage to hide her own snort, however, when she hears the woman’s question. It’s probably a little rude, and she almost apologizes, but stops herself from doing so in the interest of answering the question instead.] I don’t need you to coach me at all through removing sutures. I could likely do it in my sleep. [She finishes cleaning up and shakes excess water from her arms, turning to look at the woman and lifting her eyebrow a fraction.] I was a nurse for three years before D-Day. I’m not flying blind, here. 

[Ironically, the snort makes her like Bobbie more. A sense of self, a snippet into what this bambi finds condescending.] 

Color me surprised. You might be the only person in the whole Colony. [She’ll still hover. Incapable of fully vesting control until she sees the evidence of the skills. 

There’s too many that can talk the talk, but stumble on the walk.] Forgive me if I don’t believe you at first glance. [But there’s a way to the shake and settle of the woman’s elbows that speaks of routine. She won’t buy into it, but maybe this one...] Can’t exactly depend on word of mouth here, or I’ll end up with more damage than repair. 

[She tucks the board under her elbow, and opens the door, gesturing for Bobbie to precede her out of the office.] First one is a fractured cheekbone, predictable swelling around the eye socket. [She’ll have to mostly eyeball it. How much has the swelling gone down. Has it hardened underneath the skin? Still have full range of vision? Test the peripherals.] Fairly slow paced, but there will be a few who’ll need some more intensive patching up. [She’s found it’s not even worth quizzing the volunteers most of the time. She knows as soon as she watches them put their hands on the patients.] 

[mouse--quinley]

paws || lorelai + mouse

[lorelai-larsen-blog]

mouse--quinley:

lorelai-larsen:

She’s sweatier than she wants to be right now. Sticking to her cotton top, and deodorant is a luxury afforded to few, so she can smell the stale wet grit of her own body. Training was, for lack of a better word, devastatingly hard. She goes in fits and starts, needing to push herself further, and alternatively wanting to step back and look effortless and unenthused. She’s not necessarily built for this. She should let the actual fighters do the work. 

And then there’s the other, insidious whisper that they’re watching her. The rink, everybody is watching each other. And whether it builds better teams or simply breaks down egos is yet to be seen. But it’s an arena that only brings out the worst in Lorelai, old habits of a chameleon, a personality and skill scavenger. 

Luke used to good naturedly mock her, nights after dinner parties, his hands stroking her ribs as they faced each other. 

You turn into a different person at these. I kept having to ask where my wife was. 

The arena was of course spectacularly sparse with so many out on the Second crusade.]  

“Copper!” 

[The stable is suspiciously quiet.] 

“Copper!” 

[She’s walking further into the dust-lit air, anxiety starting to lick up her throat when there’s still nothing, but her ears catch the murmurs of another voice. The cadence is delighted, spoiling, and she swallows.

He’s a slip of a boy, but his hands are careful and kind as they run over Copper and she can’t begrudge him it. Even if it somehow feels a little too close.] 

There you are. 

[And Copper is all wide eyes and wriggles as he sees her, as he tries to get her to come closer without abandoning the ministrations of his new found friend. She smoothes her hands along the wrinkles on the ridge of his brow and cocks an eyebrow at the boy.] Seems to like you quite a bit.  

[The woman who approaches is a stranger to him, but evidently not to the pooch. He grins and stands up, still looking at the dog as he wipes his hands on his trousers to get some of the loose fur to fall.] Copper? That’s a great name. This your dog, I take it, then? Sorry, I couldn’t resist is all.

[Now he’s standing a little awkward, as Copper bounces between the two of them. Evidently he’s missed his mistress, which tells Mouse only good things about her.] You too. Never doubt a dog’s judgement, I’d say. 

[He nods convincingly at her, hoping Copper’s vote in his favour saves him from repercussions—though he doesn’t know if he’s broken any rules.] Please don’t hate me for bein’ here, ma’am.

[The stranger looks like whatever she was doing before, she’d been at it hard—which also inclines him to like her. Besides, she’s got a sweet smile, he notices in a glance.] Don’t think we’ve met? Name’s Mouse, Torren House. Uh, dog-lover. [He adds quickly, extending a now fluff-free palm to shake hers, if she’ll take it.]

[She softens even further, her grin settling.] It suited him. Though any tragic allusions to the Disney movie were not my intention. 

I’m sure he finds it a great compliment to be found irresistible. [He stands, and Copper nudges his head into her hands, always seeking, always trying to get closer, as if there is some unseen secret in the scritch of her fingers.] They tend to be phenomenal judges of character. Or they are easily swayed by bacon. Could go either way, really. [There’s a touch of indulgence, as she watches Copper lick around the boy’s fingers.

It’s rare, a moment like this. A conversation that could have been had at any other time. On any other day. Before the fall and all that. It’s comforting, warm and gentle like a thick cotton throw.

Just two strangers, and an overeager, slightly slobbery dog.] 

[She’s surprised by his plea for a few beats, unsure if he means he’s not supposed to be in the stables, not supposed to be petting her dog, or not supposed to be out and about in general. And he’s already extending his hand before she’s sharpened and recovered.] 

Lorelai. Or, Dr. Larsen, if we’re going with proper titles. [I’m sure there’s been plenty you’ve heard about me. She’s trying to match his face to a profile, trying to internally categorize and file him away. Waiting for the way he reacts.There are so many rules, etiquettes, ticking time bombs to this goddamn place.] 

[lorelai-larsen-blog]

[She has nightmares. It’s an inscrutable fact, one that she’s sure is pervasive for every person still walking this earth, still breathing its air. Nobody has crawled through this wasteland unscathed. 

It starts with a sense memory, the smell of wet, clean dirt under her hands. 

Cigarettes and pilsner beer, the laughter of boys.

Something bright and buoyant, of course. Of course. 

Until it twists sideways and she’s surrounded by the agonized cries of the dying, and bodies waste away to wither to dust before her very eyes.

That was a cinema trick once. Indiana Jones, she thinks. Negative points on creativity for that. 

You ran.

There are times she feels claustrophobically panicked. When her PDD sears 4:42AM into her retinas, and she knows the doors are locked. She knows she’ll have to scan her fucking wrist just to get out. 

What about Copper? Would he follow if you dissolved, like smoke in the night? 

She’s a caught fly indoors, ricocheting between pacing the length of the common room, or just getting out. Out onto the roof. Out to the lab. Out into the halls, out out out.]  

[lorelai-larsen-blog]

elsa--copland:

[SO damn humiliating!  

Nothing could say here I am world like falling ass over teakettle in the middle of the dining hall. If she had it her way Elsa would have dragged herself to the doctor. But no. Instead, she was carried to the infirmary in the arms of some security guard like a helpless child.  She hated being treated like she was disabled.

She sat on the examination table, arms crossed finger tapping. Her frustration masked the stinging cut on the tip of her chin and the pain of her bloated ankle.

The worst part is it was her fault. She knew the layout of the dining hall. She had taken the time to memorize it by heart and still managed to fall like a sack of rocks.

The truth was the missing people had really started to get to her.  The realization that there may be nothing she could do if someone attacked shook Elsa to her core.

Trying to shift the looming sense of helplessness she focused on the energy of the doctor. She felt or rather saw a figure of sharp swirls of light.  The emotions of others were bright and harsh in comparison to the usual blackness that filled the world around her. She hasn’t quite gotten used to this new form of ‘sight’ that let her see, at least in some form, for the first time.

She could tell that the doc was uneasy, and found some comfort that she was not alone in her anxiety. She took a deep breath.]

Well, at least I’m not the only one having a bad day.

[The guard comes in before Lorelai’s even really settled herself, shouldering his way through the door with a figure draped bridal style over his elbows. 

She’s on her feet in a beat or two before it becomes patently obvious that the injuries are potentially not quite as deep or serious as the five-alarm entrance inferred.] 

What happened? [There’s an ill-conceived shrug by him, and she sharpens her assessment, eyes roaming over a bloody chin, and the ginger pricked posture of the girl.] 

Helpful. 

[There is a subtle sheen of incompetence to everybody around here. Just everybody is mildly unsuited to their jobs. Guess that’s what you get when the world goes to hell and you lose the skilled populations.

The guard lets himself back out, and there’s a crinkle of old vinyl as the girl shifts her weight to wrap her arms around herself. Armour, in the loosest sense of the world.] 

Unfortunately, bad days are frequently incurable. 

[She’s short, but aims for amused with a tight roll of her eyes. She tips the girl’s head up with a light touch to her chin, and with the penlight takes a quick pass at her pupils reaction before pausing.

As a medical professional, you’re taught the diplomatic voice. The carefully constructed mildly aloof persona that allows you to ask horribly invasive questions. 

When was the last time you ejaculated? 

How long have you been experiencing uncontrollable loose stools?

Do you have any medical history of visual impairment?

God. How had this girl survived?] What seems to be the problem today? 

[mouse--quinley]

paws || lorelai + mouse

[lorelai-larsen-blog]

lorelai-larsen:

mouse--quinley:

[The stables are empty, the last horses having been taken for the second Crusader group. Which is okay, if a bit disappointing— he liked visiting them, even if he was often shooed away, then he’d just climb onto the roof and chill out there. But today, his attention’s caught by sounds from inside. A low whine, an animal left alone.]

[Holy shit. Mouse stops immediately when he enters, and sees the shape in the shadow just inside the entrance.]

[A DOG.]

[THERE’S A DOG TIED UP IN THE STABLES. For REAL.]

[He immediately lights up. He’s always wanted a dog, always. And it’s a good one, too. Floppy ears, brown eyes, all limbs and totally awesome—all the things you’d possibly want in a dog. Someone’s pet, or something, not starving and sad like it’d been found in the Wastes. He approaches slowly, and extends a palm for it to sniff.]

[The hound comes over hesitantly, and seems to accept him. A few scritches later, and they’re becoming best friends, and his face is being licked to all hell.]

I’m gonna bring you treats, yup. Gonna get super fat, the whole Col will starve ‘cause I’ll be stealin’ you so much bacon… Everyone will die, but you an’ me will be so happy an’ fat, I won’t even care… [He’s muttering into the dog’s satiny ears.]

[He spends the next five minutes lavishing all the attention he can on it, until someone comes up from behind and he senses them. Shit. Was he not allowed to play with it? This is the best thing he’s seen since D-Day, maybe even before.]

She’s sweatier than she wants to be right now. Sticking to her cotton top, and deodorant is a luxury afforded to few, so she can smell the stale wet grit of her own body. Training was, for lack of a better word, devastatingly hard. She goes in fits and starts, needing to push herself further, and alternatively wanting to step back and look effortless and unenthused. She’s not necessarily built for this. She should let the actual fighters do the work. 

And then there’s the other, insidious whisper that they’re watching her. The rink, everybody is watching each other. And whether it builds better teams or simply breaks down egos is yet to be seen. But it’s an arena that only brings out the worst in Lorelai, old habits of a chameleon, a personality and skill scavenger. 

Luke used to good naturedly mock her, nights after dinner parties, his hands stroking her ribs as they faced each other. 

You turn into a different person at these. I kept having to ask where my wife was. 

The arena was of spectacularly sparse with so many out on the Second crusade.]  

“Copper!” 

[The stable is suspiciously quiet.] 

“Copper!” 

[She’s walking further into the dust-lit air, anxiety starting to lick up her throat when there’s still nothing, but her ears catch the murmurs of another voice. The cadence is delighted, spoiling, and she swallows.

He’s a slip of a boy, but his hands are careful and kind as they run over Copper and she can’t begrudge him it. Even if it somehow feels a little too close.] 

There you are. 

[And Copper is all wide eyes and wriggles as he sees her, as he tries to get her to come closer without abandoning the ministrations of his new found friend. She smoothes her hands along the wrinkles on the ridge of his brow and cocks an eyebrow at the boy.] Seems to like you quite a bit.  

[rhodesianridgeback]

[lorelai-larsen-blog]

bobbie-wright:

[Bobbie opens her mouth to say something, but it snaps shut just as quickly, because she doesn’t really have a reply. She doesn’t exactly know what to say, not really. She’s been given instructions, and she feels that she should simply follow those instructions and not say anything. Though a comment wants to bubble up about how she doesn’t need any help. 

She doesn’t know if that’s entirely true, because she won’t be sure until she actually does something. She wants to think that, with her years of experience, she’s going to do well. She’s not a braggart, she’s not one to think too highly of herself, but she likes to think that she knows at least her job, the thing she made a living doing for a little under half her life. Instead, she simply nods, her head ducking a bit.] Mhm. Bobbie. You’re – [Her mind reaches out for a name, trying to grab onto it, because she knows the woman from Delma. It take a moment, but she lands on it.] Lorelai. 

[She glances down at her hands for a moment, back up to the woman, and finds that her fingers have already started picking at one another as bundles of nerves crop up in her stomach.] Right. I’m– [She rubs her hands together for a moment, teeth chewing on the inside of her cheek for a moment.] Ready to get started. Whatever you need me to do. [She lets out a nervous chuckle, eyes darting around for a moment before landing on the woman again.] Are you– uhm– having a nice day so far? [It seems that she may as well try to be pleasant as well.] 

[There are a few nervous giveaways. Darting eyes, a well-worn in cheek muscle twitching. Skittish eye contact. She’s not sure if she herself is the cause of the clearly displayed anxiety, or if it’s the situation in general. She’s also not entirely sure if she cares. At least the blonde knows her name.] 

[Lorelai barely resists snorting. Barely, she can taste it in the back of her throat honestly.] I’m not entirely sure our definition of ‘nice day’ hasn’t been lost completely along with all normality. [But she appreciates the attempt nonetheless. It’s a welcome reprieve from the apathetic hostility she more than tends to be met with.] 

It’s comforting to be useful, if you can’t be out on crusade. [She thinks it’s sounds diplomatic as it comes out.] 

[Lorelai points at the back wall, a slop sink with medical grade soap, and tries not to be too bossy. Fails, probably.] Disinfect up to your elbows. 

So, what’s your experience level? How much will I have to coach you through removing sutures? [She’s never had a volunteer she’s trusted with needles and forceps. Ever. But she keeps asking, in the grim hope that maybe there’s someone here whom she won’t have to baby. Their first check in is an orbital fracture from the raid. Swelling should have gone down by now, but they have to monitor the numbness and the bleeding around the eye socket. It’s unsurprising, what a few blunt hits to the face can do.]    

[lorelai-larsen-blog]

chloehirsch:

[Chloe hates losing. Hates hates hates.

She never would expect to win in training, because that was always Julia’s forte. Chloe only ever won in an academic environment. But it doesn’t soften the blow, physically or metaphorically, when a fist collides with her distracted face. She’d been sparring; but a spoonful of dark birds had spilled over the horizon, and Chloe was chilled. It was hard to tell from a distance, but she thought it meant something uneasy.

And it was then that her partner punched her on the nose. He’d been expecting her to duck or defend, but she’d only stood there dumbly. Lips parted in soft surprise, Chloe tastes the queer, metallic drippings across her lips. Maybe her nose is broken. That’s where it’s coming from; the blood, that is. She shows little response for a girl just punched in the face, and the instructor tries to discern whether she’s okay. With Chloe in a clearly uncommunicative mood, he simply instructs her to go and find a doctor, ‘or something’. And Chloe considers bypassing this, and simply collecting the blood for a spell; but they can track her through her PDD and what doors she passes, and she knows already she’ll not get away with it.

The doctor that she finds first is unfamiliar, and she is intimidated by her cool, silvered beauty. Now, she is oddly aware of the blood seeping from her nose, and how it covers her chin and chest. It’s not quite stopped, although she thinks it might have gotten lighter.] 

I’m bleeding. [As the good doctor had likely noted.]

[It’s all she can do to raise an eyebrow, really. Without looking up from her report.

Bleeding? No, really? Show me where. I couldn’t tell. 

It is always that sliver of startling, Lorelai finds that when she looks at an injury she always gets the faintest shiver of wrongness. That’s not where that bone is supposed to be. That’s not how the brain works. That blood is not supposed to be outside the body.] 

Please, take a seat.

[She’s turning to pull a cold-pack from the tiny, whining refrigerator that does double time holding samples as she assesses in her head. 

Ice + elevate. 

Acetaminophen, to help with the swelling.

Hope the septum isn’t perforated.

Get her a new goddamn shirt so nobody panics. Lorelai finally looks completely up, tosses her hair behind her shoulder — it’s a heavy weight these days, metaphoric and all — and takes a breath. Damn, that’s going to leave a hell of a shiner. She holds out the palm sized frozen gel, a luxury but a medical necessity.] 

Approximately how long has this been going on for? 

[The girl’s initial vague-eyed expression means one of two things. A possible head injury - never mind the slim odds that’s cerebrospinal fluid drain mixed with the blood and how fucked they are if they have to treat something that serious. 

Or, she’s Deluded.

Three iridescent platinum strips on her PDD and Lorelai bracingly refocuses herself on analyzing the damage first. She has a medical responsibility. Before any personal ones.]

How do your teeth feel? Anything seem loose? Any crunching on impact? 

[lorelai-larsen-blog]

ryder--edevane:

[Ryder will never like nor will he appreciate doctors, no matter how blonde or tall they are. This is something Ryder swore to himself very early on in the testing process. Mostly because he hated anyone poking around in his ears.]

[He’s been attempting to busy himself with the other tasks of the day. Not that janitorial work is anything to be excited about. After the scent of pine is permanently staining the rims around his nostrils, he decides to hunt. There isn’t much around other than a few squirrels and rabbits— skinny little things that hardly provide much meat— before an Elite grabs him by the ear. It’s not literal, Ryder hasn’t been grabbed by the ear since he was eleven years old, but she might as well have with the verbal harassment.]

[Ryder’s sitting on top of a table covered in a wispy sheet of sanitary paper. To him, it seems like a waste of paper. But he’s hardly interested in the way the Colony so foolishly operates itself. He hasn’t been ever since New Wave personnel stormed in and branded him Infected, something that still leaves a horrid, bitter taste on the back of his tongue.]

[When Lorelai enters the room, Ryder can’t help but arch his brow. He’s seen her around, but he’s always convinced himself she’s not really a doctor. Those legs belong on a runway, after all. But the apocalypse has left little room for pettiness. Somehow, he always manages to stuff it in tight spaces.]

[She’s preoccupied, papers and files in hand, walking in like she doesn’t even notice. Ryder is getting tired of being looked through.]

[So he whistles, sharp and piercing, demanding attention.] Let’s make this quick, Blondie, alright? Sooner you get rid of me the sooner I get rid of you.

[Lorelai would love to say she doesn’t quite startle. That the whistle doesn’t bristle up her spine. That she doesn’t fucking balk at the fact that there’s an Infected sitting on the exam table boring a hole through her forehead with his darkly lashed gaze.

But that’s not how her newly rewritten biography goes. She covers it with a wry, self-aware smirk and a slow close to the file in front of her. ] I’m not a hound, at your beck and command. 

The more we rush the process, the more likely it is for the process to have to extend. Inappropriate hustle tends to lure in chaos, an unfortunate outcome for both of us following your logic, yeah?

[There’s an angry rough brick resentment to the shape of his shoulders. Lorelai unfolds herself, more intentionally than when this meeting had started and stands at her full height and wishes heels were easier to come by. Or practical in any way. Wishes she still had a white coat to frame her hips and collar to lend her the aura of authority. She misses the drama of it, these days.] 

Shirt off, Everdane. We’ll take vitals from you, all the background work up. I’m sure you know the drill by now. 

[She keeps herself facing him as she reached for the PDD to get the vital reads. blood pressure, resting heart rate, and all that jazz.] 

[wordspill]

After the first death there is stillness. The gaps of night between street lamps. White pinched flesh between tiny stitches. After the first death there is a pause. And then the second death: and a pause. And the next death, and the next.

from Small Miracles, by Joyce Carol Oates (via mortalpractice)

[lorelai-larsen-blog]

bobbie-wright:

[Volunteer hours. As many as she can possibly take, she takes. Not being staffed full time at the Infirmary can be a bit of a frustration for Bobbie, but one that she takes in stride, just as she tries to take everything in stride. At the very least, she can be helpful when they ask her to, like now. Her feet are carrying her that way, and her distracted mind is off in outer space, looking for something to land on that isn’t more worry for the missing or the ones out looking for them. The knot in her stomach is tight, forever clenching, never seeming to loosen up enough to let her relax. Perhaps being on edge is good, perhaps it’s smart for her to be just a bit on edge, but she doesn’t want to be, because she feels that someone should be reassuring, and that’s always been her specialty. 

She scans her PDD, walks in and stops short, because she wasn’t sure why, but she wasn’t expecting someone else to be there. For a moment, she stands perfectly still, but finally she clears her throat a bit, hesitantly.] Hey, uhm… I’ve got.. I’m here to.. I’m a nurse. [Smooth, Bobbie, very smooth.] 

[She’s been told there are a number of citizens with some scope of medical service experience. There had yet to be more than a tenuous film of solid evidence to support that claim, but she wasn’t going to belabor the point. Sometimes all you need are a set of hands and semi-coherency. Which honestly might be asking a lot. 

Truly, she’s always and constantly torn between wanting to teach them, and wanting to bash her skull into the nearest blunt object out of sheer boredom. It’s a wasted opportunity and all that. Wasted resources, wasted time on everybody’s parts.  

So naturally she sharpens even further when the marionette blonde from Delma walks through the lab doors. She can’t be sure what her point and purpose is, but as her speech stiltedly unravels, Lorelai curbs the urge to huff in warmth infused irritation.]

Delightful.

[She knows this one. She’s the unnervingly genuine one, from Lorelai’s own house, always flitting around in a way that Lorelai herself has never been able to achieve with ease.] Bobbie, right? [She grins, softly lopsided and not as calculated as others might think. Lets her gaze laze back down to the report in front of her. A fairly useless few sessions with an empath, resulting in simple fatigue, low white blood cell count, and nothing else.] If they’ve got you on here today, let’s get you as scrubbed up as best we can. Use the gloves sparingly. Tell me if you don’t know how to do something or need me to explain further. It’s generally fairly routine, you should be able to keep up. 

[There’s a pause as she swamps down the inadequacy complex that had flared this morning and pulls on something with slightly rounder edges, for her own sake as well as Bobbie’s.] Today we’ve got a few physical tests to run and record, and we’ve got some follow ups from minor injuries. 

[lorelai-larsen-blog]

[It’s been a long morning. A long few days. Or, it’s been a long week. A long year. A damn long apocalypse.

Really, she’s lost track of the meaning of the word ‘long’.

Or. Self-pity is the moss growing on the boulder that you’re never going to roll up the mountain. If moss, you know, really grew anywhere anymore.

Quinn had ordered her to stay, an order she was on the one hand only too happy to oblige and on the other resentful of the way it made her look weak and unfit in front of her assumptive peers. 

It’s not that she volunteered and was then belittled. No, no she just was never really an option. She’s not really useful. It’s the principle of the damn thing. She seethes for a few minutes, and then swallows it down to her gut. Watches the faces around her, Elite and citizens alike mullish and eager in turns.

Or. She’s necessary, on the other side of the coin. They need her skills, after all. It’s an odd emotional cocktail of pride and disappointment slinking down through her.

Ostensibly, she’s supposed to return to the med center of the lab, pick back up the her schedule. Wrap up the follow up from minor injuries from the initial security breach, meet her first testing appointment for the day.

But the missing telepaths make her teeth itch in uncertainty, and as she steps into the lab to page through her reports, her PDD pinging as she smacks her wrist against the tabletop, she’s on high alert. Her back is straighter, her legs twined tighter, an instinctual response to unknowns.  

Business as usual, then. The devil and idle hands and all.]

[lorelai-larsen-blog]

Temporary Measures || Self Para

It’s been a hellishly long shift.

A crusade had come back, having run into a particularly stubborn outland set of survivors and while all the injuries were relatively minor, they’d taken time to set, stitch, and clean up properly. Or at least as properly as their facilities allowed. The medics were working with even more limited resources because of an issue with the shipment, and while she knows they can stretch it, she can’t help but run through mathematically how to ration out medical supplies. Oddly, the painkillers and amphetamines have gone faster than usual and she’s got two cases that need the buffer.

Quick fix with an empath, then.  

She’s got one on her test schedule this week. Longevity and stamina data collection. It’s a neat fix, but she’ll have to get it approved by Quinn first. Empaths are always tricky, sensitive little things.

Lorelai re-ties her hair after stripping off her latex gloves, grimacing at how she can feel the sweat sticking the strands like thick honey to her forehead. It’s a more familiar sensation than she would ever admit to. She’d been slated to be a trauma surgeon, before. Because it sounded intense to the outside ear. And because Bailey thought she’d had steady hands. She’d been starting five years of general surgery, then a Critical Care fellowship. But back then she’d had to fully scrub in and out, and build that time into her OR schedule. Back before Luke had proposed. God, how it all flies out the window when there’s a white gold band and a marquise diamond. And how it all becomes scattered concrete crumbs of a life when the world goes sideways.  

Would it have made a difference? Did it make a difference then? Does it make a difference now?

She’s tired, and her last clean up was a fucking Telekinetic that was so jumpy she threatened to strap him to the table while she cleaned the grit out of his hands and knees. Useful, they told her. His blood is on her ‘scrubs’ and she’s methodical about stripping out of them. She’s abruptly too tight in her own skin, even in the loose cotton garments, has to get out of the infirmary.  

Copper is in the stables likely having barked himself into a nap, and Lorelai can’t decide what she wants more, a hot shower or his fur under her hands, warm and sleek. The only living thing that doesn’t give a shit what she did today, what she did yesterday. What she’ll do tomorrow.

She’s got a strip of jerky in her pocket, it would be a waste otherwise.