⋆ ⭒ ˚ . ⋆ NONVERBAL PROMPTS. ACCEPTING.
hospital. receiver is told that sender is in the hospital. — @morally.
it hadn’t been the news he expected, but he supposed asking the question had invited the cold and hard truth of it. a couple days had passed now without that playful knock on his desk, without the door of riley’s office ajar in invitation. there is a loneliness that instils itself, but more importantly concern. when he poses the query in the lunch room it is with a measured tone of casualness, feigning an almost interest despite his worry. so riley’s been off, there a flu going around ? working with kids means a wide array of sicknesses and viruses is part and parcel, but when the real cause is dropped ( so lightly and airily, as if it were nothing but mere scandal ) his throat tightens imperceptibly, eyes losing a little of their light and replacing it with gravity, an abyss. but you didn’t hear it from me.
there is no need to ask what happened, a thousand words unsaid and told via the map of her body, the stumble in her words when drawn attention to, the sleeves pulled down and gaze lowered to match. something akin to anger bubbles in a man made for anything but, and when the day finally pulls to a close he makes a decision — or rather, the decision is made for him. keys are pocketed, rucksack bolstered and with only a brief pit stop at the store to get some basic comforts to tide her over.
when he reaches the ward he’s greeted with a nurse’s inquisitive smile and breathlessly matches it with his own, entirely lacking in rehearsal but understanding he may need to not be entirely honest about his being here. ❛ hi. i’m here to see riley bishop. i’m her b— . . . ❜ he nearly says boyfriend, the first natural direct connection that springs to mind, but then remembers her reasons for being here and the word dies in his mouth, disdain coating his tongue. ❛ brother. ryland . . . bishop. ❜ the familial resemblance isn’t exactly present but he hopes the similar names bolster some kinship, and while he’s sure protocol would demand some form of identification, the nurse takes him through. he doesn’t know whether she’s just taking him at face value, doesn’t care, or doesn’t know any better, but for once he’s grateful for incompetency.
no amount of mental preparation would have sufficed for the sight he finds : there is nothing beautiful about it, not in this moment. her neck circled with an angry red, no doubt voice hoarse and cracked should she speak, forearms mottled with marks ( some old, speaking of times not yet healed before new lashings had occurred ) and her face. her poor, sweet face. his expression crumples at the sight and the knowledge that really this is the easier part, her internals a ruin and plenty more to be found under the clinically white bedsheets, more equipment than he’s seen attached to a person keeping her stable. ❛ oh, riley. ❜ the ache of his voice stirs her, lashes batting gently awake but the pinch of her brows remains as pain still suffuses, a long way to go yet before recovery. when their eyes meet he is sheepish and she startled, and he quickens to rectify and reassure, realising his intrusion in the way she shifts with some urgency, moves slightly more upright.
❛ i’m only stopping by. i thought . . . well, i wanted to— ❜ he stammers through an empty explanation before raising the bouquet in his arms as silent gesture, a vivid peace offering. ❛ label said they’re irises, tulips, craspedia which i’ve never heard of— ❜ he feels himself rambling and trails off, awkwardly sets the flowers ( dusty pinks, pops of yellow, rich purple accents ) aside on the table, alongside a carrier bag holding some more humble essentials : a couple snacks, some wipes, a tiny stuffed bear he saw at check out with a tinier bandage over one eye that says get well soon. he clears his throat, the elephant in the room stifling but one he knows she won’t want mentioned. it doesn’t feel right to sit, make himself at home in somewhere so sparse and cold, so he pushes his hands into his pockets and tries to act nonchalant enough to not leave her restless.
❛ how, um . . . how are you feeling ? ❜
it seems the most meaningless of questions for me to ask when the answers are right in front of me, but what else is there to say ? her wound runs deeper than any cut or bruise or broken bone, and i’m supposed to what, just sit here and deal with that ? it doesn’t seem fair. the last thing i want is to exacerbate that discomfort, shuffling on my feet and feeling the need to clarify above everything.
❛ is it, uh . . . okay that i’m here ? ❜
