alistair’s fingers furled and unfurled in frustration as he leaned back against the end of the hospital bed devon had been in only minutes before as doctors poked and prodded at her for different reasons before, finally, coming to the conclusion that she could go. it wasn’t an unfamiliar routine to either of them, and at this point he was starting to wonder how the er doctors still had to ask for her name. his free paint-covered hand, the one not taking it’s frustrations out by practically strangling the cold metal bar on the bed, fiddled with the end of his jacket, and he boredly stared at the clock. 2am. 2 oclock in the god damn morning, when he’d been minding his own damn business and finishing up a piece of artwork downtown, and he got a phone call from the hospital. “is this alistair peters?” “yeah.” “your sister devon ryan-” and from that point on he didn’t even have to hear the rest of it because he’d known what happened. because for some reason she was still so fucking stupid and constantly taking shit when she didn’t even know what it was. and yet despite the fact he shouldn’t, because devon was a grown adult and she could clean up her own damn messes, he still came. because she was his responsibility now. it was his fault that she was in this mess and his fault she was so utterly addicted to whatever she could get her hands on, and that meant that when it came down to it, he needed to have her back. nobody else was going too. pushing off the end of the bed, alistair spun around, allowing his arms to come up and cross over his chest. “ready?” he grumbled in a less-than-impressed tone of voice, his own annoyance clearly obvious through his actions, gaze flickering from the discarded hospital gown on the floor back to his smaller friend.
@devonalyssaryan
