"Hard to say. We didn't administer a sedative, but I don't know what else he was on before he was brought in. If he hasn't regained consciousness by 10AM--" she checks her watch "--this morning, we'll wake him. But he could wake up at any point before that."
The King nods. "I'll just wait, if you don't mind."
"Here?" She sounds surprised.
"I don't want to leave him without a guard--not that I don't trust your men, it's a matter of principle--and all my boys are out drinking. It's Saturday night in Freesie, Dr. Farkas, and I don't have anywhere to be, so I'd just as soon stay with him until he wakes up. Night he's had, first face he sees oughta be a friendly one."
Julie sighs again. "Fine. Unorthodox, but fine. I'll have someone bring you a chair. If you'll excuse me, I need to return to my rounds." Her lips twitch, and for a moment, the King thinks he sees something like a sardonic grin on sweet, patient Julie Farkas' lips. "It is a Saturday night in Freeside, as you said." She disappears through the tent flaps, and the King's alone with the kid for the first time that evening, and he takes the opportunity to really study him.
His face is almost completely unlined, his hair is still thick and full. The King shaves a few years off his earlier estimate. The kid isn't older than 25. Younger, probably. And he ishandsome, underneath the bruises. High cheekbones, full lips. The King catches himself wondering what color his eyes are, if he's got a girl back home. He coughs, crosses his arms over his chest. He shouldn't be thinking like this about some poor kid got his face smashed in. It ain't right.
One of the doctors-in-training, a noseless ghoul woman with thick glasses, appears suddenly with a folding chair. The King startles, glares at her to let her know not to try anything like that again. "You need anything else?" she says hoarsely, plainly uninterested.
"No," he says. "Thanks."
She nods and disappears, and he's alone again, except for the kid and his shallow, pained breaths. The King imagines the chems running through his bloodstream, bouncing off his ribs and repairing the damage. Kid's going to be sore tomorrow, breathing shallow like that for a few days. In a week, he'll be good as new, maybe have a few new scars to show off, stories to impress the girls at bars. Handsome kid like that, he won't have any trouble with the ladies.
The King's breath catches in his throat, and he's disgusted with himself again.
Butch/The King, "Jailhouse Rock," 1b/?
The King nods. "I'll just wait, if you don't mind."
"Here?" She sounds surprised.
"I don't want to leave him without a guard--not that I don't trust your men, it's a matter of principle--and all my boys are out drinking. It's Saturday night in Freesie, Dr. Farkas, and I don't have anywhere to be, so I'd just as soon stay with him until he wakes up. Night he's had, first face he sees oughta be a friendly one."
Julie sighs again. "Fine. Unorthodox, but fine. I'll have someone bring you a chair. If you'll excuse me, I need to return to my rounds." Her lips twitch, and for a moment, the King thinks he sees something like a sardonic grin on sweet, patient Julie Farkas' lips. "It is a Saturday night in Freeside, as you said." She disappears through the tent flaps, and the King's alone with the kid for the first time that evening, and he takes the opportunity to really study him.
His face is almost completely unlined, his hair is still thick and full. The King shaves a few years off his earlier estimate. The kid isn't older than 25. Younger, probably. And he ishandsome, underneath the bruises. High cheekbones, full lips. The King catches himself wondering what color his eyes are, if he's got a girl back home. He coughs, crosses his arms over his chest. He shouldn't be thinking like this about some poor kid got his face smashed in. It ain't right.
One of the doctors-in-training, a noseless ghoul woman with thick glasses, appears suddenly with a folding chair. The King startles, glares at her to let her know not to try anything like that again. "You need anything else?" she says hoarsely, plainly uninterested.
"No," he says. "Thanks."
She nods and disappears, and he's alone again, except for the kid and his shallow, pained breaths. The King imagines the chems running through his bloodstream, bouncing off his ribs and repairing the damage. Kid's going to be sore tomorrow, breathing shallow like that for a few days. In a week, he'll be good as new, maybe have a few new scars to show off, stories to impress the girls at bars. Handsome kid like that, he won't have any trouble with the ladies.
The King's breath catches in his throat, and he's disgusted with himself again.