Another Night Shift [Ricter]

[zizi]

God, Darcy hated the night shift. Since she’d been so publicly disgraced by the Angels, she’d been on shift almost every night. The other doctors seemed to think it would be funny to let her get groped by the drunk rats that stumbled through the doors at one a.m. But then, it did help with her little side job of sneaking in illegal rebels to make sure they didn’t die from idiocy or recklessness. Tonight, though, she had no inclination to go about fixing up idiots who got themselves shot. She’d been on her feet since 6 this morning, and all she wanted to do was curl up on her bed, pull her tail around herself and go to sleep. Instead, her white paws were stained by blood, and her eyelids were drooping. She was about to sit down, when somebody pounded on the iron door at the back of the hospital. Everybody else paid it no attention, thinking it was some kids decided to play a prank on the hospital.

Darcy though, she flew up out of her half-sitting position, black lips pulled back from her sharp teeth. She wasn’t looking her most attractive: her warmest clothes were thick ski pants and a thick sweater topped by a grey hoodie. She was wearing them now, thanks to the brewing storm. Flecks of rain spat against the hospital windows, and she wasn’t about to get drenched on the way home. Her eyes and face were drawn with tiredness. She growled angrily at some of the interns, who scuttled away from the crazy fox. She yanked open the door with a growl and sarcasm on her lips, but when she saw him standing in the rain, she shut her mouth with an audible snap. She had an odd sympathy/fondness for Ricter, and if she had to fix up someone, she guessed she didn’t mind it being him. She left the door open behind her as she stalked away. “Get in out of the rain.”

[Ricter]

It was a good thing she held that sarcasm on her tongue. Even when he wasn't looking so demonic he wasn't exactly one of those types that people looked at and thought they could push over. Most of the Foundry could give testimony to his bad attitude. On the other end of the spectrum, many could also say that when something needed to get done he was the one to turn to. Now, however, standing there in the rain, the medic would get her first good look at what kinds of things Ricter got done. Even in the rain the blood was apparent, still flowing freely enough to not be washed away completely. It was on his jacket and his shirt, there was even a stain of it on the cigarette that hung half way smoked between his teeth. There were too cuts he sported tonight, more of gashes really. One of them on his left paw, not so deep but it crossed the entire back of it. The worse of the two was right on his muzzle. Starting at the top, right at the very end, it came down about half way before hooking down toward the right side of his upper lip.

Coming in out of the rain, he didn't bother putting his cigarette out. If any of these whelps tried to ask him to do so all they would receive in turn was a harsh stare from the weasel that could best be described as withering. His very appearance was one of brutality and vicious nature. He didn't say anything, not yet. What was there to say. He knew this place, wasn't his first time around the block. Coming here wasn't exactly his idea either, more of everyone else telling him he should go because he was bleeding the way he was. To shut them all up he'd gone, begrudgingly at best, but he had gone.

It may be slightly strange, the way he followed her. Yes, she was an attractive specimen indeed but he wasn't looking her over. No, his eyes were set straight ahead, on the back of her head, that same scowl he alway wore fixed on his muzzle. He didn't care about the blood now dripping from his wounds onto the floor or getting on his clothing, he hadn't even taken the time to bandage them. Healing was a skill that was admirable and it was something he respected. However, he had no knowledge or drive to do so. He mostly just hurt things.

[zizi]

Darcy tutted as she saw the blood matting the short hairs around Ricter's muzzle. This was certainly not his first time under her care, and she was sure it wouldn't be the last. Ricter was a good fighter, but against a lot of opposition, nobody could get away without a few scratches. In fact, to do so would be suspicious. Like the enemy had let you win for some reason. That was the sort of thing that made Darcy uneasy. Luckily, all the current Foundry members had visited her with some sort of battle wound, if they were fighters. she trusted her current colleagues. Or as far as she trusted anybody.

The gashes were deep, the blood flowing pretty freely. Darcy led her new patient through a few corridors to her private office. It was pretty bare: a desk and an old computer stood in one corner, and the bed took up the opposite wall. Darcy wasn't the only doctor who caught half an hours sleep on that bed in the night shift, but it's official use was for patients. Darcy flicked a paw to the bed, indicating without words that Ricter should sit.

The weasel was an odd character, his prickly attitude rivalled her own, but Darcy had a weird soft spot for him. It annoyed her that he smoked, but she wasn't stupid enough to ask him to take it out though. She did send him a meaningful warning glance though, and opened the window a little despite the rain. It was a warning: any more smoking in her private office, she'd pull in all the way open, and that wouldn't be pleasant for either of them.

Darcy began soaking some cotton wool to clean the wounds. The first priority was to get the blood off and get out any dirt. Knives and other metal weapons were notorious for germs, due to the (possibly infected) blood of others and the rust. She strode confidently over to the fur, cotton wool in one paw, the other held out to grip his muzzle gently but firmly. "What happened?" she asked briskly.

[Ricter]

If he ever heard her call him a good fighter he might scoff. On a technical standpoint he was positively awful. He punched in flurries, he wasted movement and he wasn't very keen on ducking either. With no formal training all he had was experience to go off of. Toughness and sheer brutality was what made up for the lacking parts. It was partially the reason for his current wounds, however he didn't seem overly bothered by them. After all, when he had received both the scar beside his eye and the missing portion of his ear he hadn't exactly had a doctor to go to.

This wasn't the first time he had been in this office so the lack of any personal comforts wasn't much of a surprise to him. If she thought this was bad she should see his crummy little apartment. Wasn't much in there either, unless you counted empty liquor bottles as a personal touch. He just moved over toward the bed but he didn't sit down immediately, pulling off his coat and tossing it to the end of the bed. No need to get more blood on it, as he probably wasn't even going to try and clean it for a little while.

That warning glance from he was met with a narrowing of his eyes, returning the glare. However, he quickly puffed down the rest of the cigarette, blowing the smoke toward the window before he plucked out the smoldering filter. Flicking it out the window with practiced precision, he placed his paw on his knee, his scowl growing deeper as he gave her a look of let's get this over with.

As she grabbed his face the left side of his mouth cracked open, revealing those disgusting, yellowed fangs, almost in a snarl. At least she was right in her assumptions, "Knife fight." Only Ricter could be expected to rush headlong into a knife fight with little regard for his own personal safety. Then again, that was what made him what he was. Some members of their little organization may consider themselves with fancy titles, like snipers, recon, all of that. He called it as he saw it. Ricter was a thug, pure and simple. It was a rather bleak outlook in the grand scheme of things but that was all he knew he would ever amount to being. Someone that did the dirty work.

[zizi]

Darcy liked to think her title was well deserved. She was a good fighter, and an even better medic. she'd studied for a good few years, and the job that it earned her was one in the crappiest hospital in Lucent. Then she'd been demoted. That had been demoralising. But now she felt like she'd earned the right to call herself doctor. She helped to treat those who risked their lives for a good cause. And she was damn proud of it. If it wasn't so illegal, she'd boast about it. She'd call up her brother: 'Hey, guess what? I made something of my life.' It did irk her that were family were ashamed of her, the disgraced doctor, who didn't know any better. She wished the official reason for demotion wasn't misconduct. She wished it was at leat 'resisting Angels'. Then people wouldn't just think she hadn't earned her place. Just that she was headstrong, or stupid. Anything but undeserving.

"Of course." Was the only comment on Ricter's situation. No doubt he'd charged in with no regard for his own personal safety. She wished he did think sometimes. Doctors have to sleep: she couldn't be up all night keeping his guts inside his skin. Darcy's black lips contrasted strongly with her white fur as she smiled, not approvingly (far too patronising, definitely not Darcy's style), but more like she'd expected this all along, and it was about time he'd got around to doing it. Darcy stretched out a paw and flicked the window down. It shut with a sharp slam, and Darcy carefully began swabbing the blood from Ricter's muzzle. The short hairs were matted ith blood, and Darcy ruthlessly scrubbed the drying blood away, skirting the main wound, but occasionally catching the edges. She met Ricter's eyes for a few seconds after each time she did, daring him to flinch or pull away.

Finally, the actual wound was revealed. As was to be expected of a knife slash, the edges were neat, but the cut was deep. Darcy tilted Ricters head from side to side, tongue sticking out the side of her mouth as she considered. Unlike Ricter's teeth, hers were a soft white, small and pointed. She brushed them frequently, because she was a doctor, and knew the consequences of bad hygeine. She hummed thoughtfully before announcing her verdict, and letting go of the weasel's head. "I'll have to stitch it."

[Ricter]

It was kind of strange in a sense but while others could feel demeaned, broken and demoralized, he was ahead of the rest in the fact that he could not. He had already sunk so low that nothing could sink him any further. When the chips were down he could be the one that was counted on to be there because he was unbreakable.

They both knew this was coming sooner or later, when he either got too sick of being nagged to go see the doc or because his wounds were too severe to just wrap a torn shirt around and leave it be. Not that his own methods were much more comfortable. The last few cuts he'd received he'd simply poured strong liquor in to clean them out and either wrapped them up, or his other alternative, stapled them closed. The latter probably wasn't the most sanitary but it certainly had proved an effective method, as all that remained now were the scars to remind him. At least on this one he had come to see the doctor, unlike the other fellow who'd started that little scuffle. The coroner would have their work cut out for them.

He didn't flinch, though a silent snarl did mar his features every time she got too close. Pain was still something he felt, even if he didn't show it much of the time. No flinching though. If he could take a blade across the muzzle and paw and still get the job done then a little rough cleaning was just icing on the cake. He watched her as she worked, as if trying to figure out just what was on her mind aside from the task at hand. Having only met her a few times he hadn't exactly gotten a chance to really have a chat with her. Well, as much of a chat as he could have, usually a few words tossed out from his side, maybe even a full phrase and they doing the rest of the talking.

When she told him he was going to need stitches for the worse of the two cuts he didn't say anything. To him it was just another scar to add to the collection he already had. Some could even consider them a tattoo of sorts, a badge of honor, if he even had any left. Each mark had a story to tell behind it. Something he had learned from his criminal days. If you wanted to teach someone a lesson, give them a scar. You never forgot how you got a good scar. "Just do it, Doc." he wheezed, just waiting for the needle and thread.

[zizi]

Darcy could feel Ricter's eyes on her as she cleaned. It didn't disturb her, patients often looked at doctors with a kind of fascinated, terrified anticipation. It was a look reserved only for those who could easily cause them pain. But there was an odd trust between Darcy and her patients. She would never willfully harm a patient, though she was often sorely tempted. She'd never hurt Ricter: she had too much respect for him, as somebody who'd taken a lot of pain in his time, and just gritted his teeth and got on with his job. But she did wish he'd come to her more often. She'd proved herself a good doctor, an a trustworthy member of the Foundry. But if people didn't come to her, there wasn't a lot to do.

"I'm sorry," Darcy's mouth reflectively replied. She knew Ricter would probably not appreciate her condolences, but it was knee-jerk reaction, and a smile hitched up her mouth at the nickname. Doc. She wondered if that was how everybody referred to her, and she just didn't know it. She mused on it as she threaded the needle, talking all the while. "I'm going to use this cream to numb the skin around the cut, then sew it together. We've run out of the dissolving thread, so you'll have to come back to have this removed." Darcy turned to the weasel and looked at him sharply. "And you will come back. No home surgery, okay?"

Darcy carefully spread the cold white cream across the weasel's cut, rubbing it as gently as she could into the torn flesh. It would take a few minutes to sink in and numb everything, and Darcy spent that time preparing the needle. "Black or brown?" she asked, holding up two reels of thread.

[Ricter]

Oh, he knew that look all too well. The difference between himself and her was that when it was given to him it had more pleading in it, as he was actually seeking to do them harm. Of course, there was difference in that look that was given to him. When you were looking down your snout at someone with your fist pulled back it was a whole different story. There were also a long history of reasons he didn't come to her for all the bumps, bruises, cuts and clubs over the head he'd taken. He hadn't exactly had doctors to go to when he was a kid, as that had a price tag attached and money was something he didn't exactly have. As he'd aged he didn't go just because he didn't trust the third rate hacks that did all of the syndicate work. There were a reason they were criminal doctors, they couldn't pass to be real doctors in the first place.

Listening to her as she brought out the numbing agent, would be one of the first time he'd actually gotten that kind of thing. Most of the time he'd just been forced to suck it up, grit his teeth and take it. He was still as she applied it though when she went on to say that he should be coming back to get them removed he just narrowed his eyes. He wouldn't be making any promises on that one. He'd pulled staples out of himself before, stitches probably wouldn't be so bad.

As she got out her thread she might see something somewhat odd. After a minute or so had gone by he lifted his uninjured paw, giving himself a light smack on his muzzle. It was as if he was testing it, just to see if the area was really numb or not. The way he suddenly shook his head and let out a raspy growl signaled that he obviously felt something. It was her question that drew his attention away, looking to the color choices at hand. "Don't care." was his reply, poking at the wound she was about to sew up on him. Such things as what color of thread was going to be criss-crossing his face wasn't something that really mattered to him. Wasn't like he was an overly fashionable fellow, after all.