samuraiprosecutor (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
samuraiprosecutor) wrote2008-07-14 12:43 am
samuraiprosecutor) wrote2008-07-14 12:43 am
Entry tags:
[RL 23: "Take care of them, Edgeworth."; Phoenix, Edgeworth]
((OOC: Taking place directly after this post to the community.))
At 3:00 am the halls of the Hotti Clinic were quiet; the Emergency Room hadn't been, of course, but the labyrinthine halls of the building's main areas (no place that size should be called a 'clinic') were almost completely silent and even more confusing than the idiots that kept directing him through them. He'd been sent in no less than three separate directions since leaving the ER, and by the time he'd found another reception desk he was breathless, tense, and his shoulders were aching.
He set his luggage down heavily in front of the desk, and glared at the receptionist who stared indifferently up at him. "I need to find a patient."
"Name?" Her voice was as bored as her eyes, which flicked to the screen of her PC.
"Wright, Phoenix."
Her fingers tapped slowly across the keys for a few moments. After an interminable pause she looked back up at him. "I'm not showing anyone by that name."
Frustration welled up in his chest. "Wright. There's a 'W' at the beginning. Unless 'right' is the part you're having trouble with, in which case I'd be willing to spell it out for you."
The receptionist's gaze turned venomous, and Edgeworth was making a monumental attempt to resist moving around the desk and looking the room number up himself when a new voice interrupted them. "Sir, did you say you were looking for Mr. Wright?"
Edgeworth turned to find a thin, middle-aged nurse standing in the hall behind him. A sudden tension gripped his muscles. "What condition is he in?"
"He's stable. He was suffering from hypothermia when the helicopter brought him in, but we've managed to bring his temperature up." She gave a smile Edgeworth assumed was meant to be reassuring. "We'll need to keep him under observation for a couple of days. He's developed a cold and fever, and we're administering antibiotics to treat his infection, but barring any unforeseen complications he should be fine."
Something clenched in his chest, released, then clenched again. The tension didn't leave his muscles. "What room is he in?"
"Oh, I'm sorry sir," her smile fell, "I can't let you in to see him. If you'd like to wait, our visiting hours--"
"I can't wait." His voice was heavy with command and carefully controlled frustration. The nurse's back immediately straightened and she stared up at him, her gaze suddenly hard.
"I'm sorry, sir, but our visiting hours ended hours ago."
"He wasn't in here hours ago," he snapped. "Is there anyone in this hospital who isn't completely incompetent?"
She replied with a coldly professional tone, "I'm sorry, sir. Visiting hours won't start again until 10. I can direct you to the nearest waiting room, but unless you're family--"
"I am."
"You're family?"
Suspicion was written clearly on her face. Fully aware of the complete lack of resemblance between Wright and himself, and equally aware that she'd have no way to prove him wrong, Edgeworth responded confidently, "Yes."
She studied his face for almost a minute, until her eyes widened comically. "Oh! Oh, I see."
"You--" His eyes widened in return as realization dawned on him. Heat rose to his face. His glare deepened dangerously, and he quite literally bit his tongue...but she'd presented him an opening, and Miles Edgeworth was never a man to pass up an opportunity. "His room number."
The nurse looked behind him to the receptionist, her expression desperate, but apparently found no help there. Finally she acquiesced. "I can give you a half hour. No more than that; he needs to rest. We can't have him overexerting himself." There was a clear warning in her tone; Edgeworth pointedly ignored it. He lifted his suitcase and followed the nurse without giving the receptionist another glance.
They walked down the hall in silence. Signs on the walls confirmed what his memory of Franziska's prior stay had already begun to indicate: they were entering the ICU. The muscles in his shoulders tightened.
As they reached Wright's room another nurse called the woman over; she left Miles standing before the plain wood door and glancing uncertainly down the hallway. Eventually he turned his attention back to the door. He gripped the knob tightly, but hesitated before opening it and slipping quietly into the room.
The room was small, with almost half of the available space devoted to the bed in the center and much of the rest taken up by monitors and machines. Miles shut the door behind him, set his suitcase on the floor, and stared across the room for several weighted minutes, tense and still. Finally, frowning, he crossed slowly to the bedside.
Wright was pale. An IV stood by his bed, with tubes snaking down to his arm, and he was buried in layers of blankets, but his breathing seemed even and his brow was unlined. Although the bizarre white hood adorning his head gave Edgeworth pause, Wright appeared to be fine. He was fine. The nurse had said as much, and, while Edgeworth had begun to doubt the competency of the staff in that place, the evidence was lying peacefully before him. Whatever moronic situation Wright had gotten himself into, he was going to survive it.
Caught by a sudden compulsion Miles tentatively raised his hand, hesitated for a moment, then curled his palm lightly around Phoenix's arm. His skin was heated but it was soft, solid, and very much alive. Phoenix was alive. Miles' grip tightened reflexively.
At 3:00 am the halls of the Hotti Clinic were quiet; the Emergency Room hadn't been, of course, but the labyrinthine halls of the building's main areas (no place that size should be called a 'clinic') were almost completely silent and even more confusing than the idiots that kept directing him through them. He'd been sent in no less than three separate directions since leaving the ER, and by the time he'd found another reception desk he was breathless, tense, and his shoulders were aching.
He set his luggage down heavily in front of the desk, and glared at the receptionist who stared indifferently up at him. "I need to find a patient."
"Name?" Her voice was as bored as her eyes, which flicked to the screen of her PC.
"Wright, Phoenix."
Her fingers tapped slowly across the keys for a few moments. After an interminable pause she looked back up at him. "I'm not showing anyone by that name."
Frustration welled up in his chest. "Wright. There's a 'W' at the beginning. Unless 'right' is the part you're having trouble with, in which case I'd be willing to spell it out for you."
The receptionist's gaze turned venomous, and Edgeworth was making a monumental attempt to resist moving around the desk and looking the room number up himself when a new voice interrupted them. "Sir, did you say you were looking for Mr. Wright?"
Edgeworth turned to find a thin, middle-aged nurse standing in the hall behind him. A sudden tension gripped his muscles. "What condition is he in?"
"He's stable. He was suffering from hypothermia when the helicopter brought him in, but we've managed to bring his temperature up." She gave a smile Edgeworth assumed was meant to be reassuring. "We'll need to keep him under observation for a couple of days. He's developed a cold and fever, and we're administering antibiotics to treat his infection, but barring any unforeseen complications he should be fine."
Something clenched in his chest, released, then clenched again. The tension didn't leave his muscles. "What room is he in?"
"Oh, I'm sorry sir," her smile fell, "I can't let you in to see him. If you'd like to wait, our visiting hours--"
"I can't wait." His voice was heavy with command and carefully controlled frustration. The nurse's back immediately straightened and she stared up at him, her gaze suddenly hard.
"I'm sorry, sir, but our visiting hours ended hours ago."
"He wasn't in here hours ago," he snapped. "Is there anyone in this hospital who isn't completely incompetent?"
She replied with a coldly professional tone, "I'm sorry, sir. Visiting hours won't start again until 10. I can direct you to the nearest waiting room, but unless you're family--"
"I am."
"You're family?"
Suspicion was written clearly on her face. Fully aware of the complete lack of resemblance between Wright and himself, and equally aware that she'd have no way to prove him wrong, Edgeworth responded confidently, "Yes."
She studied his face for almost a minute, until her eyes widened comically. "Oh! Oh, I see."
"You--" His eyes widened in return as realization dawned on him. Heat rose to his face. His glare deepened dangerously, and he quite literally bit his tongue...but she'd presented him an opening, and Miles Edgeworth was never a man to pass up an opportunity. "His room number."
The nurse looked behind him to the receptionist, her expression desperate, but apparently found no help there. Finally she acquiesced. "I can give you a half hour. No more than that; he needs to rest. We can't have him overexerting himself." There was a clear warning in her tone; Edgeworth pointedly ignored it. He lifted his suitcase and followed the nurse without giving the receptionist another glance.
They walked down the hall in silence. Signs on the walls confirmed what his memory of Franziska's prior stay had already begun to indicate: they were entering the ICU. The muscles in his shoulders tightened.
As they reached Wright's room another nurse called the woman over; she left Miles standing before the plain wood door and glancing uncertainly down the hallway. Eventually he turned his attention back to the door. He gripped the knob tightly, but hesitated before opening it and slipping quietly into the room.
The room was small, with almost half of the available space devoted to the bed in the center and much of the rest taken up by monitors and machines. Miles shut the door behind him, set his suitcase on the floor, and stared across the room for several weighted minutes, tense and still. Finally, frowning, he crossed slowly to the bedside.
Wright was pale. An IV stood by his bed, with tubes snaking down to his arm, and he was buried in layers of blankets, but his breathing seemed even and his brow was unlined. Although the bizarre white hood adorning his head gave Edgeworth pause, Wright appeared to be fine. He was fine. The nurse had said as much, and, while Edgeworth had begun to doubt the competency of the staff in that place, the evidence was lying peacefully before him. Whatever moronic situation Wright had gotten himself into, he was going to survive it.
Caught by a sudden compulsion Miles tentatively raised his hand, hesitated for a moment, then curled his palm lightly around Phoenix's arm. His skin was heated but it was soft, solid, and very much alive. Phoenix was alive. Miles' grip tightened reflexively.