Clint Zéphyr Chevalier (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
privateinvestigations) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
muserevival2016-01-09 03:06 pm
privateinvestigations) wrote in muserevival2016-01-09 03:06 pm
Entry tags:
113.2. Quote
"One often learns more from ten days of agony than from ten years of contentment." - Harold Coffin
Clint had taken residence on the floor just outside the waiting room. Sitting with his back up against the wall, legs drawn up, elbows on knees, head in hands. He hadn't moved in hours. He wasn't even sure he could move at this point. Moving would take more energy than he had. He might miss something if he moved. He didn't want to see anyone, he didn't want to listen to anyone, he didn't want anyone looking at him. Life hurt too much right now, and it felt like it would never stop.
He was waiting. Inside, in that twisted, painful coil in his gut, he knew he was waiting for someone to come and tap him on the shoulder and tell him Lincoln hadn't pulled through. He didn't want to face that, but at the same time, he knew he had to. He had to be here for that. The smell of the hospital felt so much more overwhelming at the moment. Every little noise felt like it was drilling into his brain, forcing him not to forget where he was and why.
Lincoln covered in blood. He already had enough of that to last him a life time, and then he had to see it again. So soon after they had that brief, but important conversation. It was possibly the most important conversation Clint ever had in his life. Barely much of an exchange, but a decision that was life-changing. Did that somehow make all this hurt so much fucking more? It felt like it. The pain seemed crippling before; now it felt like he was drowning in it and it was hard to breathe.
Then there was the not knowing if Lincoln would even remember what they talked about... assuming he made it through this second emergency surgery. Did he even know what he was saying as doped up on the strongest pain medication as he was? Clint's whole fucking world had changed in the couple of very short weeks. It should have been someone else, not Lincoln. But that someone else might very well have been Lorenzo, the person as equally as close to him as Lincoln was. If it hadn't been Lincoln, it might be Holly who was left without her daddy when this sick fuck wanted to harm the people closest to Clint as revenge.
The soft tap to his shoulder. He nearly jumped out of his skin. His heart felt like it shot up into his throat, racing a mile a minute. There would have been less fear in his eyes when he looked up if he was about to receive a coward-punch to the head. That would probably hurt less than he felt right now too. There was no doctor, though. No nurse. No Jesse, chosen to soften the blow. It was just a sweet little old lady with purple feathery handbag; the terror that had bolting through him was still charged and he was looking at her as if she was about to beat him with it.
The first thought that jumped into Clint's head was, If she tells me she's going to pray for me, I'm jumping out the nearest fucking window.. "It's a hard wait, I know, dear. I've been sitting over there for the last two hours and you haven't moved. Best try a wee cup of tea, keep some strength up," she told him, offering him a cup from the vending machine. Clint's brain was still trying to catch up as he sat there looking at the cup and thinking she's sounded just like Mrs Doubtfire.
After a moment of hesitation, he took the cup with a soft, "Thanks." He felt at the pocket of his hoodie, trying to remember if that was where he stashed his wallet. "Let me fix you up for that."
Mrs Doubtfire v2.0 just waved her hand. "No, no. Just you drink up, dear. That's payment enough for me. He'll pull through. Fighter, that. Can't keep a good bitch down."
Clint's mouth dropped open a little. Possibly half because a little old lady cussed, and half because she seemed to have at least some awareness of Lincoln. There was beefed up security around the ward because of the high profile case and the severity of the crime. The story was all over the media, sure, but Clint wasn't. Clint hadn't been exposed at all, just like he ensured he never was. "I... how do you know I'm waiting for a he?"
"Because I'm Lincoln's granny, dear. Drink. I don't want to have to put you over my knee," she warned, giving him a very granny-like point for emphasis before she was heading back over to sit down in the waiting room. Clint was lucky he didn't give himself a lap-full of hot tea. At least, as hot as a shitty vending machine could manage. He gaped at the old lady, mouth hanging open.
1) Lincoln had a granny? and 2) What the very actual fuck?
clint chevalier
original character
Clint had taken residence on the floor just outside the waiting room. Sitting with his back up against the wall, legs drawn up, elbows on knees, head in hands. He hadn't moved in hours. He wasn't even sure he could move at this point. Moving would take more energy than he had. He might miss something if he moved. He didn't want to see anyone, he didn't want to listen to anyone, he didn't want anyone looking at him. Life hurt too much right now, and it felt like it would never stop.
He was waiting. Inside, in that twisted, painful coil in his gut, he knew he was waiting for someone to come and tap him on the shoulder and tell him Lincoln hadn't pulled through. He didn't want to face that, but at the same time, he knew he had to. He had to be here for that. The smell of the hospital felt so much more overwhelming at the moment. Every little noise felt like it was drilling into his brain, forcing him not to forget where he was and why.
Lincoln covered in blood. He already had enough of that to last him a life time, and then he had to see it again. So soon after they had that brief, but important conversation. It was possibly the most important conversation Clint ever had in his life. Barely much of an exchange, but a decision that was life-changing. Did that somehow make all this hurt so much fucking more? It felt like it. The pain seemed crippling before; now it felt like he was drowning in it and it was hard to breathe.
Then there was the not knowing if Lincoln would even remember what they talked about... assuming he made it through this second emergency surgery. Did he even know what he was saying as doped up on the strongest pain medication as he was? Clint's whole fucking world had changed in the couple of very short weeks. It should have been someone else, not Lincoln. But that someone else might very well have been Lorenzo, the person as equally as close to him as Lincoln was. If it hadn't been Lincoln, it might be Holly who was left without her daddy when this sick fuck wanted to harm the people closest to Clint as revenge.
The soft tap to his shoulder. He nearly jumped out of his skin. His heart felt like it shot up into his throat, racing a mile a minute. There would have been less fear in his eyes when he looked up if he was about to receive a coward-punch to the head. That would probably hurt less than he felt right now too. There was no doctor, though. No nurse. No Jesse, chosen to soften the blow. It was just a sweet little old lady with purple feathery handbag; the terror that had bolting through him was still charged and he was looking at her as if she was about to beat him with it.
The first thought that jumped into Clint's head was, If she tells me she's going to pray for me, I'm jumping out the nearest fucking window.. "It's a hard wait, I know, dear. I've been sitting over there for the last two hours and you haven't moved. Best try a wee cup of tea, keep some strength up," she told him, offering him a cup from the vending machine. Clint's brain was still trying to catch up as he sat there looking at the cup and thinking she's sounded just like Mrs Doubtfire.
After a moment of hesitation, he took the cup with a soft, "Thanks." He felt at the pocket of his hoodie, trying to remember if that was where he stashed his wallet. "Let me fix you up for that."
Mrs Doubtfire v2.0 just waved her hand. "No, no. Just you drink up, dear. That's payment enough for me. He'll pull through. Fighter, that. Can't keep a good bitch down."
Clint's mouth dropped open a little. Possibly half because a little old lady cussed, and half because she seemed to have at least some awareness of Lincoln. There was beefed up security around the ward because of the high profile case and the severity of the crime. The story was all over the media, sure, but Clint wasn't. Clint hadn't been exposed at all, just like he ensured he never was. "I... how do you know I'm waiting for a he?"
"Because I'm Lincoln's granny, dear. Drink. I don't want to have to put you over my knee," she warned, giving him a very granny-like point for emphasis before she was heading back over to sit down in the waiting room. Clint was lucky he didn't give himself a lap-full of hot tea. At least, as hot as a shitty vending machine could manage. He gaped at the old lady, mouth hanging open.
1) Lincoln had a granny? and 2) What the very actual fuck?
original character