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Holmes | Fowler
Visits & Roses
Wed Sep 20, 2006 14:39

The last week had been hell.

Devon hadn't wanted to go back into surgery for that damned plate in his head. Or, more aptly, on his skull. But the doctors assured him that this was practically routine, and it was one step closer to going home. That definitely mollified the agent, who wanted nothing more than to leave the hospital. Between all the pain medication, the nurses poking and prodding at his injuries, and Michael being antsy... Well. Just get it over and done with, would ya, doc?

It left him in a fairly grumpy mood for several days. Having the world's worst headache would do that to a man. Michael tried cheering him up with every sort of distraction he was capable of at the moment, but it wasn't working. The passing days were filled with fitful naps on a water-like bed that was proving to be more and more uncomfortable as time went on. Whenever he woke, Michael was either sitting there, or just walking back into the room. Several times he had tried to get the man to go home - mainly his home - to get a good night's sleep in a real bed. But the Brit wasn't going to budge, and that was infurating.

So when Michael had shown up with a pair of track pants, a tank top, and his shaving kit - when the hell had he gone home?! - Devon's mood rose exponentially. Getting out of intensive care and into a regular room meant that he was stable enough not to be watched like a hawk. Physical therapy could begin to release any atrophy that had begun to deteriorate his muscles. He prided himself on being physically fit without all the damned rabbit food! But changing into the regular clothing - with the help of a nurse - exhausted him. Hell, Michael had to shave his face! The razor wouldn't stay steady enough. This was wholly depressing.

It was enough to put him out like a light for a few hours. Upon waking, his sister Jane was there, pouring over some file. Why the hell was she here? The woman had a busy enough life with the twins, and her career as well. But then an orderly with a wheelchair arrived, giving Devon the choice of the gurney or the chair. Well, now or never, he supposed. Then he was settled into his new room, blissfully free of a shitload of beeping machines, and allowed to rest on a hard bed without wires trailing from beneath his shirt. How long had he been here?

"Jane's going to sit with you for the next day or two, all right?" Michael was back, though he seemed... jumpy. What the hell was going on?

"Where are you going?" Devon didn't want to sound so forlorn, but he did. Ugh. Lovesick puppy dog was what he was.

"I'm hanging out with Rob. Call him if you feel the need to bitch." Then Michael was gone, without even so much as a kiss. Devon stared at the doorway, then chanced a glance at Jane, whose jaw was ticking with anger. What the hell was all that about? Need to bitch?

"Janey, why don't you go home," Devon murmured, flipping on the television in his room and cruising the channels.

"But--" He wasn't even listening at this point, or trying not to. He knew he shouldn't be taking this out on Janey, but Michael had been so... Damn it, he didn't even know any more. Receiving a kiss on the cheek from Jane as she finished packing up, he barely heard the heels of her shoes click their way out of his room. Maybe Michael just needed some time away from this place - just like he did! But... why Rob? It didn't make sense. Or maybe Mick realized that he couldn't handle Devon being in this state - physically, and mentally. Fukk that.

So Devon did something he didn't even realize he was doing until the ringing phone was pressed against his ear. A woman's voice answered, one he was used to hearing over the last year, and finally came to trust. Was having a head shrinker a crutch for not dealing with things on a larger scale? At first, she had been someone he could rant to about Sonnet and his family. Then, with time, he had been able to rely upon her opinion. Well, it was a start, he supposed, because he sure in the hell wasn't going to be discussing these things with the base psychiatrist.

Nearly two hours later, the phone was hung up, and Devon had to lean over to rifle about in the drawer for a box of tissues. They were always there, no matter what hospital you visited. Frankly, he felt like shit after that conversation, instead of better and lighthearted like he wanted to be. Sleep was elusive, even after pressing the lovely little button on the pain medication pump still stuck in his arm.

Maybe tomorrow he could finally get out of this bed and walk a bit. The doctors had been nudging him towards the daunting task for the last few days, but he had dug his heels in. Well, not anymore.

The next day was no easier, this time Caleb and Lucy came to visit. Two things would finally happen; one, those staples were coming out of his head, hell or high water! Secondly, he had finally acquiesced to walking, for the first time in several weeks. He couldn't go far with the leg brace immobilizing his knee, but if he could get up and move himself, maybe they'd finally let him eat something. The all-liquid diet was killing him, he was dropping weight like an anorexic cheerleader. But, if he could stand, that meant he could shower. No more sponge baths! Well, no, those were sort of fun.

It all seemed to happen at once. A doctor came by and unwound the gauze from his head, removing the staples that had allowed his scalp to heal. Apparently since the flesh was so thin there it healed amazingly fast. All little tidbits from the doctor as he worked. Then it was the orderly, who had the temerity to try and wrap a heavy white canvas belt around his waist. If he fell, he fell, he wasn't about to suffer the indignation of that thing. Which was precisely how Devon found himself on the floor a dozen or so steps later. For some reason, it struck him as amazingly funny, and he started laughing. Couldn't stop either, because it was this or cry. Somehow, he had expected Michael to be here for support, but... Well, best not to think on that.

But Devon did manage the steps back in to his room, supported on one side by an orderly and Caleb on the other. From there, he carefully settled himself into a chair. He didn't want to lay on that damned bed! His knee hurt like a bitch, and everything below the waist ached, but he had done it. It made him feel giddy - or maybe that was the medication - to be sitting in a chair.

Damn, that was depressing.

Why in God's name was he even doing this?

Rob had sat at the back of the stage, upon which a podium was there, where Michael Pierson spoke from. The boy was arrogant and full of himself, which had led to the end of his career as a forger. But that knowledge and information definitely couldn't go to waste. Hell, if he could crack open Michael's skull and extract the information, he would have. It would be easier than listening to him lord over a bunch of federal agents.

But having Macavity's help here was something in exchange for the loss of Devon with the Bureau. This normally wasn't even his concern, but once again, all that knowledge potentially going to waste... It made him sigh.

The day went quickly after the first seminar, and Michael began harassing him concerning Miss Elfman's whereabouts. Well, that wasn't any of his concern. At least, this was what Rob believed, right up until the bastard threatened to reroute all the security codes in the mainframe and give the interns access to top secret information that normally only a handful of people were privvy to. Fine, fine. But why... flowers?

The shop made him a little lonesome for Beth, just like his garden at home did. But there was precious little he could do about that, except attempt to school the young Brit on what the particular blooms meant in a more philosophical way. Things only went downhill from there in the conversation; Rob had seen the questions coming, inevitably he was always asked things like this from a new 'employee'. Frankly, he could give a flying fukk if Michael and Devon were together in the romantic sense. If it didn't interfere with work, then there wasn't a problem.

Yet somehow, Rob surmised, he had been dragged into that seedy strip club that Mercury worked at. For two men in suits and ties, they elicited a few whispered comments. Especially with flowers! Jesus, maybe he had forgotten some medication he hadn't known about, because there was no way in hell he would normally do such a thing. Lisianthus flowers though?! What the hell had he been thinking? Maybe he could just wander off, leave Michael to this, and wait in the car parked out at the curb. The one that was likely being eyeballed by a few people. But all that changed with the announcer's voice rocketing from a shitty sound system.

"Ladies and gentleman, the Pussy-In-Boots club is proud to present this evening's main attraction... Sweet Mercy!"

Sweet Mercy indeed.

Now it was Rob who was the oaf, forcibly biting his tongue so his jaw wouldn't drop in the slightest bit. The act was... in no way... affecting him. No, not at all. Now he could see why people ordered copious amounts of alcohol in places like this. He wouldn't mind downing a fifth of whiskey right now, if just to make his eyes slide away from the show on stage. But no, he watched and analyzed. The woman may have been a stripper, but... She still radiated innocence in a law abiding sort of way.

After the show, Michael had cornered the bar tender to ask about Mercury. They were told to pull up a stool and wait, though Rob especially didn't want to sit on one of those. But in her own good time, the woman came sauntering back out in a black silk robe that hugged every curve - even the nonexistant ones - and made the mind think almost-lewd thoughts. Then Michael had to go and be an oaf.

"You don't know me, but you saved the life of a very dear friend." Right, dear friend. "I wanted to thank you in person." Then he hugged her! Jesus, that was a good way to get your balls tied up in a knot if you weren't careful. Then it came.

"Mister Fowler?" Crap. Nonchalantly laying the bouquet that Michael had suggested he pick up - what the hell was he doing, going with that idiot's idea? - beside the other on the bar, he took her hand briefly. Properly!

"Miss... Mercy." The name provided a wry twist of the lips, but he had staked out enough of these places to know that most dancers - strippers, damn it! - were very protective of their personal identities. "Since he didn't introduce himself, this young oaf is Michael." Who was going to fukk up the Agency's security system if he wasn't brought here! And, for once in his life, Robert Fowler found himself at a loss for words. "We really do need to be going, though." Michael's upper arm was snatched, tugged right toward the door. "Have a good day." Then they were gone!

"Don't even say a word, Macavity," Fowler managed to hiss once they were in the sedan. "Not one word." He could put Michael to work over the next twenty-four hours that would make him forget all about that uncomfortable incident in the strip club. Jesus, he had visited a damned strip club! What the hell was wrong with him?

"Not a word."

  • The Quality of MercyMichael / Mercury, Wed Sep 20 10:13
    Michael gingerly touched his bandaged nose, eying the miniscule bump marring its otherwise flawless surface. As of the previous week it had been broken twice, the first time in anger and the second... more
    • Visits & Roses — Holmes | Fowler, Wed Sep 20 14:39
      • Nobody Here But Us ChickensA Couple of Comedians, Sun Sep 24 10:12
        The love of his life was a very angry grump. Michael slouched in his chair, watching Devon pretend to do a cross-word puzzle. One of the doctors had suggested it as a way to challenge brain cells... more
        • Yellow Bellied G-MenHolmes | Fowler, Wed Sep 27 01:21
          D-Day! If Devon thought he could actually handle it, he would have climbed right up on the little cot that was a poor excuse for a hospital bed, and done the happy dance in his skivvies. Seeing as... more
          • Insert Clever Title HereMick | Mercy, Sun Oct 8 01:51
            Devon was whining. Again. Michael glanced up from his copy of War and Peace , limbs sprawled insolently across the couch, and speared his roommate with one of his looks . The invalid dangled his... more
            • Something | Rob, Wed Oct 18 14:56
              Holmes men did not whine. All right, maybe a little. Devon was going absolutely insane here! For the first day, he was fairly out of it and ended up sprawling on the bed after getting some help from... more
              • Singers, Dancers and ... FedsSome People, Thu Oct 19 10:54
                Michael didnít wake up until he rolled over, attempting to burrow against Devon just a little bit more and found the manís bed empty. Eyes snapped open, panic replacing sleep as quickly as heíd... more
                • Playing Catch UpDevon Holmes, Fri Oct 27 11:03
                  Jesus, what the hell was he thinking? Devon stared down at the breakfast, picking at the food, dutifully eating. Sitting here in the kitchen, with his leg propped up on one of the stools, reminded... more
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