The post-operative ward was nearly empty, only a few cases lingering behind
from the last sniper attack. The major fixtures, of course, were the
sedated, restrained Corporal Maxwell Q. Klinger, and the Malkavian who'd
spent the day carefully wrapped up in fire blankets, a screen pulled around
the bed to separate him from the rest of the ward and from the hands of
uninformed nurses.
Since evening had fallen, he'd been desegregated, unwrapped, and he lay there, quite still, eyes open and face frozen in an anguished, perhaps pleading expression.
Passing Klinger, Irene duly looked away while the doctors made a brief examination of his charts. She went and sat, a dutiful wife, at Joly's side, perching on the edge of the next cot and fingering back his hair with her nimble digits, relaxing his facial muscles with a light massage to close his eyes and put a more dignified expression on his face as the concerned voices of the doctors across the room faded into the background.
She smiled to see the beauty of her loved one's face uncontorted by the pain he suffered last night, and, as was her custom, let the vision be swirled about in the familiar pale colors of her man's aura, certainly nothing as brilliant as she'd seen the night before, but a kind of familiarity was there that drew her forward to place a short kiss on his forehead.
She sat up quickly and smoothed her silken dress as the others wandered over.
"Oh, don't let us interrupt, kids." Hawkeye winked, and Irene was amazed how much this man could make her feel like she was a teenager again, with all the years she'd put behind her.
"How's he doing?" Henry followed up, leaning against the bedframe, all three doctors at a complete loss as to what they ought to do for the Malkavian in front of them. Out of habit he leaned over and pulled an eyelid up to look at the pupil, which was, of course, completely unresponsive. Joles certainly did SEEM dead.
"There's only one way to tell," Irene settled back.
"The, uh--" Henry started, cut off by a nod from Irene.
"Oh, Henry," She smiled, "You remember."
Henry grimaced a little. "Yeah." He hesitantly admitted. "I'll, uh... do it. Gloves?"
He was feeling more than a little strange as he was gloved, especially with the audience that was growing around them; Hawkeye and B.J. had sent a corpsman out to fetch Sidney, and Radar had imagined that he should bring Colonel Potter along to post-op.
"Hey, Hawk, B.J--" Sidney started as he approached the bed. He cut his speech short as Henry leaned down and rolled Joles gently over onto his side.
"You needed to see me, Pierce?" Potter asked, before falling into a similar silence.
Radar peeked up over Colonel Potter's shoulder, and, slamming his hands up under his glasses, over his eyes, squirmed around and just about summed up everybody's feelings on the matter: "Oh, ICK!"
Henry himself was having a few issues with the fact that he was currently the center of attention while digging a bit of jagged wood out of a gaping, bloody hole in the Seneschal's back.
Leslie Scorch was the only nurse in the room with the wits about her to come with a surgical tray to take the stake when Henry finally stood up with it. He gave her a grateful look, then nodded, and she took it away to dispose of it. Holding out his bloodily gloved hands, he looked down to Joles' body, which wasn't moving yet, and, moreover, had blood dripping slowly out the back of his green jacket.
His brow furrowed. That wasn't how it was supposed to work... he thought. Henry looked up to Irene, questioning.
She sat quite still, watching the scene without the slightest bit of obvious discomfort. "He needs vitae-- blood." She explained in reply to the puzzled looks she received from all around.
Henry nodded, "Leslie, get a unit of--"
He stopped as Irene shook her head.
"No?" He was unutterably puzzled.
"I meant, in this case, kindred blood."
"Oh." Henry mused. "Wait-- what?"
Irene stood up and faced Henry, "Only a bit. Blood. Our sort, not theirs. Undead. Powerful. Potent."
Henry took a step back and shook his head, "Oh, no. Not that again," he warned, shaking his head most decidedly. The last time the Seneschal drank from him, he'd sworn it was going to REMAIN the last time. As Hawkeye had decided earlier, those particular feelings were not ones he was comfortable feeling about another man.
"Henry..." Irene spoke, in a manner between chiding and laughing as she moved around the bed, deftly lifting a ready cardiac needle from the back table near the O.R. doors., "Calm down. You're as jumpy as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs." She faced him, and he faced her, and she smiled and nodded reassuringly, in a manner denoting that she knows something he doesn't; that she doesn't want to articulate it just now; that it will turn out well for Henry to cooperate in the end.
Henry, duly getting the message, and having little recourse at this point other than to jump over the seneschal of belt his wife, neither of which he thought would be the best of options considering everything else he'd done wrong so far, slowly rolled up his armsleeve and proffered the crook of his elbow to Irene. By the quickness with which the act was done, she'd obviously done this quite often.
There was no kiss, and, though Henry wouldn't exactly have minded getting such attention from the lovely black-haired woman, he didn't miss it in front of a large crowd of people, especially one including (albeit asleep) the selfsame woman's husband.
Irene stepped back a moment later, the syringe full. "Thank you." She uttered cheerily.
"You're welcome?" Henry supposed, dazed.
~
Since evening had fallen, he'd been desegregated, unwrapped, and he lay there, quite still, eyes open and face frozen in an anguished, perhaps pleading expression.
Passing Klinger, Irene duly looked away while the doctors made a brief examination of his charts. She went and sat, a dutiful wife, at Joly's side, perching on the edge of the next cot and fingering back his hair with her nimble digits, relaxing his facial muscles with a light massage to close his eyes and put a more dignified expression on his face as the concerned voices of the doctors across the room faded into the background.
She smiled to see the beauty of her loved one's face uncontorted by the pain he suffered last night, and, as was her custom, let the vision be swirled about in the familiar pale colors of her man's aura, certainly nothing as brilliant as she'd seen the night before, but a kind of familiarity was there that drew her forward to place a short kiss on his forehead.
She sat up quickly and smoothed her silken dress as the others wandered over.
"Oh, don't let us interrupt, kids." Hawkeye winked, and Irene was amazed how much this man could make her feel like she was a teenager again, with all the years she'd put behind her.
"How's he doing?" Henry followed up, leaning against the bedframe, all three doctors at a complete loss as to what they ought to do for the Malkavian in front of them. Out of habit he leaned over and pulled an eyelid up to look at the pupil, which was, of course, completely unresponsive. Joles certainly did SEEM dead.
"There's only one way to tell," Irene settled back.
"The, uh--" Henry started, cut off by a nod from Irene.
"Oh, Henry," She smiled, "You remember."
Henry grimaced a little. "Yeah." He hesitantly admitted. "I'll, uh... do it. Gloves?"
He was feeling more than a little strange as he was gloved, especially with the audience that was growing around them; Hawkeye and B.J. had sent a corpsman out to fetch Sidney, and Radar had imagined that he should bring Colonel Potter along to post-op.
"Hey, Hawk, B.J--" Sidney started as he approached the bed. He cut his speech short as Henry leaned down and rolled Joles gently over onto his side.
"You needed to see me, Pierce?" Potter asked, before falling into a similar silence.
Radar peeked up over Colonel Potter's shoulder, and, slamming his hands up under his glasses, over his eyes, squirmed around and just about summed up everybody's feelings on the matter: "Oh, ICK!"
Henry himself was having a few issues with the fact that he was currently the center of attention while digging a bit of jagged wood out of a gaping, bloody hole in the Seneschal's back.
Leslie Scorch was the only nurse in the room with the wits about her to come with a surgical tray to take the stake when Henry finally stood up with it. He gave her a grateful look, then nodded, and she took it away to dispose of it. Holding out his bloodily gloved hands, he looked down to Joles' body, which wasn't moving yet, and, moreover, had blood dripping slowly out the back of his green jacket.
His brow furrowed. That wasn't how it was supposed to work... he thought. Henry looked up to Irene, questioning.
She sat quite still, watching the scene without the slightest bit of obvious discomfort. "He needs vitae-- blood." She explained in reply to the puzzled looks she received from all around.
Henry nodded, "Leslie, get a unit of--"
He stopped as Irene shook her head.
"No?" He was unutterably puzzled.
"I meant, in this case, kindred blood."
"Oh." Henry mused. "Wait-- what?"
Irene stood up and faced Henry, "Only a bit. Blood. Our sort, not theirs. Undead. Powerful. Potent."
Henry took a step back and shook his head, "Oh, no. Not that again," he warned, shaking his head most decidedly. The last time the Seneschal drank from him, he'd sworn it was going to REMAIN the last time. As Hawkeye had decided earlier, those particular feelings were not ones he was comfortable feeling about another man.
"Henry..." Irene spoke, in a manner between chiding and laughing as she moved around the bed, deftly lifting a ready cardiac needle from the back table near the O.R. doors., "Calm down. You're as jumpy as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs." She faced him, and he faced her, and she smiled and nodded reassuringly, in a manner denoting that she knows something he doesn't; that she doesn't want to articulate it just now; that it will turn out well for Henry to cooperate in the end.
Henry, duly getting the message, and having little recourse at this point other than to jump over the seneschal of belt his wife, neither of which he thought would be the best of options considering everything else he'd done wrong so far, slowly rolled up his armsleeve and proffered the crook of his elbow to Irene. By the quickness with which the act was done, she'd obviously done this quite often.
There was no kiss, and, though Henry wouldn't exactly have minded getting such attention from the lovely black-haired woman, he didn't miss it in front of a large crowd of people, especially one including (albeit asleep) the selfsame woman's husband.
Irene stepped back a moment later, the syringe full. "Thank you." She uttered cheerily.
"You're welcome?" Henry supposed, dazed.
~