I'm liking this cover thing. Kudos to for all the improvements they've taken on recently. If I could, I'd write them all a very nice card of thanks. Some of this stuff is cool.
Anyways...
I've been watching Tom Hiddleston interviews lately, along with Avenger clips, and tonight I'm going to rewatch Thor. I feel like there are elements of the character I've just not felt out yet.
-XXX-
Seven broken ribs. A series of nasty bruising along his temple, chest, calves, and left hip. No damaged organs, no stitches. There is no discernible head trauma. But nevertheless he doesn't wake.
For three weeks and two days, he stays under observation in a small section of the ICU ward. He's alone, and because the hospital isn't incredibly packed, in his own room. It's a barren place, with stark grey-blue walls, white sheets, windowless. There is a chair that I often occupy.
The doctors call it a coma.
They say he might be able to hear and feel things. So I read to him, sometimes, or just stop by to "talk." My responsibilities to him probably should've ended when I called 911, or even after I rode with him to the hospital. But I can't shake it out of my head that he needs someone.
No one has come looking for him, and though I and the nurses have searched all of the missing persons records within a five-hundred mile radius (not an easy task, let me tell you), we've found no link. He didn't carry any kind of I.D. None of the Renaissance festivals are going on this time of year, so that was a dead end. His clothes don't even have brand or size tags in them- - -after all, a lot of this medieval getup is custom made - - -so we're at a loss there. We haven't even had traces of leads since the search began. The sheriff's office had been doing their best, contacting other counties, even states. But we've had nothing. It's as if he fell from the sky. Which, in a way, he had.
He is alone.
Except for me. I find that reading to him is rather relaxing. He never responds, never gets tired of me. It makes me feel wanted, honestly, which is a little selfish. But aside from Winchester, he'd all I've got going right now. Almost every day I stop by for an hour or so, longer if it's a slow day. Once or twice, I've even slept over, accidentally in the armchair. I always wake with rumpled clothes and a scratchy hospital-issued blanket over me, a result of the staff nurse's fondness for me. They all cluck over my sweet nature and kindness. But I don't think of it as kindness. I know my motivations.
In three weeks, we've gone over almost all the Hans Christian Anderson I own, Grimm's Fairy Tales, several volumes of poetry, a book of famous speeches, Anthem, Love's Labors Lost, a few Mark Twain short stories, some Edger Allen Poe, and now we're on Hamlet. I don't know this guy's taste in lit, but I've decided it's best if he is well-rounded. A bit of everything.
Then comes the day when his monitors start going crazy. I am in the midst of Ophelia's mad rant about rosemary and rue when the CT scanner starts beeping like mad. Holcomb, the nightshift nurse, burst into the room with the noise. She goes straight to John Doe's side.
"What happened?" she demands, unusually brusque for a normally soft-spoken woman.
"Uh, that CT thing beeped…."
She crossed to the machine. After several seconds, she rounds on me. "Did he sit up? Open his eyes?"
"Oh, no." I frown. "At least, I don't think so. I was sort of into the book-"
"According to this, his brain activity increased threefold. That's near consciousness. Are you sure you didn't see anything?"
I swear, cross-my-heart-hope-to-die, that I noticed nothing unusual. Satisfied, Holcomb returns to her desk, and I go back to reading. I leave early, though, anticipating a long day at the gallery.
-XXX-
The next day, before entering John Doe's room, I am pulled aside by Joseph. Joseph, or Dr. Walker as I have been insisted not to call him, is John's primary physician. We've seen each other a lot over the course of the last month. He's often in there with a nurse moving John's limbs to ensure circulation. Also, he's offered multiple times to take me out to coffee at the hospital's in-house Starbucks. His shift ends about the time I leave the coma patient's room. I've yet to take him up on that offer.
"His brain activity spiked again last night right after you left," Walker says, brow intense. He's all about intense, this one. "We think he might be waking up."
"Oh." I blink. "And what does that mean?"
"It means," Walker says. "That you might get your wish. If he passes his psych eval."
After about a week of visiting John Doe, and a week of nothing turning up on who he might be, I petitioned Walker that I might take responsibility if he, John Doe, ever woke up. Meaning, he'd come home with me, and stay until he could get back on his feet. That is, if he wasn't deranged or knew who he was and where he belonged. But I had a keen sense that neither was a possibility.
Walker had reluctantly agreed. After all, if the psych evaluation was passed, it didn't matter to the hospital where the coma patient went. Just so long as he was gone.
"You don't owe anything to this guy, Tati," Walker went on. "You know that right? I mean, yeah, he was found in your yard, but you've already done so much for him."
I shrug. Walker doesn't understand. He hasn't from the day I approached him with my offer. "Even so. I feel responsible. I mean, he'd got nobody. At least, nobody willing to try to find him."
"Maybe with good reason." Joseph's eyes grow dark. "Maybe he doesn't need finding."
"Maybe. But still."
Joseph just shakes his head. "Tati, you don't have to do this."
I know. Oh, I know.
-XXX-
Through it all, he's been aware. Perfectly aware. From the ride to the medical institution, to the prods and pokes of eager interns, his run through the CAT (though it in no way resembles one of the finicky creatures) machine, Loki has heard and felt and, on occasion, seen all.
Such as right now, outside of his room, where he lounges against the wall opposite the doctor and the reader as they quietly argue.
He has no idea what cause the doctor has in preventing the woman from taking him, Loki, into her home. Motivation is irrelevant, truth be told, yet the god wouldn't mind to know. He suspects genuine concern aimed toward the woman-who is more of a girl, really, probably no older than twenty-five-paired with some misplaced jealous. Walker clearly has an attraction to the reader. And with good cause. She's reasonably pretty. Not enough to tempt him, not quite, but pretty nonetheless. Dark hair that's almost black, what he would assume flashes bronze in daylight, falls to vanilla-scented shoulders. Her form is wanting-soft, but trim enough. Then there are the eyes, nearly gold, really the colour of autumn. Her nose is pert, complexion the colour of diluted honey. Creamy, and warm. He could imagine it flushing pink with embarrassment. She's got a very clean look to her, sharp and crisp as apple pie.
It's her that is a source of curiosity. After several days, it dawned on the god that this was the very creature who'd found him after his very great fall.
He appreciated her visits and her stories. If anything, they broke the long prison of silence that formed his days. Some of them even taught him of the Midgardian cultures. He knew some from his schooling as a child, but these were all new to him, and colourful tales. Over time, he grew to also appreciate the sound of little reader's voice. It was low and soft, keen, and filled with scathing humor at times, fast for the long lines of Shakespearian prose, witty. Her voice filled him for hours, echoing in his mind. His little reader- - - -for he thought of her as his. He owned little else in this world. Now that he was waking, it was time to start claiming things. Beginning with the reader.
Tatiana. Called Tati by nearly all those around her. Well, that would soon be fixed.
She wished to take him into her home. He had no objections. It would be fitting, that his first new possession after his fall, into his new life, should so willingly open to him. His first human.
As he was not dead yet, Loki assumed the Avengers had given up on him and assumed that the Asgardian godling was deceased. Well, all the better for him. Though no plans were in motion yet, his mind stayed awake with tender musings, elaborate schemes dwelling even as he slept through his injury.
According to the Midgardian doctors, his wounds were mending nicely, at a rapid pace. Loki supposed this to be the last vestiges of his magic. Working for him, knitting bone and tissue. He had just enough left for small things-such as eavesdropping on the reader and the doctor. Being cut off from Asgard had damaged his stock quite a bit. As soon as he was awake, he would replenish himself- - -somehow. There might be some fairy spring, or some other such place nearby where he might absorb some form of power. As for now, he had enough to get by.
"How long are you going to let him stay with you?"
The doctor is still apparently attempting to dissuade his reader from taking in Loki. But she resists, shaking her head. Dark tresses follow suit.
"As long as he needs. He's been through a lot."
"We don't know that," the doctor points out.
His reader frowns. "He came in with seven broken ribs and a shittton of bruises. I don't know about you, but that seems like a lot to me. Besides, we don't know how he even got them."
"Exactly," the doctor murmurs forbiddingly. "We don't."
"Unless you've developed some kind of third eye for seeing into such matters, I'm willing to give him the benefit of the doubt," she says quietly. "Someone ought to."
The doctor half-smiles. "That's your problem, you know. You're too compassionate."
"No such thing."
But Loki saw and, to some extent, agreed. Her princess-tender heart was a liability. If manipulated by the wrong sort of person, she was bound of injury and unnecessary sacrifice. Luckily, the god of mischief was just the right sort of person.
-XXX-
I'm approaching the finale, the duel between Laertes and Prince Hamlet, when the CT goes off briefly. This time, no one comes. It's eight p.m. As Walker explained it to me, it'll go on and off over the next couple days as John Doe pulls himself out of wherever he's been back into the world of the living.
Hesitant, I set down my book, dog-earring one page. The shrill sound of the CT scanner has faded, but the rise and fall of the narrow chest catches my eye. I stand slowly, crossing to the beside of our John Doe.
In my three weeks by his bed, it hasn't escaped my notice that he is an exceptionally handsome fellow. Maybe not bronze and buff, or even classically handsome, but there is something sharp and clever in his slim face and angular features that screams intense beauty. I have no doubt his eyes burn just as brightly- - -if they were opened. Shoulder-length locks of night stand out against the bland grey-white of the pillows, and his skin seems to glow even under the florescent light that are standard to every inch of the hospital setting. He is, to put it simply, beautiful.
So beautiful, I can't imagine anyone just leaving him.
When I reach for his hand, the CT goes off again. I ignore it. But when I go to touch his cold stone face with my other hand, the machine screams. Screams, as if it is a dying rabbit. I jump back, turning to the damned thing, frantic. I glance back to the bed just in time to see the flicker of white eyelids.
Two green eyes come to life before me, glimmering from across the tiny room, and my cries for help simply aren't enough to break the gaze.
-XXX-
Quick note: I will be leaving town tomorrow night, and therefore away from computer access until maybe Thurs night or Friday day. I'm going to post at least once or twice more before leaving, but an update might be a while coming.
My "To Wish" readers are probably sick about hearing Shakespeare references. Sorry guys!
Questions? Comments? Concerns/Critiques? I take 'em all, and will respond in a timely fashion! All you have to do is click that button and type a couple of words.
Seriously, though, reviews would be great.