'Let' her punch a wall? Really? Oh, yes, Doctor, so sorry that he wasn't expecting her to ball up her fist and send it hooking straight into the wall! How dare he not be psychic!
Richard has a serious hatred of doctors, for fairly discernible reasons.
He chuckles at the fist she waves, saying, "That would have been fine, then. We wouldn't even have needed to make a trip to the ER! I'm sure I could sleep off a few simple bone fragments lodged in my eye."
Oh yes, he is so exhausted. You have no fucking idea what the word exhausted means until you've murdered a child, dismembered two corpses, fucked your girlfriend, turned her into your fiancee, then gotten into a fight with your teenage daughter which landed you both in the ER in the middle of the fucking night. He is going to sleep a good, long time.
Damn right pain is subjective. Especially when you have chronic pain; the ache of his leg has faded into constant background noise, meaning the pain that was once a pretty strong consistant 'five' has become so status quo it's basically a three. (Of course, when he's scamming drugs from doctors, it tends to be in the six or seven range. Just high enough to be unpleasant, not high enough to make them think he's hamming it up for drugs.)
"Poor thing," he tells her consolingly. "But just think of how well you'll sleep once we get you home." Home and warm and safe. He'll stay awake as long as it takes to see her safely asleep.
Then he'll go black out for twelve to thirteen hours, himself. Ah, just thinking about it makes him feel good. By this point his eyes have probably glazed over, because the room is looking fuzzy and he's not really seeing any of it. He feels completely nonexistent, zoning out in the little uncomfortable emergency room chair, but he manages to stay semi-conscious out of concern for Salome.
"On the bright side, if it's broken, at least you know I'll illustrate your cast."
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2013-01-10 04:31 am (UTC)Richard has a serious hatred of doctors, for fairly discernible reasons.
He chuckles at the fist she waves, saying, "That would have been fine, then. We wouldn't even have needed to make a trip to the ER! I'm sure I could sleep off a few simple bone fragments lodged in my eye."
Oh yes, he is so exhausted. You have no fucking idea what the word exhausted means until you've murdered a child, dismembered two corpses, fucked your girlfriend, turned her into your fiancee, then gotten into a fight with your teenage daughter which landed you both in the ER in the middle of the fucking night. He is going to sleep a good, long time.
Damn right pain is subjective. Especially when you have chronic pain; the ache of his leg has faded into constant background noise, meaning the pain that was once a pretty strong consistant 'five' has become so status quo it's basically a three. (Of course, when he's scamming drugs from doctors, it tends to be in the six or seven range. Just high enough to be unpleasant, not high enough to make them think he's hamming it up for drugs.)
"Poor thing," he tells her consolingly. "But just think of how well you'll sleep once we get you home." Home and warm and safe. He'll stay awake as long as it takes to see her safely asleep.
Then he'll go black out for twelve to thirteen hours, himself. Ah, just thinking about it makes him feel good. By this point his eyes have probably glazed over, because the room is looking fuzzy and he's not really seeing any of it. He feels completely nonexistent, zoning out in the little uncomfortable emergency room chair, but he manages to stay semi-conscious out of concern for Salome.
"On the bright side, if it's broken, at least you know I'll illustrate your cast."