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He didn't look good- his lip looked swollen and he seemed to be kind of limping. Plus he was rubbing his shoulder as if in pain. Automatically, Alexandria was gone and Dr. Flynn had replaced her- mecial training took over, and she reached over the table before he could complete setting up the scrabble board. "Stop and sit." She commanded in a no-nonsense tone, one she gave her most stubborn patients. She needed to examine, said her doctoring instincts, and she needed to make sure he was all right before she could discharge him- metaphorically, of course. She was not ordering food until she was sure he was okay.
Kneeling beside him, Flynn first glanced down, gently brushing her fingertips over the spot on his shoulder he had rubbed before, making sure nothing was obviously out of place or broken. Still, her touch remained clinical, distanced- again, like a doctor checking her patient. She moved from the shoulder to his ribs, pressing ever-so-gently, feeling for obvious breaks and fractures. Pulling back for a moment, she moved to the ankle he seemed to be limping on and gave it the same treatment. Feeling nothing too out of place, she glanced up again.
There was that last thing- his lower lip. Damnit. Her professional demeanor faltered as she gently, bordering on tentatively, placed her fingers against his cheek, turning his face towards hers so she could get a good look.. 'Patient.' She reminded herself, but it didn't help the urge for her to "kiss it better". She couldn't resist trailing her fingers down his jawline, even as she stood quicky, going to her jacket and pulling out a small bottle of Advil. "Take two. Your shoulder's a little swollen." She diagnosed flatly.
And then she was back at the phone book, her back facing him as she picked up a phone from the wall cradle and dialed the first Chinese place she saw with a menu printed. "Hello, Wong's? Yes, I'd like to place an order..." She ordered a bit of everything, half-servings of most things and full servings of things like wild rice and lo mein. They'd certainly have food for later, she thought as she hung up, moving back towards the living room and flopping at the opposite side of the coffee table. "Be here in half an hour." She stated, already examining the board- it was old, she noted, and he seemed to treat it with reverence.
A noise that sounded something like "AAARAGGGHH!" filled the room, followed by "FUCKING CAT!".
Now, James Wilson did not swear often. When he did, there was a very, /very/ good reason why. He had deemed that a cat latching itself onto him, tearing its claws and teeth through layers of skin and, he was certain, into muscle was a damn good reason and that he was not swearing near enough as the situation called for it. Instead, he was trying to yank the cat off of his leg, as was April, and it caused for mass confusion and one hell of a pain in the leg.
A moment of relief followed her removal of the feline, followed by another yelp of pain when the cat swiped a good one across his cheek, leaving three open wounds (one a little too close to his eye for comfort). "Damnit!" He grumbled, now caught between keeping his leg in the air and trying not to bleed on the floor, covering the wound in his leg, and pressing a palm to his face. He imagined he looked quite silly, with one leg in the air, one hand covering the raised thigh, and the other against his cheek. But he didn't care.
Instead, he hopped his way over to the couch, plopping down and trying not to bleed on the furniture, grumbling under his breath. He had never liked cat- wait. No. That wasn't right. He liked animals fine- all animals were fine with him so long as they weren't skunks and weren't poisonous. Now he had another thing to add to that list: if they were Hitler reincarnated wanting to genocide him, it was a no-go.
Kneeling beside him, Flynn first glanced down, gently brushing her fingertips over the spot on his shoulder he had rubbed before, making sure nothing was obviously out of place or broken. Still, her touch remained clinical, distanced- again, like a doctor checking her patient. She moved from the shoulder to his ribs, pressing ever-so-gently, feeling for obvious breaks and fractures. Pulling back for a moment, she moved to the ankle he seemed to be limping on and gave it the same treatment. Feeling nothing too out of place, she glanced up again.
There was that last thing- his lower lip. Damnit. Her professional demeanor faltered as she gently, bordering on tentatively, placed her fingers against his cheek, turning his face towards hers so she could get a good look.. 'Patient.' She reminded herself, but it didn't help the urge for her to "kiss it better". She couldn't resist trailing her fingers down his jawline, even as she stood quicky, going to her jacket and pulling out a small bottle of Advil. "Take two. Your shoulder's a little swollen." She diagnosed flatly.
And then she was back at the phone book, her back facing him as she picked up a phone from the wall cradle and dialed the first Chinese place she saw with a menu printed. "Hello, Wong's? Yes, I'd like to place an order..." She ordered a bit of everything, half-servings of most things and full servings of things like wild rice and lo mein. They'd certainly have food for later, she thought as she hung up, moving back towards the living room and flopping at the opposite side of the coffee table. "Be here in half an hour." She stated, already examining the board- it was old, she noted, and he seemed to treat it with reverence.
A noise that sounded something like "AAARAGGGHH!" filled the room, followed by "FUCKING CAT!".
Now, James Wilson did not swear often. When he did, there was a very, /very/ good reason why. He had deemed that a cat latching itself onto him, tearing its claws and teeth through layers of skin and, he was certain, into muscle was a damn good reason and that he was not swearing near enough as the situation called for it. Instead, he was trying to yank the cat off of his leg, as was April, and it caused for mass confusion and one hell of a pain in the leg.
A moment of relief followed her removal of the feline, followed by another yelp of pain when the cat swiped a good one across his cheek, leaving three open wounds (one a little too close to his eye for comfort). "Damnit!" He grumbled, now caught between keeping his leg in the air and trying not to bleed on the floor, covering the wound in his leg, and pressing a palm to his face. He imagined he looked quite silly, with one leg in the air, one hand covering the raised thigh, and the other against his cheek. But he didn't care.
Instead, he hopped his way over to the couch, plopping down and trying not to bleed on the furniture, grumbling under his breath. He had never liked cat- wait. No. That wasn't right. He liked animals fine- all animals were fine with him so long as they weren't skunks and weren't poisonous. Now he had another thing to add to that list: if they were Hitler reincarnated wanting to genocide him, it was a no-go.
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