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MCA #7 - Morning/Noon
Nov. 17th, 2007 12:36 pmWhen Roy had finally woken up again, it was well into the morning. His head was clear and headache free and he didn't feel like he was burning up. He'd done a quick scan of the clinic, reassuring him that everything was in order now before he checked himself out.
It had been tempting to go back to the station, check on things there but they had managed without him already and he felt gross and he'd be tied to the desk with paperwork for days. He'd never had to write a report on a quarantine. A quarantine with one death. It could have been worse, but right now that thought didn't occur to him. It was one too many, one they hadn't been able to stop. They, not him. After all their work, it had been the island that had held the quarantine.
Another weight settled on his shoulders, the muscles of his back already tense and aching. His apartment was quiet and empty when he pushed the door open, like it always was. He felt a strange need to pick up the telephone and call Hawkeye, just to reassure himself that she was alright. He managed to convince himself that was all there was behind it, but he never picked up the telephone.
He didn't just feel gross, he was gross and almost on autopilot did he start towards the bathroom. The first thing to come off was the eyepatch. He hated sleeping in it, hated wearing it too. Hated needing it. He just needed to hate something other than himself.
((Open for anyone with a need to check on a cranky, but clean Sheriff. One day he'll realise not everything is on his shoulders. One day. Maybe. In the very far future.))
It had been tempting to go back to the station, check on things there but they had managed without him already and he felt gross and he'd be tied to the desk with paperwork for days. He'd never had to write a report on a quarantine. A quarantine with one death. It could have been worse, but right now that thought didn't occur to him. It was one too many, one they hadn't been able to stop. They, not him. After all their work, it had been the island that had held the quarantine.
Another weight settled on his shoulders, the muscles of his back already tense and aching. His apartment was quiet and empty when he pushed the door open, like it always was. He felt a strange need to pick up the telephone and call Hawkeye, just to reassure himself that she was alright. He managed to convince himself that was all there was behind it, but he never picked up the telephone.
He didn't just feel gross, he was gross and almost on autopilot did he start towards the bathroom. The first thing to come off was the eyepatch. He hated sleeping in it, hated wearing it too. Hated needing it. He just needed to hate something other than himself.
((Open for anyone with a need to check on a cranky, but clean Sheriff. One day he'll realise not everything is on his shoulders. One day. Maybe. In the very far future.))
