[PRP] - Needing Stitches

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General Tyrant
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[PRP] - Needing Stitches

Thu Apr 11, 2019 6:53 pm

Sometimes in the hospital things were quiet but that day things were not at all quiet, instead the ER was a bustle of chaos and Lawrence had just washed himself up after a rather gruelling surgery. Anyone sensible might have gone straight back to a staff room to relax, but Lawrence was not - in this regard - sensible in the least. Instead he grabbed himself a coffee and went straight back out onto the floor, feeling a bit exhausted but it was nothing he couldn’t deal with. He fully expected yet another surgery to roll in any minute, so he found himself a little bit restless and unwilling to settle.

Maybe there was time to at least help one of the RNs with something.

The wound on Porsha Webber's hand wasn't a horrible one. It was bloody. It was hard to argue that when the gym this she had pressed to it was more red than white at this point, and sure, maybe there was a little bit if bone showing, but it wasn't like she hadn't healed worse with less coddling. She'd had no intention of coddling this, but one of the trainers at her gym had insisted on taking her after she'd sliced her knuckles open on another guy's teeth.

If she'd been able to skip away it would have been fine by now. Maybe not completely healed but we'll in it's way. All it would have taken was powering up and having herself to an energy or or two, maybe even a starseed.

But that hadn't been an option. Instead she'd had to sit out in the waiting room feilding questions and smiling for the occasional picture with a UFC fan. Which she didn't mind, but this was taking a very long time.

With a sigh the fighter got back her feet so she could ask one of the nurses how long the wait would still;be.

Lawrence was very professional at work, doing his best to do his job and do it as well as he could. He resisted his innate instincts to be a bit of a shit at every juncture he could. It was just that sometimes… well it was hard. Sometimes little facets of who he was slipped through the cracks. Deciding to be helpful to an attractive woman was one of those little facets and was also why he paused in his stride to address Porsha.

“Oh! A wound like that needs prompt attention, would you come with me to one of the examination rooms and I will get you sorted out. I am Dr Weiman.” he said. It would be one less patient for the nurses to deal with, and he was good with stitches.

There were plenty of other people that had been waiting longer than Porsha had, and in her opinion her wound wasn't all that bad despite how much it was bleeding, but as a doctor slid up beside her and offered to get her patched up now she eagerly accepted. The sooner she could get taken care of, the sooner she got to get out of there.

So she smiled brightly at the man and turned to follow him through the doors into the clinic proper and around towards the private rooms. “Nice to meet you, Dr. Weiman. I'm Porsha. Thank you for seeing me so quickly.” He hadn't had to pick her, after all.

“Busy day today, or is it always this congested in here?” She asked idly as she took a seat on the bench, fresh paper crinkling under her thighs.

Lawrence smiled charmingly at Porsha and gestured to the door of the room in front of them. “It looks straightforward enough, as injuries go. Plays to my strengths.” Cuts and injuries of that nature were his forte, better them than anything respiratory or digestive. “We’ll get you sorted out soon.”

“It’s about normal right now.” he said. “Busy is when I’m running from surgery to surgery. I prefer it when I get a chance to help people in between.”

Once seated shifted until she was more comfortable, one toned leg crossing over the other so she could rest her arms on her knee. She still had the towel pressed to her hand, but she want paying the injury any attention anymore. If it hurt at all she made no indication of it. "I appreciate that, thank you."

She seemed far more interested in him, what he was sharing. Not only someone trained to pick up cases in the ER but a surgeon. It sent her mind back to the clinic she was working on getting set up in the apartment building, and there really want anything standing in her way from doing that.

Porsha smiled brightly up at him. "So you have a surgical specialty?"

Lawrence nodded to Porsha with a smile. “Yes. I’m the trauma surgeon here today. Sometimes though I like to take the weight off my colleagues shoulders and help out wherever I can. I prefer to be working, I feel quite useless when I’m not.”

He moved to gather some of the materials he’d need and gently took her hand to set about cleaning it and assessing the depth of the injury for how most efficiently to treat it.

“How did you manage this?” he asked. “It’s quite a nasty one.”

Pale eyes lit up, dark lips drawing up further at the corners. A trauma surgeon, that was perfect, and one that felt compelled to be working. Porsha was silently ticking off boxes in her head as he gathered up the supplies he needed and began to clean the gash on her hand.

“Boxing accident, I caught the other guy in the teeth with my knuckle.” A simple answer designed to see just how curious the doctor happened to be.

“So tell me, Dr. Weiman, how long have you been practicing medicine?”

There was a moment of hesitation as Lawrence sterilised the wound, a brief flicker of something in his incredibly light blue eyes. It might have been surprise, but it might also have been a flash of something a bit darker. He didn’t have much in the way of imagination normally, but it was amazing how violence could write itself large on his mind’s eye. “Boxing?” he asked, unable to keep the curiosity out of his voice. “I assumed you were an athlete from your physique but it’s not common to meet a female fighter. Very impressive.”

“Myself? At this point, it feels like forever. I’ve been in surgery for nearly ten years. Been eating sleeping and living medicine a long time beyond that.”

He set back to work, making sure the wound was prepped for some simple stitching. “It’s so much simpler when you catch these wounds early, some people leave them half healed and then you just need to let it heal the messy and difficult way from the bottom up.”

"I'm a mixed martial artist," she expanded easily, not at all blind to that flash of something she'd just seen in pale blue eyes. "I don't know if you follow the UFC in any capacity, but if you do you might have seen me." He last big fight had been a months ago, but that didn't mean much.

As he spoke of his time in medicine the fighter did some quick mental math, trying to ball park an estimated age range. Factoring in pre-med, then surgical residencies, at the very least he was on the far side of his thirties, and that was assuming he'd gone to university directly after high school. A little older than the usual recruit for the Negaverse, but not too old to be of good use.

"It sounds like I caught the eye of the right doctor." And she flashed him another smile, charming and warm.

“Oh!” He said. “I’ve seen it once or twice, unfortunately the nature of this job means I rarely get to watch anything. That has to be a very engaging occupation.” Violence for a living, he wasn’t sure he could do it, not because of a lack of sadism but because he was not at all a fan of damage to his face. “Its not every day I get to meet a celebrity.”

Happy the wound was suitably prepped, he set about carefully stitching it closed. “I would normally warn about this part stinging a bit, but you seem plenty tough enough to endure a little twinge.” He was very efficient at stitching, the line neat and perfectly even that was left with minimal surface scarring. He wrapped it and gave her a nod, pleased with his handiwork as always.

It was always a struggle to be completely professional and he couldn’t help giving her a private sort of smile. “You most certainly did.” He said.

Being referred to as a celebrity sparked a pleased grin but she rolled her shoulders in what was meant to be a modest shrug but it lacked any real conviction. The more they talked, the more she watched the way his features lit up at certain points, the more she played to those points. Gauging his potential to fill the role she had in mind for him.

She barely reacted as he began stitching, pale eyes flicking down briefly then up again to his face in time to catch that little smile.

Her hand was stitched, the wound wrapped, and now would have been the time to thank him and be on her way. Instead she set her hands on the edge of the bench, weight shifting forward. "Do if you don't have time to watch anything, what do you do with your limited free time, doctor?"

“Me? Hm.” he said. “Well I make my own entertainment most of the time when not caught up in things with my family. I have been called a thrillseeker in my day.” And from any other doctor it might have seemed like a twee sort of throwaway comment, meaning that they liked to do nothing more thrilling than hiking in the woods. For Lawrence it meant so much more, immersing himself in sex, lies and sometimes a bit of drugs and violence when the boredom got the best of him. It was a power trip to talk about it openly and know that most people would make their own minds up about how extreme his statements were. “I play piano.” he said. “Ride horses. Not very interesting to a woman with a life as exciting as yours, I’d wager.”

"A thrill seeker? What sort of thrills did you seek out?" She wanted to keep him talking about himself. The more information she managed to draw from eager lips the better. More and more she was convinced he'd thrive in her world of chaos and magic. Ambitious and eager, not adverse to violence or gore. Not fearful.

Those traits alone made him a good candidate for recruitment, age withstanding, but his knowledge of medicine, his experience in triage and surgery. It made him pretty much perfect for the role she envisioned him in.

"A surgeon and a pianist. You're very good with your hands, Dr.Weiman," she commented back, voice carrying just a touch of innuendo.

The fighter licked her lips, chewing thoughtfully on the inside of the lower one as she continued to watch him. "Here's an unusual question for you. What would you rather have; stability or power?"

“Various things.” He said. “Certainly not anything I could speak about at work.” He said. “I’ll have to let your imagination be the judge of me and how interesting my life is.” He found her fascinating, not many people showed true interest in him beyond the superficial and his narcissism was ever a ready beast to feed.

“Oh yes though, my hands are certainly my finest asset.” He said. “Plenty of experience in so many areas at this point.”

There was a reason that Lawrence tended to prefer working on unconscious patients, and that was that he could more easily see them as objects to be repaired. Talking face to face with people always set in motion the darker parts of him and he’d find his thoughts flickering graphically to a hundred different futures that could be if he only gave in.

“Oh power, without question.” He said. “Stability is boredom and boredom is death by a thousand cuts.”

The curl of her lips suggested she was at the moment letting her imagination run wild on possible scenarios, and silver eyes brightened.

"What other areas, I wonder," she murmured softly before sitting back again and folding her hands in her lap. "Shame you're so constricted here with what you can discuss. I'm sure that would be quite the interesting conversation." With every comment, every question she was casting out bread crumbs to entice him closer, ensnare him tighter.

"And I absolutely agree. What good is stability when there's no excitement to be had. That's why I do what I do. I like how it feels, the rush I get from the fight, and the satisfaction of knowing I can win." It was there, in her eyes, the truth of what she was saying. The hunger she felt when she fought not just in the octagon but out in the city at night. How good it felt to bruise her knuckles against someone else's face.

Lawrence gave the girl a curious look. “Wellll, we’ll get you some antibiotics for that hand, human teeth are frankly /filthy/ when they break the skin, and I’ll give you this aftercare advice.” He moved to write something on a piece of paper, it turned out to be a phone number, which he handed over. “I come off shift about six o’clock tonight, incidentally.”

“Perhaps we should chat later, I’d love to hear more about your opinions about the worthlessness of stability.” He gave her a playful smirk, writing her up a prescription for some antibiotics as he tidied up. “For now though, they’ll be wondering where I’ve gotten to and there’s a routine surgery scheduled for forty minutes time. You take care of yourself, don’t go winning too many more fights, for today at least.”

The same intrigued, almost seductive smile lingered on as he talked about antibiotics and after care, and she dropped her gaze only as his dipped to the card he was writing on. As she took it she glanced it over, giving the faintest little huff of amusement and sliding down off the table so she could tuck it into her front left pocket. Altogether pleased that he'd taken the bait so enthusiastically.

She took the prescription slip as well, standing close but not too close, until he was ushering her towards the door. "Perhaps we should. I'm very curious about those activities of yours you aren't at liberty to discuss in a closed room." The slip was also tucked into her pocket, but she wouldn't be needing that. The injury would be completely healed in less than a week.

She paused at the door to look back up at him. "Thank you, doctor. I hope you have a wonderful evening. Good bye now." Pale fingers wiggled in a little wave as she slipped out the door and down the hall.

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