Untitled

the interest in her work has waned with the rise of potential infraction and her coat is wrapped around her shoulders. there is no lockdown for her, but the window of time is closing in this line. “on y va.” she reiterates, her own charming tone curves around each word, softening their demand. “let the doctor work.” he would have it no other way.

“reports are for those in the midst.” the path to the elevator is clear, the talk of work is winding down all the same. he's concerned, she never is. there's no reason to be. there's no other place in the world they could work, even if they refuse all the responsibilities therein. "and they must be done with a clear head." she plans on neither for her evening, he knows as much.

"Chut," he hushes. The walls have ears. Worse. People use theirs. Footsteps and chattering words are heard on the other side of the building. Impatience of a different kind on opposite sides. One is life-threatening. One is life-avoiding. Sy's always had a paranoia touch to him. His head flips to one tilted side after checking around the corner. He's acting like a cartoonish prisoner, but it's not his first time escaping. It will hardly be his last.

"Little time left," he finally whispers to her after assaulting the elevator button, tapping repeatedly as if that'll hurry it up. It's because of him that button has a crack. Again. Not his first escape, and by the sound of the ding and the doors finally opening, he lives to see another chance.

"You'll be my death," he mutters the moment they're sealed up. That's not resignation. Not premonition. Could it be blame? Or closer to compliment? There's no telling behind the veil of newly formed smoke.

"we." she's better with an audience, even the unwilling, the unamused. there was no place they wouldn't be discovered, that was if anyone started to look at the other colorful members of the cast. but she has it on blood authority. "of course there is somewhere." they can't vanish as smoke, but there's enough to predict they won't be the first searched for. her idea is more than just a name of a restaurant. the quick footsteps of the emergency services, elevators which only stop on one floor. "regardes," she gestures to the hurried and the upset, "ivy est blessée."

What's he nervous for? What's he supposed to do? He's not a medical doctor. Look at him with that cigarette, already burning to the bit. He's the poster-child for what a medical professional shouldn't be. He can huff and puff all he likes, just as long as he takes in his nicotine. …But I know him better than that. I know he's not concerned for a patient he'll never have. Because he's never wanted one.

"Pas bon… Les rapports… Putain!"

That's more like him. He grabs his coat, clenching down on his cigarette to put it on, just enough to have the corner of his mouth free.

"On y va." A more pointed look is given. A rush on an order. "Before we are trapped."

"yes we do." there's plenty to pick from if one was to start ranking the problesm that the department had. but she would never name specific people— perhaps that was the quickest way to painting a target on her own back. "i won't be cleaning up this mess. they all collapsed. " the medical area had been a flurry of activity, and she'd watched holly run through making excuses for some alert that had not happened yet. was it crimson, canary, or indigo? had violet been involved? it was best to stay clear. "we should disappear. "

Speaking of messes… A small plume of smoke unspools shortly from his mouth, first released breath since she's come in, first molecule of relaxation. It'll burn up as quickly as the ash that'll form. "They're late." Funny to say, funnier to hear when time is relative. It's the only detail he has for her now. It's all that he's willing to say to her about it. It might not be all he suspects, but if he was holding any secret grounded in truth it would destroy him. Poker isn't his strong suit.

His fingers continue to fidget. Twitch at the words. Disappear. His lips clutch onto the cigarette one more time, quick breath out from the corner. "We?" The tip burns orange from another puff, still trapped by his mouth before finally removed. "There's no place." Is that something like indignation? Or resignation? "Where would you say?"

"i didn't realize we had disconnected all the smoke detectors." it's not judgement, merely a statement of facts in specific order. her own pack sits in her jacket pocket, though it finds its refuge on the roof of the building, not in the offices. "you are keeping secrets from me?"

"Mmph."

The same hand that's introduced itself to the table by force springs the cigarette out from his mouth. It now fidgets between his fingers instead of his lips, no rest.

"A threat?" he questions. I don't think it is. She's popular for a reason. It doesn't have anything to do with making enemies. He doesn't listen. "We have worse things than fire to worry about. Donne-mois une lumet."