My muse has a black eye but refuses to talk about it, how does your muse react?
   It was the worst position for a sentimental doctor to be in. One one side, he had to be professional. He couldnât pry, he couldnât ask about the personal aspects of the injury he was treating if he didnât absolutely need the information. But on the other side, he was an emotional man. He cared for those he patched up, even if they were just coming in with a bruise over their eye and a few cuts to be checked overâlikely by force of her son, going by what he knew about the woman. The refusal to give a proper explanation made him worry, even if he hardly knew the sheriff. Was she in danger? Was it some sort of domestic violence? Not like it would do much good to know, as he couldnât be the one to report it, but he couldnât deny the curiosity.Â
      âYouâre aware of the fact that, if this is something youâd rather keep secret, Iâm obligated to keep it a secret as well? My job, much as yours, is based in confidentiality. Itâs in your best interest to tell me what happened so I can treat you properly.â
     She knew that he would ask about what happened. It would have been stupid of her to think that he wouldn't. Letting out a sigh, she tilted her head back, bracing herself against the edge of the table. How did she let some kid talk her into coming here? All she needed was an ice-pack and some pain killers. There was no need to come here, but the things she did for her son. Turning her hazel hues toward him, she rolled her eyes.
     "I'm very aware. How about you just take care of this so I can get outta here?" Her tone was harsher than she had originally intended, and a sense of guilt soon followed before she made a small face and she shook her head at him. "Sorry, but Doctor offices, not exactly my thing."Â
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Selinaâs pretty fucking sure that her counter read more than nine hours last night. She squints at the ticking clock thatâs seemingly embedded just beneath her skin, rubbing idly at it. She hadnât worried about whatever time it had showed last night when sheâd popped her sleeping pills down with a glass of orange juice (she was out of coffee). It had been a large number, as it always had been, a number she didnât have to worry about. It reads nine hours now.
Excited. Is that what sheâs supposed to feel? Joy bubbling up in her stomach, or whatever poets and writers call excitement? The blue-black numbers on Selinaâs wrist continue their constant change - something Selinaâs not really paid attention to before. Theyâve read a large number all her life, and the numbers are just that; a countdown to an event Selina will confront when it happens. Sheâs never been much of one to prepare anyways.
09:08:43 / 09:08:42 / 09:08:41.
Nine hours, eight minutes. Less than half a day, and sheâll be meeting her âsoulmateâ. A scoff leaves Selinaâs lips. The clock on her mantle reads seven in the morning, watery gray light washing the printed skin on her wrist a melancholic tint. She has nine hours to relish the last fleeting moments of freedom before she gets to know who sheâs been born to meet. She watches as the numbers tick down to nine hours, seven minutes. Somewhere in Selinaâs mind, she wonders what would happen if she stayed in her apartment and waited the time out. Would her soulmate turn out to be a man ringing the doorbell to the wrong place? A pizza delivery boy?
Selina hates the idea that her life was predestined for her. That she has no way to change her supposed fate with whatever man or woman had been deemed her match. Selina doesnât like feeling out of control. And yet the world she lives in is a world where no one knows when theyâll meet that âluckyâ person who is destined to be their other half. Itâs stupid. Selina canât imagine being tied down - not now, not ever. And yet by law she has to. She leans back in her chair, then gets up to stretch. Might as well hit up the rooftops. She needs distracting in the form of stealing, and who knows - if she meets her soulmate somewhere up in the rafters of a house - yeah. Letâs not think about that. Do now, talk later.
Sheâs walking across the street from her apartment building to get coffee when the counter starts⌠tingling. It surprises her, and she sits down before peeling back her sleeve to check the number. Shit! Why hadnât she ever paid attention when people talked about the counter? It had jumped again, and now read only two hours, forty minutes. Jesus. Was it supposed to leap like that? Selina doesnât think so. She can only wonder who else in this vast city is looking down at their own counter and wondering at how the time has passed.
She continues on her way and spends the next half hour keeping an eye on every person that met her gaze, conscious of the tingling that emanated from her wrist. Was that a clownâŚ? Selina checks the counter every twenty minutes - noting painfully how time is slipping away from under her fingertips. Sheâs distracted as she makes her way to the mouth of an alley intent on heading across town â- and then thereâs the flash of white and red again. A clown? Selinaâs features twist into a frown, and she berates herself for only bringing a small knife. This is Gotham - her city. Also home to several people who want her dead.
Fuck - itâs a clown. A clown henchman with a gun. Sheâs done nothing to anger the Joker recently, has she? Not enough to have him send a goon after her. This was probably Jayâs idea of a sick joke, damn him.
Selina manages to twist as the clown shoots, banging her hip on the brick wall of the building beside her, fingers still pinching the handle of her blade. Not fast enough. And then sheâs staggering against the wall with a sharp pain in her belly. Fucking Joker. Maiming her this way would put her out of commission for weeks. Shit. Her counter doesnât speed up as her pulse does, but the time has considerably shortened. If this fucking clown is her soulmate, Selina might just die on the spot than go through with that. But when she looks up again, the clownâs gone, and a mild wave of relief washes over her.
Oddly enough, Selina wonders what happens if one half of a pair dies. Does the other feel loss? Even if they havenât met their soulmate? Do they die alone? Not the time for her to think of such things, but it still is the first thought that floats to the surface of her mind - besides the instinctual reminders to get help.
She knows she only has a small amount of time to get to the hospital. Sheâs treated bullet wounds both on herself and on others before, but this shot had caught her at an awkward angle from when sheâd tried to evade it. She staunches the blood with one hand as she stumbles out to the main street. She hears screams, and cars skidding. And then she trips and slams her head on the pavement, and all goes dark. Stupid, rookie mistakeâŚ
Selina wakes up in the ER of Gotham Municipal, senses sluggish, eyesight a bit blurry. Itâs risky for her to be here - with her criminal record and all. Does she really have a choice? Sheâs already here. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see the vague silhouette of a doctor. Selina blinks wearily, then glances down at her counter, heart catching in her throat.
00:00:10 / 00:00:09 / 00:00:08.
The doctor makes a move to turn. Selina restrains the urge to leap out of the bed and just make a run for it, wound or no. She canât be the soulmate of a doctor. Sheâs a thief, a criminal, someone a straight-laced doctor could never be with. And if heâs an old, wrinkly pompous doctor, Selinaâs so fucked. But heâs not.
Warm eyes stared out of an admittedly attractive (gorgeous) face, and she regards him warily. Their gazes trail down to where she can see the edge of the counter on his wrist, and then to hers. And then her skin warms as the numbers catch on 00:00:00 --- and that's it. He's her soulmate. Selina doesn't know what to make of the situation. So she decides to quirk her lip up in a small smile. "Hello, doctor."
     Emma would be lying if she said she wasn't surprised to find Simon--of all people--sitting at the Rabbit Hole. He was so prim and proper, and he most certainly did not come off as much of a drinker to her. Then again, it wasn't her job to keep tabs on him, was it? He was human, and like all humans, needed a way to wind-down some way or another. However, as she approached, she could not help but let out a small tick of disappointment, sliding into the seat besides him.
    "Just beer, doc? I don't think that will do you so good," she joked lightly, offering a small smile before she held up two fingers at the bartender. "Two shots of whiskey, please," she ordered. Before the other could say something, she held up a finger in a silencing motion. "Not a word, Simon. You're taking this shot whether you like it or not. I'm doing this for your own good," shooting him a sharp stare, Emma patted his shoulder.
    When their drinks came, she slid one of the shot glasses toward him before she held up her own in a toasting manner, "Loosen up a bit. It won't kill you," she promised before dunking her head back.Â
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// Minimally related to your skype adventures but:
If Simon survives his encounter with the Reavers and The Alliance, Maher already know what he wants more of in a second go-around. "[Maher says some actual good stuff that isn't important now and then he says] I would love to see more with Simon and Kaylee's relationship and, of course, I'd like to do the entire movie completely in the buff." (Official Serenity Movie Magazine)
// IDK I thought you two would like to have that there quote. -slides out-