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bedlamsbardTakes place sometime after the last bit I posted (not that I remember what that was, but hey, you take what you know).
"Mac."
He looks up from his paperwork. "Danny," he says, and is on his feet and at the door a moment later, reaching out to support the doctor, who's swaying drunkenly on his feet and is all but held up by the wall he's clinging to.
"Sit down, for God's sake," Mac says, helping him over to a chair. Danny goes with him, one hand pressed to his stomach -- it's the right one, the one wrapped in linen bandages leaking red. Mac doesn't look too hard, but he's pretty sure that's blood soaking through Danny's untucked white shirt from the inside as well as the outside.
"Stella says you came by," Danny says, the words spilling out in a strained rush that conjures up images of cobbled streets, blue wool, and burning tenements. Mac swallows.
"I did, but you should have stayed at Salamis. I don't think you're fit to be out of bed."
Danny glances down, looking faintly surprised. "Probably not. I'm just sick of seein' the inside of Stella's bedroom. Not that we're like that," he adds hastily.
"Coming into town may have been overkill," Mac says, eyeing the fading bruises on Danny's face, and the large, messy stitches on his cheek, so unlike the small neat ones he does himself. "Do you mind if I ask what happened?"
"Yeah, I do." Danny's eyes close, and for a moment Mac thinks he's drifting off. Then they snap open again, blue behind the carefully repaired lenses of his glasses. "I got careless, I got caught," he says, face closing off. His eyes flick to the wall behind Mac's head. "And the fine United States of Arizona and the great state of Arizona printed another copy of my wanted poster and sent it off to every hellhole in the country."
"What?" Mac says blankly, and swings around to see the yellowing paper and the fairly decent sketch of one Doctor Daniel V. Messer hanging on the wall.
When he turns back, Danny is gone, the only signs of his passing the blood he'd left smeared over the wall with his injured hand.
"Mac."
He looks up from his paperwork. "Danny," he says, and is on his feet and at the door a moment later, reaching out to support the doctor, who's swaying drunkenly on his feet and is all but held up by the wall he's clinging to.
"Sit down, for God's sake," Mac says, helping him over to a chair. Danny goes with him, one hand pressed to his stomach -- it's the right one, the one wrapped in linen bandages leaking red. Mac doesn't look too hard, but he's pretty sure that's blood soaking through Danny's untucked white shirt from the inside as well as the outside.
"Stella says you came by," Danny says, the words spilling out in a strained rush that conjures up images of cobbled streets, blue wool, and burning tenements. Mac swallows.
"I did, but you should have stayed at Salamis. I don't think you're fit to be out of bed."
Danny glances down, looking faintly surprised. "Probably not. I'm just sick of seein' the inside of Stella's bedroom. Not that we're like that," he adds hastily.
"Coming into town may have been overkill," Mac says, eyeing the fading bruises on Danny's face, and the large, messy stitches on his cheek, so unlike the small neat ones he does himself. "Do you mind if I ask what happened?"
"Yeah, I do." Danny's eyes close, and for a moment Mac thinks he's drifting off. Then they snap open again, blue behind the carefully repaired lenses of his glasses. "I got careless, I got caught," he says, face closing off. His eyes flick to the wall behind Mac's head. "And the fine United States of Arizona and the great state of Arizona printed another copy of my wanted poster and sent it off to every hellhole in the country."
"What?" Mac says blankly, and swings around to see the yellowing paper and the fairly decent sketch of one Doctor Daniel V. Messer hanging on the wall.
When he turns back, Danny is gone, the only signs of his passing the blood he'd left smeared over the wall with his injured hand.