Post by Iain Murray on Feb 10, 2012 18:34:05 GMT 1
Iain preferred the nightshifts. Maybe that was weird, but he did, really he did. Bridgette and Poppy seemed to appreciate their beauty-sleeps, anyway, so Iain was happy to stay up all night and hold the fort. Well, I say 'fort', I mean 'hospital wing'.
The upcoming night promised to be quiet, as far as Iain could see. There were a couple of students asleep on the ward, but neither of them was critical or very seriously ill. One boy had just torn a ligament in his knee and they wanted to keep an eye on the swelling and the healing, because mending it had been tricky as the boy (stupidly) had tried to continue walking - to act tough towards his friends no doubt. The other student was a girl who had complained about stomach pains and who'd probably caugt a bug, so they'd offered her a bed in the hospital wing so her dorm mates wouldn't catch it and they could monitor her a little more easily. They normally didn't do this, but the girl had been tired and unfocused for some time now, so they (well.. Bridgette mostly - coddling all the way as was her nature) had decided to cut her some slack. She was only a first year and she was probably as much home sick as she was really ill.
By now, it was long past twelve, closer coming up to one am actually. Iain had come in four hours earlier with 'Wuthering Heights' under his arm (he had a soft spot for the Brontë-sisters) and he was about halfway into the novel by now. Slipping a piece of paper (possibly a bit from some student's file) onto the page where he'd paused reading, he rubbed his eyes and went into the office to make himself some more coffee. He loved coffee. Coffee was good. He didn't need it to stay awake, because he wasn't tired exactly, just a little slow - and he didn't want to be slow, he wanted to finish this book tonight. That and write a litter to Cailean. He just needed a little more focus, a little more speed.
Iain had been here a week now, but he'd put off writing to his brother so far. A pile of drafts had accumulated under his bed, but he'd sent none of them, every time telling himself he'd write a better letter tomorrow (and then usually chuckling about the rhyme in 'better letter' before forgetting all about the matter - or pushing it to the back of his mind, anyway). He hadn't received anything from Cailean in the mean time, either, and wasn't sure if he should be happy or sad about it. Iain missed his brother sorely, but apparently Cailean was getting on well without him? Was that good or bad?
Tonight he was going to do it, though. He was going to write and finish a letter and then send it as soon as he clocked out in the morning, he could do a walk thought the dewy grass to the owlery at sunrise and then have a hot bath and sleep. That was a good plan. As soon as he had his mug of coffee, he was going to sit down and write it. Or he was going to read one more chapter and then write it. No, he just had to start or he never would. Parchment, parchment - where did Poppy leave the blank bits of parchment again?
Walking back to the desk once he'd brewed his coffee (obscenely strong, but with a lot of milk and sugar to render it at least sort of drinkable), he found himself a pencil and a blank scrap of parchment, ignoring his book (which was his line of sight).
..did that sound accusing? Iain didn't mean it to. He fisted the one-sentence letter into a ball and aimed for the dustbin (and missed - oh well, he'd get it later). New blank bit of parchment.
Iain sure hoped that didn't come off too sarcastic. He did like Amanda, or he tried anyway. No, she was nice. Just.. just Amanda. Not his type of person, let's just leave it at that.
It was a bit unfair of him to ask, but Iain only asked Amanda along because he knew she wouldn't come. Hiking the highlands was not her style - she was a Londoner in heart and soul. Hell, she'd show up in stilettos if she did come! Even if she could shop in those things for a day, that didn't mean she could traverse the Scottish highlands in them!
Iain reread his letter so far and felt about ready to throw it away again. He was no good with words, never had been, and he could not find the right ones to say what he meant and that was just frustrating. Very frustrating. Moreso because he knew that if Cailean had just been here, body language would've been enough to communicate exactly what he meant. He glared at his book, as though Emily Brontë could help it that Cailean had gotten the smarty-booky-wordy genes and Iain only the, well.. other genes, anyway.
The upcoming night promised to be quiet, as far as Iain could see. There were a couple of students asleep on the ward, but neither of them was critical or very seriously ill. One boy had just torn a ligament in his knee and they wanted to keep an eye on the swelling and the healing, because mending it had been tricky as the boy (stupidly) had tried to continue walking - to act tough towards his friends no doubt. The other student was a girl who had complained about stomach pains and who'd probably caugt a bug, so they'd offered her a bed in the hospital wing so her dorm mates wouldn't catch it and they could monitor her a little more easily. They normally didn't do this, but the girl had been tired and unfocused for some time now, so they (well.. Bridgette mostly - coddling all the way as was her nature) had decided to cut her some slack. She was only a first year and she was probably as much home sick as she was really ill.
By now, it was long past twelve, closer coming up to one am actually. Iain had come in four hours earlier with 'Wuthering Heights' under his arm (he had a soft spot for the Brontë-sisters) and he was about halfway into the novel by now. Slipping a piece of paper (possibly a bit from some student's file) onto the page where he'd paused reading, he rubbed his eyes and went into the office to make himself some more coffee. He loved coffee. Coffee was good. He didn't need it to stay awake, because he wasn't tired exactly, just a little slow - and he didn't want to be slow, he wanted to finish this book tonight. That and write a litter to Cailean. He just needed a little more focus, a little more speed.
Iain had been here a week now, but he'd put off writing to his brother so far. A pile of drafts had accumulated under his bed, but he'd sent none of them, every time telling himself he'd write a better letter tomorrow (and then usually chuckling about the rhyme in 'better letter' before forgetting all about the matter - or pushing it to the back of his mind, anyway). He hadn't received anything from Cailean in the mean time, either, and wasn't sure if he should be happy or sad about it. Iain missed his brother sorely, but apparently Cailean was getting on well without him? Was that good or bad?
Tonight he was going to do it, though. He was going to write and finish a letter and then send it as soon as he clocked out in the morning, he could do a walk thought the dewy grass to the owlery at sunrise and then have a hot bath and sleep. That was a good plan. As soon as he had his mug of coffee, he was going to sit down and write it. Or he was going to read one more chapter and then write it. No, he just had to start or he never would. Parchment, parchment - where did Poppy leave the blank bits of parchment again?
Walking back to the desk once he'd brewed his coffee (obscenely strong, but with a lot of milk and sugar to render it at least sort of drinkable), he found himself a pencil and a blank scrap of parchment, ignoring his book (which was his line of sight).
Dear Cailean,
Sorry I hadn't written to you yet, but then I didn't get anything from you either so we were probably both busy
..did that sound accusing? Iain didn't mean it to. He fisted the one-sentence letter into a ball and aimed for the dustbin (and missed - oh well, he'd get it later). New blank bit of parchment.
Dear Cailean,
Things have been going pretty well here. I miss you, obviously, because now I have no chance of convicing people that I'm actually you and that you're me, but I guess that's okay. I hope you've been doing as well as I have - and Amanda too, of course.
Iain sure hoped that didn't come off too sarcastic. He did like Amanda, or he tried anyway. No, she was nice. Just.. just Amanda. Not his type of person, let's just leave it at that.
You won't believe who I work with here! Apparently Bridgette also applied and got the job a couple of months beforemeI did, so that's been great fun. Remember Bridgette?
And of course spring is starting and spring is the best time to be in Scotland. You should drop by some time soon if you can get some time off, we can hike up into the highlands. Bring Amanda, if she's up for it, and we could have a picknick and everything. If we make a weekend of it we could maybe visit mum and dad?
It was a bit unfair of him to ask, but Iain only asked Amanda along because he knew she wouldn't come. Hiking the highlands was not her style - she was a Londoner in heart and soul. Hell, she'd show up in stilettos if she did come! Even if she could shop in those things for a day, that didn't mean she could traverse the Scottish highlands in them!
Iain reread his letter so far and felt about ready to throw it away again. He was no good with words, never had been, and he could not find the right ones to say what he meant and that was just frustrating. Very frustrating. Moreso because he knew that if Cailean had just been here, body language would've been enough to communicate exactly what he meant. He glared at his book, as though Emily Brontë could help it that Cailean had gotten the smarty-booky-wordy genes and Iain only the, well.. other genes, anyway.
