sirenspull_logs | (no subject)

Who: Deathstroke (

terminates) and Re-l Mayer (

awakenings)
When: June 1st, early evening.
Where: Mugshots bar, Sector 4.
Summary: Despite being sick, Slade has opted to go to work. Re-l finds him there.
Warnings: Guilt plague things.

[ He's sick.

He's known about it for the last several days but hasn't actually done much more than ignore it as best he could. Business has slowed, and since Death is more than a little preoccupied, he's taken the liberty of shutting the doors early and having others do it for him.

Slumping heavily in his chair, he peers around at his office, the papers and bureaucratic nonsense piling up everywhere. He hasn't actually had enough brainpower to handle anything like it for two days. Yes, he knows the cause of this, and yes, he knows there is a cure. He just hasn't gotten around to addressing either.

Rubbing his face, he feels the fever and closes his eye. He doesn't expect to die, knows he won't, but that doesn't make it any less miserable. Maybe a nap is all he needs... ]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[She'd gotten her shot only an hour prior, courtesy of Daedalus. It paid to have a friend - a doctor, no less - in with one of the companies. It might have been dangerous for him but this was one of the few times it paid off in the end. He received an advance shot, along with any for people in his household. She might not live with him, but he got one for her anyway.

It doesn't make her feel much better, though. At least, not for the moment.

Maybe it's because she has people she needs to check in on first. Daedalus had promised that Diego and anyone who was hospitalized would be taken care of. Edgeworth and Sam, her co-workers, and everyone else would need to wait...but they were in good enough shape to get by. There's still one person, though, that she has yet to find and check in on.

She's tried calling twice, both ending up on voicemail. She knows better than to leave him a message. When he doesn't call back, but his NV stays online, she gets the hint: he doesn't want to be bothered. It's been nearly two and a half weeks since a lesson, since she's even seen Slade Wilson. She's tried looking in on one of his bolt holes, too, but to no avail.

Tonight, she tries his work, doubting he'll be there. Yet, when she comes inside and asks quietly for Deathstroke, someone points her towards his office. She frowns, thanks the man, and heads to the door. She knocks carefully.]

[ The sound wakes him up.

Blinking away the film of sleep, he sits up a little too rapidly. Dizzy, he props his elbows on the desk and rubs his temples, his temper slowly rising. He told the stand-in bartender he wasn't to be disturbed. ]

We're closed.

[ Clipped and irate. Whoever wants to bother will have to come another time. ]

[So he is still there. She's surprised, though grateful that he seems all right enough to be at work. His tone, however, makes her frown. The usual clipped demeanor; he's annoyed at something.]

Not even for a moment, Deathstroke?

[Code names. She remembers. She leans against the side of the door frame as she waits for his response, making sure the bartender has his attention elsewhere.]]

[ Of course.

He looks up, glowering at the door as though the heat of his displeasure could be felt on the other side. He rather doubts it can be, but it's a nice thought. ]

Two minutes.

[ Circles under his eye and the fever notwithstanding, he's still able enough to throw someone out. ]

[The lack of a response, at first, gives her a pretty fair idea of his mood, if his curt attitude didn't inform her beforehand. But that's Slade; she wouldn't have come here if she expected him to be kinder, especially if he's ill.

She opens the door and steps inside, closing it quietly behind her. It gives her a few seconds to look at him, to just see how he is.

He looks pale, thinner than she's seen him before. It's no surprise. Everyone's sick now.]

I didn't think you'd be holed up in here during all of this. Are you really getting any sort of clients like this?

['Like this.' It could reference how the whole city's fallen ill. Or it could be about him.]

[ He grunts and moves back to the chair -- a far cry from the controlled grace with which he usually commands himself. Right now, he hardly seems to care. ]

My "partner" is preoccupied.

[ He told Didi he would cover for her, and he has, as much as possible. Even though there isn't much happening, he still has to be here.

He sits, peering at her balefully. ]

What is it?

Is she.

[Considering the circumstances, that doesn't surprise her.

She leans against the door for a moment to watch him again. What can she say, that she was worried and wanted to be sure he was all right? That she wasn't sure if he'd taken ill too? She can't admit either of those things and she certainly won't acknowledge the idea that she missed their training sessions or him in any way. She hasn't been worried. She hasn't.

There's only a brief silence before she speaks again, despite the conflict in her mind.]

You should be home. You look terrible.

[She raises an eyebrow, hoping to come across as accusing instead of concerned.]

You cancel sessions because there's an emergency, not because you're filling in. You should be taking it easy.

[ He glares but doesn't contradict the statement. That's the benefit of wearing a mask -- as long as it stayed on, people generally didn't notice his condition. Or rather, they knew better than to call him on it.

Except her. ]

I'll live.

[ If guilt hasn't killed him yet, it certainly isn't about to now. ]

Yes, you'll live.

[Just like her. Just like quite a few people, thankfully. She's grateful, oh so grateful, that no one she's close to has died from this. Not yet, anyway.]

But don't act like it doesn't hurt. You don't need to slog through this as punishment for whatever you think you've done wrong.

[ He all but scowls at her assessment. This isn't about punishing himself. He's doing the damn job he signed up for while his partner is making her rounds. However he feels about what he's done isn't important and hasn't been important for a long time.

It's that kind of stubborn thinking that's kept him on his feet. ]

I'm doing my job.

Unless you have something worthwhile to contribute, the door is over there.

[Idiot. Doing his job is one thing but in the middle of all of this, he can afford a week off. She doubts Didi would mind in the slightest. He doesn't need to push himself.

(Pot, kettle.)

She scowls, folding her arms across her chest.]

Then give me something to do for you and then you can go home.

[ He'll take a week off when he's at death's door or not longer gives a shit. Today, though, is not one of those times. ]

It's paperwork. I can handle it myself.

That was never the question.

[Slade can always handle his issues.]

I'm just offering a hand to help. That's all.

[Is that all? She's not so sure right now. But if she's around to make sure he's all right, maybe it'll put her mind at ease.]

[ He glowers at her a moment longer, the effect of it mostly lost behind the fatigue he's trying not to show. Immortal or not, the sickness has drained him over the last several days.

Finally, he picks up a stack of papers and hands them over. ]

Alphabetize these.

[ Case files for new bounties. ]

[She glances at the papers and raises an eyebrow, but takes them just the same. She grabs one of the chairs near the desk and pulls it up, taking a seat.

The sad thing about alphabetizing and categorizing is that she's amazingly good at it, like a goddamn secretary. But that's what happens when you join the police force as their first Newcomer female.

She doesn't complain. In fact, she gets to work without a word, efficiently separating the papers and making sure she has everything in order. After some time of silence, she speaks up.]

I'm not going to run across anything particularly damaging in here, am I?

[Re-l doesn't even look up from her work, though she has a very faint and crooked smile on her lips.]

[ It's more bureaucratic bullshit than anything else. He just snorts. ]

Only if you're easily bored.