Somebody killed little Susie
The girl with the tune
Who sings in the daytime at noon
She was there screaming
Beating her voice in her doom
But nobody came to her soon

@cyril

Ivan's mood had grown from increasingly black to fairly light, considering the situation he was in.  It had been bound to happen eventually, though not particularly to this degree, that something would go amiss... especially when pursuing people hell bent on not getting caught through an almost pitch black forest that had murderous tree roots and killer ditches hidden throughout. The bright side? He'd gotten back up, climbed out of the ditch with a snarl, and with Vince he had made damn sure they weren't getting away again. And then he'd come here, while Vince took them to their designated point to collect the money for the dolts. He'd get his share later, when his shoulder wasn't sitting at a disturbing angle, and his ribs weren't tickling his lungs and daring to puncture them if he breathed in too far. The pain? It had faded a little to a bearable point, so now all he felt was frustration and a little agitation at his predicament, as he couldn't go home until it was sorted. His mums might have a fit. Jules could also possibly have a fit. Lorraine... well, he had a higher chance of running into her in the next few minutes than anyone else and he'd prepared himself for that outcome. Braced for a powerful stinging jinx for getting himself in a mess on top of the pain from everything else; aside from broken bones, he was pretty sure he had bruised ribs and possibly a concussion. Whatever that spell had been that had hit him, he'd lost his bearings completely, so he'd be making sure to get that checked too. Still, he'd spoken to his sister in the past, so he knew this was an in-and-out job. He'd be home before anyone worried, and then he'd just have to take pain relievers on the sly until the bruising went down.

Merlin, his ribs were on fire. Nevermind the headache he was getting from his collarbone, and the strain on his back as he couldn't even lean back let alone sit straight and it was really starting to annoy him. Sitting in the EW was actually far more monotonous than he'd ever imagined it being, considering the many accidents, emergencies and maladies constantly getting wheeled in and out and the fact that no one really seemed to stop for long. He had no one to talk to. Couldn't have written anything for his job, studies or even an owl to alert someone that he might be late home as his right hand was incapacitated- someone had tied it in a sling when he'd first come in, to immobilise his shoulder joint- and his left hand's writing was entirely different and so would cause concern to anyone who came across it. He had dirt all the way up him, dead leaves in his hair... but at least his wand was intact. That was what he was holding onto (figuratively) as he couldn't have gone without his wand. Getting a new one was out of the question. And he'd never hear the end of it if he had to fork out for another wand because some mudblood's curse had hit his ribs and sent him careening down into a ditch that he hadn't even seen because the bastards had disguised it underneath a network of crossed branches and undergrowth. It was ridiculous, and if it weren't for the fact that he didn't know healing magic, had no access to skele-gro and his wand arm was out of commission, he'd have seen to the problem himself. Even if only to save face, so he didn't have to sit on a bed and look someone in the eye while they fixed everything while refusing to tell them what had happened. It wasn't exactly a job you spoke about. 

Blowing out a deep breath, he looked at his watch and got up from his seat as his ribs and collarbone started to protest in earnest, grimacing and gritting his teeth. Whatever. So long as he did get home tonight and the place didn't end up so busy that he wasn't seen until about two in the morning, he could stick this out. He had a long morning ahead of him, full of briefings and other meetings with copious goblins who'd be in various states of bad moods for having to sit down with a wizard and witch- or three- to negotiate, talk, and improve liaisons. Walking in with still-broken bones and whatever have you was not going to slide, not even with the aid of a few- heavily- alcoholic drinks to help things along. Plus, if they were still broken by then, he wouldn't be able to go home in case he got a rollicking, or his mums... well, mum'd him. It wasn't serious. It wasn't life-threatening. He had his mask of calm firmly in place, was managing to smile instead of glare at the other patients in the waiting area with him. The EW was busier than he thought it would be on a Tuesday night, to be fair, and he wasn't concerned that others were being taken before him. He understood prioritising things. From most dire to least dire. He did the same with his tasks at work, his assignments from University. By all means, they could wheel people bleeding profusely past him as fast as they liked. He wasn't going anywhere. Not anytime soon. If not for the fact that he had no reason to leave yet, then for the fact that he couldn't open the doors to get out by himself.

Neglection can kill

Like a knife in your soul

    Cyril liked being a healer. It wasn't what he'd always set out to be, admittedly, but now that he was here he found that he liked it well enough. The main thing he wanted to do was work in the Janus Thickey ward, he was almost done with his psychology studies in Lufkin and he'd be working as a psychologist there soon. Right now, he was just a ward healer and that was fine. For the time being. Having to do rounds in the Emergency Ward wasn't really his idea of a great or interesting time, it was even quite stressful, but helping out people was important. He wasn't the best healer around, general practice was not what he wanted to dedicate himself to, but he was a decent healer and he could do everything that needed to be done. Sometimes his appearance gave him a bit of trouble. He was a bit small, a bit skinny, and on occasion people would mind that he looked a bit effeminate. That was their problem, he was just as capable as anyone else, no matter what he looked like. He even sacrificed his shorts and his nail polish whenever he came into work, knowing that it was best to keep a neat and neutral appearance. Well, as neutral as possible. One wouldn't see all that many male healers in lavender scrubs, but... well, Cyril did whatever he wanted. 
    A job as a healer wasn't exactly what boys like him ended up doing, neither was studying in college. Usually, boys born to mothers like his in situations like he was ended up doing... well, his night job. So he was doing that too but it wasn't the only thing that he was doing. The difference had come with his older brother, with Ad, who had never wanted to settle. He'd gotten summer jobs and saved up to pay for his first year's tuition, worked during his first year to save up for his second year's tuition, and so on and so forth. Ad had gotten himself out of that situation and he had gotten Cyril out too. Mostly. Cyril lived in an apartment with Ad now, and he went to college because his older brother paid for everything, and he didn't really have to work. The job at Sugarplum's was because he felt guilty asking Ad for pocket money after all the funds he put into their lives. The healer job was because he enjoyed it. The night job... was because he couldn't get himself to quit. He wanted to, oh did he want to. It used to be that it was fun, back years ago when it was still a novelty. Then things started to go sour and he just accepted it, because it came with the job and he didn't think it was so awful. His mother did it and Ad used to do it and it was a normal thing. Now- now he had Niles. Wonderful Niles who had accepted his night job and never complained. Amazing Niles that treated him like he was made of crystal and something holy, that loved him and cherished him. That made all the nights with clients seem a thousand times worse and he wanted to leave that all behind. He just... didn't know how. It was so new- it was like... allowing himself to be better, to put that all behind him. It also made him break away from any possible excuses to beat himself up. This was why he hated psychoanalysing himself.  
    Now he should concentrate, though. It wasn't the time to be thinking about his own personal issues. He was doing his rounds in the EW for Merlin's sakes, there were people who needed medical attention. So he quickly finished the necessary annotations in a patient's chart and moved on. Taking a list with all those present registered and scanning it for the worst injuries... until he came upon a familiar name. Ivan Warrington. Oh. He hadn't spoken to Ivan in a long while. He'd kind of given up? The older man had been in the same house year as Ad and Anya, Cyril had thought he was kind of nice even if he wasn't a great conversationalist. Then they'd had a kind of... well, an exchange that didn't go all that great and Cyril had just decided to let him be and not bother him again. But, well, this meant that he was hurt, right? So he looked out over the room until he spotted the familiar face and made his way over. "Hey, Ivan. What happened?" Several broken bones, right? That sounded painful. Cyril had only ever had bruised ribs, at the most. "Can you walk?"

TAG: @ ivan ╳ Outfit: Link ╳ Word count here

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