Gunna Need More Than Apples [Rick]

[Silas Rosier]

[atrb=width,450,true][atrb=cellspacing,0,true][atrb=cellpadding,0,true][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=background,http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v321/1300666/Characters/Silas/Scripts/sigpostscript_bg.png,true][atrb=valign,top]	[rs=2][bg=ffffff][atrb=background,http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v321/1300666/Characters/Silas/Scripts/sigpostscript_mainbg.png][atrb=style,background-position:top;background-repeat:no-repeat;]   They say nothing is ever quite the same after a major event. The counselors and the trauma advisers and all those other jerkoffs. They said everything was meant to change. Except that it hadn’t.   Okay, so he had a few new bruises and found out his accountant was a scheming bitch, but otherwise, Silas couldn’t say anything was all that different. At least not in the way the Coven’s complimentary shrink said it would be. His in-tray was still fuller than ideal, the filing department was still staffed with idiots; and vodka was still an important part of his breakfast. The way they were going on it was like they thought he was going to end up like Rickie.   Trauma counselling. What a load of crap.   At the very least you’d think the issue of kidnapping and attempted murder would be enough to get him out of paperwork. Apparently not. Scores was a cruel mistress who didn’t take delays from anybody. Thankfully, the major benefit to looking like hell meant people were more willing to do things for you out of some feeling of misplaced sympathy, so Silas had wasted no time distributing his workload among the peons.   And now, vodka.   The sight of the restaurant that greeted him at the top of the stairway was hauntingly desolate. Not surprising considering it was after twelve on a weeknight. The normally busy tables were sitting empty save for a number of compulsive gamblers who had gotten peckish enough to tear themselves away from the slot machines for two minutes.   Rather than head right for the bar Silas opted to linger, needlessly straighting the cuffs on his dress shirt to try and mask the fact he needed a moment to catch his breath. Stairs weren’t the trial they’d used to be, but they still took a lot of energy and sent a vindictive stab of pain through his knee on every step. The pain-killers he was on could only do so much.   At least he was looking better than those first dreadful weeks at the hospital. A good suit did a lot to hide the damage, although the limp when he walked, missing fingernails, scarred throat, burned jaw and sunken, malnourished features were a little harder to disguise. Thus why he was drinking at the restaurant these days instead of the club: he’d rarely visited it before the kidnapping so there were less people he knew. Less ‘How are you holding up?’, less ‘Are you okay?’, less ‘Do you want to talk about it?’ It was grating. Mostly because he hated being reminded.   He could see Rickie’s distinctive form still manning the bar. The man wasn’t hard to miss, considering he stood head, shoulders and chest above most of the customers.   Silas took a deep breath and tried to ignore the pain in his leg as he made his way over. The limp was still noticeable no matter how much he tried to disguise it and trying to walk for too long still made him lightheaded, so he was grateful to finally sink into one of the bar stools.   “Evening Rick,” he greeted cheerlessly, eyeing the display-stock at the back of bar and absently summoning himself a bottle.	[atrb=valign,top]
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[Rickie Connery]

Barman of the year was not a term one could use to describe Rickie but maybe they could have used a term such as most improved barman because he had most certainly improved. The more he did his job the better he got at remembering drink orders and recipes and the more satisfied his waitresses and customers were with him. Although he didn't rake in anywhere near the same amount of Galleons, Sickles and Knuts in tips as some of the other barmen his amount was steadily improving as he did. Cocktails were still a hassle but thankfully the working the graveyard shift meant Rickie missed the people after ridiculously complicated drinks. In fact there were hardly ever any people ordering the non-ridiculously complicated drinks too. Fortunately, or unfortunately from Rickie's point of view, there were other occurrences to occupy his time.

Somehow, somewhere along the lines Scores had dubbed the young Irishman as its go to guy for all problems injury related. The last thing on Earth Rickie had wanted was to treat another wounded man again after he had gotten out of hospital; he would rather have worked in a butcher's shop. Fate, however, had dogged him. Although he no longer wore the Medic's patch on his left arm the world still wanted him to treat people. His new wand was one that was excellent for healing spells and somehow injured people just kept stumbling into his path, and helping the injured was not something he could ignore thanks to months of training.

Word had gotten out through rumour and eyewitness accounts that Rickie was good at helping people with injuries and so dancers, bouncers, waitresses, doormen and various others had begun to come to him with various complaints. He'd treated sprained ankles, broken wrists, glass cuts, magical complaints of all shapes and sizes and even a stab wound. So many people had come to him that Silas had given him a disused storage room to turn into a makeshift clinic near the bar so as not to disturb the patrons. The room itself had a small bed and shelves littered with ill-gotten bottles and boxes pills and home-brewed medicinal potions. Size-wise it was small but perfect for what it was used for.

As they did most nights, Rickie's thoughts had wandered to his little room and wondering who he would have to treat next. One day he would learn to say no but he couldn't see it happening any time soon. Sighing, he busied himself with tidying the bar and counting takings. The repetitive clinking of the gold, silver and bronze coins was interrupted by a familiar voice that had Rickie jump and stand at attention for a few moments. "Sir," he said in greeting instinctively back. It took a few seconds for Rickie to calm down and understand why his boss was visiting to him.

Just as was the case with everyone else, Rickie was Silas' go to medic mainly because he didn't ask questions and didn't tell anyone else about treating him. Sullenly the younger man gestured to Silas to follow him to the store room. "Take your pants off and lie down," he said gently, pointing to the bed. "Your knee's still giving you trouble," Rickie stated bluntly as he washed his hands in a small basin of water. "You're not seeing me enough. The only way it's going to get better is if you see me more often." The man's Medic mode had been activated from his stern voice and clinical demeanor. Treating Silas Rosier was the only time Rickie was ever brave enough to give him orders and issue demands but they were all for Mr. Rosier's good.

[Silas Rosier]

[atrb=width,450,true][atrb=cellspacing,0,true][atrb=cellpadding,0,true][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=background,http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v321/1300666/Characters/Silas/Scripts/sigpostscript_bg.png,true][atrb=valign,top]	[rs=2][bg=ffffff][atrb=background,http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v321/1300666/Characters/Silas/Scripts/sigpostscript_mainbg.png][atrb=style,background-position:top;background-repeat:no-repeat;]   At least Rickie hadn’t changed a bit. The man damn near snapped to a military salute at the greeting. Silas gave a short laugh. If he didn’t know Rickie was always that jumpy he’d’ve wondered if he’d caught him looking at porn under the bar. “At ease,” he joked, twisting the cap off the bottle before taking a swig.   Now that he had a drink in hand some of the tension that was smothering him all day started to dissipate. (Shockingly, chronic pain didn’t do wonders for his mood.) Rickie wasn’t being particularly chatty either, so Silas’s thoughts started to drift inwards. He almost missed the younger mans gesture to follow, but the movement caught his attention in time.   Great. What now? “I just got here!” he protested, finding himself defensively gripping the neck of the bottle. Rickie didn’t answer, instead walking out of sight into the next room. Silas scowled.   What was this about? His first instinct was that there was a problem with the stock, but that couldn’t be it. Rickie was usually the one causing and/or ignoring problems, not fixing it. This had better not be about his treatment. He wasn’t in the mood for more doctors. Unless someone else had hurt themselves and he was meant to be on Please Don’t Sue duty.   Ergh.   Silas took a deep breath and mentally counted down to three before pushing himself to his feet. His knee sent a stab of pain down his calf - as usual - but he grit his teeth and tried to put it at the back of his mind. Damned if he was going to let a stupid injury get the better of him.   For good measure, Silas took another swig of vodka first as though it was a miracle-cure. Drinking directly from the bottle was an old, persistent habit that years of fine living had never quite cultured out of him. Just one of many clues that Silas hadn’t always lived on the top of the socioeconomic ladder, no matter how much he liked to pretend otherwise.   When he finally hobbled after the medic, Silas lingered in the doorway and was quick to spot Rickie was the only one in the room. Not good. And something Silas was approximately a hundred times more worried about in the face of Rickie’s next request.   Wait. What?   It took Silas a moment to process that one; the surprise must have shown on his face. Take his pants off? What was wrong with just taking off his trousers? “Jesus Christ Rickie; I broke my knee, I don’t need a prostate exam!”   Yeah, okay. He wasn’t nearly drunk enough for this. Shouldn’t be too hard to fix, seeing as the coven had shot his alcohol tolerance all to hell.   Silas disbelievingly shook his head and turned around, striding painfully back into the hallway and towards the bar. “If you’re trying to get sly, you gotta buy me dinner first. I don’t come cheap,” he called over his shoulder.	[atrb=valign,top]
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