True, I'm nervous.

[radiopalkiller]

Who: Philip, Jo Harvelle, Tauriel & [OPEN]
Where: Second floor hallway & the clinic
When: February 12th - February 21st
Rating: PG-13 to R for violence, blood and frequent mentions thereof
Summary: You'd thinking surviving the Valentine's Day killers attack would mean you're in the clear, but then again, this is Philip we're talking about here.
The Story:

He made it out, thanks to a certain Doctor's lucky intervention. He should've called it a day then, and headed for the clinic with him. But luck just didn't seem a good enough reason to brush off the fact that he couldn't get Evie to answer her device, no matter how often he tried. So he moved up to her room on the second floor, so he really should've changed out of his tunneling outfit first. Well, at least being mistaken for the murderer along the way guarantees he'll make his way to the clinic after all, and stay there for a solid week...

[[ OOC: Long story short, on February 12th Philip gets attacked by Tom and escapes. Jo mistakes him for the killer and shoots him. Tauriel finds him and patches him up, and he spends the next week at the clinic. That part is open to everyone, in case anybody wants to visit, comfort, bother, torment, entertain or question him. ]]

Comments

[radiopalkiller]

It's been almost a week, and Philip's bed is starting to develop an unpleasant prison flair. Jogs are out of the question, he knows that much, and even walks are dangerous, given Wonderland's current state (for all he knows). Which only leaves standing up, and stretching his legs inside the clinic.

That's still better than nothing, and that's what he is about to do, when he hears Blake's voice approaching.

There's a surprise for sure, though unlike a certain priest it's not an inherently unpleasant one. Still, as far as he knows he was shot because somebody apparently confused him for a serial killer, and who's to say that rumour hasn't quite died down yet? Well, unless Blake is just making the rounds, which Philip might as well hope for.

Warily.

"Hey."

He grabs on to the edges of his bed, and makes sure he's sitting upright, before bracing himself to shift his weight. One slight wobble and a sharp breath later he stands on his feet. Exercise A: Turn around, and face Blake.

"I'll take the books."

Not so much coffee, at this point. The fewer reasons to relieve himself here, the better.

"Cheers."

[oversight]

"All yours," Blake says, holding out the small stack of paperbacks. It's just a random assortment, the type of grab-bag books you might find in the section of the bookstore reserved for employee favorites. It's honestly the easiest option, and since he hasn't read any of them himself, he doesn't usually have to offer his opinion.

As he turns to look around the clinic, he takes note of the conditions. Martha keeps a pretty clean house, but it's obvious that people other than Philip have been staying longer than a day at a time.

"You need anything else? Change of clothes or a better pillow? Guessin' someone's takin' care, but—" John shrugs. "Doesn't hurt to ask."

He wants to help, even if he doesn't have all that much to offer by way of conversation topics. With the dust settling around him, he's just got to take it slow and assist where he can until the issues with Tom's killing spree can be a little more directly addressed.

[radiopalkiller]

"Not really."

It's convenient that the honest truth matches up pretty well with the exact phrase he'd use if he was suspiciously dismissing Blake's offer. Granted, maybe he should give it another second or two of thought, but--

"I'll probably head back to my own room soon, anyway."

See? That sounds just about right. Granted, judging by the laboured wobble composing his steps towards Blake it might still take another day or two, but after that it's as good a place to be as any.

"So, erm. Are you- are you just making the rounds, or...?"

Better not stare at Blake too expectantly for that one, and he might as well have a look at his literary catch, though it doesn't take more than a quick glance at the books' spines to spot the odd one out.

Philip groans to himself, and looks back up at Blake.

[oversight]

Blake eyes the spines of the books, but only because Philip groans, and the lingering look doesn't last. He'd inspected them in some manner on his way from the library, but he hadn't taken real stock in what was there, apparently. So, he tries not to give the other man a look, mostly because he isn't sure if he ought to be sympathizing, apologizing, or something else entirely.

He shifts and settles back, that Thermos getting incorporated into the folding of his arms. Blake's not intending to stay long — if anyone's going to be disturbed by his presence, he imagines it's going to be Philip — but he still wants to make enough conversation to know a little more about what Philip's feeling after all of this.

"Yeah, just makin' the rounds. Maybe a little more aggressively than usual," he notes, mostly because there are still people not accounted for. Dean comes to mind, but he doesn't voice his concerns there, nor does he mention any other names; odd are good they're either in their rooms, waiting for the dust to settle, or Blake's just missing most of them due to scheduling conflicts. Either way, it's not a worry he sees fit to share.

He gestures to Philip, though he means to call attention to the wobbling that's since passed. "Tom did this, then?"

[radiopalkiller]

Window? Rubbish bin? Just tear it up right here? Guess none of those really fit the bill when it comes to reacting properly to any sort of get well soon gift. Better just put it down by his bed with the others. He'll set it on fire when Blake's gone, or something like that.

Anyway, about that serious question: Philip frowns, and tries not to take the excuse to sit down. If he's got to be uncertain about the facts, then he'd rather do so on steady feet, but it doesn't look like he'll have that option at the moment. Instead he braces himself, and starts pacing slowly. From one end of the bed to the other, and back again. It adds up emotionally, at least just about.

"That's the theory, apparently."

How did that sound? Did he manage to make it sound tentative, at least that, rather than wary, as wary and suspicious as Philip can't help but feel? Thing is, being gunned down under suspicion of murder doesn't do much to put your paranoia at ease. Nor does anything he's heard about Tom's involvement so far.

"I didn't see. Not enough to tell, anyway."

[oversight]

Philip's right to have his concerns about Tom. Since the beginning, Hanniger's been something of a time bomb, and if the actions of his future self are any indication, it's not just about his head being messed up, because he's tricky and manipulative, too.

Back here in the present, Blake refocuses. "Then someone came to help you?" He asks, realizing belatedly that this sounds much more like an investigation than concern no matter how he means to present it. He waves his hand almost immediately, a gesture meant to be casual, and feels all the worse for that choice. "Obviously you got here. And now I'm wastin' time I'm sure you could be spendin' on recovery."

Finally, some of that edginess starts to slip away, because he's just too tired to be anyone but himself at this late stage of the game. "Just wanted to check on you when I heard you were here. Figured you'd be sleepin'." Which is to say, it can be assumed John hadn't expected to have a conversation, or start an interrogation.

"I'm glad you're not dead." Really, that's the headline here. It could have been bad. It would have been way worse.

[radiopalkiller]

Philip huffs a laugh.

"So far I can still talk and move at the same time."

Following it up with a wry smile comes easier this time, now that the note of interrogation is gone, and Philip can breathe a quiet sigh of relief. Because the truth, the whole truth of the matter is that Philip doesn't have concerns about Tom, he has concerns about the things lurking in his own past, things on which he felt a scratch, the unpleasant itch of an old scar, aggravated first and most of all by his own memories.

But most itches, as he had to find out the hard way, are better left unscratched and alone, with nothing but the hope that they might fade into the background on their own. So far it seems to be working all right.

"I actually didn't catch her name, I'm not sure she even said, but um... tall, red hair, she-- she had pointy ears, I think, um, might've been some- some sort of elf."

His face twists into a helpless grimace between confusion and laughter, the sort of unspoken Christ, can you believe what we're talking about here? he thinks he can share with somebody whose world might have had a semblance of normalcy too.

"Anyway, um, thanks for that, I-- I appreciate it. And I'm right with you on the death sentiment."

[oversight]

Oh man, Philip, you don't even know how much time Blake spends dreaming of someone who will understand his need for normalcy. He's not saying everything in Gotham is sunshine and daisies — they've got more than their fair share of crazies — but as it stands, it's nothing like this.

Blake knows. He gets it, even if he's not bringing that fact up at this time.

"No, kidding. Bet you are." Which is to say, Blake wouldn't want to be in Philip's shoes. He's got two deaths under his belt, and one of those hadn't even counted, but it doesn't mean Blake doesn't consider that the rest could descend in quick succession, especially with mass murderers and the jabberwocky looming.

He rubs at the back of his neck and meanders toward the door. "Gonna keep an eye out for the elf. Send her my way if you see her?"