[for Steve] sticks and stones
I don't like hospitals. They're an assault on the senses. The monitors beeping. The astringent smell of anesthetic. The coughing and the crying and the hurried footsteps and the sirens and the oppressive presence of death and all that that entails around every corner. I appreciate the work of hospital personnel (despite Foggy's adoptive mother's accusations that her son is the only member of Nelson & Murdock to find injury, my life has been in someone else's hands more times than I have fingers) but the environment in which they do that work is hostile. It's my understanding that the room I'm in now is just a simple clinic, an off-shoot of the local laboratory, but the trappings are more or less the same.
I'm not here for myself; I probably should be, with the amount of minor injuries I've racked up over the past month, but I've lived through worse. I'm not recovering from surgery. I haven't been shot. Not like the man I intend to visit. The tap tap tap of my cane gives me an idea of the room's layout (that it's relatively small and that it's not empty). It hits the edge of something to my side (something with give, most likely a bed), and I stop to listen.
"Captain Rogers?"
His real name. I trust him to take the hint and use mine in turn.
I'm not here for myself; I probably should be, with the amount of minor injuries I've racked up over the past month, but I've lived through worse. I'm not recovering from surgery. I haven't been shot. Not like the man I intend to visit. The tap tap tap of my cane gives me an idea of the room's layout (that it's relatively small and that it's not empty). It hits the edge of something to my side (something with give, most likely a bed), and I stop to listen.
"Captain Rogers?"
His real name. I trust him to take the hint and use mine in turn.