All your sanity and wits, they will all vanish, I promise
Who: Edgeworth, Edgeworth's tricks, and Edgeworth's hos. And since he has lots of tricks and hos, it's open!
When: Let's say Thursday, July 15.
Where: Siren's Port General Hospital. In his private room. Yeaaaahhh, he's a big shot! (Slash, someone willing to pay the premium for a private fucking room, go the fuck away other people)
Summary: Edgeworth's stuck in the hospital. Come! Be cranked at! (I figure since a few characters sweetly promised to stop by, this would be the easiest way to do things.)
Warnings: None. Language, maybe?
Edgeworth wanted terribly to ask for more painkillers. The wound in his shoulder no longer burned agonizingly, as it had before, but it still throbbed and ached. But at the same time, he was keenly aware of how they fogged his mind and his senses, how they rendered him unable to articulate himself or do work or anything of the sort. So he suffered through his pain.
The hospital staff rather suffered through his pain as well.
His bad mood was certainly to be excused: he'd nothing to take his mind from it. The nurse tending to him had earlier that day taken a strong stand against him working when she'd walked in and seen him laboring over one of his files, trying to move his bad arm to hold steady the papers as he wrote. He'd threatened her with a lawsuit when she'd tried to take away his file, pointing out quite rightly that it was thoroughly against the law for her to deprive him of materials classified by the state; consequently, she'd simply taken his pen. He therefore had nothing to do save snarl at anyone coming to tend to him about the possible charges of hindering prosecution; the head nurse simply raised an eyebrow at him, but he had managed to bring one of the junior nurses close to tears. He'd even felt spiteful enough to take a degree of satisfaction in that for a moment before feeling deeply, uncomfortably guilty.
Television was worthless; he couldn't concentrate on a book; he'd nothing with which to play music. All he could do was sit, drifting between unconsciousness and peevish pain, waiting for the next passer-by at whom he might snap.
When: Let's say Thursday, July 15.
Where: Siren's Port General Hospital. In his private room. Yeaaaahhh, he's a big shot! (Slash, someone willing to pay the premium for a private fucking room, go the fuck away other people)
Summary: Edgeworth's stuck in the hospital. Come! Be cranked at! (I figure since a few characters sweetly promised to stop by, this would be the easiest way to do things.)
Warnings: None. Language, maybe?
Edgeworth wanted terribly to ask for more painkillers. The wound in his shoulder no longer burned agonizingly, as it had before, but it still throbbed and ached. But at the same time, he was keenly aware of how they fogged his mind and his senses, how they rendered him unable to articulate himself or do work or anything of the sort. So he suffered through his pain.
The hospital staff rather suffered through his pain as well.
His bad mood was certainly to be excused: he'd nothing to take his mind from it. The nurse tending to him had earlier that day taken a strong stand against him working when she'd walked in and seen him laboring over one of his files, trying to move his bad arm to hold steady the papers as he wrote. He'd threatened her with a lawsuit when she'd tried to take away his file, pointing out quite rightly that it was thoroughly against the law for her to deprive him of materials classified by the state; consequently, she'd simply taken his pen. He therefore had nothing to do save snarl at anyone coming to tend to him about the possible charges of hindering prosecution; the head nurse simply raised an eyebrow at him, but he had managed to bring one of the junior nurses close to tears. He'd even felt spiteful enough to take a degree of satisfaction in that for a moment before feeling deeply, uncomfortably guilty.
Television was worthless; he couldn't concentrate on a book; he'd nothing with which to play music. All he could do was sit, drifting between unconsciousness and peevish pain, waiting for the next passer-by at whom he might snap.