Are you shivering? Are you still cold? [OPEN]
Who: Snake, Liquid and OPEN to residents at the warehouse.
When: Backdated to the evening Snake returns home from the hospital (June 8th).
Where: "Outer Heaven", sector 11.
Summary: Snake returns home after a week spent hospitalized. Hilarity ensues.
Warnings: BRO VS BRO, FIGHT TO THE FINISH.
Being released from the hospital -- it couldn't have come soon enough. What should have been a place of rest and recuperation--of which he was told he needed more than anything right now, and that acting like a spoiled brat stomping his foot for more dessert--had become no more than a prison where a new piece of bad news had been delivered to him every hour on the hour. Otacon was in the city; Liquid followed him; Liquid hurt him; Miharu was wasting away just as rapidly as Yoite was; Liquid was taking Master's guise again -- all made known to him in less than five hours after waking.
The anxiety had become unbearable, reaching a new height after Miharu left and he was alone once more with barren, empty anxious thoughts that threatened to overcome him. Nothing held as much of a priority as leaving did. He was just about ready to rip the remaining IV needle out for the second time without thought or conscience or regard to the burning numbness of his other arm, without much worry for the consequences. It may have succeeded if he hadn't hesitated for the barest of moments that allowed for the nurse on duty to take that precise opportunity to enter with his medications for the night.
He could have done without it. The yelling. Good thing he was mostly deaf to it by now.
("What were you thinking? As if you weren't hurt enough already! What could be worth tearing your veins up over?"
"You've never been away from home for very long, have you?"
"With these hours I -- were you smoking?!")
Between that and the needles, Snake wondered what it was precisely that had been the straw that broke the camel's back. They discharged him the next morning, but not before removing his stitches with the painstaking but clinically detached care doctors were known and loved for. His face, while looking much less like a Frankensteinian monster thanks to the absence of the patchwork, was still an aching, bruised mess. His forehead was still bandaged and the areas around his eyes, cheek, and nose felt swollen. His chest and abdomen were lucky, spared from most of the damage with only a few fading bruises to show for enduring the wreckage that had him pinned. Prescription painkillers and bed rest would see to it that the worst of the mess would be suppressed and the pain stifled under a warm, drugged haze, something he didn't quite like the sound of. Drugs dulled the senses, made the body slow to react. He was quite familiar with what they could do in the downtime spent out of commission after he'd been fished out of the Hudson with a fractured ankle and a concussion as his reward for surviving, and knew that there was nothing that quite measured up to that sluggish, delayed feeling. Thanks, but no thanks. He'd take his chances with bed rest.
Off they'd sent him in the twilight of the afternoon where he had to catch a bus to return to the -- ah...what district was it again? The 11th? That's where he'd last remembered their new home to be located at, close to the docks. Since regaining consciousness, most of his short-term memory had been shot to hell. He assumed that was normal--as normal as the word applied for people suffering from head trauma--and was told as much by the doctor who promised it would all come back to him eventually as his body adjusted to the healing. He'd resisted calling Otacon to accompany him back home, knowing full well that the younger man was still adjusting to the city and had reservations with venturing out after the experience with Liquid, and settled on making his on way back. It had been tricky, but not impossible. The address was saved on his NV, which he kept referring to every now and then until he'd arrived in front of a dingy but rather severe looking abandoned warehouse.
Ah, well. Maybe the inside looked better. Big Boss certainly had the time to start making repairs.
He entered through the front doors like any respectable resident would.
When: Backdated to the evening Snake returns home from the hospital (June 8th).
Where: "Outer Heaven", sector 11.
Summary: Snake returns home after a week spent hospitalized. Hilarity ensues.
Warnings: BRO VS BRO, FIGHT TO THE FINISH.
Being released from the hospital -- it couldn't have come soon enough. What should have been a place of rest and recuperation--of which he was told he needed more than anything right now, and that acting like a spoiled brat stomping his foot for more dessert--had become no more than a prison where a new piece of bad news had been delivered to him every hour on the hour. Otacon was in the city; Liquid followed him; Liquid hurt him; Miharu was wasting away just as rapidly as Yoite was; Liquid was taking Master's guise again -- all made known to him in less than five hours after waking.
The anxiety had become unbearable, reaching a new height after Miharu left and he was alone once more with barren, empty anxious thoughts that threatened to overcome him. Nothing held as much of a priority as leaving did. He was just about ready to rip the remaining IV needle out for the second time without thought or conscience or regard to the burning numbness of his other arm, without much worry for the consequences. It may have succeeded if he hadn't hesitated for the barest of moments that allowed for the nurse on duty to take that precise opportunity to enter with his medications for the night.
He could have done without it. The yelling. Good thing he was mostly deaf to it by now.
("What were you thinking? As if you weren't hurt enough already! What could be worth tearing your veins up over?"
"You've never been away from home for very long, have you?"
"With these hours I -- were you smoking?!")
Between that and the needles, Snake wondered what it was precisely that had been the straw that broke the camel's back. They discharged him the next morning, but not before removing his stitches with the painstaking but clinically detached care doctors were known and loved for. His face, while looking much less like a Frankensteinian monster thanks to the absence of the patchwork, was still an aching, bruised mess. His forehead was still bandaged and the areas around his eyes, cheek, and nose felt swollen. His chest and abdomen were lucky, spared from most of the damage with only a few fading bruises to show for enduring the wreckage that had him pinned. Prescription painkillers and bed rest would see to it that the worst of the mess would be suppressed and the pain stifled under a warm, drugged haze, something he didn't quite like the sound of. Drugs dulled the senses, made the body slow to react. He was quite familiar with what they could do in the downtime spent out of commission after he'd been fished out of the Hudson with a fractured ankle and a concussion as his reward for surviving, and knew that there was nothing that quite measured up to that sluggish, delayed feeling. Thanks, but no thanks. He'd take his chances with bed rest.
Off they'd sent him in the twilight of the afternoon where he had to catch a bus to return to the -- ah...what district was it again? The 11th? That's where he'd last remembered their new home to be located at, close to the docks. Since regaining consciousness, most of his short-term memory had been shot to hell. He assumed that was normal--as normal as the word applied for people suffering from head trauma--and was told as much by the doctor who promised it would all come back to him eventually as his body adjusted to the healing. He'd resisted calling Otacon to accompany him back home, knowing full well that the younger man was still adjusting to the city and had reservations with venturing out after the experience with Liquid, and settled on making his on way back. It had been tricky, but not impossible. The address was saved on his NV, which he kept referring to every now and then until he'd arrived in front of a dingy but rather severe looking abandoned warehouse.
Ah, well. Maybe the inside looked better. Big Boss certainly had the time to start making repairs.
He entered through the front doors like any respectable resident would.