Hospital Europeen Georges Pompidou

[Deleted]

Valter Gottfrid

"I was a vocal performance major until my friend was in an accident. He was essentially a paraplegic but by the grace of God and medicine, he's recovered most function of his legs again. Granted, it's taken years, but as soon as he ended up in the hospital, I knew this is what I wanted to do."

Valter chucked, "A canary becomes a savior of mankind, now that is quite the turn."

Yet, even as Valter chuckled worried creeped into the upturned corners of his mouth. What if Cheryl had called him because of some terrible accident? Not that he was that concerned for her well being but, he didn't want anyone to be hurt. Why would she be calling him for that sort of thing? Was she really so lonely that she had no one else to go to? Valter doubted that. He had considered ditching on meeting her, letting her show up and not being there. That would be a cruel thing to do though and all signs pointed to this being something important. You don't just call someone out of the blue five years later. It then occurred to Valter that he should have changed his phone number somewhere in those five years, it had been foolish not to.

Gerard reached for his sewing kit. "You'll just need stitches. But before that, can you confirm your date of birth for me? I'm writing a prescription for ibuprofen and the pharmacist will need it on record."

Valter spouted off his birth date fluidly, not even having to think about it, "August 25, 1976. Thank you, Dr. Bonnaire, this is much appreciated. I suppose I won't be kicking asses and taking names anytime soon."

I'd sure love to kick Cheryl's...if I weren't against hitting women that is. More things were occurring to Valter the further away he got from the phone all. How had she found all the way in Paris? They had met in America, in New York. How would she know that he was here? Had she been stalking him all this time? Probably not. Was this something important enough to track him down all over the world? Very possibly. Why else would she have come looking for him? He was sure that his recent Opera House patronage had made some sort of news and she had found it, that was the easy answer anyway. Come to think of it, I should just give them all the money they're owed and walk away from the opera....

"Dr. Bonnaire, I have a bit of a random question to ask, if you don't mind." Valter didn't give him time to answer as to whether he minded. "If your insane ex tracked you down across countries and asked to meet with you, five years after any sort of contact, would you go?"

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Gerard Bonnaire

"A canary becomes a savior of mankind, now that is quite the turn."

Gerard was beginning to like this patient. He had a handsome personality and a chiselled chin, and there was something oddly charismatic about him.

"August 25, 1976. Thank you, Dr. Bonnaire, this is much appreciated. I suppose I won't be kicking asses and taking names anytime soon."

Gerard laughed. "No, no. Won't be necessary, I assure you."

"Dr. Bonnaire, I have a bit of a random question to ask, if you don't mind. If your insane ex tracked you down across countries and asked to meet with you, five years after any sort of contact, would you go?"

Gerard thought about this. He thought long and hard. Gerard didn't date often, and when he did, he didn't date women. He never had a crazy ex or a stalker hunt him down. He didn't live on the edge. If anything went remotely wrong in his personal life, he'd bury himself beneath papers and forms and write until he was blissfully unaware of anything outside of work with the exception of a writer's cramp.

"Well, Valter," Gerard said, looking up from his stitching kit thoughtfully. "It depends on what you mean by creepy. But you did say it's been five years, right? Perhaps they have a good reason. And who knows? It could prove to be a fortuitous opportunity for you. Thus may hurt a little," Gerard said as he plunged the needle into Valter's hand. If the cut hadn't been so deep, he would have put a small anaesthetic on it, but he wanted to be sure his patient could still feel. "Here." He pulled a small card from his breast pocket. "Take my card. Call me whenever you need anything. But remember, I'm a medical doctor. Not a shrink."

[Deleted]

Valter Gottfrid

"Well, Valter," Gerard said, looking up from his stitching kit thoughtfully. "It depends on what you mean by creepy. But you did say it's been five years, right? Perhaps they have a good reason. And who knows? It could prove to be a fortuitous opportunity for you. Thus may hurt a little."

Valter winced and tried with all he had not to flinch as Dr. Bonnaire plunged the needle into his flesh. Weren't they supposed to numb you up first? Valter was sure the doctor had a reason though, you never knew with doctors. The man had confirmed Valter's thoughts though. Perhaps, this was something rather serious, something that he should definitely go and check out. Besides, what was the point in not going? He would just sit at his apartment and do nothing. At least this would be entertaining, if not productive.

"Here, take my card. Call me whenever you need anything. But remember, I'm a medical doctor. Not a shrink."

Valter took the card with his not so stitched hand and placed the card in his pocket after a quick glance. "I appreciate your hospitality, doctor. Do you drink? We might have to go get one sometime. Goodness knows I could use one after all this," Valter said with a self deprecating smirk, raising his injured hand.

I'll need a drink after this meeting with Cheryl too. Valter's thoughts quickly turned to having a large party with lots of drinking, lots of fun and a suitable number of hangovers later on. That was fun for everyone right?

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Gerard Bonnaire

"I appreciate your hospitality, doctor. Do you drink? We might have to go get one sometime. Goodness knows I could use one after all this."

Gerard let out another good natured laugh. "Do I drink? Monsieur Gottfrid, I would hardly be considered a man if I didn't. Yes I do, just not excessively. I have to practice at least a bit of what I preach, non?"

With conversation under way, it seemed as if Valter didn't even notice the needle pricks after the initial stab.

"And considered yourself stitched up! Go down to the Pharmacy and get that prescription. Also, do keep me posted on that stalker and save me a drink. Have a good afternoon, Valter!"

[The Exodus]

OOC: Lushton... Plus Henry. BIC:

Lucian Michaud

The sound of EKG meters beeping and gurneys being rolled against lineoleum filled the air. On the other side of the automatic doors, an ambulance’s eerie siren cried like an untended baby. Lucian hadn’t suspected he’d be in a hospital before the baby was born, but it wasn’t as though he suspected Henry Greene would stop by to scream at them and then drop dead on their living room floor.

Well, strictly speaking, Greene hadn’t dropped dead exactly. The doctors were calling it a myocardial infarction, which Lucian knew to mean “heart attack”. He would be fine, the nurses assured them as though it were some great blessing they’d gotten him here in time, but he would be in surgery and they’d have to take him home where they would presumably wait on him hand and foot. Lucian wished he felt sympathetic enough to happily agree with the medical staff instead of dumbly say, “My God, are you serious?” in a tone of tremulous disbelief before being told to sit down and that all final decisions were in Ashton and Delilah’s hands anyways.

Which left Lucian sitting in the waiting room next to Ashton, staring at tepid coffee and trying to process everything that had happened. He rubbed the place between Ashton’s shoulder blades unthinkingly, taking comfort in the rhythmic motion. In the pit of his stomach, Lucian could feel a hard knot forming, telling him that if Greene hadn’t had the heart attack, it could just as easily be him sprawled out on the operating table. Greene had wanted him dead. There was no question in Lucian’s mind that Greene could have killed him. He knew the rage Greene felt well. It was just an overprotective father lashing out at his child’s lover. Worrying that Lucian wouldn’t be good enough for Ashton. Lucian worried that about Toddy St. James every day.

Yes, but you don't threaten to kill him, Lucian reminded himself.

Greene’s threat still echoed somewhere in Lucian’s mind. The whole of it. From: ‘I’ll kill you, I swear!’ to ‘You, Lucian Michaud, turned me into the laughing stock of the banking industry, you ruined all of my plans for Ashton!’ He wondered how much of Greene’s anger had to do with Ashton in the first place. If he was so concerned about being the laughing stock of the banking industry, how much room was left for concern for his daughter? Not that there was much to worry about as far as Ashton went. She was healthy, she was happy, she was safe. Didn’t Greene want that for her? Lucian did. Lucian wanted that and more for her; he wanted to see to it that she had every need, every desire met. He wanted her to still be happy; for their son’s birth to go unmarred by Henry Greene’s screaming and heart attack. Occasionally, Lucian would glance at Ashton, try to read her expression silently, and then look away. They hadn’t yet talked and Henry could come out of surgery at any minute now. Lucian looked at her again. The fluorescent lights were harsh on her skin. It diminished softness; accentuated the hard, firm lines of her jaw and her nose and her cheekbones, lending her a determined sort of look, albeit angry and frustrated. Lucian stopped rubbing her back and slowly draped his arm around her shoulders as he should have done half an hour ago.

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Ashton Greene

The hospital was filled with scenes from the medical dramas Ashton watched to fill the void of boredom that sometimes settled in her when Lucian wasn't home. But even the hustle and blur of her surroundings dissolved into nothing as her mind wandered. Eight years ago, the same syrupy fog loomed over her; thick, stifling as she and her family waded through it in the pink and foral waiting room chairs, cold tea sitting before them, untouched. People rushed around, oblivious to the surgery that within an hour would end the gruelling months they endured, but would also take away the life of the most beautiful and inspiring woman Ashton ever met -- her mum. And here she was again, her family in a new shape, sitting in a waiting room, waiting for the man who made her life hell as of late to come out alive. This wasn't London, the chairs were seagreen, not pink and wallpaper-y, the circumstances were completely different. But Ashton couldn't fight off the feeling of impending doom, that she would lose yet another parent to the 10 percent chance and a surgeon's knife. And this one would be all her fault. If she hadn't been such a terrible, unruly child growing up, if she hadn't rebelled as a teenager, if she hadn't let her own emotions interfere with his plans, if she hadn't pounded on his chest and pushed him, they wouldnn't be here.

But then it might be someone other than Lucian holding her. Ashton didn't like that. But the thought didn't stop her from blaming herself; somehow, somewhere, guilt was nestled and stuck there.

Ashton didn't cry. She watched blankly at where the wall and the seat across her met as if it held some answer, some words of comfort for her. But it offered none.

She let Lucian's arm envelope her, finding some solace and santuary in them.
She finally spoke. "She didn't wake up, mum. They said it would be a short surgery, she said she would see us later, that she loved us. And then..." ashton took in a breath, not noticing how dry her mouth was. "Then that was it. And I just know Dad'll go the same way. Because of me. God. What kind of child just kills their parent like that? No matter how terrible he is, no matter how selfish and angry and everything he is, he's still my dad, you know?"

She let out a shuddering sigh. "Promise me you'll be better to our kids than he was to us. Promise me you'll love our children unconditionally. Because no one should have to go through what Henry put us through." Ashton knew full well Lucian was a great man, loving and acccepting, perfect father material. But Ashton needed the words now, not just the actions he had shown already.

[The Exodus]

Lucian Michaud

"She didn't wake up, mum,” Ashton said, breaking the silence with a thick and gravelly voice. She startled Lucian by speaking, but also with the rawness of her tone. He looked at her, still holding her shoulders. “They said it would be a short surgery, she said she would see us later, that she loved us. And then... Then that was it. And I just know Dad'll go the same way. Because of me. God. What kind of child just kills their parent like that? No matter how terrible he is, no matter how selfish and angry and everything he is, he's still my dad, you know?"

Lucian murmured something—not words—but a soft humming sound in the back of his throat, hoping to calm her. It was lost under the chatter of medical personnel and the sound of echoing footsteps in the nearby hallways. Ashton sighed; it rattled her shoulders.

"Promise me you'll be better to our kids than he was to us,” she said. “Promise me you'll love our children unconditionally. Because no one should have to go through what Henry put us through."

Lucian’s mouth drew up in promising protest. He was nothing like Henry. Nothing like him, getting too drunk at parties and falling asleep only to complain and complain; nothing at all like the man who would yell at his daughter, essentially call her a wh*re in her own home. He was proud of his children, in love with Ashton. Lucian felt a little more than a twinge of annoyance that Ashton even had to ask.

Women marry men like their fathers, something told him in the back of his mind. The thought scared him, pounding there insistently, screaming for Lucian to get off of his moral high horse. Either at one point, Henry had been a good husband, a good father, or there was some hairline crack in Lucian’s own personality that Ashton picked up on.

“I love you,” he said, binding and gagging his fears. He looked her in the eyes. “I love our family. Unconditionally. Trust me: I will do everything I can to do right by our children. I can’t promise that I’ll never make mistakes, but I’ll do my best.”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Ashton Greene

"I love you." although Lucian hadn't done anything to convince her otherwise, it was still nice to hear. "I love our family. Unconditionally. Trust me: I will do everyting I can to do right by our children. I can't promise that I'll never make mistakes, but I'll do my best."

Ashton knew this to me true, without his promise, but hearing it was a sweet reminder of what she was getting when she married Lucian. She was getting a man who found everything she did interesting, loved her without thinking or regretting. She loved a man who was just as flawed as he was perfect, who found beauty in the things ashton detested about herself, who helped nurse and heal every wound Henry put in her. She was getting a man who knew the value of family and would do anything he could to make them feel safe. She couldn't ask for better.

"I know," she said with what hinted at a smile. She rested her head, heavier than she remembered, on his shoulder. "I love you, and I'm so glad Gregory's going to live in home where he'll never doubt our love."

Ashton wondered if her mother could ever have predicted her children ever questioning their father's love, if she knew she was leaving them in incapable hands.but there was no time to dwell on that now. A nurse stepped up to them. "Ms. Greene?" ashton nodded in acknowledgement. "we contacted your sister and your uncle. Your father pulled through just fine."

Ashton didn't know if she was happy or not. "I should go. I should go and see him. But I can't. Because I'm still just so angry at him..."

[The Exodus]

Lucian Michaud

Usually, when Lucian told Ashton he loved her, he didn’t have to hold his breath for a response. Usually, the “I love you, too” rolled off her lips and brought with it familiar, warm comfort. But today, Lucian found himself in the waiting lurch to hear it back. He remembered with sudden clarity how he’d felt kissing her the first time all those months ago. The dizzy, heady rush of joy had been tainted then—as it was now—with worry. Fear of rejection, fear that he wasn’t good enough, compounded the dizziness and only served to give him a ticking headache in the front of his skull.

"I know," said Ashton, almost smiling. She leaned against him, putting her head on his shoulder. "I love you, and I'm so glad Gregory's going to live in home where he'll never doubt our love."

Lucian relaxed; he was certain Ashton could feel it, pressed against him as she was. He didn’t doubt her love for him or his love for her, but now that Ashton had mentioned it, Lucian couldn’t help but look for flaws or—worse yet—uncanny similarities between himself and Henry Greene. This was new for him, this concern. Lucian hadn’t given Ashton’s father more than a passing thought over the past year. But if Ashton was comparing and contrasting them in her mind, Lucian wanted to know where he stood. It was selfish; ridiculously so. Ashton’s father was in surgery right now, or just coming out of it. She needed Lucian to be here for her—all here. She needed more than just his arm draped over her. She deserved to be his primary concern, if not his only one. He tried to tuck his fear of inadequacy somewhere between his ever-present worry for Damien and his mental checklist for Sunday. One worry at a time. Right now, Ashton’s well-being.

"Ms. Greene?" a nurse called for Ashton, who merely nodded her head. The nurse approached them. "We contacted your sister and your uncle. Your father pulled through just fine."

Lucian swiveled his head, craning his neck to see Ashton better. Her face lacked color; lacked tell-tale signs of life and joy that sort of news ought to bring. Maybe if her father was any other man, she’d be smiling and crying, red in the face and relieved. But now, there was nothing, no blip of new emotion on her face.

"I should go,” Ashton murmured. “I should go and see him. But I can't. Because I'm still just so angry at him..."

“You have every right to be,” Lucian said back softly. “And if you want me to, I’ll drive you home now.”

He paused and bit his lip. For all the similarities he and Henry Greene did not share, there was one Lucian would be a fool to deny. They were both fathers. And, at various times, they had both alienated, upset their children. Lucian thought suddenly of Damien as he adjusted to Lucian and Ashton’s relationship. The hurt anger in his usually bright eyes; the unanswered telephone calls and half-baked excuses. The tense conversations about Damien’s job and boyfriend that usually involved Lucian asking questions and Damien sighing, rolling his eyes and telling him he did not—would not—understand. The occasional, awkward talks about Lucian and Natalie’s divorce and the moments when Lucian wasn’t clear if his son love him or his mum best—or if he loved either of them at all anymore. Lucian could imagine dimly and with horror what would happen if he had an accident or illness then. Damien would have been the first person he’d want to see. Even before Ashton, if only because he would want to heal their relationship. That’s what a brush of death ought to prompt a father to do; make things right with his children.

“However,” Lucian continued. “If even the littlest bit of you wants to go in and see him, you should.”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Ashton Greene

“You have every right to be, and if you want me to, I’ll drive you home now.”

His offer sounded tempting, and Ashton's lip quivered in thought as she considered her options. At home, she could unwind and gather up her emotions. But that would leave Lucian here with a man, sick as he may be, who wanted him dead.

She would stay here with him and together they would take Henry home, and together, they would figure something out.

“However,” Lucian continued. “If even the littlest bit of you wants to go in and see him, you should.”

Ashton nodded and stood to follow the nurse. She stopped. "But there isn't... I don't... I should be used to this," she said, crossing back to her seat. "To the criticisms, to the disapproval. And I am, I've dealt with it for a long time. But what I can't deal with is him coming here and trying to tear apart our family, Lucian. We've worked too hard, you and me, and I love you too much to just let him." She sat down with a sigh, putting her head in her hands with thought. Her voice was slow and low contrasting the passionate and loud speech she just gave. "We'll take him home when he's released and everything's going to be fine. The sooner we can get him healthy, the sooner he can go back to London." Ashton took in a deep breath and forced a smile on her face. Optimism, albeit forced, was slowly creeping back into her psyche. "That's what we'll do. He is my father, after all."

[The Exodus]

Samara al-Jibiri

“Doctor Bonnaire’s office, can you hold please?”

Samara pushed the hold button with her dry finger before the person on the other line could protest. Then, carefully, she unscrewed the top of her nail polish bottle and went back to work. Well, she went back to working on her nails. It was a slow day, as far as hospitals went, and Samara was taking full advantage of it. The waiting room now smelled like acetone, but Samara relaxed in it. It was better than yesterday, when the whole place stunk of toddler vomit. She finished that last nail and plucked the phone back up with her almost-dry left hand.

“Sorry for the wait.” She blew on her nails and pressed the phone to her ear with her shoulder. “Now, what’s your emergency?”

She typed with her left hand, hoping not to smudge the tacky, turquoise paint as she did.

“The soonest we can schedule, Madame Foucault, is Wednesday. Will that work? … Yes. I know Wednesday is next week. … If it’s such an emergency, take your son to the emergency room. That’s why we have one. For emergencies. … Yeah, yeah, I’ll tell him.”

She hung up the phone, with no intention of telling Dr. Bonnaire where he could stick his stethoscope. The man was booked. Who was Samara to over-book him? The Foucault kid was running a fever. Even Samara, who was no doctor, could bring a child’s fever down with a few home remedies. Or she would take the kid to the emergency room. Something.

There should be a test you have to pass to be a parent, Samara thought, not for the first or last time.

She blew on her nails and was finally content with the shiny lacquer on them. Samara stretched her legs out and kicked her shoes off under the desk. She could imagine Malik chastising her for being vain or rude or something. The thought of her brother’s uptight attitude always made her grin. She beckoned for the next person on the line to drop off his clipboard. When the patient walked off, Samara read the chart. Just another middle-aged man coming in for a check-up. How dull. She wished that just once they’d get the medical anomalies. Or the ER cases. If it wasn’t a night shift, Samara would have worked downstairs in the emergency room, if only to see all the grotesque accidents and hear the crazy stories of drunken mishaps. But if she strained to hear, she could hear the deep, mellifluous rumble of Dr. Bonnaire’s voice. There were some perks to this day job.

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Georgette Duguay

Georgette loved days like this. And by days like this, she meant the days when she could sneak away from the basement like a hungry rat in search for food and visit Samara, a secretary for Dr. Gerard Bonnaire. Because days like these, the boys had it under control and Samara had little to do.

The elevator dinged loudly as she scampered out and scurried on into Samara’s presence. There was a line, of course, but not a very long one, not a very urgent one. She jumped in front of a young man who seemed fine save for some stitches above his left eye. Certainly he could get Dr. Bonnaire’s handiwork looked at some other time.

“’Scuse me,” she said to him, sliding between him and the front the desk. “This will just take a second…” But really, it might take a minute. Hell, it might take till Samara’s lunch break. Georgette hopped up on top of the desk, crossing her legs and bending low to speak to her friend. The phone rang and she pressed the hold button with an urgency. Whoever it was could surely wait a bit longer.

“Hmmm… That’s a pretty colour, Samara. Is it new?” Georgette flipped herself into a more comfortable position, swinging her legs with a mock delicacy. She could see the nasty glares from waiting patients around her and she dropped her voice a few decibels. “Not bored are you? I do kind of want to show you something.”

[The Exodus]

Samara al-Jabiri


“Next.”

Samara beckoned for the next person on the line to step up. But the next person wasn’t some stuffy-nosed kid or obese man with high blood pressure.


“’Scuse me… This will just take a second…” Georgette Duguay squeezed past the patients and hopped up onto Samara’s desk. Samara grinned at her. “Hmmm… That’s a pretty colour, Samara. Is it new?” Georgette flipped herself into a more comfortable position, swinging her legs with a mock delicacy. She could see the nasty glares from waiting patients around her and she dropped her voice a few decibels. “Not bored are you? I do kind of want to show you something.”

Samara shook her head.

“I’m working, G,” she said, feigning annoyance with her bubbly friend. “Surely, you don’t think that I’d be bored with my ground-shaking secretarial work.”

She blanched.

“Is it a dead body?” she asked with a conspiratorial whisper. “Because I could take fifteen if you want.”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Georgette Duguay

“I’m working, G. Surely, you don’t think that I’d be bored with my ground-shaking secretarial work.”

Georgette rolled her eyes up to the florescent lighting and back down again in time to see Samara’s face change. “Is it a dead body? Because I could take fifteen if you want.”

“Of course it’s a dead body! You’ll never guess the cause of death: Ya—” but a smooth, crisp voice broke through the silence as Gerard stepped out of his office for the first time all day.

“Samara—Oh, hi, Georgette.” Georgette offered a small little wave at the good doctor before he continued. “Samara, I have a feeling this is going to be a long day. Could you maybe brew me a fresh pot of coffee? Hazelnut, black, one sugar. Like usual.”

Georgette glanced over to Samara. She felt bad for her friend. Dr. Bonnaire was great in more than one way; he was a good man and a fantastic doctor, and he was probably a better boss than, say, that one brain surgeon on floor eight who’s had four secretaries all in the month of November alone. But no one should have to get someone coffee. Not even secretaries (even though that was what they were partially paid for), and definitely not Samara who worked her tail end off so that eventually, there would be nothing left but a stub.

[The Exodus]

Samara al-Jabiri


“Of course it’s a dead body!”

Samara grinned in spite of herself. There was something morbidly fascinating about Georgette’s job. Sometimes, she convinced herself she was appalled by all the corpses, but Samara knew better than to lie to herself. One of these days, her parents’ killers would be corpses, too. And until they were, she’d visit Georgette’s body room downstairs, searching for their faces. She didn’t tell Georgette. She didn’t want her to think she was absolutely crazy.

“You’ll never guess the cause of death,” Georgette said.

But before Georgette could continue, Dr. Bonnaire rounded the corner. Samara reflexively tucked her nail polish bottle into her palm and folded her hands in her lap. Samara smiled at her boss; she could feel her head get hot as it filled with blood. Her cheeks hurt a little. But it was worth it. She looked at Dr. Bonnaire. He looked tired; he always did. But his beard was neatly trimmed; his brown eyes bright as usual.

“Samara,” he said. Then, noticing her, added, “Oh, hi, Georgette.” Georgette offered a small little wave at the good doctor before he continued. “Samara, I have a feeling this is going to be a long day. Could you maybe brew me a fresh pot of coffee? Hazelnut, black, one sugar. Like usual.”

“Of course,” Samara said. “I’ll get right on that, Doc.”

"Thanks!” he said. “What would I do without you?"

Samara’s smile widened and she watched Dr. Bonnaire walk off. Her eyes swept across his broad shoulders and down, lingering in ways that would have her labeled all sorts of terrible things in Clichy-Sous-Bois. She sighed, stood up, and tucked the bottle of nail polish into her pocket. She started towards the lounge, but when she turned around, she saw Georgette still perched on her desk.

“Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back.”