CHAPTER 9: PRESCRIBED TENSIONS

– POV: JEREMY –

(ROLEPLAYERS: TEA, CYC)

(ADAPTATION: TEA)

"Is there really no chance that you can, just. Up the dosage?" Jeremy asks, and he always pulls this shit. It's his little thing. But it's becoming less and less of a joke, these days.

The pharmacist sighs. She looks like she wants to roll her eyes, but she doesn't.

"No, sir," She crosses her arms, lips pressed together. Seemingly maintaining that fine line of professionalism and a sort of tough-love. "Can't do that,”

"Ah, well," Jeremy leans away from the counter. He expects to feel disappointed— but instead, he just feels a sort of... complete absence.

He glances down, at the pill capsule in his hands. The happy face on the label stares right back at him. It's a bit on the nose, he always thinks. Obnoxiously cartoony, too. But, hey. It got the job done.

... Somewhat.

Jeremy pockets the thing with a sigh, stepping away from the counter.

"You take care, Macoun.” He says. “Hope your mother's doing better,”

The pharmacist leans on the counter, resting her cheek on her hand.

"She is," She says quietly. "It's been looking up.”

“That's good.” Jeremy says simply, with a vaguely sympathetic nod. Then, he turns around, and starts heading for the door.

It's about now when Laurence Faulkner ambles out of his office with a purpose. As he rounds the corner to the waiting room, making a beeline for his receptionist, he spots a familiar client.

“Jeremy!” the doctor brightens, a bright contrast to the visible evidence of exhaustion on his face.

Jeremy stills, and then he turns. "Ah, Laurence," He smiles, politely. His own eye bags sticking out like a sore thumb, too.

The doctor offers the pharmacist a polite nod before picking up pace to catch him. Jeremy closes in the distance, standing a little ways before the doctor.

“How are you today?” Dr. Faulkner asks in a low voice, giving Jeremy a soft but concerned look. Ah, he knows that look. Jeremy finds it embarrassing, if not a bit obnoxious— he's not a kid, and he hasn't been in years.

"I— well, I could be doing a lot worse, actually," Interesting choice of words. Jeremy nearly winces and resists the urge to scrunch his eyes shut right then and there. "—That, that is to say that I am fine."

Jeremy tilts his head. "And yourself?"

“Tired,” Dr. Faulkner admits with a weary smile. “Had an early go of it this morning— there’s a cold going around amongst the kids, it seems.”

"What a shame," Jeremy says sympathetically.

Laurence sticks a hand in the pocket of his doctor's coat, not having bothered to switch it out for his regular one. He offers Jeremy a worried frown.

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“How’s work going with you? Busy?”

Jeremy instinctively sighs. It's a soul sucking sound. Faulkner chuckles empathetically, at it. That laugh will soon die in his throat—

"Very," Jeremy admits. "And it's about to get busier. The Emperor, ah. Let's just say he paid us a bit of a visit," He says that last word with the slightest bit of a hiss, but hushed. Jeremy knows better than to talk about such things in public— but he trusts, Laurence. So.

"Not a nice one either, mind you.”

“What?” Laurence practically hisses back, suddenly growing concerned. He shuffles a half-step closer to Jeremy to ensure a sliver more of privacy. “What did he want? Is something happening?”

Jeremy looks around the clinic. Like he's making sure no one is listening. Faulkner's receptionist has dutifully put up a “Dr. Faulkner will be back soon!” sign, and the only other person around is an old man perusing the clinic’s collection of magazines, mumbling incoherently to himself.

Jeremy, paranoid as he is, leans in just a touch closer, anyways.

"He's looking for someone," He says, quietly. Quietly. "His son. Can you fucking believe that? The famed war criminal? You're familiar, right?"

Jeremy's gaze darts away, and then back. He fights to keep this next line of his a whisper—

"He was seen at our borders.”

“His son? I didn’t—” Laurence sucks in a breath. “I mean, I only know of him in passing, but I’ve seen what he can do.” He grimaces. “What could he possibly be doing out here?”

"Oh I don't bloody know," Jeremy hisses, again. Quietly. Distress rising in his chest before he forcefully shoves it back down. "I don't know if he's here to finish, some, some sort of job or what, but—"

He sighs, and presses his lips into a tight line. Forcefully cutting himself off. Considering his next words, carefully. "We're on the lookout, for now. As it stands, there's only been one sighting. And it's a rumor. If we're lucky,"

Jeremy glances away, glances back.

"You'd— you'd tell me if you see him, right? Tall guy—" He raises his own arm, for emphasis. "Horns, uh. Black— like, like the color, black. What's the term," He snaps his fingers, once, twice. "He's— I dunno. A hybrid, of, of something.”

“Yes, of course.” Laurence says. He looks just the slightest bit tense, about it.

Jeremy seems to visibly relax. If only by a little.

"Thank you, Laurence." Jeremy smiles, and it's an exhausted looking thing. "Things have been— hectic, to say the least. And I'm expecting it to get, uh. Quite worse," He admits.

He lets that linger in the air, for a moment.

"But I appreciate it, I do.”

“Yes, I understand,” Laurence huffs. He takes a step towards the door, toward his coveted cup of coffee. “Anytime. Should I pass the message along to Octavian?”

"Ah— yeah, yeah! That'd be rather convenient, yes,” This is when Jeremy glances down at his watch, and— oh. "Awe, fuck. I should probably get going," He says, shuffling towards the door. "On the clock, you know?"

Jeremy stands by the door, ready for departure. But lingering, still. Quickly, he tacks on— "Tell him I said hi. Hope he's well, and such.”

Laurence nods in a rush, not wanting to make Jeremy late, seems like. He makes a playful shooing motion toward the door.

“Yes, yes, get to it! Don’t let me keep you any longer.”

“Yeah, alright. Goodbye—!” And he's off.