[center][img]http://38.media.tumblr.com/e06cbec16af8933ab8f2375facf799ef/tumblr_inline_npyg13LqCZ1rpdlxb_500.gif[/img]
— [color=lavender]Foxtrot MacIver[/color] —[/center]
[hr]
"Do you always read that book?"

The voice registered with the blink from the man situated in the corner of the room. His feet, propped up on the standardized ottoman, clicked and reflex snapped his spine into attention. The nurse parked at the room's doorway arched a brow and dropped his eyes to the book to the other man's side. A gentle 'oh' parted his lips and the man sank back into the plasticized armchair. After a solid moment, he brought the book to his lap and gave a nod—his eyes drifted to the only other occupant within the room, almost willing him to wake. He wouldn't and that brought a frown to both their lips, though for what reason the nurse never gave.

[i]The Color Purple[/i]

His heels clicked against the tiled floors, the book long abandoned to the cushions of his chair in favor the overcast windows. The room itself remained barren, aside from the standard equipment and furniture for one patient and their inevitable guest. One lone window faced south toward the coast, catching the English Channel in the drear of England's cold, wet spring. The man stiff and burrowed beneath checkered covers faced the ceiling, for the most part; however, his face turned toward the light the window spared him. The man standing could almost smell the green of Scotland's rolling hills mixed with the salt of the sea catching the jagged rocks below.

That familiarity begged his eyes to shut and a deep inhale to lift his chest. Memories of the ocean, of the coast, and the sweet smells of their apartment filled his lungs: the bakery just below and the stench of fish and salt on his father's coats. Edinburgh and the sea held the quiet life of a calm boy and the darkness that came with the storms. The perfume stung his nose and forced his eyes open, fingers already pinching the bridge of his nose. He never quite remembered his mother's fragrance to edge so sharply. Her's reminded him of silk and the little garden of lavenders on their terrace.

"Father..." his voice trailed off, noticing the doctor already standing above the man in the bed.

"Mr. MacIver—"

"That's his name," he said, firmness in his eyes.

The doctor held a hand up, amicable smile curling his lips. "I apologize," he replied, "Fox, was it?"

"Foxtrot, like the dance."

"Right," he clicked his tongue and tapped the IV connected to the sleeping MacIver, "you are his next of kin. I'm assuming he has a multitude of insurance to cover... ah, post medical issues."

"When he dies," Fox stated, his eyes falling from the quiet nod of the doctor to the barren corner of the room, "Yes, he has life insurance. It'll deal with everything it needs to." That smell hit him again, lighter this time, though still apparent in the air about him. He peered over toward the doctor, disconcerted by the fact that he'd came upon him so quietly. The man himself merely offered a sympathetic smile to which Fox turned away from. His eyes caught the reflection of the window, narrowing at the woman staring abashedly at the doctor. That would explain the smell.

A deep breath ran through him, heaved his chest in a sigh. Foxtrot turned with attentiveness, barely inching forward with a hand attempting to reach for the covers of the bed. He refused to stare the doctor in the eye, not when white flashed before his eyes and a spray of crimson. That all too familiar feeling of being watched—something the military effectively crafted—crawling along the surface of his skin. The perfume stung his eyes with the tears explained away with a shake and gesture toward his dying father.

"Please, if anything occurs, don't hesitate to call my personal number," Fox said, all very rehearsed, before slipping out with his nerves.

Thoughts preoccupied his mind with the two thirty rush of a coastal hospital and the brush of other people in the corridors never took the glaze from his eyes. Not until he moved through the nearest stairwell, in favor of the open echoes of a series of floors to the claustrophobia of a hospital elevator. This option reduced that need to bathe in pure rubbing alcohol. Unlike the hospital's perpetual mix of disease and disinfectant, the stairwell erupted in a mess of different smells and sounds. Paper and a hint of car exhaust that seemed to linger in every bustling city. Official. It all smelled entirely too official.

That crawling feeling spiked across Fox's neck again and, in his composure, he resisted the urge to completely whip about face. Slow and deliberate, Fox craned his neck down and let his eyes look up as he turned in a silent hope that if he did this as calmly as possible, it wouldn't devolve into one of his prior visions. Another lady with a gun shoved in her mouth wouldn't do well on his own psyche.

They locked eyes the moment the door clicked shut behind him and he almost lost the words that tumbled from her mouth. Fox took that moment to think, thoughts that were simultaneously his and not, with his eyes trying to peel away the stucco of the building he currently fell into. The officer could only offer her a frown and a complete lack of reassurance.

"I have a feeling you already know," Fox mumbled, his nails scratching his clean shaven jaw, "I have a vague thought, myself."