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It wasn't always bed pan duty, but it was always a ******** bore. It was still better than watching a bunch of nothing in the underwater observatory, or a bunch of nothing in the jungle, or a bunch of nothing in the pod room. It was something real, something tangible.

At least he'd conned someone into giving him blue scrubs, as ill-fitting as they were, which Leslie knew wasn't some ******** accident. He'd paid for them, too, and still the top swallowed him up, and the pants required a cord of string to keep them up.

The evidence of his injuries-- an ankle brace and a wrist brace-- were the lingering remnants of his "fun" "adventure" at that ******** tower. Despite himself, Leslie still found himself hobbling a little bit, favoring his left foot. It took a lot of concentration, to not fall over like a ******** retard, and so sometimes it meant he didn't watch where he was going.

That was the case now, as he held clipboards and binders in his arms, shoving his way past someone.

"Watch your ******** step," he bit out, not bothering to look and see who it was.

Leslie bit back a yowl, turning it into something like a horrified squawk. He was dignified, as always, if dignified was the exact opposite of grace and poise. Indignant, he growled, "******** you, a*****e!"

He reached up to claw at the hands gripping his hair, swinging out to kick at his attacker's knee. Tall people were complete ********, and he hated them by default, but ESPECIALLY this ******** piece of ******** faggoty s**t, I work here. ******** ask Sunny if you want!"

He had not missed this at all-- being ineffective. At someone else's mercy when that person had none at all to spare. The pain lit up down his spine and at least he was used to this, used to the way someone could drag him along.

"You don't look like that a*****e doc," Leslie grit out, clutching at his poor, poor mohawk. Christ, that a*****e might as well haven taken a chunk, with how it stung. "So I'm not sure who ******** died and crown you king! Jesus!"

Instead of answering the question of a demanded identity, Leslie skittered further away (looking very much like a rat or equatable vermin) and flipped this a*****e the ******** youuuuuuuuuu."

"Back to my ******** duty," he spat, not bothering to give this a*****e the joy of looking up at him. Because he was tall. Like, hey how's the weather up there kind of tall. Basketball tall. Giants up a god damn ******** vine tall.

He recollected the binders that he'd dropped, just enough to be too big to carry comfortably. Plus, no matter how fast he walked, this guy kept pace.

"Don't you have better s**t to be doing, like finding some lucky charms to ******** dumped the charts at the appropriate cabinet, dropping to his knees to angrily put them away, creasing pages here and there. Nobody gave a ******** about Jane Whatever and John Whats His Nuts, so what did it matter?

"Jesus christ, you're as bad as Thompson. I'd really ******** appreciate it if you stopped trying to crawl up my a**, f**, it's cramping my ******** style."

Trainee bitches. Please. Leslie ******** up everything he touched in his life, work was no different. Not a day went by where he didn't royally screw something up, but he was trying damnit. With a frustrated sigh and grit of his teeth, Leslie pulled out the charts he'd ******** up, doing his best to smooth the pages before placing them back in the cabinet at a decent pace.

"Your mom's," Leslie replied, flatly, "and I hope she's dead."

Any comment he had about Jack's parents died in his throat as a hand gripped him too tightly, that just wouldn't let go. Any attempt at shrugging it off didn't work-- this guy was going to do as he damn well pleased, regardless of Leslie's intentions.

Annoying as <********>, and it sent a chill (or something like it) down his spine.

"Jesus. Bed pan b***h duty, half the time, what the ******** else?" He waved his hands at the paperwork that had been thrust upon him. "Today it's sorting old paperwork. I don't even know if these patients lived."

It was pretty obvious that he was new, and that he wasn't trusted with anything important. "Why the ******** do you care, anyway? You're not a nurse or you'd be dressed like one."

Leslie stopped, turning to slowly squint up at the guy with intense levels of suspicion.

"You're not a nice guy," he said, just as slowly, "what's the ******** catch?"

TINSTAAFL was a phrase he'd learned early and took to heart: There's No Such Thing As A Free Lunch. There was no way that there wasn't one. He wasn't smart enough to know what the catch was, but still.

He was still so ******** suspicious, but what he offered didn't sound so bad-- except.

Well.

Writing really wasn't his strong suit. With the slightest hint of shame, Leslie thought back to the letters he and Stormy exchanged, and how long it often took to write just a few lines. But if it was numbers and names, nothing creative or from his own mind, perhaps it wouldn't be as bad.

But, it probably would be.

"Sure," Leslie said, cautious and on the defensive, like he was sure that Jack was ******** with him. That, among other things, probably didn't help the impression he gave off of being prey.