[ the permission slip doesn't get signed right away — but not because strange is too busy to check in on her. it's mostly because she's not ready to go home yet, her body still struggling to repair the extensive damage done by heavily armored men hellbent on beating her into literal submission. it takes a solid four days before she feels like she's ready to even consider walking out of the safehouse without vomiting her guts up... and so, naturally, she refuses to reply and admit he was right until then. ]
update: the cereal in this place tastes like cardboard, but i haven't puked it up yet think you can squeeze in a check-up for me today, doc?
[ silence isn't always the best sign, and as it happens, Dr. Strange passes through a couple of times on rounds in the interim between one text and the next. both times, to his pleasant surprise, he finds Daisy sleeping.
because she's made the effort, he manages to keep his text free of any trace of I Told You So. ]
[ no, he's useful, and daisy hates that she's not. she feels useless — worse, she feels like a burden, isolated and kept out of the fray while she suffers through expedited recovery. her injuries had been severe enough to warrant bedrest, but since she'd narrowly (very narrowly) escaped death, she hadn't been one of the unlucky few sent through morningstar's more advanced medbays.
she's not sure if she's lucky or not, truth be told, but she's glad she didn't have to find out.
she's also not super thrilled about laying around a hospital bed feeling somewhat well enough to go home, but being as how she probably would still be unconscious on the ground if it wasn't for the ministrations of said doctor, she's willing to wait for him. impatiently, of course, but she's actually waiting.
by the time strange makes his way to her corner of the safehouse, daisy's managed to dress herself; he'll find her sitting on the edge of the bed, legs dangling over the side, idly kicking back and forth. in presence, she's less like a recently wounded soldier, and more like a little kid waiting to get their vaccinations.
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update: the cereal in this place tastes like cardboard, but i haven't puked it up yet
think you can squeeze in a check-up for me today, doc?
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because she's made the effort, he manages to keep his text free of any trace of I Told You So. ]
I'll be over that way in a few hours. Hang tight.
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[ no, he's useful, and daisy hates that she's not. she feels useless — worse, she feels like a burden, isolated and kept out of the fray while she suffers through expedited recovery. her injuries had been severe enough to warrant bedrest, but since she'd narrowly (very narrowly) escaped death, she hadn't been one of the unlucky few sent through morningstar's more advanced medbays.
she's not sure if she's lucky or not, truth be told, but she's glad she didn't have to find out.
she's also not super thrilled about laying around a hospital bed feeling somewhat well enough to go home, but being as how she probably would still be unconscious on the ground if it wasn't for the ministrations of said doctor, she's willing to wait for him. impatiently, of course, but she's actually waiting.
by the time strange makes his way to her corner of the safehouse, daisy's managed to dress herself; he'll find her sitting on the edge of the bed, legs dangling over the side, idly kicking back and forth. in presence, she's less like a recently wounded soldier, and more like a little kid waiting to get their vaccinations.
more like her annoying self, in other words. ]