[ A grim reality, one William hadn't even begun to face yet. No, he probably wouldn't be discharged any time soon. He'd need physical therapy, in all likelihood, and there was no telling how well or how poorly he'd rebound from surgery. He was 38 now, two years older than himself, and starting to approach the age at which the human body's ability to heal itself showed the faintest signs of flagging. There was also the sheer severity of the injuries: he'd lost enough blood to go into shock and lose consciousness, and he'd just had an arterial resection. He'd been lucky to survive at all, a thought that made Birkin feel sick and unbearably, overwhelmingly helpless. ]
Maybe.
[ A good fifteen minutes passed before Annette knocked on the door: she hadn't done anything asinine like bring flowers, which was expected—William never would have married someone who thought that kind of platitude was an appropriate response to multiple gunshot wounds. She did express her sympathy, her worry, decidedly less furious than he had been (and still was, on some level), though they were much less close. She'd recover if Albert died; he probably wouldn't.
William thanked her as she set the small stack of folders and old journals on the side table next to the cards and his still-cooling coffee; at least now he'd have something to do other than agonize while Wesker slept. She'd also brought a saran-wrapped turkey sandwich for the one in the room who was allowed to eat. Thoughtful, even if he didn't particularly feel hungry at the moment. ]
no subject
Maybe.
[ A good fifteen minutes passed before Annette knocked on the door: she hadn't done anything asinine like bring flowers, which was expected—William never would have married someone who thought that kind of platitude was an appropriate response to multiple gunshot wounds. She did express her sympathy, her worry, decidedly less furious than he had been (and still was, on some level), though they were much less close. She'd recover if Albert died; he probably wouldn't.
William thanked her as she set the small stack of folders and old journals on the side table next to the cards and his still-cooling coffee; at least now he'd have something to do other than agonize while Wesker slept. She'd also brought a saran-wrapped turkey sandwich for the one in the room who was allowed to eat. Thoughtful, even if he didn't particularly feel hungry at the moment. ]