Who: Mary and Kirby
What: post attacks at the hospital friendly catching up
When: Sunday late afternoon/early evening?
Note: Finishing up in comments.
Mary was not having the best of weeks. Of course, she was pretty numb to any feeling at that point. Which was all due to the fact that just hours before she had been sitting in Sirius Black's pub when it was attacked. She had slept for some time but now she was lying in the hospital bed, staring at the ceiling. Her mind had been racing for the past few hours. Since her waking, she had not felt the baby kicking, or any sort of movement for that matter. It wasn't terribly late yet, and the baby
did have a tendency to be more active in the evenings, but she could feel a great deal of anxiety over this issue boiling up in her. If something happened because of the hex that hit her...she didn't even want to think about it.
Her thoughts were interrupted, however, when a gentle knock was heard at the door followed by the creaking of the door being opened. She didn't have the energy to turn and look to see who it was; she didn't know if she even had the energy to hold conversation or smile. Besides, it was probably another Auror or Hitwizard in to interrogate her again about what she remembered. Bullocks.
All Kirby wanted to do, really, was be locked away in his flat with his guitar and his music. He had been on an
incredible creative spree as of late, writing out song after song. His throat was getting a bit hoarse from all his singing, but that was fine! The only time he ever bothered to get up was to eat, and he had been cutting back on that too. His letters had been piling up; he kept promising himself that he would open them sometime soon, but he quickly forgot as soon he promised.
However, a rather insistent owl kept pecking away at his window, despite his shouts of "Just leave and I'll get to it!" Exasperated that his creative bubble of the day had finally been burst by a bloody
owl, Kirby idly opened it... and his face paled.
In a few minutes, he threw some clothes over his previous boxer-clad body and rushed down the stairs to Apparate to downtown London. He high-tailed it to St. Mungo's, glasses slightly askew, ignored all requests for fan mail, confirming for all that he was indeed the most reclusive of the band, and made his way to Mary's door, all the while his mind racing between concerned and angry. Mary was a Muggleborn, and a rather outspoken one too - but still, the fact that someone would actually go out of their way to
hurt her... A pregnant woman too!
Teeth clenched, he tried to relax as he gently knocked on her door before opening in. He couldn't tell, as her back was against his, but he could tell that she wasn't doing all that great. "Hey, it's me," he said softly. With a flick of his wand, a chair from the other side of the room scooted next to her bed, and he took a seat.
At the sound of Kirby's voice, Mary shifted around in the bed, gritting her teeth any time pain shot up her body because of it. She propped herself up against the wall, her pillow nudged between and did her best to smile. "Kirby, I--" she paused, trying to get her thoughts and words in order. "It's nice to see you," she said finally. Her hand was resting gently on her stomach, as if it were an invitation to the baby to just go on and kick her.
"Happy Easter," she added, hoping to make light of the situation. She really hoped that Kirby would not bring up the fact that she was just attacked; it had been discussed the entire day and she really did not feel like discussing it further. "If I'd known you'd be here, I would have made you a basket with chocolates," she added with a wink. The two didn't get the chance to see each other all that often, but it was nice when he popped up out of the blue. He was an old friend, one that she was sure she'd never truly lose throughout the years and seeing that he cared enough to show up further confirmed that thought.
Kirby smiled slightly, pushing up the black horned-rimmed glasses that he (and Mary!) had made so popular. "Now, Mary, you know that as a starving musician, I believe in buying the chocolates and sweets the day
after for the fifty percent sales," he joked, leaning forward and resting his elbows against his knees. Nowadays, what with the rising tension in the band, Kirby preferred to stay by himself, to be alone. He rarely saw... well,
anyone, really, so right now, he felt twinges of guilt for not seeing Mary earlier, that a trip to Mungo's was the reason that pulled him out of his flat.
Bah. He could see from her set expression that she did
not want to discuss to attack, although he was raring to talk and... well, do something
His gaze followed the direction of Mary's hand, and watched it settle on her stomach. With a small smile, he said, "Imagine. A little boy Mary MacDonald. Is the world ready for him?"
"Well, tomorrow then. I'll make sure you each get a basket since I haven't been able to see you lot in some time." She honestly was so busy with work at the Prophet and keeping up with all of her appointments and trying to figure out exactly where things with Gabriel stood that her communication with the Hobgoblins had fallen by the wayside. She was trying to rectify that now, at least with Kirby, but wasn't sure how much it would help. They were all so set in their ways; it sometimes felt as if they needed to be catered to, that unless they were free it would be entirely impossible to meet with them. Ah well, perhaps Kirby's showing up was a sign of their friendship returning, getting stronger even.
And then he brought up the one thing that was eating away at her. And she tried so so hard to hold back all of that emotion, but it was completely engulfing the levy she had built up over the last few months. Tears began to trickle down her face as she nodded. "I think--I think it'll have to be ready. Or..." her tears grew worse. In her mind she had thought 'What if the world isn't ready, what if that's why I'm not feeling him moving anymore.' Bad move, Mary. She sucked in a deep breath, one of those shuddering, sniffling types that happen in the middle of a good cry. "I'm--I'm really s-s-s-sorry, I just--I c-c-can't--" she stifled another sob, her hands wiping furiously at her face. She couldn't even bear to finish that sentence; speaking it would make it too real, would it not?
