It Could Be Worse

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Where: Zan's hospital room

When: May 11, 2012; Late Afternoon

What: Zan receives a surprise visit from his father, and learns a little more than when he's going home.

This late in the day there's little activity going on. Nurses sit at their stations, reading or biding their time until the shift change or a need for their assistance. One nurse wanders down the hall to poke into a room while another is leaving one further along, putting notes in a chart. most of the doors are cracked open, a curtain drawn to keep prying eyes from spying whoever rests inside. But one is quite summarily closed. And upon it, artfully written, a note: No Nurses Allowed Without My Discharge Papers!

Of course, Zan can't be entirely serious about that declaration, can he? He's still in the hospital room, after all. Still under the watchful eye of doctors and those he's deemed his jailers, though he must be feeling better if something like that has appeared. Again, or still, in scrubs he'd managed to procure, he's sitting more upright in bed. A table has been wheeled over, resting just above his lap while a pen is wielded against paper, etching out idle doodles in a flat blue ink.

There's a sound of paper being removed from its place on the wall, followed by it being torn in half, then again, then again.

This is followed by the Mayor who's waltzing in bearing a brown bag of likely not hospital sanctioned consumables that turn the bag greasy with its contents.

"I see you're being charming to the nurses."

There's just the slightest of pauses when his note is taken down. Brows raising slightly as it's being torn. Multiple times. Almost, Zan expects to see one of the nurses coming in, judging by the narrow eyed look he gives the door when it opens. But the sly, almost quasi-distrusting look turns to surprise when it's his dad that appears instead.

"Hey, Dad," he says, not really managing to cover the shock, though at least recovering his wits. One corner of Zan's mouth quirks upward in a grin and he looks down at the drawing. The pen, a beat later, is carefully set aside. "I'm trying to be. The ones who work nights are nicer than all the other shifts." Not that his note stopped any of the day-timers from coming in whenever they wanted.

"It could be worse. You could be in a shared room instead of private. So less notes and being cranky to the nurses." The remains of the notes are put into the trash and he moves to a chair, easing back as he adjusts his tie, loosens it then removes it completely. "You'll be discharged tomorrow and can come home. Will be coming home. IN a car." He looks at his son. "And not flying."

The half tick of a grin falters and fades, and a slight crease forms just between Zan's eyebrows. "Yes, sir," he replies, quiet. His following nod to the news is also subdued, though he drags a thumbnail across the edge of the small, wheeled table. The action comes to a distinct pause when it's impressed thoroughly that he'll be driven home and won't be flying, not that the thought had crossed his mind. Yet, if it was the Mayor's goal to make his son nervous, that would be the way to start. His eyes flick toward the door again before settling on his father in an attempt to feign confusion. "What? Flying?"

"I'm not stupid, Zan, so cut the act. That hasn't worked since you were twelve." The door is closed, no one will be listening in on this conversation. "No. Flying. In town. If you're going to do it, you take a car, and you drive out to the desert and you take Rylie with you.”

"I wasn't…" Zan's defensive protest dies before it's fully formed, cut off with a slow exhale. He glances toward the door again anyway, an uneasy gesture, considering the topic of conversation. "Rylie and I already talked about that. Going into the desert and I just… I didn't know that… you knew. About it." A couple of seconds passes after he's spoken before his gaze returns to his father.

"You flew, in front of some federal officers, son. It's not that hard to know. Thankfully, there won't be any speaking coming from anyone with regards to the trick that you can do." That his father is taking this so well? "Rylie can help you. But trust no one else but her. Do you comprehend Zan? I cannot stress this enough. You can trust no one else, with what you can do."

Zan's hands move away from the table and fold over his chest. Mostly. One comes free enough to rub alongside one of the motley of bruises his face bears. "I know, Dad," he answers one his hand comes down again. "I get it, people saw it happen and…" He concedes the point with a nod. Silence follows, lasting a moment before he looks at his dad again. "You're not… weirded out or anything by what I can do?"

"I've known for a long time Zan, that there was a potential. I just hadn't expected it so soon. Your mother and I were hoping that it would never happen, truth be told." His father confesses, twiddling with the tie in his lap, looking up at his son. "We'll be grateful that it's flying and not something else."

"I hadn't expected it at all," Zan points out. "I didn't even know anything like this existed until…" Until he'd been shot, though he can't tell his father about that. He leaves the until to be filled in, hopefully with his own personal experience and unplanned flight. "Can you do anything," he asks, watching his dad carefully.

"Not a thing. Neither does your mother, and yes, she knows as well." He assumes like Zan hopes that he does, that Zan has discovered the existence of Advanced people from his own manifestation. "I don't that I'd wish to be able to do anything. But I'll do what I can to protect you, and Rylie will do what she can to teach you. She's the best person to do so. There was a reason that I had hired her." And it wasn't for her assets like all the rumors said.

"Mom knows." Zan can't help but make that sound like an ill-fated thing, like he's ten all over again and just been ratted out for putting a dent in the car fender with his bike. "Dad, I'll be okay with it. You don't have to stress, it's not like I can't keep this under wraps. My camera got stolen, so youtube will be without my feats. And Rylie's told me she'll teach me."

"We'll see." How well he can keep it under wraps. The greasy bag of food is gestured to. "Before they take it away and replace it with the shit they serve here. You're hungry?" There's enough in there for two and, despite how unfathomable it would be, he does know what Zan liked to eat.

It's a good distraction, pointing out food that isn't near as 'nutritious' as the selections in the hospital. Any other questions Zan might have come up with are forgotten when he looks at the bag then back at his dad as if considering a potential ally. "Can I fly," he answers the question with one of his own, a glance ticking back to his father with a touch of a grin. "I'm starving."

"You do something, son. You do something." He reaches over, starting to divy up the contraband. "Just.. don't get hit by any planes." The same request that he made of Rylie. “Now eat up." Gesturing to the food put in front of him. "I don't have all night."

Zan's already started even as the food is set out. And there isn't any fear that he'll be caught eating something wholly unhealthy if one of the nurses decides to walk in. "Don't worry," he says, pausing between bites. "I won't." He hesitates over another bite and looks at the Mayor, offering a shrug and a quiet, "Thanks, Dad."

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