waiting for something better to do.

[Adrian Sterling]

Adrian hardly knew why people liked breaks so much. They always made him feel unproductive. But, he always found ways around doing absolutely nothing when he really should have been resting his eyes. Sometimes it ranged from doing asinine things like organizing the cabinets in the doctors lounge, to doing minor paperwork that needed to be done in between sessions with his patients. As long as he was doing these things in the lounge, people didn’t harp him over how much of a workaholic he was, even though he never understood why that was such an awful thing in the first place.

On this particular day, he was sprawled on one side of the couch, reading down at a case file as he leisurely drank a cup of coffee. He hated coffee, by the way, but since there was nothing better to drink, and he didn’t want to drink water, he dealt with it. He could adapt easily to uncomfortable situations. He adjusted his reading glasses slightly and sighed through his nose. There was so much procedural work for this particular case, and he didn’t know how long he would be needing to see her. He really felt for the poor little thing, he truly did. It was a heartbreaking case, and he had seen many heartbreaking cases in his time. He hated being so stone faced about it, but sometimes that was the only appropriate way to react to abuse cases. You couldn’t get all blubbery and teary eyed. You couldn’t get things done that way.

Every so often he’d glance up to take a quick scope of the room - which, by the way, wasn’t all that impressive, he always wanted to get on the administration for how badly kept their lounges were - but the venture wasn’t enough to catch his attention for long enough. He was good friends with most of the staff, sure, but he usually conversed with them during work hours, not while he was sitting here like this. Anyone would do what they could to get out of clinic duty, even a five minute talk about nothing with the resident psychiatrist. Luckily, he didn’t have to force himself through such duties. But in that came sacrifice. He had to spend most of his day with people on the brink of sanity, and try to make some sense out of it.

It was a hard job, really.

Thankfully Adrian enjoyed it. He took another sip of coffee and cringed. It tasted awful. How did people like this stuff? He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes, sighing again. The file fell closed on his lap and he looked around the room again. A few people were talking, but he spotted no one in particular that he was interested in approaching at the moment. Adrian was very tempted to actually take a nap; but, that seemed counter productive.

He gnawed on his bottom lip and opened the file again, staring at the blonde girl’s picture. He glanced down at the diagnosis:

Post traumatic stress disorder, reason to believe patient has sexsomnia. Array of manic behavior, possible anger disorder.

Other: Recently diagnosed with tuberculosis…

It droned on, and even though he read over the words they never registered. His eyes were glassy, and his mind was elsewhere. He really hated breaks.

[/center]

[Sam Hartley]

She wasn't really allowed in the doctors lounge, considering she wasn't a doctor, but nobody stopped her. She wasn't going to go chill with the nurses either, the pricks, on her breaks she wanted to do something other than sit in a lab chair and spin around, then see if she could make out the different cells in a microscope. After so many headaches it just wasn't entertaining anymore. It wasn't like anyone would suspect that she wasn't a doctor, other than her ID badge clipped to her breast pocket that clearly stated she was simply a lab tech, but she had a white coat. Hah. Doctors went to school for eight years to get this coat, and they never even went in a lab! Lab techs deserved a lab coat more than doctors, it was a symbol of power if anything. It was also a good argument to get herself into one of those white coats, at first the board seemed against it.

Cheap fabric does not work well enough.
It only took a minor fire to convince them otherwise.

Sam knew she had a shit-ton of work to do, tests to run, things to analyze, data to punch in and print it out for the lazy assholes. Resentment: it's beautiful, no? Not really, but it was something she relished in, for one reason or another. We haven't really figured it out yet. But it goes without saying that she could easily half-ass something and still be paid, it might cause some problems down the road, but... she's accustomed to such a thing. Which also meant that she was getting much better, which also meant that striding into the doctors lounge that very day, she was whipped.

Glancing around at the others that occupied the area, she spotted a coroner and a gynecologist off chatting away, wrinkling her nose slightly and striding towards the fridge. A psychologist was relaxing on the couch, fuck. That was her spot. Oh well, she'd adjust. Opening the fridge she grabbed an energy drink, popping the top and taking a long gulp from it. Sam practically lived off of caffeine, in any form – except coffee, Jesus, who could drink that stuff? - that would be sufficient in keeping her awake. Long nights binging on the stuff wasn't unfamiliar, which also meant for frequent dentist appointments and the occasional tardy on her work slip. Hell, when you haven't slept for a few days, being woken up by a six am alarm isn't always that easy.

Moving towards the couch, she leaned on the back of it, glancing down at the doctor who lay there. He seemed troubled, but from what she knew about him – which wasn't much, her partner Roy didn't like to disclose information, he preferred to hassle her and wait for her to come back with something for him – he was interesting enough. A psychologist, they were always fucked up people, generally. Getting paid to study others, what kind of job was that? She never really understood it, sure she liked to analyze people as much as data, but to get paid for it? That was like... professional sports. Ugh. Adjusting her hair slightly – a quick brush behind the ear – she glanced down at herself as she rounded the couch, just to make sure she was presentable. Nice slacks and heels, from the waist down appropriate. But a blue tee shirt with a faded logo on the breast and some stains on the front? Well, they wouldn't have let her in if the shirt was clean when she applied. So she was messy. So that was some sort of residue from some sort of test that she didn't even know.
It was a stain.
That didn't mean it wasn't clean, right?

“Move,” she grumbled, rubbing at a purple-ish bag under her eye, then reaching down to pat at his feet. “Please,” she articulated clearer, looking over at him.

Pfft. He looks like a dick.

[Adrian Sterling]

Adrian calmly looked up at the voice that was addressing him; rudely, no less. He wasn’t surprised at what he saw: A young girl, with a stained shirt, carrying an energy drink. If there were many stereotypes about younger people, she would fit most of them, just based on appearances. Adrian tried not to be judgmental most of the time, that was unbecoming; but, being a psychiatrist, analyzing people on first appearance was sometimes the first step of getting to know someone. He raised an eyebrow. “Yes ma’am,” he muttered at her softly, in a mocking sort of way, as he shifted himself into an upward position. She, no doubt, would be sitting herself next to him and doing whatever it was she planned to do.

He thought about getting up and sitting somewhere else; but, in some small ways, that almost felt like letting her win. So, Adrian remained. He lifted his glasses and rubbed his eyes again before letting them fall back onto the bridge of his nose. His coffee was untouched at this point, because he just didn’t want to deal with it anymore, and he had lost his sense of thirst. It was better than any energy drink, he had to admit. He hated that stuff. It was like poison. Maybe that was his bias, being an old man and all. He couldn’t be sure.

Adrian opened the file again, and tried to work. But he quickly found himself distracted, unable to focus with someone there, which was odd, since he was really used to doing the very opposite. There was something about the girl that struck him as odd, something about her that didn’t really strike him as someone who worked in a hospital. Then again, he couldn’t know. He didn’t keep tabs on all the employees in this place, especially the nurses and the lab tech. Which one was she?

He took a quick glance, and saw the ID badge. Yep. She was Lab-Tech, which meant she wasn’t stupid. She just appeared to be. He tended to favor the lab-tech over the nurses, there was more science involved with lab-tech. You had to know your shit to be able to work with all that equipment and run all those tests without getting the hospital sued. Nurses just wiped asses and changed bed pans. It was noble work, but it wasn’t exactly rocket science.

Adrian relaxed slightly and pulled his hand through his hair. He couldn’t get any work done with her there. He carefully tucked the folder into the crook of his side, between his body and the arm of the couch - as far away from her as he could manage - and leaned his head back. He closed his eyes every so often, and only opened them to steal a glance at her, whatever the fuck she was doing, and to watch the minute hand tick away at the clock. One minute closer toward the end of his break, that’s what he was counting down to.

… Even though there was nothing keeping him here.
Maybe he was masochistic. He never self diagnosed before.

[/center]

[Sam Hartley]

Well he seems interesting enough, she mused, delicately tracing her finger across the edge of the can. He moved, if a bit mocking, but she sat down nonetheless, yawning. It was a long day, and it had just begun, which never meant anything good. Wipping the sleep from her eyes, she crossed her legs, trying to hear the other doctors conversations. It probably wasn't important, but Sam liked to know things, she kept tabs, she had information on almost everyone in the hospital all stored up in a special place in her brain, just in case. She didn't like to be unprepared for anything, which could lead to a bit of paranoia. It seemed like she was about to make a psychologist friend, so maybe she would get a free diagnosis.

Glancing over at him, she tilted her head to the side slightly, then looked away smirking. He kept looking over at her, which made her feel a bit self conscious, although she managed to keep herself from asking any questions... yet. Now was not the time to be blunt, even if she usually was, maybe she could make a friend. Or figure out what he was doing, what he was working on, because the way that he tucked that file away piqued her interest. Once her interested was piqued, there was little that she felt could stand in her way. But then again, this is coming from a stereotypical narcissist who would hold that doctor down and steal the file if it meant getting her information. Even if that method did seem a bit brash, she was taking martial arts and was fully prepared to practice, and have fun. Because having fun is the number one rule when it comes to using the brash and unorthodox method.

Sipping at the energy drink, she managed to catch him rubbing his eyes and possibly nodding off a bit, smirking gleefully to herself. Slipping out of a pair of wildly uncomfortable looking heels, she pulled her legs up undernreat her, rolling her shoulders back. What to say, what to say. Something rude, probably, maybe something that would irritate him and make him leave. No, she wanted more info, she knew the gynecologist and the coroner, but not this guy. Maybe try being polite? He seemed a bit scatterbrained, tired, but polite just wasn't her forte. Pushing any doubts away, she quickly plastered a playful smirk on her face to replace her former thinking look, looking over at him.
"You look like you need some caffeine," she said swiftly, spotting the coffee. "Coffee is disgusting. There's a vending machine in the lobby," she continued, noting that he wasn't drinking it, which meant that he didn't like it. When you were tired and you liked coffee, you drank it. When you were tired and you didn't like coffee, you store at it disdainfully until it vaporised.

"And really, is there something wrong? You keep looking over here and I want to make sure you're not having a spasm or something. I might have to call someone qualified," Sam raised her voice slightly at her last statement, listening to the sound of mutters and shuffling feet.

Pussies.
Bah. She was pretty sure that she'd slept with that gynecologist, but she couldn't remember clearly. Probably drunk. Or high. Both are equally likely.

[Adrian Sterling]

Adrian was rather surprised when she began to speak. He didn’t expect that at all. What he had been expecting a long, awkward silence of them barely taking notice of each other until he was “allowed” to leave and get on with another session with a patient. But she began to sing, chiming in about small observations she made about him; which meant that she was watching him as much as he was watching her. When something like that happened, it was most likely inevitable that someone would begin to speak. Usually it was him, but she apparently had the upper hand.

She was much better at reading people than he thought she would be, and Adrian always hated that. He liked to think that knowing people was a lost art that you had to develop through years and years of practice. That’s what made him take some pride in his work, even if working with babbling retards didn’t make you the most dignified. Someone had to do it. He could play it up as much as he wanted. He looked at her with a small smirk and grabbed his coffee. He took long, leisurely sips from it, just to prove her wrong. It hindsight, it was rather petty, but who cares? He barely knew her, so acting a little snippy wouldn’t hurt anything.

“It’s fine,” he told her, grinning as he brought the cup down to his lap with his hand still tightly latched onto the handle. “The coffee is fine,” he was lying through his teeth, but what did it matter? He traced his thumb over the smooth clay of the mug and barely looked at her as he scratched the back of his head.

“No spasms here,” he told her. “Even if there were, I’m sure you’d be somewhat qualified to take care of it, yes?” Adrian glanced into her eyes for a second. “They teach basic first aid to hospital employees, don’t they? Or is that just my assumption?”

The way she was looking at him, he knew that she wanted something. A small smirk played on her lips, and just a bit of curiosity glinted in her eyes. His niece got that same look whenever she wanted something from him. Sure, she was five; but, everyone he knew always had that look when they wanted to know something. His brother in particular was so predictable that whenever he visited Adrian, he didn’t even need to say a thing before Adrian asked sardonically, “What now, Robert?”

He sometimes wondered if he ever made that face whenever he requested things. Adrian always thought about doing experiments that involved psychology and the human face. He didn’t know how he would pull it off, but he wanted to do it.

[Sam Hartley]

He was good. But it didn't take a genius to see that was playing - to some extent. Previous behavior didn't correspond with taking a long sip from the coffee, she was pretty sure she saw some sort of glint in his eye, but couldn't make anything of it. Instead, she just giggled a bit, turning to face him more. Interesting, that was the only thing she could say about him at the moment, and about as arrogant as she was. Anyone else would've just accepted that they didn't like coffee, but he wanted to play a game. That's cool. She liked games, especially when you didn't know the rules! It was like taking a trip through Wonderland, or whatever other twisted ideas and movies (or something that could easily become twisted) ran through her mind at the moment.

"Really? Because the way that you rub your eyes, look at the coffee, then nod off as if you're going to fall asleep suggest that you don't like coffee and only got it because... oh, you forgot to bring something better? Forgot that there are vending machines just outside?" Sam questioned delicately, leaning back in the seat and shrugging, smirk fading slightly. The way that he looked at her unnerved her slightly, but only slightly, she was still fully prepared for an onslaught of psycho-babble. Her father often analyzed her, picking and prooning every detail, although most of the times he was heating up cocaine in a spoon, but that didn't mean anything. Drug addict, sure, but not stupid. He was a genius, she was only a chip off of the block. No, Sam was an entirely new block.

Sure the coffee's fine. He's a dick. This's fun, she concluded silently, the almost malicious smirk returning to her face. He was going to be a diffficult nut to crack, but she'd get into his head one way or another, she always did. And she always patted herself on the back and told herself that she could always manage something while doing so, which would eventually be her downfall. But right now she was content with just being as irritating as possible... despite doubts that it wouldn't work. He was a psychologist.

"They teach us to call someone qualified, in a hospital full of doctors, they assume someone's always in earshot," Sam mused, shrugging, despite a flicker of annoyance in her eyes. She was just as good as him, she had almost completed medical school, she had learned everything he had learned, and, well, it didn't take a genius to figure out psychology. The only thing left for her was essays. Trying to burn information into your mind? It was useless, she didn't even want to be a doctor.

Although, she felt as if he was looking down on her, which everyone seemed to do. "They taught me how to work the machines, that's it," she said stiffly. "What about you? Medical school, then specializing in psychology?" she continued, trying to turn the tables. "And I keep tabs on almost everyone in this place, I know you're a psychologist just as well as I know the two that just left are morons."

[Adrian Sterling]

Something in Adrian’s mind was telling him to just leave. He didn’t have to keep talking to her, but he also just wanted to because she was interesting in a strange way. She was snippy, he was snippy, and hardly anyone he knew had the balls to act this way around someone they barely knew. Her eyes almost felt like a challenge, and if he left now, she’d win. He put down his coffee and rolled his eyes at her. “I had no idea you were so interested in the drinking habits of others,” he said smoothly, a small grin playing on his lips. “I certainly didn’t forget either things. I don’t want anything from the vending machine, anyway. You know how horrible those drinks are for you.”

It was hypocritical statement. It wasn’t like coffee was the elixir of life. But he didn’t want to concede to her accusations either. It didn’t feel right. He pushed his glasses up onto his head and shifted slightly so he could look at her. His arm leisurely fell over the top of the couch and rested there. He watched her movements, her expressions, and she jumped around like someone who was always thinking about something. Like a psychiatrist, he was curious, but not enough to ask her.

That was another thing that bugged him, when people called psychiatrists psychologists. Psychologists didn’t have to go through medical school, but he did. He took one step further, which somehow made him a lot better than a psychologist. It was an ego thing. Calling him a psychologist was like making the six years of medical school just disappear into oblivion. There was this visceral annoyance that fell deep into the pit of his stomach when someone made this mistake; but, he didn’t want to lash out on the girl, so he ignored it the best he could.

“And what makes you think that?” He never told her what he did. He wasn’t wearing his tag, either. He was laid back in his pressed shirt and tie, glasses situated on his brow, with his eyebrow upraised just slightly at her. Maybe he was obvious. Maybe he carried himself like a psychiatrist. Maybe she had seen his picture somewhere and kept it locked away in her memory for some stupid reason. Who knows.

He sure didn’t. Adrian didn’t know a lot of things, to his dismay.

[Sam Hartley]

Sam snorted, was he serious? Coffee was just as bad, if not worse, then the pop in the vending machine. Almost everything that you drank was bad for you to a degree, she didn't see him sipping on orange juice or Sobe (or whatever that bullshit was). She wasn't going to comment on it though, instead she'd give him a confident “I Won” sort of look, because unless he was incredibly stupid (which he didn't appear to be) he would know how hypocrisy never won anything. Not that they were playing a game... well, yes, they were playing a game in Sam's mind, and she was winning.

As long as she felt that she was winning, everything would be alright. Life was a game. This was just another square that she landed on and got a funky card. He was watching her the same way she was watching him: analyzing, making silent conclusions on character, maybe debating whether it was really worth it or not. He was calm, collected, stone-faced, a typical psychiatrist. Psychologist. It didn't matter, they both dealt with the same thing, they both went to school for roughly the same amount of time, one just studied the science, one studied the medicine. They were roughly the same, psychologists just couldn't write prescriptions. Not that she could either.

Sam raised an eyebrow, sipping at the energy drink. “I'm a lab tech. I'm always running around the hospital. I hear gossip. I hear nurses huddled in their little cliques. I see doctors running around as well with their ID's – that's one way. I'll ask the nurses,” she explained swiftly, turning and yawning into her elbow. “Besides. You just look like one. A prick.” And let's see how long it takes you to punch me in the face, she thought, because last time I confronted someone like this, it wasn't long. She subconsciously rubbed the side of her nose, then under her eyes, before replacing her hand over the side of the can.

Why didn't she just leave anyway? Going back to her 'life is a game' philosophy, it could just be that she's lost this round, come back and win another... he was starting to get boring, just sitting there, countering her blunt statements with something simple. Short. Like any sane person would – but there's always a bit of insanity in every normal person and a bit of sanity in every crazy one. That also meant he could be either of those.

Oh, why was she making this so complicated?

[Adrian Sterling]

Adrian almost wanted to laugh. He really did. He immediately killed the urge and just smiled instead. He got called a prick a lot, actually. Mostly from by people who were joking, calling him a prick just because he was a haughty British man. It was a warranted attack, and he always found it hilarious. The name coming out of her mouth, which was supposed to be an insult, sounded more comical than anything. He crossed his legs, and straightened out his slacks, leaning his head on his hand. “I suppose we do have a look,” he commented offhandedly as his eyes glanced up at the clock again.

He had a session in fifteen minutes. Schizophrenic patient. That was always fun. A whole hour of listening to incoherent babble with a few frightened screams here and there. He always had some syringes near him, just in case if he had to sedate him; but, he never did. It was kind of disappointing. It would certainly make the day more interesting, before he had to slink back to his one bedroom apartment and knock out for the rest of the night. He had a session later that day with Anya, which he was a bit glad for, since he enjoyed talking to her.

Well, it wasn’t just her. It was the Russian people in general. They were talkers, much like himself. They always had interesting stories. Sure, most of them were tragic, but it was Russia. Anya, herself, was a peculiar person. She had a lot of strange ideas, a lot of strange thoughts, some that were entirely incoherent. She always felt the need to share them, though. Adrian couldn’t say that he minded. Sometimes he thought about letting Anya stay in his home, but that would be entirely impractical. He just felt a rare connection with, a sense of possession, since he found her when the people holding her “hostage” were caught.

He scratched his neck again and watched Sam amusedly. “If I’m such a prick,” he began slowly, seeming quite entertained, “then why waste your time with me?”

[/center]

[Sam Hartley]

Yup. Nobody really took her seriously anyway, so when he seemed more light-hearted and about to burst out in a fit of giggles, she just snorted again, turning away slightly. What was so funny? That he was a prick? Everyone's a bit of a prick, but he found it amusing, which confused her slightly. He must be called that a lot, she concluded, which means that he is just a prick and that's alright with him, or he thinks everyone's just playing around and he really is as dumb as she's starting to believe. Sam finished off the energy drink, tossing the can in a recycling bin, then looking back at him.

“Because there's no one else to talk to, and I still have the rest of my break to sit around and... do nothing,” Sam explained, shrugging. She didn't care. She was just waiting for him to leave so she could take a nap. Although, she wasn't really trying to speed things along. Sam still wanted at that file, to at least know what was going on, maybe she could help? Hah, the very thought of her in a room with a “crazy” person was laughable in itself, let alone trying to help.

She was always waiting for something to happen. Something interesting, waiting, watching, something to brighten the day, anything. It was an itch in her brain, a desire to escape the clockwork of tests, but nothing ever came. She had only been at the hospital a year, and was already sick of the clockwork, of routine. She wanted something spontaneous. Maybe she should've stuck with her trauma specialty. Oh well.

“Why psychology? Or psychiatry, whatever...” she asked randomly, turning back to face him. She was curious now, maybe trying to make peace, but it didn't matter. “From someone who didn't make it through medical school to one who went through and specialized,” Sam added, folding her arms under her breast delicately. “I'm curious. Of all the things you could pick, you went with ah... studying the mind? Diagnosing insanity? How do you determine sanity and insanity?” She was rambling now, but it wasn't like they were going to meet again anytime soon. It was a big place.

I need a cigarette.

[Adrian Sterling]

Adrian had the same sentiments about breaks. You really did just sit and do nothing for the mandated thirty minutes or so, and then you’d go back to whatever it was you were doing. It was an annoying piece of interruption during his day; but, the world didn’t revolve around him. There were probably a lot of people who wanted to escape their work. He supposed that lab work could get mundane after a while. One of the good things about working with crazy people was that there was something new, no matter what. He couldn’t be sure if that was a good thing or not; but, clinical work, even with the worst of people, was better than just sitting at a desk doing paper work all day. And he had his fair share of paperwork.

Adrian had this serious disdain for anything paperwork. It was time consuming and boring as hell.

She asked about his line of work like she gave a fuck, but he had some idea she didn’t. She was just passing the time like any other person would, just shooting the breeze with some man she barely knew. He didn’t feel particularly social that day, well, at least to people who just called him a prick for the sake of calling him a prick. He traced his finger over the top of the file and looked at her in a curious sort of way, asking with his eyes: “Why the fuck do you care?”

Asking why he went into psychiatry, to him, was just like asking a bird why it decided to fly. It’s just what he did, he never really questioned it. To be honest, it came down to a matter of preference. He looked at other specializations, ones that involved working with blood and organs, and that’s just something he wasn’t into. He wasn’t too confident with how his hands would fair during surgery, and he sure as hell didn’t want to work with people that would cough or sneeze on him.

Yet, he’d work with people that would probably tear out his eyes if he just said one thing wrong. Yeah. It didn’t really make much sense.

There was the fact that he wanted to be a hero. What doctor didn’t? If a doctor denied this, he was bullshitting you. Of course he wanted to save the day. All doctors had a savior complex. Adrian just had the common courtesy to acknowledge this. He wanted to save people from themselves, fix their heads, make them normal, whatever the hell that was. Sometimes he couldn’t see the difference between some streetwalker and a schizophrenic. They were similar in so many ways. Sometimes it was better for “insane” people to just stay that way, since they’d fit in better.

“I like the mind,” he said simply, licking his lower lip. His cadence was deliberate and slow, sounding almost like a purr when he talked. “I like how it works, I like understanding how it works. Sometimes spending the day with a “crazy” person is like reading a really gripping novel.” He shrugged a shoulder and rubbed his eyes again. He couldn’t believe that he was entertaining her stupid questions.

“I can give you the clinical answer and the practical answer,” he said, moving onto her question about insanity. “Clinically an insane person has a mental discrepancy that inhibits them from experiencing life as “normal” people would.” Fucking textbook, right? That’s what it sounded like coming out, and for some reason he wanted to slap himself for it. He shifted upward slightly and pulled his hands together, interlinking them. “Practically, however? Who knows? Put me in a room with a fundamentalist that says he can hear God, and a schizophrenic man, and there’s hardly a difference. Yet there’s nothing wrong with the fundamentalist, and absolutely everything wrong with the schizophrenic. It may sound a bit cliché, but we are all just a bit insane.”

[/center]

[Sam Hartley]

Oh, touchy aren't we? Sam thought, relaxing into the chair and tilting her head back. They way he looked at her only made her grin, closing her eyes as she did so. He was amusing, calm and collected, but with a piercing stare that practically tore at her. Laser beams. Dear. She wanted to answer his look, but she wasn't sure what exactly it said, it wasn't like she had looked at it for very long, but she felt it. She wasn't going to do anything about it anyway, Sam was all talk. It was only a matter of time before this guy figured it out. She was harmless, just a nuisances, but he must have that figured out already.

But only ten minutes left in the break? Shame, he wouldn't be gone and the only thing she could do in five minutes was have sex and make toast. By the time he was gone, if he did end up leaving, she would probably have five minutes left, in which she would have to use to grab something from the vending machines then back to the batcave. Sigh sigh. She was actually starting to enjoy this conversation. Not really, but it was passing the time, which was enough for her. Awkward silence wasn't her forte, Sam made sure that it rarely existed whenever she was present.

One thing had always piqued her curiosity more than anything, and it was how a psychiatrist could do what they do and still have some sanity left. Studying people, figuring out what made them tick, for money. They had to have some pretty shit out of luck cases, how could they keep going with that? It was like oncology, 95% of the people that you were going to meet probably wouldn't make it. 95% of the people this guy met probably wouldn't get better, they'd probably fade away into a mild existence on the streets.

“You like it because it's like... reading a book?” Sam asked, quirking an eyebrow at him. Understanding how it worked. She could see that, she could see why he was interested, she had considered psychiatry, psychology, fuck, she still didn't understand what the big deal was), but, well, with some family history of mental illness, she didn't want to get into it then realize she was crazy. She would prefer to stay as far away from the idea as possible, although he seemed to jump into it. Maybe she was just a hypochondriac, every little scratch meant that she was going to die. She was just imagining it.

“Every idiot has a bit of genius, every genius has a bit of idiot. Every “sane” person has a bit of crazy, every “insane” person has a bit of sanity,” Sam mused to herself, not paying attention to him anymore. She already knew the answers to the questions she had asked, but continued to ask them at any opportunity. Questions turned into opinions. Opinions turned into debates. Debates turned into arguments. Arguments to fights. Fights to cops, cops to prison, prison to death. Maybe she was a bit crazy. All these thoughts, all these idioms and life lessons that she conjured up from thin air.

It was silly.

Standing up, she meandered to the fridge, opening it and glancing inside. Familiar names. Something she could grab without feeling guilty – not that she would feel guilty if she took something either way. Someone she knew. Something she had brought and forgot about. She needed to grab something now, no, she could just leave. Turn and walk out. But... something was keeping her, maybe the idea of a game, maybe the thought of a conversation. Sigh.

[Adrian Sterling]

Adrian grinned broadly. She refused to look at him, looking every which way, even resorting to closing her eyes to not answer his own piercing ones. He took that as a victory. Most people didn’t look into his eyes. He didn’t blame them, he had a habit of examining people so intently that it began to creep them out a little. Seemingly some of his more saner patients could take it, especially Anya. She just gazed back, just as curiously, and they’d be watching each other like one would watch their own reflection in a mirror. There was a lot someone could say, without words, if you just watched their movements long enough. She fidgeted a lot. He wondered if she was a junkie or something. She had the look. But, who knows? He didn’t rightfully care, either. Most of the people he knew were on something. Sure, it was legal, but they were still on something.

“Something like that,” he began, sighing through his nose. “I don’t know. I like reading. Would it have connected better if I had said it was something like television?” It was a bit condescending, yeah, but what else could he say? Maybe she would have preferred that, he didn’t know. She was younger than him, it was obvious, and sometimes that was a downfall when it came to just being able to talk to someone. If you were ages off from each other, and you tried to click, there was a chance you would and a chance you wouldn’t. If you did, great. If you didn’t, whatever; there’s no point in trying.

She basically went back and reiterated Adrian’s point in her own philosophical way. Great, she understood. But, beyond that? She didn’t seem interested. So much so that she got up from the couch and ambled her way over to the fridge to either grab her own lunch and steal someone else’s. It was common practice. He remembered coming in and seeing something he left in there being gone. Maybe she was the one who took it. Maybe it was one of the gynecologists. He wasn’t going to interrogate her over it.

Adrian let his glasses fall over the bridge of his nose again. He took her withdrawal as an ending to the conversation. He retrieved the folder from his side and opened it again, looking pensive. By all means, he should have been looking over the patient whom he was going to go see, but there was so much to do with Anya. He had to schedule time in the surveillance room so he could confirm a diagnosis with sexsomnia, had to do more psychological tests to see how many sexual disorders she had. For all he knew, he could be seeing the little thing for a few years. There was a good chance that she’d never even get better. Sure, she came here for a new lease on life, but there was a high chance that she’d end up in some red-light district again, because was all she knew how to do.

It was what she was best at, clearly. It almost frustrated him that he would waste all this time with diagnosis, treatment, prescriptions… for her to just blow it all off for something she was “comfortable” doing. Even that was in question. She was conflicted and confused. Whatever. He couldn’t worry about that until he had a full picture of her mental health. Every diagnosis had to be made, and every possible avenue for sickness had to be driven out before he could even worry about treatment. He’d get to that point when it was time.

Adrian sighed through his nose again and scratched his neck, looking very concentrated as his mind reeled at where he should possibly start. At that point, Sam didn’t exist anymore, until she would make herself known again.

[/center]

[Sam Hartley]

"Like songs. Music. Meeting people like that is like listening to a good song," Sam said, furrowing her brow slightly to think of something else. "People are like music, it's easy to find any old artist, but the good ones are often unknown." She stood there for a moment, crossing her arms and leaning against the counter. He was absent, focusing on that file. Sam didn't care anymore, she was beyond that. For now. No, she was, she didn't care what was in the file. He was ignoring her, that was cool. Gathering up her shoes, she slipped into them, looking at the clock. Seven minutes. Might as well leave now, Roy'll be pissed, she thought, starting for the door. She looked back at him, shaking her head slightly.

"You spend all this time working with these people, picking out the bad and replacing it with good - like a surgeon, right, but look at yourself. You're stressing yourself out... and for what? To save the world?" she asked randomly, snorting, then turning and leaving, almost chuckling.

Surgeons. Psychiatrists. Oncologists. They go first. So much stress, so many lives in their hands, they just crack. She'd seen it before. Maybe she'd get to see it happen to this guy. Walking back to the lab, she stopped at the vending machine, grabbing a soda and slamming almost half of it. The energy drink wasn't enough, she was going to fall asleep. Stiffing a yawn, she continued down the hallway to the lab, pouring over the tests she had yet to run. A blood test, urine, and a sputum smear. Lovely.