Being in the hospital for a few days was probably for the best, because it would give him an excuse not to deal with anything else for a minute. Not that there was much to deal with, if he wasn't even going to be allowed to visit his ship. He'd already furloughed the crew, but he supposed writing to a few of the key officers and letting them know where things stood might be in order once he was released. The problem with that was that he didn't know where things stood — the curse, as far as he'd been told, might be gone tomorrow or in six months, and no one seemed to know which one. And in the meantime, he'd have nothing to do except sit around at home waiting for his savings to run out, with no income or cash flow. Merlin, he might have to take up teaching debutantes how to sail again (something he had not attempted since the young woman had lost an eye on a vessel that fall, which was enough to turn him off of the idea).
Alfred considered making a comment on the subject, just to see if Zelda would be able to give him any sort of timeline. He knew that if she had an answer, though, she probably would have told him already, and he knew that she was doing her best to sort it all out without getting him killed. The subject of income wasn't one he particularly wanted to bring up with Evander present, either. In a best case scenario, he'd probably start needling Alfred to take the opportunity to go find a safer (and much more boring) career. Worst case, he might offer to try and help, which would be mortifying. Alfred didn't want (or need, at the moment, at least) a loan, and he certainly didn't want Evander to offer to let him move back in to the house in Irvingly the way he'd done for the first few weeks after his return from abroad.
"Well, let's hope for the best, then," Alfred said wearily, ostensibly in response to Zelda's comment about his lungs but really meaning it about everything. Shifting his eyes down to where her fingers rested on his wrist, Alfred moved his thumb slightly to brush against hers. "I can write you," he offered. "If you need to go."
(Not that he wanted her to go, but clearly the three of them staying in the hospital room — Evander trying to pretend he wasn't uncomfortable and the two of them not talking about anything that mattered — was not particularly sustainable).
MJ made the most Alfredy of sets and then two years later she made it EVEN BETTER
Alfred considered making a comment on the subject, just to see if Zelda would be able to give him any sort of timeline. He knew that if she had an answer, though, she probably would have told him already, and he knew that she was doing her best to sort it all out without getting him killed. The subject of income wasn't one he particularly wanted to bring up with Evander present, either. In a best case scenario, he'd probably start needling Alfred to take the opportunity to go find a safer (and much more boring) career. Worst case, he might offer to try and help, which would be mortifying. Alfred didn't want (or need, at the moment, at least) a loan, and he certainly didn't want Evander to offer to let him move back in to the house in Irvingly the way he'd done for the first few weeks after his return from abroad.
"Well, let's hope for the best, then," Alfred said wearily, ostensibly in response to Zelda's comment about his lungs but really meaning it about everything. Shifting his eyes down to where her fingers rested on his wrist, Alfred moved his thumb slightly to brush against hers. "I can write you," he offered. "If you need to go."
(Not that he wanted her to go, but clearly the three of them staying in the hospital room — Evander trying to pretend he wasn't uncomfortable and the two of them not talking about anything that mattered — was not particularly sustainable).
MJ made the most Alfredy of sets and then two years later she made it EVEN BETTER