January 23, 1894 — Staff Break Room
Derek McKinnon Philomena Sprout

It wasn't often that Philomen questioned his career choices--and when he did, it was never very seriously or very long--but the times when it happened followed a certain pattern. Mostly, it would be when he found himself of a morning, drinking a cup of tea in the break room and staring down at least half a shift before he could go home and sleep. He'd been staring into his cup with the sort of energy one might expect of someone who was only half-way through work at seven in the morning when the door to the staff room opened.

"Good morning," Philomen greeted when he saw it was McKinnon coming in. "Are you just starting or taking a break?"

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That was it. Last night - the night before? - was the last time Derek ever let Jack talk him into a scrimmage quidditch game at midnight. Derek wasn’t old, but he was approaching an age where bruises took just that much longer to clear up, and he wasn’t happy about it. There was a crick in his neck that just wouldn’t go away either. Angling his head so his neck gave a satisfying crack, Derek smiled to the Welcome Witch as he made his way into the hospital and took his time heading up to the ward but before that - he had just enough time to grab a cup of strong tea Pushing into the room, still bleary eyed he was met with a greeting that - simple as it was - still managed to be too much for this early. “Bit of both, I suppose,” He replied with a rasp; his vocal chords were tired from yelling at his brother to slow the hell down. “I just walked into the building though, if that helps.”

He walked over to the pot and poured himself a cup before dropping two sugars. “You?”

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"Just taking a break," Philomen replied. "Still have half a shift left to go." He took a sip of his own coffee, hoping it would at least imbue him with a bit more energy. "The first night shift is always the worst, I think." The first in a series of night shifts, obviously--this wasn't Phil's first rodeo* by a long way.

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*Insert era-appropriate turn of phrase here. :P

  

“Half a shift, egh.” Derek made a sound at the back of his throat, knowing he had exactly double that left until he could go home and nurse the headache that was currently knocking just behind his eyes. He raised a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Was the first part of your shift at least stimulating enough to keep you awake through it all?” He asked with a wry grin, knowing there were a fair share of shifts that he’d taken before where he’d had to take a pepperup potion or two. There was even one where he’d had a co-worker cast a cheering charm when he could feel his bedside manner souring.

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Philomen made a face. "It wasn't too bad," he said, which translated, of course, to busy, but not in an interesting way. Granted, this being a hospital, "interesting" could mean all sorts of unsavory incidents, and didn't promise a faster night than any other kind. "Any news from the outside world, then?"

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Well there went his hope for any sort of intriguing tale to keep his interest this shift. Derek deflated slightly in his chair, slumping as he nursed his cuppa. He could only inwardly thank Merlin that medi-healing provided the necessary stimulation to keep his attention. “It’s miserable out there, but what else is new.” He replied, raising his cup in a mock-toast to Huxley. “I hope you brought your winter cape when you go home.”

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"That bad, eh?" Philomen said. He grimaced. "Bad weather always brings out the poor decisions, it seems." Phil wasn't sure if it was something about the weather itself or just that the weather conditions themselves made things trickier to navigate. Regardless, someone would inevitably come in with an injury from some ill-advised attempt to keep warm or control the weather or something else.

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“That bad,” Derek reaffirmed with another sip. He took another huge bracing gulp to finish the rest of it before getting back up to refill, preferring to walk instead of use magic; anything that might help him wake up. “Still, I suppose I’d rather face harsh weather outside than in here.” He said with a knowing smirk at Huxley. “You lot in Magical Bugs keeping the rest of us from catching the latest magical flu?”

He often wondered what it was like in other departments; had contemplated on other professions within the hospital to join, but medi-healing seemed to have kept choosing him until it had him firmly in his grasp.

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"Among a host of other things," Philomen mused. "Sometimes I wonder where people pick things up from." Though he supposed that was a common enough lament in the hospital. He didn't envy any of his colleagues, to be honest. He didn't think any of this had it particularly easy when it came to patients coming in with bizarre ailments or injuries from dealing in things they had no business in handling.

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Having had to treat a litany of injuries due to magical objects gone wrong, Derek had an answer for that; however he knew that wasn’t what his colleague had wondered. Derek stretched out his arms and said through a yawn: “You got me, it’s not like they tell the truth when we ask them what happened.” At this he had to laugh.

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"And what they do tell us isn't always useful," Phil mused. If it wasn't a patient exaggerating their symptoms to accelerate the process of them being seen to, it was a patient who downplayed what was happening for one reason or another. Unfortunately, there wasn't a way that Philomen could see to change that. They could all only do the best they could.

Phil emptied his tea cup and set it aside, saying, "Well, I'd best get back to it. Have a good rest of your shift, McKinnon."

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