[size=9pt]Usually, Moon's not so fond of the night. With it comes the ebb and flow of memories he doesn't want to think about, of thoughts that grab onto his head and hold tight, weigh down his chest 'till he feels like, when morning comes, he won't be able to pull himself from bed. It's a hassle he doesn't want to deal with; so he picks the nightshifts.

He likes them. It's never quiet in the hospital; always someone to care for, always something to do, and if not that, then the steady hush of breathing throughout the rooms. Always sound, no matter how small; never complete silence. Sometimes, at night, the kids will get scared, too, and Moon'll be able to hang out with them for a while. Read them a story, or, if they're all out of books, come up with one on the spot, and Moon must be a closet genius with words, because the kids always light up when he's forced to improvise with his own tales. It makes him feel as warm as their smile looks.

Tonight is different, though. Mabel's losing it. She's so full of confusion, of anger and aimlessness, and she fights them any time they try to help. The woman is aging, and even even when she wasn't plagued with dementia, she was fucking coocoo. When she gets bad, she looks at Moon with such pure disgust, a snarl pulled on her wrinkled lips, and she spits, and she kicks, and she thrashes. They're used to it, by now, but tonight Edgar was there, in his perfectly ironed shirt, with a rose in hand and his big, dumb glasses. He'd skipped through the Hospital's door with it in hand, and through the hallways everyone called a cheery greeting, because if you didn't know the exact date of Edgar and Mabel's anniversary, did you even fucking work here? He'd arrived in her room and presented her with the flower and the box of chocolates, and she looked at him with the bitterness of a woman who didn't even know her husband when she saw him.

Edgar had left 4 hours ago, glassy-eyed, and Mabel had fallen into an angry slumber shortly after, but Moon was still thinking about it. 3 am, and there he sat, atop the counter in the foyer. Usually, there'd be someone behind the desk, and the lights would be on and so would all the computers, but apparently a couple of shifts had fallen through tonight with people calling in sick. There were no janitors, no receptionists, and he was pretty sure there were only two or three nurses on call tonight, too. They were lucky; it seemed, tonight, the patients were sleeping soundly. Not a problem in sight.

There was a bottle of whiskey under the counter. Not his; Old Joe, the guy who cleaned the toilets, had slipped it under there a while ago with a passing wink Moon's way, and he'd never thought about it again, but tonight, it was on his mind. What was also on his mind, however, was the one Doctor on call, off somewhere down the other end in her gorgeous, glistening office, and the fact that he really didn't plan on getting fired anytime soon. So he sat, self control wavering by the millisecond, and he thought about life, death, love, prune juice, and the inevitability of it all as he stared down at off-white panels of the floor.

[size=9pt]The offwhite tiles get sick of him staring at them and suddenly morph into something boring, so he flicks his gaze to the clock. It ticks loudly, the only thing breaking the silence, and, pausing in his thoughts, he's suddenly aware of the suffocating silence. He fucking hates it. He's getting itchy and the urge to grab for the bottle gains on him with every second that passes, until it all becomes too much. He lifts his hand from the counter and then-- Imperia.

Moon stares blankly at her for a moment, as she settles against the wall and asks her question. He slowly lowers his hand. He's been caught red handed and, surely, he should be worrying about that, but instead, he's thinking about how gorgeous she looks. Even at 3 am, with big eyes looking slightly foggy with exhaustion and in those drop dead ugly scrubs, she's really, really beautiful. Moon's usually not one to be so startled by this sort of thing-- he's all grins and crescent eyes if he wants to flirt, smooth as they come, as far as he's concerned. But, now, there's the slightest hint of a pause in him. Its gone as quick as it comes.

"Thinking? Nah. I don't do that." He says, the beginning of a smile gracing his lips. "Might hurt myself." As fitting as the situation is, he's not about to spill all his deepest feelings to Imperia like a scene out of Grey's Anatomy. He's too careful for that. "That's your job. All I gotta' do is change old people diapers and look pretty."

He goes quiet for a moment, and the silence sinks in around them again. But it doesn't feel bad anymore. Now, there's someone else there with him. If he listens close, he's sure he could hear her breathing. But that'd be weird. Instead, he glances back up to the dark haired woman and squints, considering her for a moment. She doesn't look the type to drink. Either that, or she's a secret alcoholic. It could be either. Moon's met the type before; all gentle smiles and graceful steps, but with a liver worse off than his, behind it all. He's curious to see if that's the case, with her. "Hey, Frenchie," he says, voice quiet to suit the atmosphere that weighs heavy on the Hospital, in these hours. He tilts his head, runs his tongue over his teeth and swings his legs like a child that's surely up to no good. "Tell me if I've got this all wrong, but you wouldn't report me to the Higher Ups for nothing, would you? I got the feeling you like me too much to get me sacked."

[size=14pt]perimoon cancelled! thats it folks! shows over! go home! lovely seeing you all but we're now closed for business!