Work Text:
Gus Grimly sat in the waiting room of the ER with a Ticonderoga pencil and a sheet of paper before him.
He wrote out my deepest condolences and then scratched out condolences.
He penciled in regrets.
He crossed it out.
He wrote sorrow.
He crossed the entire phrase out.
He wrote I didn't mean to and then rubbed it out so hard the eraser gummed up and smeared the paper.
The phrase Sorry I shot you in various writing styles and wordings already littered the paper, all crossed out.
Lester hummed in the aisle of the drugstore. There was a Congratulations! card with a floral arrangement on the cover, and a Thank You for the gift card with a monkey and a funny couplet on the inside.
He flexed his hand, now nearly pain-free. The last time he'd been in here had been for ointment.
Lester picked up a much more somber card that seemed perfect until he opened it and found it was full of wacky paper springs and one of those chip-tunes. He hastily closed it and stuffed it back in the rack.
He wanted something at least close to, even if it wasn't exactly thank you for murdering my bully (PS can we have sex later?)
He settled on a card that was blank inside and whistled his way to the register. He could always fill it in later.
The man sprawled in the hospital bed had no paper, so he wrote with his mind.
Dear scumfuck , he began promisingly, but ran into a writer's block.
It wasn't that he was out of ideas, it was that he had too many to implement.
I am gonna kill you so many times .
No, too silly.
Was it worth it?
...No. he knew the answer to that one.
He thought of Numbers, out in the snow. They hadn't let him see the body. He had chosen to disbelieve the news until he could see it.
It was dusty in here.
He blotted his eyes on his hospital sleeve and thought up a lovely torture method involving three dogs, piano wire, duct tape and a blowtorch.
That made him smile.
Now, to compose the second line.
Bill Oswalt sat in his(formerly Vern's) office and scrawled with painful slowness on a card covered with pink floral designs.
Dear Moll–
Sorry ya got shot
Best,
Bill
He sat back with a self-satisfied nod.
Lorne sat in his car and composed a message.
Dear ... he thought for a moment
Deaf guy, he wrote
You and your boss had better ...
No, no. Too Chicago.
I'm coming for you.
...No. there were too many ways that could be taken wrong.
He blew a sigh at the sinking sun.
Hey there! He scrawled.
Heard you took a bit of a turn. Oofta!
Sorry I had to kill your pal, but business is business.
I'll be coming for your boss now, and probably to kill everyone you know.
Sincerely,
Lorne
Lorne reread what he wrote and crumpled the paper up, tossing it into the back seat. He started the car.
Some things are just better said in person.