notabricklayer | (no subject)

(no subject)

Bones McCoy is having a decidedly un-entertaining night. What was going to be a nice break from a ship that is becoming increasingly tense with their long-delayed shore leave being delayed once again has turned into a night of outbreak control and trauma injuries. He has just finished with a girl who managed to give herself one hell of a concussion on top of hearing loss, signing his name to orders to keep her down and quiet for at least a day of observation.

Now, where's that boy that came in with her?

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McCoy sighs - what is it about this place that attracts the stubborn and the martyrs? He pulls the privacy screen, shielding the boy from the busy infirmary.

Eventually he ends up ramping up the full biobed functions, more disturbed by each new thing he finds. The poor kid is severely, chronically malnourished, anemic as all hells, and the bruises... he actually runs a test for clotting disorders twice, trying to find a connection between the anemia and the bruising that doesn't add up to some very nasty and regular beating.

Before he's done, settled into the bed for the night with a chart full of orders and a new pair of clean PJs, Autor has garnered some new items - a plasma transfusion pack strapped around his right forearm (liberally spiked with analgesics, vitamin B complex, and the antitoxin to the latest round of zombism), a whole blood transfusion pack around the left, and the removal of every damned bruise Bones could find (after proper documentation). After that, repairing the most recent slices and bites, and repairing the hearing damage is almost an afterthought.

It's a rather grumpy Bones that goes off to see his next patient. Feel sorry for that next patient, Milliways.

Autor can't quite remember the face of the horrifying, efficient man who'd fixed his ears, nor how he ended up curled up in a ball on a bed.

He does remember the nightmares, his first in years. Waking, again and again, with stiff limbs and quiet gasps and a bitten lip. Kicking free of the thrice tangled sheets--and eventually balling them up and tossing them in a corner.

Someone took off my shoes, he thinks absently. He raises his arms--or, rather, he tries; his new jewelry surprises him enough to weigh him down at first.

The boy wrinkles his nose as his bare feet hit the floor. Using the bed for balance, he stalks to the end to explore the bag where--thankfully!--he finds his bloodied uniform.

He feels fabulous. And he can't stay here, trapped.

"Morning, sunshine." Look Autor, it's the horrifying and efficient doctor! Also the man who's giving Autor a very jaundiced look of disapproval - clearly, someone doesn't think much of the boy's escape plans.

Autor blinks at him--it takes him a second to realize the doctor isn't addressing a non-existent Rae--and then straightens his shoulders.

"Hello," he says, recognizing the drawl outright. "Given the things I'm wearing, I'm assuming you're not planning to release me just yet?"

"Wasn't my first thought, no." He replies, picking the boy's chart up and perusing it. "Shouldn't be yours, either."

Autor sets the bag on the bed and searches through the contents of his pockets, which, thankfully, do not appear to have been disturbed.

"Should it not?" he says. "I feel wonderful and have no complaints. Thank you for treating me."

"Nope." McCoy perches on the end of the bed, comfortably - it's been a long night. "Because ideally you've got another few hours of therapy headed your way, and we should really have a chat."

Autor stiffens at 'therapy'. He tongues his dry palate and sets the bag aside. "What, exactly, concerns you?"

"Well, that reaction just got added to the list, for one." McCoy replies, dry as dust. "Sit down kid, I'm not going to hurt you. It'd be a crying shame to undo that much work."

Autor performs a graceful spin on one foot--oh, he feels better than he has in months--and seats himself on the bed. Folding his arms might spoil the effect, but he's cold. Yes. Unfortunately, the things strapped to him get in the way.

He tries not to think of them as rotting hands pulling him back.

"How big is the list?"

"My name's Leonard McCoy - I'm a medical officer on board a Federation starship, not that it much matters here. What's your name?" McCoy says instead of directly answering.

Autor lifts his arms. "That explains the technology. It's impressive; I'd love to go over how it works with you, sometime," he says, and then adjusts his glasses. "Since you've stripped me of my injuries, I imagine you're curious about them. Shall we start with those or somewhere else?"

The kid rests his fists on his knees. "Hello, Dr. McCoy," he says. "I am Autor."

"Hello Autor. I take it you're feeling better?" McCoy is, contrary to popular opinion, capable of patience. He does work with Kirk on a rather long-term basis, after all.

"As well as anyone can feel after being dragged into a pit of raging dead things," Autor says, plucking at the edge of the blanket. "I assume they're gone?"

"They are - haven't seen a new case in hours." McCoy acknowledges, "But you didn't just start feeling bad last night."

"No, but it was the worst night of my life, bar none," he says quietly, and goosebumps pop up on his arms as he shudders. "And, really... everyone else handled it so much better than I did."

Autor takes a moment more to pluck at the blanket, frowning at it. "As for your new concerns, would you please quit baiting me with leading questions?"

Edited 2013-10-28 04:07 (UTC)

"I'm sorry you feel I am baiting you, Autor. I assure you that isn't my intention." McCoy replies solemnly. "Usually this part comes first - last night wasn't a very traditional visit."

Autor resists the temptation to sass the man. It's not difficult; he feels wonderful, physically, but the rest of him crumples as easy as a dead man's skull under the librarian's thick book.

"So what is 'this part'?" he asks. "I've seen Guppy for bronchitis, but other than that I haven't been to any modern physicians."

"We try to get to know our patients in my time - it helps me make sure I know what is needed, and provide a more holistic approach to care." McCoy replies calmly. "For example, it will help me find out why you're were so horribly anemic - another few days, and you wouldn't have needed the zombies, son."

Autor's thoughts waft around in his brain like cigarette smoke--What, you don't have any theories? Even with all of your technology, sufficiently advanced?--but he snuffs them out.

"Zombies?" he asks, blinking. "Is that what they're called? Oswin mentioned something like that, once. Ellen, too, but I didn't think..."

Autor trails off, and then flicks his tongue, trying to remove the taste of one in particular. "I haven't run into a vampire," he says reluctantly, turning to the blanket again. "But I am a vegetarian? So that probably has a lot to do with it."

"What made you decide to become a vegetarian? I take it this wasn't a cultural choice, or you wouldn't have a problem creating balanced meals - the knowledge would be ubiquitous." Bones observes, curious.

Autor frowns again, clearly disapproving of Bones' interrogation into his personal choices. "I met people here who offered a new definition of cruelty," he says. "For the most part, animals can't fight back, and yet we still kill them, and eat them. They may as well be toddlers"--no don't think don't think it was already dead--"for all they understand."

Then he winces, pulling a knee up to his chest. "Ah, please don't tell Sunshine about my diet. I'll never hear the end of it."

Edited 2013-10-28 05:10 (UTC)

"Autor... I hope you know, nothing you say here will ever be repeated. I do not report to anyone, and my records are kept in my own personal lockbox, here in Milliways." McCoy replies seriously, stepping out of his role of healer for a moment. "No matter what you do or say, no one will hear it from me."

Autor raises a brow. "There are telepaths, you know," the boy says, tapping his foot on the bed. "And a singularly determined person could follow you rather easily." Not to mention cameras, soon. "But I don't doubt your sincerity, which is refreshing. Thank you."

He allows his foot to dangle off of the edge of the bed again. "In any case, you've your theory, and I've been treated. Quite well, in fact. May I leave?"

Bones frowns - and makes a gut decision. Olga might mock him for those, but he's found that fairly often he's right on those. He'd rather cut the kid some slack now, and maintain that sliver of trust in case the kid gets in trouble again later, than hold his ground for a complete diagnosis and treatment now.

"Let me get you some guidelines on acceptable meals, Autor - you can't go on as you have been, or eventually you'll give yourself a deficiency I can't fix." He stands, tucking the file under his arm as he steps over to the computer and pulls up the handouts section.

"Wait, really?" Autor blurts out before he can stop himself. "I appreciate that, Dr. McCoy."

Fluid pumps removed and handouts accepted, Autor shoulders his bag. With a nod to the doctor, the boy flies out to the bar to pick up an 'acceptable meal', comfy infirmary pajamas be damned. Really, this is the best he's felt in months, and he's starving.

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