Sleep is what he wishes for once he's on the other side of healing. Even as he feels better, the immediate terror gone, whatever magic has made him breathe easy, and drawn out the poisonous decay once more has left him tired, not energized.
Put to bed in scratchy, musty sheets, Bones listens to the fading murmur of voices, the quiet that says they're alone for now.
"Jim?" he murmurs hoarsely, peering out through the nest of blankets to find him in the low light.
Sleep is the last thing on Jim's mind. He's beyond tired, sure, but even after Bones's state improves, and he's no longer contagious, he just can't help being worried about him.
In the dark of the room, late at night, it's easier to pretend that he's actually getting some sleep. Instead he's wide awake, as if waiting for Bones to wake up in an emergency, because he's feeling ill or needs help. Which is why, when Bones murmurs his word, he immediately stirs, shifting to look over his face.
He wrestled with the notion of nothing, but they've never lied to one another, and he doesn't aim to start now.
Bones rolls onto his side to face Jim. Quietly, expecting a twinge in his ribs or his lungs or somewhere else, but it doesn't come. A lump in the mattress digs into his hip, but he ignores it, wrapping his arms around himself.
"Can't sleep." It sounds petulant to himself, a petty complaint after everything Jim and other folks have done for him.
It's not petulant. Jim gets it, gets why Bones would have difficulty sleeping, as much as he would like to find a way for him to rest. At least he's lying down in bed, which is better than nothing.
"It's alright," he murmurs back, an arm curled around Bones's shoulders, fingers brushing gently through the hair on his nape. "Do you want anything? Glass of water, or something?"
Jim's fingers feel like Heaven, soft counterpoint to the vague discomfort of the bed. A lump rises in his throat. "No."
The distant noises of children come and go, the patter of small feet, the calls and squeals and tiny, silver-light laughter. He misses Joanna, a feeling so sharp and sudden it seizes the air in his lungs. He wants to go home, wants to wrap himself around Jim and take him with him; this older, wiser Jim, self-possessed and so selfless, and it's the most selfish thing Bones thinks he's ever asked for in the whole universe.
"Jim." He manages to sound calm, hatefully neutral. "I'm not safe to be around. I don't know when we're getting back to Minaras; I don't know when I'm going to be contagious again. You should have left when I told you to."
Jim doesn't actually expect a serious conversation to come out of a late night haze, a failed attempt on both their ends to get some sleep. So the topic catches him a little by surprise, stilling his fingers as his gaze focuses all the clearer on Bones's face, even in the darkness of the room.
"No, I shouldn't. And I'm not going anywhere, you know I'm not leaving you alone."
John isn't sure what he's expecting when he knocks on the door, which is the electric current keeping him tied to the spot. Mysteries are the currency of any magician worth his name, and John is dedicated to hunting them all down, no matter how venal or mundane. What does this doctor bloke have and how lantern-jawed is he are certainly good enough.
John knocks. If there's a doorbell, John rings it. He gives a whistle.
A slightly rumpled man, six-foot-nothing, eyes a bright watery blue and hair a ruffled blond, John cuts a slouching figure out of the night behind him. He has a cigarette between his lips, a trench coat over his shoulders, and a box of takeout under his arm. Whatever door, window, or hole in the wall is opened to him, John will stick his head in, bringing in a small cloud of nicotine smoke. "Hullo, squire."
Christ. Of course he's blond, and rakishly handsome. What are the odds.
The scowl that greets John curls under week-old scruff and big, hazel eyes ringed in purpling shadows, eyes lit by defiance and a piercing glare. McCoy has two inches on him, broad-shouldered to boot, though he gives the impression of being hollowed out, diminished by illness, too pale and possibly liable to be tipped over by a gentle breeze.
He doesn't feel like himself, doesn't look like himself, but still he draws himself up like he's squaring for a fight, even one he might lose.
Then McCoy waves away the smoke, nose crinkling from its acrid scent, and his posture eases. He checks something in his hand, just a glance that's all ingrained habit.
"Hurry and put that thing out before you come in."
Which he will let him in after, into a dimly lit entryway and a brighter room beyond that they've been treating as a kind of parlor. Beyond that are their other rooms, but he'll gesture his guest to a seat on the sofa. Polite 'n all.
And John thinks, moderately lantern-jawed. What do they feed these American lads, with their bright eyes and glass-cut chins. They must all come from a factory somewhere in Louisiana, with numbers tattooed on their scalp. (Or they end up a walking vegetable garden.)
But instead of making a fuss, John just lets the cigarette drop, crushing it under foot. It was nearly down to the filter anyway. John fought a pointless fucking battle about smoking inside during the 80s and 90s, in between dying of lung cancer-- he's still alive, so he considers the matter satisfyingly concluded
"And they say hospitality's dead," John says with a grin that lets in just a little too much enjoyment of the moment. He settles on the settee, putting the takeout aside. It smells, roughly, like flambeed Christmas. "Tried to find a curry shop, but this was all they had."
He gives the box of takeout a glance and promptly forgets about it, too interested in the man before him. The vaguely herbal scent reminds him of Sizhui's tincture, actually, which feels steeped into his very pores, an unpleasant clash with the tobacco scent clinging to John's coat.
McCoy takes a seat on the coffee table, near enough but not so close he'll crowd him, calibrating the device in his hand.
"Unfortunately, you'll find they're pretty lacking in interestin' fare around here. There's a lot I'd do for a pulled pork sandwich right about now. Hold still, this won't hurt a bit," he adds, and plucks a scanner from the base of the tricorder, starting a slow sweep of the air before John, his expression intent.
And John has barely a moment to react before he's scanned. He'd expected more venal interest when the thing came out, a tiny beeping hunk of plastic that reminds him of nothing so much as a remote control, or maybe those phones they had in the 90s. He never got one himself, late adopter.
John tries not to gape at the device, feeling more open curiosity. He knows the difference between I don't know, but I want it and I just want to know. It's been a while since he's felt the latter, and it's strangely refreshing to be reunited with his better angels. For now, anyway.
"How's that work, then?" He leans forward, not caring if he gets into McCoy's personal space. "What's it say?"
McCoy completes one arc with the tool, studying the readout. He lets John see the display, his vital signs visible under the flip-top, a small diagram of a humanoid body on the readout, flanked by an array of lights and shorthand text.
"Blood pressure's a little high, not uncommon for a smoker. Some nutrient deficiency, also not a surprise- most humans struggle with getting enough Vitamins A and D. You've broken your nose before, and had a handful of broken ribs-" here he lowers the scanner to hover it over John's torso and the bones in question, "And..."
He wets his lower lip, flummoxed, and thumbs the readout, swapping over for a closer look of his lungs. "Well, this here indicates you have scarring deep in your lungs, which ordinarily should mean pulmonary fibrosis, except your lung capacity's normal. Any shortness of breath, or pain when you breathe?"
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
un: absterge | post-sanctuary skirmish
They speak of old sickness in this world.
( When in doubt, bring the plague to your doctor. )
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( He is definitely intrigued! )
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Should you hear more, I beg alert our healer.
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I'll let her know. Thank you for telling me.
By the by, how are you doing? None of this sickness troubling you?
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I have a son.
( Translation, 'bien sur.' )
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And your tidings?
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Cause for celebration, or alarm?
( one should always know )
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moves house here | un: absterge
( Post Unwinding — )
How fares your flesh?
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( 'Better' would have sufficed, Bones. )
I need to return to Minaras. Every bit of work I've done back there, and I'm not doing any of you favors by sticking around here like Typhoid Mary.
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The train. We may smuggle you.
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post-unwinding ; for winscenario
Put to bed in scratchy, musty sheets, Bones listens to the fading murmur of voices, the quiet that says they're alone for now.
"Jim?" he murmurs hoarsely, peering out through the nest of blankets to find him in the low light.
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In the dark of the room, late at night, it's easier to pretend that he's actually getting some sleep. Instead he's wide awake, as if waiting for Bones to wake up in an emergency, because he's feeling ill or needs help. Which is why, when Bones murmurs his word, he immediately stirs, shifting to look over his face.
"Yeah. I'm here. What's wrong?"
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Bones rolls onto his side to face Jim. Quietly, expecting a twinge in his ribs or his lungs or somewhere else, but it doesn't come. A lump in the mattress digs into his hip, but he ignores it, wrapping his arms around himself.
"Can't sleep." It sounds petulant to himself, a petty complaint after everything Jim and other folks have done for him.
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"It's alright," he murmurs back, an arm curled around Bones's shoulders, fingers brushing gently through the hair on his nape. "Do you want anything? Glass of water, or something?"
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The distant noises of children come and go, the patter of small feet, the calls and squeals and tiny, silver-light laughter. He misses Joanna, a feeling so sharp and sudden it seizes the air in his lungs. He wants to go home, wants to wrap himself around Jim and take him with him; this older, wiser Jim, self-possessed and so selfless, and it's the most selfish thing Bones thinks he's ever asked for in the whole universe.
"Jim." He manages to sound calm, hatefully neutral. "I'm not safe to be around. I don't know when we're getting back to Minaras; I don't know when I'm going to be contagious again. You should have left when I told you to."
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"No, I shouldn't. And I'm not going anywhere, you know I'm not leaving you alone."
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encounters 4 u.
John knocks. If there's a doorbell, John rings it. He gives a whistle.
A slightly rumpled man, six-foot-nothing, eyes a bright watery blue and hair a ruffled blond, John cuts a slouching figure out of the night behind him. He has a cigarette between his lips, a trench coat over his shoulders, and a box of takeout under his arm. Whatever door, window, or hole in the wall is opened to him, John will stick his head in, bringing in a small cloud of nicotine smoke. "Hullo, squire."
He reckons he'll be recognized on accent alone.
yea!
The scowl that greets John curls under week-old scruff and big, hazel eyes ringed in purpling shadows, eyes lit by defiance and a piercing glare. McCoy has two inches on him, broad-shouldered to boot, though he gives the impression of being hollowed out, diminished by illness, too pale and possibly liable to be tipped over by a gentle breeze.
He doesn't feel like himself, doesn't look like himself, but still he draws himself up like he's squaring for a fight, even one he might lose.
Then McCoy waves away the smoke, nose crinkling from its acrid scent, and his posture eases. He checks something in his hand, just a glance that's all ingrained habit.
"Hurry and put that thing out before you come in."
Which he will let him in after, into a dimly lit entryway and a brighter room beyond that they've been treating as a kind of parlor. Beyond that are their other rooms, but he'll gesture his guest to a seat on the sofa. Polite 'n all.
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But instead of making a fuss, John just lets the cigarette drop, crushing it under foot. It was nearly down to the filter anyway. John fought a pointless fucking battle about smoking inside during the 80s and 90s, in between dying of lung cancer-- he's still alive, so he considers the matter satisfyingly concluded
"And they say hospitality's dead," John says with a grin that lets in just a little too much enjoyment of the moment. He settles on the settee, putting the takeout aside. It smells, roughly, like flambeed Christmas. "Tried to find a curry shop, but this was all they had."
(He stole it out of the back of someone's truck.)
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McCoy takes a seat on the coffee table, near enough but not so close he'll crowd him, calibrating the device in his hand.
"Unfortunately, you'll find they're pretty lacking in interestin' fare around here. There's a lot I'd do for a pulled pork sandwich right about now. Hold still, this won't hurt a bit," he adds, and plucks a scanner from the base of the tricorder, starting a slow sweep of the air before John, his expression intent.
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John tries not to gape at the device, feeling more open curiosity. He knows the difference between I don't know, but I want it and I just want to know. It's been a while since he's felt the latter, and it's strangely refreshing to be reunited with his better angels. For now, anyway.
"How's that work, then?" He leans forward, not caring if he gets into McCoy's personal space. "What's it say?"
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"Blood pressure's a little high, not uncommon for a smoker. Some nutrient deficiency, also not a surprise- most humans struggle with getting enough Vitamins A and D. You've broken your nose before, and had a handful of broken ribs-" here he lowers the scanner to hover it over John's torso and the bones in question, "And..."
He wets his lower lip, flummoxed, and thumbs the readout, swapping over for a closer look of his lungs. "Well, this here indicates you have scarring deep in your lungs, which ordinarily should mean pulmonary fibrosis, except your lung capacity's normal. Any shortness of breath, or pain when you breathe?"
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