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?"
John smiles, and it's all teeth. There's the sense he should have a cigarette between them, to complete the image. His hand certainly lingers near his chin, catching invisible smoke.
"Only when I laugh."
He leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together. "What's it look like, then? That thing- can it X-ray? Partial to pictures of meself, I am."
He imagines he sees mischief in that smile, nestled into the corners of his mouth, gleaming across his teeth. Jim smiles the same way, like he's proud and brimming with interesting secrets he can barely hold onto.
"No. Not quite— if the technology existed here I could send the imaging on to a holo for a closer look, but this is the limit right here. So, why'd the Devil play oncologist for you?"
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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.
no subject
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.)
no subject
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.
no subject
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?"
no subject
"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?"
no subject
"Only when I laugh."
He leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together. "What's it look like, then? That thing- can it X-ray? Partial to pictures of meself, I am."
no subject
"No. Not quite— if the technology existed here I could send the imaging on to a holo for a closer look, but this is the limit right here. So, why'd the Devil play oncologist for you?"