Rasmus squirmed a little when Lucas ran his glove-covered fingers over the bruise. He couldn't help it. He was ticklish. His body worked against him, making him want to laugh when he was very clearly on death's door. Great. Now I'm going to die cackling as the man with the messy house. But when Lucas pressed against the area around the bruise to make sure nothing was wrong or out of place, Rasmus winced.
"Hey now! Careful! Don't mangle me up. I want an open casket ceremony. Or do you think it's better to be burned on a viking funeral pyre? I'm never sure. I have a thing about fire. But I also have a thing about accidentally being brought back from the dead by some deadbeat necromancer who read his spell book upside down. I absolutely refuse to be a zombie. If I come back as a zombie you have my permission to lop off my head. Just ... try to leave my hair in tact. I'm sure it'll look good even in death. Or undeath. Or whatever."
Maybe he ought to add that information to his last will and testament. Those seemed like important details that one ought not to leave out. You could never be too careful, after all.
Rasmus twitched his nose.
"Dr. Pepper, was it? Any relation to the—" At the mention of Dr. O'Neill, Rasmus huffed. "That man is a blithering idiot. Once I told him that I thought there might have been an outbreak of the plague at the library. I saw a rat, you see. And he told him that I was just imagining things. Hello! Who imagines seeing rats?"
Rasmus frowned. Then he buttoned up his jeans and climbed up onto the exam table. He pulled his shirt off over his heat and set it in his lap.
"You don't have to blow on the stethoscope. I like it cold."
He sat up straight. He knew the routine. He'd done this before. He was well-rehearsed in Minute Clinic etiquette.
"I run the projection booth at the movie theatre. I know. It's shit. But I'm in between passions at the moment."