Dr. Claire D. Edwards (quietplease) wrote in theinvincibles, @ 2015-09-02 16:39:00 |
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Entry tags: | !!!needs a tag, !log, claire edwards |
Who: Claire Edwards (Hush) and Percy Rathborne (Agent Golf)
Where: The Atrium and then Medical Services
When: September 2, mid-afternoon
What: Someone gets sick.
Warnings: Very mild language.
Good days were increasingly rare for Claire, but today had been one. It was her day off and she’d gotten a day pass and had visited her favorite little cafe, pre-meta status. Sure, she’d had to bring along an RS Agent, but at least she’d been outside the facility. Somehow the barrage of sounds weren’t quite so bad when she was outside, and not cooped up constantly in the Lock.
She was planning on capping off the evening with a glass of wine, and was passing through the Atrium to go up to her room when she heard the tell-tale coughing. She paused, debating with herself whether to keep going. Her job title was not the Health Police. It wasn’t until she glanced over at the person that she made up her mind - he looked miserable. It couldn’t hurt to at least check and make sure he’d sought out medical attention already.
“Hi, Dr. Edwards,” she said, approaching and greeting him with no preamble. “You sound a little sick there, have you been to Medical Services yet?”
'Miserable' was a fairly accurate adjective to describe Percival Rathborne, who was currently propped up by the good grace of a stairway railing in the Atrium, half hunched over with his head hanging. He seemed to be trying to steel himself for the ascent, and fighting a losing battle. His face was flushed and matted with perspiration, a long-overused handkerchief clutched in one hand.
At the unexpected voice he lifted his bleary eyes, which met the sight of the local doc with a mix of annoyance and suspicion. "M'fine." He grumbled, making an effort to straighten himself up to his full height, and keep himself steady on his feet. "Just… winded. From joggin'."
Claire didn’t look convinced. “Well, it can’t hurt just to check,” she said, offering him a way to agree to go to Medical Services without having to admit that he was actually not feeling well. “If it’s nothing then you’ll be on your way in no time. And you can even have a lollipop after,” she joked. She kept them on hand for kids (she was not good with kids, bribing with lollipops was a necessity), but they were good for breaking the ice with adults too.
Rathborne's verbal response could probably be best described as a growl, though one that had a hint of defeat in it. He knew bravado couldn't take him much further, and ego had its limits. "No needles." He barked, by way of ensuring that he still retained some sense of agency and authority in the situation, but otherwise began to reluctantly follow Claire towards her clinic.
Claire headed towards the elevator, knowing that her patient was not going to be able to climb nine flights of stairs in his current state. She pressed the up button and tried to make chit-chat while they waited. “So, when did you start not feeling well?” she asked. Okay, perhaps not the best chit-chat, but Claire wasn’t particularly good at that.
"Yesterday." Rathborne grumbled back, with all the taciturn belligerence of a man being questioned by the enemy. "After patrol. Prob'ly caught it from one'a the metas on my squad, some sort'a super bug. Evolved from their freaky meta-genes or somethin'." He rested his back against the elevator wall as it climbed floors, his eyes mostly closing. He seemed to almost startle back awake at the ding of their floor, and slouched through the doorway.
“I haven’t seen any super bugs,” Claire said, not sounding exactly sympathetic to this line of reasoning as she followed him into Medical Services. Still, she had no interest in explaining to him why this wasn’t likely, and instead led him back to one of the examination rooms after confirming with the front desk assistant that it was free.
“Have a seat, Mr…” She flipped open the laptop in the room and brought up the program where medical records were stored. “Sorry, didn’t get your name,” she said, realizing she hadn’t asked it.
"Rathborne." Percy grunted back, perhaps with a hint of the wounded ego to find his notoriety wasn't quite as universal as he might have thought. He clambered laboriously up onto the examination table, sitting at a slouch as he watched the blonde doctor warily. "You wouldn't say nothin' bout it though, would ya?" He drawled in halfhearted accusation, "Meta bugs made by meta terrorists to wipe out the human race, you'd be all hunky dory, wouldn't ya?"
“Hardly,” Claire said, typing his last name into the computer system and coming up with his record. She was only half paying attention to what he was saying about super bugs. She recognized his name now from the conversation they’d had on the network, and while she appreciated the irony, she didn’t allude to it since she felt she was probably already pushing her luck in getting him up here.
She got on with the medical examination, checking all his vitals as she went. “So what are your symptoms?” she asked.
"I feel like ass." Rathborne answered, demonstrating the articulateness for which he was so well known. "Just, y'know, ass. All over." He responded to the examination in the same manner one might expect from a toddler; regarding every instrument with open suspicion, before finally submitting to its administrations with a heavy dose of reluctance. "But the assiness is mostly right in here." He gestured to his face in a weak sweeping motion, most likely indicating his sinuses.
“Open your mouth and say ‘ah,’” Claire instructed, shining a light towards the back of his throat and preparing to put the tongue depressor to use so she could see if his throat and tonsils were inflamed. “Is your nose more stuffed up or runny?” she asked.
"Ahhhhhhh." The sound that came from Percy's throat managed to be filled with a heavy dose of sarcasm, even as it rumbled past his swollen glands. With the depressor removed he smacked his lips distastefully, as though he'd just been forced to lick the bottom of a show. "I'm stuffed up tighter'n a hooker on Fleet Week." He answered, medically.
Claire tossed the tongue depressor in the medical waste basket and reached out to feel his glands and throat gently. “Any sensitivity here?” she asked, ignoring the comment on hookers, although she did smile briefly at it. Honestly, she’d rather deal with someone like Percy’s amusing quips than the child that had barfed on her last week.
Rathborne answered the question by flinching away from the probing touch as if he'd been struck, and giving her an equivalent glare of accusation. "Goddamn woman, that shit hurts!" He seemed to immediately regret the reflex, showing he could be hurt by the deft fingers of a small woman, and immediately puffed up his chest slightly and changed topics. "So you got some drugs for me or what?"
“I don’t think so,” Claire said, putting the stethoscope gingerly in her ears. She hated this part. Someday she could probably forego them, if she could hone her powers enough to concentrate on the heartbeat or sound of the lungs expanding and contracting, but for now, she still needed it. She kept herself from flinching as she listened to the heartbeat, but it wasn’t a pleasant sensation.
“I’m going to lift up your shirt in the back,” she said, moving so she could listen to his lungs. “Would you mind untucking it?”
"Well, now we're talkin'." Rathborne drawled back, fighting through the phlegm and pain to ibue his words with a wealth of sordid subtext. He reached back and pulled the hem of his messily-tucked shirt up, not hesitating to lift it up, giving his abs a flex of vanity for good measure. "Knew y'all had some ulterior motive fer gettin' me up here, Doc."
“Relationships between metas and agents are forbidden,” Claire said, even though she knew that he was well aware of that too. “And I have no interest in getting myself in trouble.” She listened to his lungs, then removed the stethoscope. “Well, the good news is that it appears to just be a cold,” she announced. “But you’ll need to follow my instructions if you expect to be back on your feet quickly.”
Rathborne answered the reminder on conduct with a dry chuckle, letting his shirt fall back down and giving it a couple halfhearted tucks back into his pants. "I hope your instructions include a shit ton of whiskey."
“No, but they do involve lots of liquids,” Claire said, sitting down to type into the computer. “Mostly water - keep yourself hydrated. Juice is okay too, but water is best. I want you to rest - that means no work for the next few days. I’m going to email Agent Ares and let him know you’re out of commission. Get some sudafed - not the over the counter stuff, the kind you get from the pharmacist. Do you need me to write this down?” she asked, clearly unsure how well he would follow her directions.
"Aw, hell…" Rathborne huffed and grumbled as if each prescription were a fresh inconvenience designed to make him miserable, though his true misery prevented him from kicking up too much of a fuss. Deep down he knew he had no choice, but that wouldn't stop him from a nominal show of petulance, especially at the notion of notifying his superiors. "Nah, I got it, I got it." He slid sulkily from the tabletop and waved a dismissive hand, taking a few steps towards the door before turning to cast one last churlish glance to the doctor.
"Where's m'damn lollipop?"