Moira Mactaggert Says Och (moiramactaggert) wrote in valarlogs, @ 2012-06-05 16:16:00 |
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Entry tags: | !complete, moira mactaggert, pete wisdom |
"No. Me bits and bobs rot with me."
Who: Moira MacTaggert and Pete Wisdom
What: Random burgers and checkups. They get along about as well as you'd expect.
When: Yesterday
Where: A burger joint
Status: Complete
Rating: PG-13 for Wisdom
Moira was taking a lunch break at a hamburger joint. She didn't usually go for hamburgers but she had a craving, and it was a comfort food. Between her dreams, and an appointment with both a Scott Summers and a Wrex coming up, she wanted some comfort food.
BAM! Crunch! And a nondescript black sedan in the parking lot came to a fitful and abrupt stop, on one of the concrete parking stoppers, the front tires resting up on it, and the front fender dented and hanging askew.
Out of the car emerged a greasy, messy-haired man in his early thirties, his face a mixture of pale and shadows, deadened but steady gaze directed at the door of the establishment. He was wearing a thick overcoat over a suit, and had an equally thick knit scarf around his neck, like he expected it to snow at any moment. He was also finishing off a cigarette, turning his head and spitting it onto the ground, followed by some chunky sounding coughing that bordered on rib-cage rattling, and a thick glob of phlegm that landed with practiced smoker's ease on the cigarette butt, so it put it out with a sizzle.
Into the establishment he goes, to waste away at the rest of everyone's appetite, if they have any left. He doesn't care. His stomach is growling as much as the rest of him does, regularly. It needed food, asap.
Moira looked up, burger halfway to her mouth. What kind of bampot was that? He clearly couldn't drive. He also clearly looked like he was on the edge of death's door, and as a doctor, she had a morbid curiosity. He likely had lung cancer, or the remnants of the flu. Or both.
He definitely still had the remains of the flu. Lung cancer? He's working on it. Avidly.
Pete walked toward the front counter and stared up at the menu for such a long moment, it appeared that he'd gone catatonic. In a low grumble, he began to read aloud, "I'd like one of those cheesy burgers, double, extra mayonnaise. Triple mayonnaise. Chips. Fine. Fries. Bloody daft. Extra large on those. Actually, give me bacon on the double cheeseburger, and I'll take three of those. Extra bacon, extra cheese, extra mayonnaise. Wait. No mayonnaise. Throw salad dressing on them. And tell me you have Coke, because I'm going to doctor it up nicely before I bother swallowing it down. I don't want to gag on it. NO ICE."
Too bad that salad cream was so difficult to find. He threw down an expense card onto the counter, to pay for his heart attack and colon cancer waiting to happen.
Moria thought that man would be dead by the time he was 36, if her calculations were correct.
While Pete's order was fulfilled, the woman taking it handed him an empty cup. Because it was one of those self-service drinking stations like most burger joints have these days.
Moira in fact pulled out a notebook and marked down discrete observations.
"Oh. Then I suppose Americans aren't quite as lazy as I thought they were before. They actually have to exert the effort to fill a drink cup." Pete made a noise that would've been a 'woo' of sheer sarcasm, if he hadn't gurgle coughed in the middle of it. He snatched up his food and cup, and filled it up until there was an inch left from the top. He grabbed a lid and a straw, and sat down at a spot where he could keep an eye on the door and out of all of the windows. Out of one pocket he took out a mini-bar sized bottle of what was probably rum, dumped it into the cup, slapped the lid on, and stabbed it through with a straw. He very promptly began sucking part one of his lunch down, with alcoholic gusto.
The man was clearly from London. Attitude and everything. Then again, Moira had a low opinion of the southerners in her country, which was 'everything not part of Scotland.' The southerners part.
"Bravo, ye bampot."
Pete's eyes moved in her direction, two pools of absolute stagnant blue that were surrounded by bloodshot white. Everything else about him suggested he was looking down his nose at her, even if he hadn't tilted his head up or down. His lips curved into the ghost of a frown.
There was the sudden eyeroll, as though he was put out by anyone even so much as daring to speak to him. The nerve of some people. Pete removed his lips from the lifeline his straw had become, and promptly gruffed, "Get fucked."
He went right back to sucking on the 'soda' like he hadn't been interrupted. Good going, Pete.
Moira snorted at him, "Clever. Ye Londoners always has such a way with words. The shite is comin' out the wrong end." She ate a fry.
"And you Scots can't seem to be able to stop prattling on for ten bloody seconds, and to complete strangers, even. Stuff a haggis in your gob, you harridan, and let others shove some food in their own faces, hm?"
Pete unwrapped a doom burger and began eating it like a starving vulture would descend on a carcass.
"Ooh, harridan, that's a good one, lad! Did ye learn that in primary school?"
"Of course. Because it's impolite to call a woman a fucking obnoxious cunt, isn't it?" He stared over at her, between bites of burger, a glob of cheesy ranch dressing rolling down over his chin. He didn't even feign a whoopsy face. "Oh no. I suppose I called you that. Didn't I."
"Fortunately for the rest o'us ye'll be dead in a few years, of a massive cardiac infarction. If the cancer dunnae get tae ye first!" She ate another fry, as if this conversation was an every day thing.
"Brilliant. That coming from a woman who's eating deep fried arse cancer in potato form. At least I'm right on schedule, but that makes you a hypocrite." He went right back to eating and keeping an eye on his surroundings while doing so.
"I cannae imagine what yuir lungs look like. Can I cut them out of ye? It's all in the interests o'advancin' medical research, of course!"
"No. Me bits and bobs rot with me."
"Tae bad. We could probably culture a new super virus," Moira retorted with a laugh.
Pete flipped her off, and felt pretty much vindicated in that fact that anyone from Scotland was incapable of the following acronym: STFU. He stuffed his mouth with a fistful of chips and started chewing, his cheeks ballooned out like a chipmunk stocking up for winter.
Moira finished her meal, and got up to dump the remains in the trash receptacle, "I can help with that cough, ye know."
He was sucking down more rum and coke, staring up at her from under very lowered eyebrows. It gave him the look of a skinny but nonetheless grumpy caveman. The unkempt scarecrow mess that was his hair did nothing to help matters.
It was nearly a full minute before he bothered to say anything.
"Nosy, aren't you. And assuming that I want or need help with it, for that matter."
"I dunnae care, I just like running tests." And then she gave him a moonfaced smile of Scottish doctor glee.
Pete gave her a zombie-esque stare of British aloofness. It's what they're good at.
She patted him on the head like he was an adorable wee British man, and then strode out of the burger joint.
"...." Pete thought to himself for a moment. Maybe the death wish could get delayed a smidge, because he did want to see Harper caught, at least. More precisely, it wasn't the cough that was bothering him, but the persistent chills and off and on fever that he couldn't seem to shake. If he could get rid of that, then he could happily continue smoking and drinking himself to death, while getting some work done. After all, he didn't have anything else to live for. And that was fine with him.
Those thoughts in mind, Pete got up, and walked to the door, threw it open, and said loudly, "Harridan! Get your arse back here, this instant!"
It was not a request. It was a snapped order. He looks very displeased giving it, as well.
She stopped and turned at him, folding her arms, but she didn't move. Stubbornly.
She was getting a dry, droll look. But, the minute he opened his mouth, it was apparent this Brit had a short fuse.
"Look. You said you could help with the cough, correct? I don't need help with that. It's my bloody internal thermometer that's been smashed to pieces. It's fuckered. Do you have summat for that, because aspirin and scotch aren't making a dent. I can't have this slowing me down. I hate you on contact and I hate doctors, but I need to get my job done. So yes, or no? Can you fix that, even if it's temporarily."
She whipped out a business card and handed it to him, "Call before ye come an' well get ye looked at. I want tae get the cat scan an' X-Rays setup."
A business card? Pete took out a lighter and lit the card on fire, and let it drop onto the sidewalk just outside the door. The he stomped on it, like it was a roach he'd just seen scurrying past. His voice dropped into a low, dangerous growl, "I need it now, and I don't have time to sit through a cat scan or a x-ray. Are you, or are you not a doctor? Can't you write something so I can go the local chemist, pick up medicines, and be done with this mess?"
"Nae without a proper check up! I could lose me license, an yuir nae Tony Stark on his deathbed!"
"No one will hear a thing, you insufferable, paranoid cow." Well, if he had to pull some strings, Pete wasn't afraid to pull them. He took out his Interpol identification and held it at arm's length for her to see. "There. As of now...clear you of any wrong doing...blah blah blaaaaaaah...write me out something so I can go to a chemist, damn you."
Moira rapped her knuckles on his chest, "Hold on." Leaning into her car, she pulled out a bag, then shoved an icy cold stethescope into his shirt, "Breathe ye shite-faced jackass."
It was like she threw dry ice on his chest, he backed away out of reach that quickly, nearly running into the door to get away from her.
"Oh, GOD, that's freezing. Are you trying to KILL ME?!" Pete glared daggers at her, and motioned for her to hold on, by flipping her off. He went inside, got his food, and came stomping back out again. He said one word, "Car." And there he went, stalking past her to his wreckmobile.
He supposed he had time to get in and sit back down on the broken glass. It had still not found a way to work it through three layers of heavy clothing. Yay for that.
Moira shrugged, and got into her own car.
"OVER HERE! NOW you can check." He waved to her and rolled his eyes, because now he can have the heater on. "Where are you going? I didn't want them to dump me lunch in the rubbish, if you don't mind! I could see that prat eyeing it. She's not having my delicious overly salty american bacon."
Pete glared at the establishment, like it was an amusement park filled with cartoon atrocities that deserved to burn.
Moira muttered under her breath. Fine, she was going to have fun with this. She walked over to his car, crawled in, and shoved that ice cold medical instrument onto his chest, while pinning him back with her other arm. hotThat's not hot! That's sadistic!
"FECK! WOT SORT OF DOCTOR ARE YOU?!" he yelled, and would have continued telling her off if he wasn't trying to get away and having a fine coughing fit from yelling that loud.
Moira listened, then shook her head, uttering a single word with a thousand uses and implications, "Och..."
An involuntary shiver ran through his entire body, and not because of the word so much, but because that metal was still cold.
"Wot? Wot's tha' for?" He meant the 'och' of course.
"Yuir goin tae need some major antibiotics." She rapped her knuckles on his rib cage, "An' some X-rays, there's rattlin' in yuir lungs."
"Fine. Write them up for me. I'll get them." Pete swatted her hand away and glared at her, like she didn't need to go knocking on his chest like that. "Don't touch me. Your knuckles are like blocks of ice."
"Yuir burnin' up, lad. Really, ye should be in hospital, hooked up tae fluids!" She jabbed her finger into his chest, "An' nae Whisky!"
"Oh, no. No hospital. I have things that need doing." Needs must and work comes first, there. Pete took out a flask, opened it, and took a very long drink of whiskey from it. Just to be a jackass. "The doctor I went to before I hopped on the plane mentioned pneumonia. I told him to stuff his opinion up his arse, hopefully lit on fire. How long will it last, if I take what you prescribe."
Moira folded her arms and smirked, "It depends. Did they say if it was viral or bacterial?"
"Regular sort. At the time, they certainly didn't tell me that I needed to go to hospital or t'likes. I was cleared to travel."
Pete, as though on autopilot, reached into his trenchcoat pocket and grabbed his pack of cigarettes, opened it, and drew one out.
"If ye take the antibiotics as directed, even if ye feel better, it could take up tae a month. Ye'll likely feel tired an' have a cough that long, at any rate." She took the entire pack and threw it in the street. "An' NAE DEATH STICKS!"
Eye twitch. She did not just touch his cigarettes. Luckily he had more where those came from. He spoke in a tone that said plainly he would strangle her or gladly shoot her, if she pushed it much further, "Write me the slip for the chemist's and give me your card in case things take a turn for the ruddy worst. And do not. Ever. Touch. My fags. Ever. Again."
Moira glared at him for a full minute.
He glared back at her, the whole time. Then he coughed. Right at her.
"Och!" She slapped him so hard her palm stung!
Pete's lips pursed ever so slightly. He roughly grabbed hold of her wrist and narrowed his eyes, as though he was sorely tempted to return the favor. His hand was very warm, obviously from the fever he was running. Being bundled up in southern California certain wasn't helping matters.
He abruptly let go of her and spoke he didn't care at all either way, "Write the slip or don't. But you need to get out of this car. Now. It's likely not the safest thing being in it with me, for any extended period of time."
And if she didn't, he might haul off and slap her one for doing that to him. He was still sorely tempted. His sister would positively slaughter him though for raising a hand to anything female - if she found out - which was perhaps the only barrier to him following through with the act.
Pete's phone rang, conveniently, as Moira backed out of the car. She almost didn't write the slip, but relented and did.
It was probably Fat Bastard, wanting to whine at him. He was nodding at Moira like she was a good scottish cow, just as he answered the phone in his usual agreeable and polite way, "Wisdom here. Wot the feck d’ya want."
He was also waving his free hand around for her to put the slip in that hand, and doing it in an impatient flappy flappy hurry-would-you sort of way.
"Jus' checkin' up on me baby brother, duck," Came the voice on the other end. "I 'ad a vision, of you bein' 'it by a car. It was a wonderful vision."
"Oh, it's you. I thought that Satan was going to come back and claim his spawn. So the rest of us could rejoice and rest easy that the one true evil was back in hell, where it belongs." Speak of the devil. His sister had a long distance radar system for when he had any sort of trouble with women. This hardly surprised him. "I dreamed that I had to stab you in the face. It was delightful. Are you still peddling bondage equipment to the elderly?"
"Moved on from that. Now I'm workin' on a geriatric lesbian porno. More money that way. 'ave you been be'avin?"
Moira slapped the slip into his hand and backed away.
"That's because you're a sick fuck, Romany." Pete gave Moira a level glaring at then nodded at her. It seemed like a sufficient enough thank you as well as a good clue that it was better to get lost, fast. His stare sort of said without word, that if he needed to contact her, he'd find his own way of doing so. He coughed once, twice, and then said in a profoundly surly manner, "I always behave, you tart."
At this rate, Moira was certain that this man would be dead before she talked to him again. Pity. Only not really. She had a hard time sympathizing with a blatant arse like him.
Romany laughed into the phone, as she careened down a street at speeds that would make the younger Wisdom actually blink twice, "That's bullshite an' you know it, Peter Winston Wisdom!"
Pete was hardly indestructible, but he at least pulled himself along by his lips every day, to get moving. He existed on sheer stubborn willpower alone. He didn't even care if Moira was still nearby or not, he was going to have a conversation with his sis. Then he'd get his pills, he'd take the pills, maybe cut down the drinking and smoking by half, and make do. Like he always had.
"Bollocks. Say it's bollocks. You're not even here and you sound like a bloody American. Speaking of bloody Americans, guess what new form of hell I've encountered while I was here? I found the runner." He didn't sound pleased at all. He sounded downright morbid. "She's fawning over children now. Imagine that."
"Katherine? You found Katherine? Well are you goin' to try to get into 'er knickers or not? Always said she could do better n' you. A mollusk would be better n' you." Romany peeled around a corner and stopped in front of an adult book store, "She's got children?"
"No." That covered the first part about getting into her knickers. He felt more ill than just pneumonia mentioning it, so he simplified the second part also, "Yes."
"Wot, she popped some brats out when we weren't looking?"
"No. Roommate. It doesn't matter now, does it? Merely relaying the new fresh hell I'm now in."
Temporarily in. The mortal coil could be shuffled, after his job was done. Maybe he'd conveniently get shot up. And, after all, it's not like she looked back when she started running, was it? What was convenient for Kitty was....simply what was convenient for her. So she did it. Of course, saying 'I'm not ready and too young for this' would've been fucking FANTASTIC as well, but that didn't happen, did it? And no use crying over spilled milk, since it was preferable to let it gnaw away at one's insides until they developed a peptic ulcer and burped up some blood, someday.
He's working on that too. It's part of his long-term plans.
It was time to change the subject, before he began feeling more morbid about his life, in general.
"I'm still coughing up a lung. I told you in that e-mail that doctor was a useless git. Apparently some Scottish cow here thinks that I'm dying. You can send out the invitations to the party. I want an open casket, so that I can make you all retch."
"Oh good. I'll make sure we 'ave a right irish style wake. With dancing." Romany shook her head, walking into the store, gigantic technicolor skirts swishing as she walked, "So she has a roommate, with kids, and you assume they're some'ow a family unit? Pathetic, Petey, pathetic!"
"She sounded moony. I know when she's wrapped in things. She sounds moony. She gets that look in her eyes. She had it. That's all there is to it."
Pete promptly lit a cigarette and grumbled around it, into the phone, "I ran off this time. Seemed fair 'nuff."
"Did she go drinkin' from the furry cup like I said she would?"
"I'm going to safely assume that yes, she did. Happy?" He didn't sound happy. He sounded like he was going to gnaw on the steering wheel, or use it to try to hang himself. Off a lamp post. If he could fit his head through it, to loop it around his neck. Maybe get a tall ladder. "I can't talk about it anymore."
"I'm sorry, Petey. At least she didn't go nutters like that blonde tart?" If there was a way to find something worse, Romany could find it, "Take care of yourself. I really don't want to put you next to mum just yet."
"Of course. Do note, though, that I'm avidly working toward that end. I don't want you to be caught with your knickers down. Oh, my bad. You don't wear knickers, because you’re a disgusting hippy. I'm hanging up now. Ta."
"Only the edible kind!"
"When I'm gone, I'll be sure not to pop in as a ghost and check on you. Especially since when people die, they rot and that's the end of that. But you'll have a brilliant career ahead of you, as a prostitute. I suggest Cambodia. No one will question if your legs feel fuzzy."
With that, Pete hung up on Romany and started the car, for yet another driving 'adventure.'
And his sister? Hexed him. For old times sake.
Didn't matter. He was hexed already. And cursed. And hex cursed. With a side of doom.