Pete Wisdom is saving the world...from itself. (mister_wisdom) wrote in valarlogs, @ 2012-06-12 00:57:00 |
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Entry tags: | !complete, moira mactaggert, pete wisdom |
"I've got good news for you as well, MacTaggert."
Who: Pete, Moira
What: Someone gets called into the mad scientist's doctor's office!
When: Recently-ish
Where: Moira's lab
Rating: PG13, language
Status: Complete!
Moira rang up Pete, leaving a message to 'come into the lab before I come find ye and drag ye sorry arse in'
Pete ignored his phone the precise moment he saw that Moira was calling, because he's a professional arsehole. And because he was signing yet another agreement to rent yet another shithole, because sometimes it was better to have five or six present and former addresses floating around, instead of only one.
Moira kept up the calling. She was going to annoy the piss out of him until he gave up and answered.
Pete reached into his pocket, coughed once around the lit cigarette in his mouth, took out the phone and shut it off.
Moira left a message, then another, then another, then yet another, "Bampot, this is important."
Pete contemplated matters that pertained to his stomach. Primarily, hot dogs. And where he could get a really cheap one, with plenty of spicy peppers and things on it, because that might help clear him out of excess mucus clog ups.
It was with that in mind that Pete set out in his car, trying to keep up his usual bat out of hell pace despite being sick. He had already secured his current little slice of America, via a rat hole that he's 'fortifying'...like only the paranoid can do before they come and go out of their residence(s).
He was on his second cigarette and coughing angrily at the GPS for giving shitty directions, by the time he turned his phone back on and listened to the messages. Even though the sound of Moira's voice was much like listening to a harpy scratching its talons over a chalkboard, it sounded important. So it was with extreme reluctance, that Pete veered off toward the hospital and Frankenstein's lab.
Moira was waiting for him patiently. Like she hadn't been running around flailing in a ruckus, "Have a seat, lad. I've got some things tae tell ye. The good news is yuir not breedin' a new bird flu."
A certain someone was smoking the remains of his cigarette and glaring viciously at Moira, like he just might rip her head off, and quite possibly take a magnificently huge crap right down the bleeding stump that was her neck.
No, he's not putting it out. The hospital and everyone in it could suck it. Sort of like how he was sucking on that cigarette, so he didn't start to murder people, or someone in particular. The same someone who made him miss out on junk food consisting of a hot dog, with peppers on it, and a side of crisps. If he could get it slathered in nuclear curry, he probably would.
Now he was really cranky, really sick, really sober, and really hungry.
"Brilliant. I've got good news for you as well, MacTaggert," Pete growled and tried not to cough while doing so. "I'll make sure your death is swift and messy, but there won't be time for you t'suffer. Because I wouldn't waste that sort of time on you."
Moira glowered at him, like his cigarette was a personal affront to her and to the hospital itself. She stormed over, and ripped it out of his mouth, dropped it on the ground, and stamped on it with incredible vigour.
"Yuir nae goin' tae die. In fact, once ye get over this, ye'll have a good fifty or sae years ahead of ye!" That was the bad news, apparently.
"You will not. Touch. My. Fucking. Cigarette. Ever. Again," he said, looking and sounding most verily pissed off, indeed. He was pretty sure that the flu wasn't going to do him in, anyway. Not that he was a precog or anything, though they had worked on cases with them before. It was a nagging thing in the back of his mind, as though he should simply expect to be jumped, shot, crushed, or ran through a tree chipper near a body of water after spending a week in someone's freezer. "Could've said this over the phone, harridan."
"I wanted tae see the look on yuir face. I did notice some anomalies on yuir blood, though. Have ye been experiencing any increased appetites? Higher body temperatures? Higher alcohol tolerance?"
One hand shot out, took hold of her wrist, and planted her hand against his forehead with the sort of smacking sound that made it a surprise he didn't take two steps back, himself. Considering he was still feeling the chills off and on, he'd left the scarf in the car, but he still had his heavy trench coat on. Pete's forehead was anything but cold.
Instead, he simply glared down at her, holding her hand like it was in a vice, and then let go just as abruptly.
"Beyond the bloody flu, ye bampot!" She yanked her hand back, "All over, like ye ambient went up."
"No. I've been freezing since this mess started. Chills, teeth chattering, can't get warm t'save me fuckin' arse even if I wanted to." He gave her a good staring at, like he was trying to will his eyes to bore holes through her. "I haven't been hungry, except for chips three days ago or summat, a pizza yesterday, an' today...because I'm sick, you tart. I've been drinking, but it's effected me the same the more that I drink. Wot're you on about. Spit it out."
"Stop with the drinking! Feck sake its goin' tae make it worse! An' the smokin' I told ye nae tae smoke! Do ye want tae be healthy or nae?!"
Moira smacked her fist against a gurney, "Yuir a bampot ye really are."
There was an rolling of Pete's eyes into the up position in their sockets, making a show of thinking it over. Right before one arm lifted up like a puppet on strings, and two fingers were raised up at her with robotic precision.
That about answered that didn't it?
"I'm leaving," he said, once he deigned fit to stare at her again, utterly unamused.
"Wait. Lad. If ye notice anything..unusual, call me, immediately. Any hour of any day. Anything yuir body does that cannot be easily explained. I'll nae bother ye otherwise."
She'd probably bother him anyway, for the luls.
Fists were already clenched to start punching at the buttons for the lift, so he could get the hell out of Moira's Little Shop of Horrors.
"I'll be certain to absolutely, positively not do that," Pete grouched on his way out, like this was a monumental waste of his time that could have been filled by hot dogs, scotch, finding more leads, and more cigarettes.
"Och," Moira said. "I'll be contactin' ye again, once I have somethin' taken care of, aye? Jus' for once in yuir life listen to a doctor? Because ye could hurt an innocent. Not that ye care, I've heard of the way ye drive." She sat down, rolling her eyes.
"Look." He turned in place, so he could face her, and try to get a few things straightened out. "I didn't want the help to begin with. I didn't want the help to end with. I don't need the help. I'm doing perfectly bloody fine and I have plenty to keep meself occupied with. I'm taking me medicines. So mind your own bloody business...and leave me out of whatever freaky arse experiments you do in this lab, picking up other people's scabs or dandruff, and studying it to get your sick kicks. Got it?"
Moira just smiled at him, "Good bye, Mr. Wisdom. I can mark down that I tried, but some people dunnae want help."
Huh. Well. Apparently that did it and got the sentiment across. Pete made a sour face at her and left the lab feeling rather good about himself. It would probably last all of ten minutes before he was his cynical, caustic self once more.
Only with hot dogs. Because that is where he was going. Hells to the yes.
Moira was going to have to slap a bracelet on his arm at some point, she just knew it.
He's a guy. He doesn't want a bracelet. He wants a James Bond watch with spy cameras and laser cutters and things in it. Bracelets are for girls.
Watch. Whatever.
That's better. But his mun is probably going to drive him bat shit insane for a while first, kkthanx.