2. Well, I might call you Doctor.

[bestsir]

Who: Harry Goodsir and OPEN
What: Doctor's hours
Where: Harry's cabin, around town
When: Anytime during October, early November
Warnings: TBD

It's taken some weeks—including the awful voices and even, ironically, the words of Cornelius Hickey—for Goodsir to finally act on advice he'd given to Edward Little when they'd first arrived.

He starts by placing a notice on the board. Then he starts scavenging the town for all the medical supplies he can find, consolidating a store of them in his cabin. What he does manage to find, in combination with the contents of his surgeon's chest, isn't nearly as much as he would like, but it will do.

He has learned much, these last few weeks. That disease and infection is caused not by miasma, by tiny animalcules that may be spread by various forms of contact, and that wounds must be kept clean—disinfected—thus averting festering and gangrene. That there are compounds in food that keep the body healthy, and that not all foods contain those compounds. He tries not to dwell on the lives he might have saved with that knowledge on the expedition, and to focus on the here and now. As he said to Little: to live, and do what good he can.

And to try not to let his hatred of Cornelius Hickey consume him.

Comments

[jackdawvision]

Another Edward drops in sooner or later, with no real injuries, just a curiosity that draws him from the notice board to Dr. Goodsir's cabin. The first thing Goodsir might hear is the sound of footsteps on the roof, because Edward Kenway is the sort of person who prefers taking to the rooftops than staying on the ground, and the gentle thud of a body hitting the ground and rolling.

Edward knocks on the door after that, brushing the snow off of his clothes, and when it opens, says, "So you're a Navy surgeon?"

[bestsir]

The sound of something landing on the roof spooks Goodsir badly—then there's the knock on the door.

Cautiously he opens it a crack. When he sees it's Kenway—whom he recognises by sight if not by name—he opens the door wider.

Kenway will now see that he's holding the first thing he grabbed as a weapon when he heard the footsteps on the roof: a television remote control.

He lowers the remote. "I—yes. Yes, I am. Or I was. Do you—do you need aid?"

[jackdawvision]

"Not really, no," says Kenway, with a shake of his head. "But I did come by to ask if there was anything you might need. Food, drink, supplies, weapons." He eyes the remote control in Goodsir's hand, and says, dryly, "You may need the last one more."

A remote control is not an effective bludgeoning tool, unfortunately.

"Edward Kenway, by the way," he adds. "I used to be a sailor myself." He doesn't mention that he used to be a pirate—best not to bring that up just yet, unless Goodsir outright asks him.

[bestsir]

Goodsir looks at the remote control in his hand and puts it down in that embarrassed way someone acts when they're trying to pretend they knew what they were doing all along. He opens the door wider to admit Kenway, if he wants to come in.

"I was hardly a sailor, as was often pointed out to me," he says wryly. "And I was more naturalist than surgeon, though I have studied and practiced medicine and anatomy."

Kenway will see that the main table in the front room is a bit of a jumble—Goodsir has a fair amount of gathered medical supplies and is trying to get them organised.

"As to supplies—of course I will welcome anything that you might find," he adds. "And ... I daresay something to defend myself wouldn't go amiss."

[friendsfordinner]

"Mister Goodsir!" said in a sing-song, perfectly shitty tone of voice.

It's your best friend in the whole world.

Hickey pushes open the door of Harry's cabin, not even bothering to knock, blatantly being nosy as he takes in what's here, what Goodsir's collected, what he can possibly slip into his own pockets for his own use. "You've been keeping busy," Hickey muses, well aware that he's being a humongous shithead.

[bestsir]

Goodsir is standing right there, thank you very much, currently organising the books on the shelves. He's recently scooped up a few more texts of interest and is adding them to his collection.

When Hickey sails in, it's all he can do to not throw the battered Gray's Anatomy that he's holding at the man's head.

"As have you, if I'm not mistaken," he says. "Is there something that you need, Mr. Hickey?"

[friendsfordinner]

"I just wanted to see your situation," said with a smile that can only be described as 'shit-eating' and 'troublesome.' He's very visibly taking a look around Goodsir's house, trying to get as much information as he can, reveling in the fact that he's a pest.

"After all, who knows. I might need to enlist the help of your skills. Easy enough for a man to be injured hunting or trapping. You wouldn't deny being of use to your fellow stranded, would you?"

[bestsir]

Goodsir has cleared some shelves and arranged various boxes and crates there, labelled with things like BANDAGES and DISINFECTANTS and MEDICINES. This front room of the cabin was once a sort of living and dining space, but is now on its way to becoming an examination room.

One that Goodsir would very much like to not have polluted with Hickey's presence.

"I would be remiss if I didn't provide aid where it was needed," he says. Which Hickey will undoubtedly see for the evasive answer it is, but Goodsir doesn't really care.

[questioningmermaids]

Crazy things happen when Holland March's coping mechanisms start to dwindle. The insane idea that maybe he should help around the place has been rolling around his mind since the beginning, of course, but why would he want to do that when he can chain smoke and drink himself into a nice little nest of purposeful ignorance?

His booze is almost entirely gone and somewhere in between raiding the houses for more bottles of anything he can get his hands on and shuffling around living rooms for packs of cigarettes, he's found a first aid kit or two. Not a lot, since most of it's been picked over already, but a quick glance at the notice board tells him there's someone who knows what they're doing. A surgeon, even.

"Dr. Goodsir?" March says it the moment he opens the door, not bothering to knock with one arm holding three plastic white rectangular boxes. He's got his rose tinted aviators from home on his face--they do wonders for how bright the sun is on the snow--and lifts them from his head, squinting as his eyes adjust to the light.

[bestsir]

Goodsir is organising the various medications that he's scavenged from other abandoned buildings, and now he has a collection that mingles the glass bottles from his own medicine chest with various plastic bottles of painkillers, vitamins, rubbing alcohol, iodine, and other items. He looks up when March enters and nods in greeting.

"Yes—can I help you?"

[questioningmermaids]

"Hey. Holland March," he introduces, and then almost immediately and incredibly unceremoniously dumps the three first-aid kits he'd hoarded right onto the nearest surface.

"For you." A beat. "From my basement." Mostly. March's eyebrows lift, settle, and almost immediately he begins to pace around the room, casing it. Old detective habits die hard. He's already got a million questions, but introductions first, right?

[bestsir]

There is a table onto which the kits can go, and Harry stares for a moment before picking one up. A smile spreads across his face.

"Mr. March! Thank you for this! What luck for you to have found them."

[bigbaddy]

To be honest, Bigby was waffling for a good few days after seeing the notice on the board. There are quite a lot of upsides and downsides to the idea of going to see this surgeon, and he isn't really sure which outweigh which in the end, no matter how many times he tries to circle the same thoughts around and around in his mind.

.. in the end he just decides to go.

So there's a knock on the door of Goodsir's cabin, and if the man opens the door, he'll find a fairly gruff-looking man standing there.

".. sir," he says, though something is a little uncertain about his voice as he says that word, like the man isn't used to using a whole lot of politeness.

But he realises he's coming here to ask something, and though diplomacy through anything but his fists isn't exactly his strong suit, he's trying.

"I saw your note, and I have what's probably a pretty odd request."

[bestsir]

Goodsir opens the door—recognises the man, having seen him about, but doesn't know his name as yet. He nods in greeting, then—

"Of course—please, come in."

He opens the door, admitting him to a room that was once a sort of living/dining/kitchen room, and which is slowly being converted into a medical consulting room.

[bigbaddy]

"Thanks."

The word is mumbled more than it's actually said, like the man might just die if he would properly thank someone out loud. But really, Goodsir actually bothering to help other people here and even allowing him in too is at least worthy of some gratitude, even if Bigby sucks at expressing it.

He does follow the other to the room, actually bothering to take a seat on whatever chair might be in there. Bigby sits there faintly awkwardly. Even though he's not really a super big guy, he sits on the chair as if he is - like there's something larger about him than his physical stature.

"Something has changed about my body ever since I showed up here," he explains. Perhaps a little too direct or blunt, not giving Goodsir the opportunity to really ask what's wrong or what Bigby's request is before the man is already throwing it out there. "So I was wondering if you could take a look and see if there is something wrong or different about me."

.. It's all a touch vague, huh. Like he's purposefully wording this in the vaguest possible way, avoiding mentioning directly what has changed as he looks at the other man.

[bestsir]

Yes, that is indeed rather vague. Goodsir frowns slightly and tries to work out the best way to phrase the questions that are forming in his mind.

"It will be difficult to ascertain what's changed, as I don't know what you—what your condition was before," he says. "Could you—it might help if you could explain a little of what concerns you."

[pacificator]

Trudging between town and what she's thinking of as not the Homestead feels all too familiar, but as little luck as she's ever had being around people, she's not exactly in a position to hole up in the cabin she'd found for herself and wait for winter to be over.

But that cabin – it's small, one floor and change, but she's prowled all through it to see what had been left behind. She'd climbed a creaking ladder into the attic and searched through everything there for anything that might be helpful, and struck pay dirt with a trunk of sheets and blankets. One of the flannel sheets she's already cut up and tacked to the windows to keep the warmth in; she'd set the others aside for the bed. But whoever lived here must have experienced summer, too – or been optimistically hoping for one – because there's another set in the trunk: light, soft cotton. It has a bleached-out pattern of primroses, but the cloth is perfectly serviceable. She'd considered it for a while, then tossed sheets, a pile of floursack napkins, and a partly-empty bottle of peroxide that had been tucked under the sink into a rough bag she'd found in the cabin's tiny root cellar, and set out.

Some time later, she steps up to Goodsir's door and knocks, the bag at her feet. She's wearing a fringed black leather jacket over her sweater and scarf, mittens, and skinny black jeans, and Peacemaker is tucked comfortably into the side of her tall black boot. "Yo, anyone home?"

[bestsir]

Goodsir opens the door and to his credit, does not look particularly surprised by her appearance. He's starting to get used to the way people dress and carry themselves around here. He himself is dressed in a sort of odd mishmash of the Victorian clothes he came in and a cosy knit jumper of somewhat later vintage.

"Ah—good afternoon. Please, come in—can I help you?"

[pacificator]

"Holy– muttonchops!" She reels back in surprise. It's like someone gave Doc's mustache Miracle-Gro, doubled it, and stapled one to each side of this guy's face. That's not facial hair, that's topiary.

Wynonna blinks at him for a second, then visibly decides to just move past it, and reaches for the bag as she saunters inside. "I saw your notice. Figured you could use this stuff if you're trying to keep us all in one piece." She reaches into the bag and tosses him the bottle of peroxide, then hauls out part of one of the sheets. "My guess is you're gonna need bandages and lots of 'em."

There's probably some way he can use the sheets and cotton flour bag napkins, right? Every movie or show that has a doctor has someone yelling for towels at least once. This is probably close enough. "You can cut these up into strips, right?"

[rescapee]

If she'd been in her own time, La'an would have gone to sickbay days ago. With slight ailments and injuries, she toughed them out and walked them off, but she'd always been of a firm mind that serious things needed to be treated, if not for your own sake then for the sake of those depending upon you. It's what finally pushes her to seek help here in Milton — she needs to be able to help defend the town if there's another attack or worse, and it's becoming clear that this bout of what seems to be something like pneumonia isn't going to go away on its own.

Bundling up in multiple dark layers with a hat, gloves, and the red scarf she'd been gifted shortly after arriving in this frozen prison, she steadfastly ignores the chills wracking her body as she steps outside. One foot in front of the other, her progress is slow but steady as she makes her way to the Community Hall to examine the message board, and then onward to her next destination. She takes frequent stops, leaning against buildings as fever and exhaustion beg her to lie down in the snow, and frequent coughing bouts steal what breath she manages to pull into her lungs.

By the time she's knocking at the door, she's a pale, shaking mess, and already dreading the walk back to her own cabin. And if there's no one at home...

[bestsir]

Goodsir opens the door and immediately his eyes go wide; she looks awful, and his first fear is consumption. Not that he's seen any signs of it yet, but it has to start somewhere.

"Come in, please." He ushers her to the chair next the the woodstove and gets her to sit.

[rescapee]

Well, if his appearance is anything to go by, he's probably not the most modern doctor she could have hoped for, but these are desperate times and she'll take what she can get. She'll even try not to complain. (Much.)

It's a testament to how terrible she feels that she lets him direct her, her usual independence at odds with the urge to just let someone else take care of her for once. She takes the seat, dropping heavily and sighing audibly at the relief of not having to keep herself upright anymore. But she's not one to beat around the bush, so she gets right to business.

"Do you have any antibiotics?" Her smooth British accent does little to hide how strained the words are, and the question is followed by a deep, wet cough.

[moralabsolutism]

Guess who was just barging in like the four feral cats stacked in a trenchcoat he really was? This guy. Rorschach just came in, having absolutely no manners, and looked at the doctor for a moment. The heat of his gaze could be felt even with the layer of fabric between them. At first glance, he looked more like a ghost or someone who didn't even have a face. Even with a longer look, the moving black blobs over the white surface could make for a disconcerting effect upon the viewer.

"You're the doctor?" He asked in a rasping, guttural voice that sounded like rusty nails being slowly ground down by a machine. It also suited his bizarre appearance perfectly.

[bestsir]

By now, Goodsir's attitude toward every bizarre individual that crosses his threshold can be summarised as this might as well happen. Rorshach's appearance only throws him for a moment, and then he puts his professional face on.

"I—yes. Is there something that you need?"

[moralabsolutism]

"Got bit by a wolf." He'd been lucky when dealing with them when the packs had been in town but not that lucky. One of them had eventually chomped down on his arm. "Need someone to check. Make sure it's healing right."

There was an odd cadence to the way Rorschach spoke, the way he eliminated words in his sentences like 'I', 'that', and 'it.' Already, he was peeling off his layers, though for a man currently living in a frozen wilderness, he was clad rather lightly. Once he was down to his last long-sleeved shirt, he rolled the sleeve up, revealing the bite wound. He had kept it clean and disinfected, which had gone a long way into making sure he was properly on the mend.