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singillatim2023-10-24 09:23 am
2. Well, I might call you Doctor.
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.
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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.
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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?"
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"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?"
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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.
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"You know, I missed out on some of these crates. Glad you manage to find some." And hey, don't mind Hickey as he looks over at the crate labeled 'medicine.' He really wants to see what's in there.
"You've been busy. Not just here, but with chatting up those here. I talked with Miss Kate Marsh recently."
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The contents of the "medicine" crate are mostly plastic bottles—the pain medications and other tablets and things gathered from around the town. The more dangerous compounds are tucked safely away elsewhere.
At the mention of Kate's name, Goodsir almost flinches.
"Miss Marsh did tell me she'd spoken to you," he says, giving Hickey a very direct look. Go on then. Tell me your version of it.
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Oh color him interested.
"What did she say?"
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Goodsir considers a moment, then shrugs.
"I heard from her that you've decided to be generous with your supplies," he says, as if that was all they'd spoken of. As if he hadn't warned her away from Hickey, or she hadn't repeated his comments about morals and practicals.
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They're nice words. However, they do nothing to hide the smarmy tone and slight hint of venom in Hickey's voice as he says them. You're gonna play your role, right Goodsir? You're gonna not do anything stupid and rat out the mutiny to everybody here, right Goodsir????
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And Goodsir can read all those unspoken words, and it grates at him. Oh, how he'd love to ensure that word of Hickey's misdeeds were spread far and wide. But he knows that were he to do so, his own sins would be laid out for all to see. And that is a thing that he does not want hanging over him.
"And that is why I have opened my door to any who may need aid," he says, struggling to maintain his composure. "I want nothing more than peace within this community, Mr. Hickey. There is enough danger from without. And to that end, I will of course do whatever is necessary."
There's no overt venom in Goodsir's tone, but his meaning is plain enough: put one foot wrong, Mr. Hickey, and I will not stand for it.
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He is enjoying the hell out of this. What must be going through Goodsir's head, what must he be thinking, as Hickey says all this. How he'll want to tell everybody, how he must want to slander Hickey to the high heavens. But Hickey's not an idiot. He knows that Goodsir's in the exact same position he is. Mention one of his sins, he'll mention one right back.
"I'm not the one you need to worry about," he shrugs.
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"No?" Goodsir raises an eyebrow. "You sound like a man with suspicions of his own."
Or a proven record of sowing dissent.
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"After all, our former Lieutenant still clings the most to what once was."
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Goodsir is surprised—and yet, after a moment's consideration, not. Little, he suspects, may be afflicted with a need to prove himself—to lay out justice that he was unable to give before, as a form of atonement perhaps.
And if he does act, Goodsir's not sure that he'd be willing to stop him.
But all right. He'll play along with Hickey's game for now. "I see. Very interesting. I wonder if I ought to have a word, as I have the man's ear, after all."
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"Words won't mean anything unless you have the will to act," Hickey points out. He does. Even Goodsir, for all his piety and holier-than-thou attitude also does. Little? Doesn't.
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"That may depend in part on what action is called for," Goodsir says. "I will speak to him, at the very least, and try to understand his mind."
And let him know that Hickey's spreading slander. Again.
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"Best of luck with that," says the man who isn't gonna do shit. "Now, unless there's something else you want from me? I think we can say this conversation is over and done—until next time, of course. We're stuck with each other, after all."
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That they are. Goodsir can't keep a grimace off his face.
"There's nothing that I want from you, Mr. Hickey, that your absence couldn't solve."
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"Harsh words," he teases. "But I'll take my leave. And probably see you again...mmm, tomorrow? Or the day after?"
But true to his word, he does start to head out.
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Goodsir decides he's not going to dignify that bait with an answer, and merely waits, wordlessly, until the door closes behind Hickey.