[Fiction] The Surgeon [Complete]

[z-The Morrigan]

Ford sighed as the computer monitor flickered for the fifth time in twenty minutes. He had little choice but to wait for the antiquated equipment to stabilize or not. Thankfully, this time it did stabilize, and the burly man returned to typing his message on the OpNet. “Madeline? Wanna say anything to White Rat?” A snarl cut through the air and Ford glanced at his roommate. “Can you give me something that I can type into the computer?”

“Nothing more to say that thing,” she grumbled, huffily holding her book higher in front of her face. Her huge dog glanced up at her when she spoke and yawned, showing massive teeth.

“Ok,” he answered, silently wondering if she were really reading or just pretending to get it. She was funny about asking for help; sometimes, she didn’t seem to mind sitting with him and sounding out the words, and other days she acted as if it was a burden she didn’t care to shoulder. He was getting somewhat used to her fluctuations in temperament; he suspected that they were caused by her hypothalamus being unable to regulate her hormones, but without a lab, he had no way to test that.

Ford rubbed his worn keyboard with his fingertips, trying to figure out what to say. It made him nervous to post for her, but after the three-hour registration ordeal, he conceded that this was faster, if not more honest. Let’s see… what to say… Got it. ‘Mr. White Rat, I still hold you to our last words together.’ Vague, but this nut should get it. I wonder what the history there is. Ford didn’t dare ask; Madeline had shown herself to be touchy about some things, and any topic that involved snarls was not to be touched.

The screen flickered again and Ford cursed the fact that this junker couldn’t be relied upon to work right. He could try to buy a monitor that was completely OpNet compatible, but his money was gone, swallowed by ambitious Dutch investigators and spent on the search for her. He might be able to do some odd jobs – coast on some of Madeline’s reputation.

Sighing, he rubbing his cold feet together; he glanced at Madeline again, frowning when he saw that she had buried her feet in her dog’s thick coat. I wish I had a dog to warm my feet, Ford sighed. But he had a perfect image of Madeline’s monstrous dog swallowing a puppy in one gulp, and he let the idea go.

A sudden growl rent the air, followed by the fluttered thud of a book sailing across the room. I guess we were pretending. Unflustered, Ford clicked submit, then stood and scooped up the book, gently closing it properly. He glanced at the cover, running his fingers over the embossed title: My First Reader: for ages six to nine. It hurt him to know that she struggled like a child with this, and that it was his fault she had it so hard.

Ford moved over to her cot, sitting next to her. Llew gave him an unfriendly glance but didn’t move to stop him. “It’s not the book bothering you, is it?” he asked, setting the reader on his lap.

She didn’t answer him immediately, and his eyes studied her lovely features. Ford wanted to make it all better for her, to remove years of coma-inducing drugs so that she could talk properly, and read more than traffic signs. But a tiny, nasty part of him was glad for it; otherwise, she’d still be with her husband and he wouldn’t have a shot at her. Not that he had a great shot as it was.

“Want Vyse,” she snapped, looking at him.

Her red eyes should have been frightening, but to him, they were just her. He met them without a flinch or any fear, giving her nothing but his concern for her. “Oh, trust me, I want him, too,” he said, anger warming his voice. “This Y.T. lady can probably helps us; she seems to be able to run rings around this Revenant law-dog. I’ve sent a private message to her, and I’m sure she’ll have something for us soon.”

He got a smile from her at that, and he had to smile back. He’d love to see that expression on her face everyday; he’d give anything to see it on her face every time she saw him. “Madel-”

The buzzer cut through the moment, and her smile was gone. Ford bit back a curse of frustration. “I’ll get it,” he mumbled, hoping she’d tell him to ignore it for once. He took a step away from her, then stopped when her fingers brushed his. He looked back to her, hoping that she was telling him to say, but her eyes were on the book, and he let it slip into her hands.

The buzzer was the warbling doorbell from the back of the building, and Ford bounced down the stairs, through the trophy hallway and through the back rooms of the abandoned theatre. He stopped and checked the camera that watched the back door; after Typhoon’s break-in, one of the local businesses had bought the system for Madeline. Ford didn’t bother to tell them that it wouldn’t stop any nova, mostly because she could handle most novas, where as he was threatened by a baseline with a cold.

Two men stood outside, one leaning against the other. The leaning one looked injured, and Ford nodded to himself. They were looking for him, not her. He clicked back the lock and popped open the door, saying, “What can I do for you gentlemen?”

The barrel of the gun stopped his smile and his heart. Ford’s eyes fixed on the wild-eyed young man in front of him. “My man’s got a bullet in him,” he said. “And you’re gonna dig it out, doctor.”

[z-The Morrigan]

"This is rash," Ford said, holding up his hands and slipping immediately into a crisis mode. It was a lesson well-learned during his internship at John Hopkins; he didn't know if had ever helped his patients, but it helped him to be calm. "The Morrigan lives here, and will see this as an invasion."

,,

"I don't care!" the man hissed, pushing the gun in his face. Ford stepped back rather than get bashed in the face with the weapon. "Get this bullet outta him!"

,,

"I'm not a doctor," Ford said.

,,

"Bullshit! People are always comin' to you for doctorin'!" the man snapped. The leaning man groaned softly as his friend shifted nervously on his feet.

,,

"No, they come for medical advice," Ford corrected. "I'm happy to set a broken finger or put in a few stitches, but I can't take out a bullet. I don't have any equipment, and no sterile place to work. I'll kill him. Take him to the clinic."

,,

"I can't, the cops be looking for us," the young man said, moving to lean his friend against a counter that had once held a microwave and films. Doing so revealed a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, which he tossed to Ford, still wet with blood. "There's medicine. Fix him. He'd be better off dyin' here than in prison."

,,

"Yeah, I'm sure," Ford said with a self-deprecating chuckle, "but it won't be better for me. I never got my license, so if I did operate and he died... well, I'd be in prison."

,,

"You're gonna be dead if you don't," the man said, leveling the gun further.

,,

"Right," Ford said. He just needed to stall until Madeline came looking for him. And then the shot man changed everything: his legs folded, and he collapsed, his head bouncing off the counter edge. "Shit!" Ford snapped, hopping to his side, ripping open the duffel. The guy must have ripped off an ambulance - there was a mind-boggling amount of medical stuff in there.

,,

He dropped the bag to one side and found the guy's pulse. "He's in shock," Ford said. "Get me that jacket." Ford elevated his feet and snapped on a set of gloves from the duffel. Ripping the shirt away, he gently probed the wound in his side. His patient moaned softly, and Ford scowled. "Not good."

,,

"What? What's wrong?"

“The bullet barely missed an artery, but his moving around has opened the wound more, and it’s torn the artery,” Ford said, feeling a sick feeling creeping into his gut. “He’s bleeding out. We have minutes.” His fingers slipped into the man’s warm flesh and pressed; the outward flow of blood slowed accordingly. “I need something to staunch the wound.”

A thud sounded in the room and Ford looked up to see the gunman crumpled on the floor. Madeline stood behind him, slowly lowering an upraised fist. “Sure, now you show up,” Ford grumped. Llew skidded to a stop behind her, his tongue lolling out.

“I rescue,” she said, tilting her head.

“No, you just volunteered to be my nurse,” Ford grunted. “Put on a set of gloves – I need your fingers.” She stared imperiously at him. “Madeline, he’ll die. I need you.”

The words brought back the last time he’d said them. He’d had blood on his fingers, then too, but he’d been staring down, begging his patient to hold on. She’d had beautiful eyes. It’d been easy to fall into them.

He’d wondered if he’d started having sex with her because of the eyes. They’d been even more gorgeous, shining with tears when they’d been caught in her hospital bed. Apparently, John Hopkins had funny ideas about their interns sleeping with patients.

He snapped out of his reverie at the sound of plastic gloves snapping onto the Morrigan’s hands. “Great, here,” he said, grabbing her hand and sliding it into place. His bloody gloves slid over her gloves, leaving a trail of red as he stripped one of his own off so that he could dig for a needle and thread. Next he dug out some tweezers and a capped scalpel. “Let’s hope I remember how to do this,” he muttered as he picked up his tools and began to dig out the bullet.

[z-The Morrigan]

Ford hated talking to the cops. But tonight, it was surprisingly easy; not only had they been looking for the guys, they had Madeline's broken testimony. In the end, Ford was given one half-assed interrogation on the spot; nothing he said was questioned. It made him tempted to lie, just be to preverse. The cops tipped their hats to their Morrigan and left with the statements.

"Wow, that is the easiest time I've ever had dealing with the cops," he said, grinning at Madeline. She nodded, giving him a distant smile. "That was exciting. Wanna get some late dinner?"

They walked down to the Sonic several blocks away, taking the seats in the center isle. As usual, they ordered whatever they wanted and didn't have to pay a dime for it. Madeline ate gross amounts of food, while Ford just had a sandwich, tator tots and a drink. Llew stretched out under Madeline's feet; his food was at home.

"Thank you for rescuing me," Ford said, breaking the silence that was common with Madeline.

"You are mine," she said, probably the most coherant sentence she'd ever said. Ford quietly hunted in those words for any sign of romance and lust; as he searched, she stood up, dumping her trash. Llew watched her, just as Ford did, though hopefully for different reasons. She was bundled in her winter clothes, but Ford could see the lines of her well-formed body.

He got up and fell into step next to her. In silence, they walked back slowly, taking their time despite the chill in the night. It was almost companionable and it was the closest thing to that sensation that Ford had found with this woman.

"Madeline," he said suddenly, stopping and grabbing her arm. She stopped and he moved to face, watching her mild curiousity as she waited for him to tell her what was going on. "I... Madeline, I..." Words failed him, and he leaned forward, leaned down and kissed her instead.

* * *

He awoke in the hospital. Ford was pretty sure she'd hit him, at least once, though he couldn't remember. No one would tell him what happened; Madeline had said nothing when she had brought him in, and none of the doctors or police seemed interested in pressing her for information. Just as they took her side when she was right, so they took it when she was wrong.

She came to see him that night; standing over his bed, she simply said, "Never again. Need you come home. But never again."

He would come home. And he'd never kiss her again. It was weak of him, yet he couldn't leave her. Leaving her would take more willpower than he had, more strength than he possessed. He loved her, completely, totally and obsessively. He answered the only way he could: "No, never again, Madeline. I'll come home."