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The streets are larger here. So are the alleys. Which would be worse but, since the weather's better here than the four seasons of rain, rain, rain and rain that Michael's used to means there's nothing to take cover from. No rain means there's nothing to put his cigarette out. Which is good. On the corner of one of the massive city blocks and one of the smaller, by a technicality, alleys He still occasionally bends to obscure himself, as best he can, from view.
A not so keen eye could easily tell why. The bloodstains on the small towel he's producing and hiding as he occasionally half-ducks into the alley are a clue. The additional, fresh, stains are conclusive evidence. Between the barking and coughing he's still able to take a draw on his cigarette. Strangely trying not to look of the curling strands of smoke on his inhale or even the plumes as blows them out slowly.
*
This is no place for a woman to be walking home alone from work, but Claire has grown up in Hell's Kitchen her whole life. Almost everyone knows her, she speaks the language of these square blocks, and she really could give a damn less. Having picked up a second shift from a friend, and used the chaos of a weekend to sneak a few other supplies away from the storage closet, she's not getting out until the evening now and has a slightly too heavy back pack across her shoulders. She's definitely walking like a woman who has been on her feet 16 hours straight and hasn't slept in the last 30, but that's just a part of her life. So, it takes a moment when one of the local street kids dashes up to her, speaking in quick Spanish about a bleeding man a few alleyways over. That was the other thing all the locals knew — Claire was a soft touch for such things.
So, she quickly speaks back to the kid, telling him she's got it, and then she's double timing it down the street to the indicated alleyway. She has no clue if she's going to find someone with a cut on his hand, or bleeding out and dead. No one knew in these areas. So, she's a bit surprised when she does see a shadowed man standing up straight. She's not even certain if he's hurt for a few moments. Shit. Did I just get conned? "…If this is a con job, I really don't have anything but gauze in this bag. It isn't worth it, I promise you." SHe mutters to the man.
*
Hell's Kitchen wasn't Sammy's normal haunt, but one had to admit she tended to blend in here a little better then she ever does at the clinic in Harlem. The blonde woman was wearing her coat over her shoulders, long enough to cover her own uniform beneath while she made her own walk home across far more distance than anyone should be willing to put up with. Needs must, right? Clutching her smaller satchel over one shoulder it's not the man himself that catches her attention, but rather the rapid-fire urgent Spanish that makes her blink. It was dangerous enough walking home at this hour, let alone following strangers into alleyways. Ah hell, it wouldn't be the craziest thing she did this month.
Samantha moves up, making her way after the running form of Claire.
*
If confusion's taking some kind of hold on the lady who's just approached and addressed him Michael's face shows the confusion's reign over many successful generations to him. "Con?" Comes a heavy Irish accent. Warm, friendly, although a supreme effort to throttle back the pace can all be heard. "I'm still trying to get the hang of talking round here so people don't think I'm single'd. Or a tourist. I wouldn't be bringing shame over my own head by taking the mick with a lady either. Y'know? I might be from across the pond but we still got plenty manners there."
Carefully, slowly, and with his free hand Michael says, "Michael, Michael O'Connell. Hope it's a pleasure to meet you there." He looks around a little catching further movement further down what to him is one of the long straight streets. "Has anyone round here heard of standing still? As I've yet t'see it." He notes to himself with a subtle shake of his head. Stifling a cough with the now quite bloody towel prevents further intercontinental observations though.
*
The accent, completely out of place in this area of the city AND this alley, immediately sets Claire at ease. He's far more likely to have been stabbed in a drunken bar brawl with that accent than be pulling one over on her. Of course, then she hears Samantha's dashing footsteps behind her and is just about to reach for her own pepper spray, turning around to look at who is running after her. Then she breathes out in relief, "Oh, Sam… dammit you scared me." She gives a tired little laugh. Sam would know the look in Claire's eyes. That 30 hours awake and a little too paranoid for it look. "Good to see you. Think…" then she's looking back to MIchael, "Think we've got a patient here."
The Latina woman steps a bit closer, giving Michael a somewhat more reassuring smile and offering her hand as he offers his name. "Michael? Good to meet you. I'm Claire… this is my friend Sam. We… We're nurses. One of the local kids said you might be bleeding? I…think he's right." Claire nods towards the towel his occupied hand is clutching. "You want a hand with that? INstead of walking the streets of New York slowing bleeding to death?"
*
"Claire, what the hell are you doing out here this late at…" she trails off. It's a little bit of the pot calling the kettle black anyway. She'd say more perhaps later, for now that bloody towel suggests they've got more immediate problems. The accented words make her blink, but really New York was full of all sorts. Hell, she'd encountered aliens, it had left her a little more open minded. "You get into a fight Michael?" she adds in her questioning, hanging a little to the side of Claire so that she can do the inspecting while Samantha herself can intervene if the 'patient' is a little unrully. Besides, any good nurse knew not to barge over someone who'd just come off a night duty. Stepping in front of a bus would be less painful.
*
Colleen arrives from Greenwich Village.
*
Colleen has arrived.
*
"Ach now." Michael starts with a weak attempt to dismiss the blood and towel both. He nods in acknowledgement to Samantha and tries to explain to both of them. "I took a bit of a kicking a few days ago. Some wee twig of a boy was about to get jumped round the back of a bar. Couldnae leave him there." A chuckle, followed by a wince for pushing his luck, pauses him. He explains, "Turns out though when danger reared its ugly head the boy turned upon his heels and fled. Leaving me, two tae one, with them sportin' shooters."
He shrugs and is rewarded with further pain for it, "Turns out they dinnae work as well when there's nae bullets in 'em. Still. They clubbed me a wee bit before the bouncer got wise and chased 'em off. I'll just need to walk it off. It's grand of ye both to offer but you really dinnae need to waste your time there wi' me." Michael feebly protests before the cough redoubles its efforts and manages to make him clutch at his core in a vain effort to hold back the pain. Surprisingly wishing doesn't make it so. He drops his cigarette to free his other arm in a futile effort to aid the clutching. He also drops a little, from standing to crouching on one knee.
*
Oh yeah, the coughing and keeling over is making his case for him REAL well. The look in Claire's eyes is dead pan flat, matching the smirk on her lips. "Yes. Perfectly healthy. Bleeding actively for 'a few days' and coughing hard enough that the hospital would be checking you for pneumonia? That's absolutely healthy. Come on, Sam, let's leave Miracle-Michael here to his own devices. He's totally, entirely got this WELL In hand." The sarcasm in Claire's voice is so thick it's dripping. She really is in a mood tonight. And, apparently, she's playing bad cop to Sam's good cop. Or is that bad nurse, good nurse?
Moving a bit closer, Claire unhooks the backpack from her shoulders and lets it rest on the ground near her feet. "We can either patch you up here in the dirty alleyway, or we can get you up the block to my place and clean you up properly. Or, Sam there can knock you out and we'll drag you back somewhere clean and safe like the cave women we are, but… that is generally the lease popular option."
*
Colleen has left.
*
"You look heavy, and I just laundered this coat so…probably better to come with us." Claire's immediate suggestion of her place makes the blonde pause, after all nothing Michael had said so far made it seem like he'd have a reason beyond stubborness to go to a hospital. Unless he was completely broke anyway. "You need fluids at the very least, probably a suture or two, and I'm going to guess that if you've been usin' that towel all this time there's a good risk of infection." Good nurse bad nurse? Samantha shakes her head a little bit as she moves to hoist Michael back to his feet with suprising strength and then lift his arm up higher than his head. "Get patched up there, get patched up at hers, or bleed out in an alleyway? Shouldn't take much thinking."
*
Colleen has arrived.
*
Colleen leaves, heading towards Greenwich Village [S].
*
Colleen has left.
*
At least he was only outnumbered two to one the last time! Although there were no parental figures, foster or otherwise, in the earlier years of his life he was raised. Mainly by himself. So the self instilled sense to have the right manners means one telling's not going to be something he's going to talk back to. Never mind two. Especially from well, Doctors, Nurses, same difference in his mind, people working bad hours for worse pay to do the best things to help others. In other words…
"…" Okay. Another breath or two of air before trying the words again. Right. This time. In other words… "You're the boss there. Bosses, to be fair to myself. I can't say sorry enough that you're putting yourselves to any trouble on my part." He doesn't resist but tries to lean and move as in time with being repositioned as possible. Once upright, albeit supported to stay the same he asks, "I'm just the big lump of an eejit bein' a bother here. What's best to do? As I'll no be moanin'."
*
"Better you be moaning than be dead and stop moaning. Come on. My apartment's not far." Any sense of self protection seems quite gone for Claire. Enough heroes and anti-heroes know her place now that she's stopped being worried about dragging people home. ALso enough people in the area know the good work she does and a single scream from her would bring a lot of fists. So, nodding a thank you to Samantha for the help, "You wanna get his other arm?" She leans over and, far more gentle than her voice, helps pick Michael up with her friend's assistance. That done, she leads the other block and a half to the third floor walk up she has. "…This is going to suck for your lungs. But you can rest once we're upstairs…"
*
Michael has partially disconnected.
*
Michael has partially disconnected.
*
To be fair… the good ladies don't even know the half of it. He'd been smoking all right. So he could hide the smoke he was generating to aid his breathing. The power he protests isn't his does allow him to produce a cloud of what looks like smoke but is, in fact breathable. Only reason he's still alive. Like during that fire Michael kept the flow of smoke in his lugs so he could breathe. Or, in this case breath easier.
Training and tutoring to push through the pain's all well and good but it's been a while since the ex-military man became the same and, suddenly going to unsupported breathing is another factor showing on his face. Not a word or whimper passes through sheer force of will but the screwed up expresion and sweat on his brow shows how much he's hurting.
On the last step he weakly jokes, "Shame it wasnae goin' the other way. I coulda took the windae."
*
"You are going to be one of THOSE patients, aren't you?" Claire grumbles quietly, accepting Samantha's help just enough to get the man up the stairs. Claire's a touch breathless herself, just physically exhausted from her shift for the day, but soon enough the door to her place is open and she looks to her friend, "Sam, I've got it from here. Thanks… I'll be fine." She states flatly, double reassuring the woman before good byes are exchanged and she helps him into her semi-shabby, one bedroom apartment. It's poorly lit, but the furniture is comfortable and the place is home. SHe shuts the door with her hip, gently helping him over to the couch. "…Your breath is… struggled. Is this another injury, a collapsing lung, or something else?" She asks him, as she puts her bag on the floor and opens it the rest of the way, showing a whole slew of medical supplies
*
"Not at all. I'm a hopeless optimist. Things usually go from bad t'worse but I still think they're gonnae get better." Michael says, a little lightened that his ability to make banter's still in full working order. He offers some heartfelt thanks, and further apologies, to Samantha as she departs. Then he makes as directed slumping readily and happily letting the furniture take his weight.
"No collapsed lung. I'd know about that." Or he'd not have been able to get extra breathable gas into each lung in turn when he checked. "I'd guess that I've scraped something. As I've still been coughing blood at times. Has been on and off though. My breathing has been more laboured now 'cause… I was taking something to help me breathe", of sorts, "past few days and only stopped getting it a not long before you arrived." Like immediately before.
*
"…Coughing up blood? You should be in a hospital. Absolutely, should be. Why didn't you go to one? No use in lying to me. I'm the one who could save your life here." Without cleaning her hands yet, she reaches up and begins to unbutton his shirt. He might feel great about forcibly undressed by a pretty woman normally, but Claire's motions are all business and rather cold about it. Once she's got his chest bared, especially if she needs to get through an undershirt, she reaches down to her bag and cleans off her hands with a good dose of rubbing alcohol before she pulls on a set of gloves. "Alright…The wound. Let me see properly."
*
"Couple of things…" Michael says and manages not to say ma'am. He's treating the conversation and undressing like a debrief. As they aren't dissimilar. He'd get his next 'treatment' back in the day whilst either getting mission parameters and memorising pertinent information or giving as much detail as he could to any question asked during a debrief. Out of habit he tries to lie still, arms and legs in the right place for the injectors they used to use…
Probably not even noticable though in his stance. Michael doesn't realise he's doing it. "First, this isn't the NHS and, to be fair, it's a pay to play job here. So, considering one of the many things I didn't bring across wi' me was the millions of dollars I didnae have… y'know? Second, like I said, I'm an eejit. No defense or even offence t'masel' but… aye. Last… I'm a big eejit. Needs sayin' twice. Durin' the war it was different and orders were orders. I couldnae stop if I'd lost ma arms legs an' heid. Unless I was tol'. Since they never told me to go see the medics… got used to kepp going stop for nothing. Like I say there. Big eejit."
*
While the woman might be 'just a nurse', Claire Temple has the eyes of a doctor. A sugeon, almost, and one made for the battle field. He's seen eyes like that before, eyes from the war, someone able to assess a patient in a matter of moments. Skin tone, lip color, the sound of his breath, the edges of the wound and how purple the flesh has or has not gotten around it. She makes a small sound in her throat, shaking her head, "You are lucky… this… this isn't infected already. Damned lucky, and yes, an idiot. This is true." SHe mutters, reaching down for her bag and grabbing that rubbing alcohol. It's going to sting like a bitch, but she pours it across the room, "…Just making certain it stays that way. Hold still."
*
Michael has partially disconnected.
*
Michael's surprisingly at home here. Okay she's not an official handler assigned to him by the crown but he reacts as if it's back then and she is. At least he admitted how daft he, in fact, was up front. So, debrief's over… time for the next treatment. He relaxes, a long practiced ritual from someone who's used to the fact that, should you tense up, it hurts more. In the long run… doesn't matter who you are… you learn to relax.
Before it's about to happen Michale says, "I'm not arguing. Or complaining. But I am saying… I appreciate you taking the time and effort to help me out here. Thank you Claire." Enough said he dutifully sits back, ready to follow direction like a sealed order.
*
"You're a soldier. Or… were. You react like military." Claire murmurs, quite well able to read her patients, especially as he doesn't scream and swat away the alcohol, though she knows it hurts like hell. Once she's got the wound to stop bubbling with the cleaning properties, she uses a fresh bit of gauze to wipe away the edges, examining just how many stitches should do to keep it from still bleeding. A sutucher is laced with skin-thread a moment later and she's leaning down, carefully putting in those clean and practice stitches. She is an expert at this, for just a nurse. "…It's what I do. If you really can't afford a hospital and whoever you work for now isn't giving you any back up? You come here, okay. Just… don't be a stubborn idiot. You find me. Better than you dying."
*
Michael has partially disconnected.
*
After the real work's been done by the practiced professional Michael admits, quietly, partly to not pop anything just stitched, partly as thin walls listen everywhere, "Was and… kindae. Like kindae complicated. Officially I was one thing. Actually another. Since there was no uniform, or record, of the actual unit I was in… hard to say what I was. Tinker, tailor soldier spy. One ae those… probably."
"First time I've heard that from anyone." Michael says, without thinking, the mixture of genuine surprise and, maybe, a little happiness written on his face and the startings of a smile, "Y'see, it's a story. A long yun and I've talked your ear off enough as it is. Y'ever want to know though… I'll sit down and tell my tale. Another time. But, aye, you nailed it. I'm on my own here, so far, so… thank you again. I promise, if something's up, I'll come see you. Hopefully able to do the stairs on my own though." He adds with a soft laugh.
*
"If you want to pay me back? Tell me your story. Look…you already got enough on me to get me arrested, so… not like I'm going to go talking to some government agency about why you've run off. Might as well talk while I work." Claire states flatly, motioning to the bag of stolen medical supplies (several of the packages are marked with the Metro General logo). She stabs in again, another of those quick stitches, before twirling it off in a quick and neat tie then cutting it free. Her motions come almost as naturally as breathing, for herself at least, and she doesn't seem at all phased by his shadowy history.
*
"Well. It'll come as no shock to you at all that there's all sorts of…" Michael frowns and says, "… there's no way of sayin' it that doesnae make me sound like a bigoted ar-" He bites down on the last word as it'd have been the first in a series of coarse terms and colorful metaphor that could only come from home. "Anyway. I'll say people wi' powers. Now, there a war on at the time. If you're throwin' everything you got to stop the…" another pause to censor the real Scottish vernacular "… enemy you're hardly gonnae skip people who can do the tings others cannae."
"My unit was different again. You'd know the science better than me. Idea is there's something that gives people powers… even tells 'em what they are. Idea is that some even have the thing but it's switched off. Our unit was filled wi' people who were switched off but… kindae blank?" Michael says struggling to explain the details of somrthing he knows precious little about himself,
"But. But, the whizzes had something they could give us that not only flipped the switch but could tell it what to be?" Again, agent he was, scientist developing the technical parameters of the program he was not. "Different things happened to each of the lads and lasses. Some took better than others. Some lasted longer. Some done hee haw and they were washed out the unit."
Taking a bitter tone Michael continues, "I should have been more canny to that. The war ended. The need for the unit wasnae needed any more. I found out what happened to those who were left. Knocket out left in a buildin' burnin' down. Wi' anything we'd so much as had a look at. Nothing and no one survived that fire. Save me. So I high tailed it before any…" again pause to tone down "… one. Before anyone realised I wasn't as dead as they'd like.""
"There was one more wee hitch but I got here and, well, land of the free so get myself sorted first. Then work out what to do to make sure I never have to look over my shoulder again."
*
The woman listens quietly, content and interested, even if her eyes are mostly on his wounded side. Occasionally, her dark gaze will flicker up to him, just a show of the fact that she is actually taking in his words. She makes a small, sympathetic sound in her throat, well, sympathetic and a touch angry as she hears about the murder of the rest of his unit. "…Awful." She mutters, genuinely displeased, but then she's back with the stitches. One last one, then she reaches down to clean outside the now-sealed wound again before leaning over to grab some gauze to tape over top. "…Alcohol, or some sort of disinfectant on this, twice a day. You think you can manage that? I'll give you a bag of the stuff to take home with you…" Then her expression crumples a little. "…Do you even have a home?"
*
Michael has partially disconnected.
*
Michael nearly. So very nearly. Made the catastophically bad call of nodding. However some sense of self preservation (or blind luck!) interviened and he, instead, says, "That I can do. Disinfectant or, I'm guessing, some of the proper stuff. Nae the watered down stuff for drinking. Actual stuff that'll clean it." Then a almost forgotten expression flushes his features. It's a smile, broad and bright, everything engaged and energetic, but all acting as a short delay to having only one thing to say… and probably not what the gaffer wants to hear.
"Well. I've been like the ol' song goes. A man of means by no means. More gigging around the bars and either kipping in the backroom or getting enough folding to pay for a night or so. After all. Nothing more popular in an Irish bar than someone playing the fiddle, giving it some of the ol' celtic… " Again, a save linguisticly, "… music from the old country. No one need know I'm a Scot. After all, we got shafted by the Englis often enough it's almost the same. So… couldnae give you a fixed adress to send a postcard to but I've been scraping by."
*
A deeper sigh as she hears that. Claire finishes taping the gauze in place and then rocks back on her heels, pulling the gloves off as she levels a dark eyed gaze in his direction. "…You… will stay here tonight. I don't have a guest room, but the couch is long and warm. I've got some extra pillows and blankets. Shower in the morning, a proper breakfast, then we'll… Figure out what to do with you. I won't trap you here, but I won't let you be homeless while that is healing. Understood? There's no arguing this. It's the payment I demand." Claire admits with a deep sigh, pushing herself fully to her feet now as she moves for the closet to grab down the extra bedding. Fluffy pillow, heavy blanket. She tosses them on the couch next to him then gathers up the biohazard material. "Shoes off when you're on the couch. Smoke out the window if you need to, please. Make sure you're still here in the morning. I need to get a few hours sleep before I pass out." She states flatly. And, with that, she's moving for her bedroom. No arguments.
*
"…", "…", "…?", "…". Were the first few the first few attempts to interject at any point along the way. Just wasn't in him. Plus it was a perfect assault. He didn't have a single opening. As she moves away Michael waves the verbal white flag. "Have a great nights rest there Claire. Thank you. For everything." Fortunately he's housetrained. He smokes outdoors, so not even drift that that evades the window, shoes'll be off, although breakfast's assuming he's not made it first. After all. He'll have to get in the bosses good books. Otherwise he can't reclaim and recover his few worldy possessions, chiefly his fiddle, from where they're being kept for him.
*