pennysheets | Faces That Stay the Same for @easilyamused

Faces That Stay the Same for @easilyamused

The last time Jack was in Madrid, back in the late 1870s or so, he'd had to get stitched up by one of the local doctors. It had been a pretty pleasant conversation, and said doctor hadn't even asked too many probing questions about it. Also, he'd been pretty easy on the eyes, so that had been nice.

Now, about a decade later (he thinks, anyway; it could be a little more or a little less), it's not Jack who needs the stitches. The morning after the full moon, weary and heart-sick but determined, he carries the young man the wolf had savaged on his back to where the doctor had been back then, hoping against hope he's still working there. He'll think of something to explain why he doesn't look any different than he did back then. Or maybe he'll be lucky and the doctor won't ask questions, again.

He knocks on the door, shifting the poor fellow a little over his shoulder. He doesn't think he's going to die, he thinks the kid hadn't actually tried to fight the wolf, but... he would much rather be sure. Jack worries. Especially when it's his own fault for not making sure the door on his cellar was secure enough.

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In this time and place, he calls himself Alejandro, doctor Tierra for those who aren't especially close. He's been here for a little over ten years, has perhaps ten more before people will start noticing how little he's changed, beyond the cut of his hair and the fashion of his clothing. Maybe a little more, because he's always been good at medicine, and people are willing to turn a blind eye to the mild idiosyncracies of a man who will stitch their wounds and tend their ailments.

He's tending to a patient when Jack arrives, and it's the nurse who meets him and, after one look at the bloodied young man on his back, ushers him into a back room set aside for visitors who may be more inclined to avoid public scrutiny. She hadn't been there on his last visit - by the look of her, she would have been perhaps eleven years old at the time. The doctor, she assures, will be with him in but a minute.

It's more like fifteen, and perhaps Jack won't need to make so many excuses for his appearance after all, because while his hair's a little longer and there are silver-rimmed spectacles perched on his nose, the man who enters doesn't appear to have aged at all.

"Ana said your friend was injured in some kind of altercation?" he says, attention for the moment fixed firmly on the wounded man.

Jack settles the poor fellow on whatever table or bed or chair is available. He doesn't have the strength or energy to keep holding him up after last night, now that he's at his destination, and he himself slumps back against the wall, rubbing at his eyes with a blood-stained hand.

He straightens again when the door opens, and gives Alejandro Tierra a startled little blink.

Then he pointedly does not ask. There are more important things to worry about right now. "A feral dog, I think." It's the usual excuse, when there are no wolves or bears to blame it on. The doctor may or may not be able to tell the discrepancies between dog teeth and werewolf claws, but there are a lot of them. "I found him and did what I could to stop the bleeding but I only know the most very basic means of dealing with a wound."

Methos makes a small, noncommittal noise as he bends over the narrow bed to inspect the young man. He slants a skeptical glance in Jack's direction - and there's a moment's stuttered pause, eyebrows lifting, as he actually looks.

As he waits, just half a second, for the familiar, jarring hum that doesn't follow. Interesting.

In the end, all he says is, "That must have been some dog."

He turns toward his table of tools, reaching for a pair of surgical scissors to remove what's left of the lad's tattered clothing.

Yeah, Jack recognizes that look, too. They both recognized each other, and they both know they didn't change at all in ten-some-odd years. He looks resigned by it, hang-dog even, but thankfully Alejandro says nothing, either.

"Tell me how I can help," Jack says, instead of answering unasked questions. "If I can help."

"I might need you to hold him still," is the even reply. "Hopefully he's insensate, but if not, this is going to hurt."

And he has nothing that would make it hurt less that he's willing to give to a man who's lost a considerable amount of blood, common practices be damned.

"Did you see anything? Or did you happen upon him in the aftermath?" There's no accusation there - he may not believe the story about a feral dog, but he's of a scientific bent. His suspicions veer more toward 'wild animal escaped from some rich idiot's menagerie' than 'werewolf'.

"Okay." Jack hovers a little behind Alejandro, wringing his hands a little, waiting to be told when he's needed. If he's needed. "It was the aftermath. I didn't see what did it." Which is sort of true. He doesn't really remember actually doing it, but he followed the smell after he came to again.

He doesn't know if Alejandro will actually believe him or not, but he can't just come out and say "I'm a monster with no control over himself on the full moon". Well, he could, but it would probably not go well.

"Pity," Methos says, but for the moment, he lets it go without any further digging. Keeping his patient on this side of the grave is more important, and it's not as though he has any intention of hunting down whatever wild creature did this himself. Giving a warning to his staff and neighbours would be the extent of his involvement.

In the end, he doesn't need Jack's help to keep the young man still - he's too deeply unconscious for that. He does, however, make him earn his keep, fetching tools and clean cloth and more boiled water. Eventually, the wounds are cleaned and stitched and salved to prevent infection, and there's naught to do but wait and see if the man recovers.

Methos straightens from cleaning the blood from his hands and gives Jack a critical look before noting that, "You look like hell."

"It has been a long morning," Jack says wearily. He's since washed the blood off his own hands (and arms), in order to handle things for Alejandro, but he still has a streak on one cheek and his hair is a little crusty where he ran a bloody hand through it hours ago. Which, attempting to scratch awkwardly behind one ear, he discovers and withdraws his hand with a sour face. He does, in fact, look kind of like hell.

"I can go," he assures him. "I don't want to scare away your other patients. I, er, will have to come back with whatever payment the boy needs. I don't have any money with me right now." The joys of throwing on whatever clothes were available when he realized he'd mauled somebody.

Methos gives him a long look, then snorts quietly. "Don't be ridiculous," he says. "If you walk out the door looking like that, you'll start a panic in the streets. I've got a spare room I loan out to patients' families, when they're too sick to be moved. I'll have Cecily bring you wash water and a meal. We'll talk more once you've had a chance to rest."

It's borrowing trouble. But letting a man who doesn't age, and who he can't detect, vanish into the city seems like an equally poor choice.

Jack nearly protests, because food always makes him feel a little ill after a change where he's actually mauled someone. And he isn't so naive that he can't sense an ulterior motive, here.

But he's tired. And going back to his cellar sounds... awful, actually. He could really use a nap.

"If you really don't mind. Though please, no red meat?" he requests, giving his best sad puppy eyes. He's less likely to turn his nose up at something vegetable or grain-y, in his experience.

One corner of his mouth ticks up slightly at that puppydog look. "That can be arranged," he says. "Is that a typical preference, or situational?"

He doesn't glance at the unconscious young man, but the meaning's clear enough - and not, by his expression of sympathetic curiosity, because he's come around to suspecting Jack of mauling the boy. He knows full well even the sight if someone badly injured can put someone off of flesh.

On the other hand, Jack's gaze drifts right to the poor kid, expression going sad. "Maybe a little bit of both, right now," he admits. "Thank you, though. Putting me up for a little bit is kind of you." And sneaky of him, sure. But Jack prefers to think it kind.

A pause, then the slightly sheepish warning: "I might fall asleep if you leave me alone too long, though."

"In my professional opinion - good. You need it." That, at least is genuine enough. He knows all too well that being impervious to time doesn't make one impervious to exhaustion. Even immortals need to sleep.

"Come on," he says, and leads the way back to what looks much like a converted storage room, the rug and bedclothes comfortable enough in the glow of the gaslamp, but not enough to disguise the absence of a window. Given his propensity for stitching up those injured in dubious circumstances, it's likely not only the families of patients he lets stay here a while, but occasionally the patients themselves, should they need to avoid notice for a night or two.

Jack trails after him wearily, and sinks to sit on the bed as soon as it's clear it's free and clear. The room reminds him of many rooms he's been in, in his life. Often in chains. This is much more comfortable-looking than the usual cellar or cell, though, and the bed doesn't even smell like it has bugs.

"I'm Javier, by the way," he says. "I don't think I ever told you my name, last time." It is, in fact, the name he was born with, even if these days he feels more like his English name Jack, divorcing him more from his parents in that way. "Jack" would stand out in Spain, though.

"You didn't," Methos replies, one corner of his mouth ticking up in a crooked little smile. "But to be fair, I didn't ask it."

He often doesn't ask, of those who come to him beaten and bloodied. If that habit of discretion has brought a certain amount of trouble to his door, it's also earned him allies who might hear whispers of trouble before they would reach anyone respectable.

"Get some rest. I'll call on you later."

He slips out of the room - there are, as ever, more patients to tend to.

The woman who raps on the door about a quarter of an hour later with a little cart holding wash water and soap to scrub off the rest of the blood, and a breakfast of bread and fruit and hard cheese, isn't the nurse who'd met him on the way in. She's older, hair greying, dressed in the somber colours of a widow.

Jack keeps himself awake while he waits by listening to everything else going on in the building, less because he cares than because otherwise he'd be asleep before his wash basin and breakfast showed up. As it is, he's leaning back against the wall, sitting on the bed with his eyes shut, when he hears the cart squeaking and footsteps accompanying it.

He sits up and offers the lady a tired smile, polite thanks, and no questions beyond, "Do you want me to bring this back out when I'm done?" Meaning the cart and plate, in case someone else winds up needing the cart.

And once she's left him to his own devices, he spends enough time to vigorously scrub the blood from his face and hair, devours the breakfast, and passes out for a few hours, curled up almost dog-like on the bed rather than stretched out.

She does, and thanks him for the offer. There's only a little surprise there, suggesting she's not unaccustomed to courtesy in general, but may not be entirely accustomed to it from her employer's guests - most of whom, to be fair, are typically in much worse shape than one exhausted werewolf, whether due to their own injuries, or to fear for a loved one.

It's mid-afternoon before there's a rap on the door, and while there's no visible change in the windowless room, the sounds from the street suggest a day in full swing, perhaps just starting to wind down toward evening. The scent trail is not entirely clear, between chemicals and herbal medicines and years of sick and injured people in and out, but it's probably Alejandro on the other side.

By then, Jack is awake again, and has taken the time to try to smooth his hair back down and straighten up his clothes. The latter is do-able, but the latter doesn't want to cooperate, so when Alejandro comes a knocking, and Jack says, "Yes? Yes, come in," there's definitely a cowlick of gray hair sticking practically straight up on the left side of his head. He combs his fingers through it again self-consciously as Alejandro comes in.

Edited 2023-07-27 03:13 (UTC)

The door creaks only a little as it opens, and Methos studies his guest for a moment, the corners of his mouth twitching ever so slightly upward as he takes in the sticking-out hair and Javier's attempts to smooth it. Attempts that are quite clearly not going to bear much fruit without a bit of water and a comb.

"I thought you'd want to know your friend is resting peacefully. If he keeps the wounds clean and doesn't take an infection, he should be fine."

Jack slumps back against the wall the bed is up against with clear relief. "Oh, thank god. Or more appropriately, thank the doctor." He pushes up again, with one more (failed) attempt at smoothing down his hair, and gets to his feet. "You did good work. I'm sure he will appreciate it, too."

"They usually do. If not, it's been a while since I was last run out of a town for witchcraft. It might be novel." He says it lightly, with a quick flash of self-deprecating amusement that invites Jack to take it as the joke most people would assume it to be. Witchcraft. How very 17th Century.

"Nobody does that anymore, do they?" Jack counters amiably, but with an undercurrent of unhappiness, because he knows that they do.

Except: "Not for medicine. Not for science. Maybe for other things." Like not aging properly. Or turning into a big feral monster. Those seem like things one might get run out of town for, witchcraft or no.

"You'd be amazed how many old superstitions come roaring back when someone thinks the outcome of their treatment is less than they deserve. Especially if the situation is an unusual one."

Like a large wild animal - and he's still, without hesitation, sure that's what this is - in the middle of a city.

"Or when you're getting near the end of your welcome." He pauses briefly, giving Javier a measuring look. "Something we both have some familiarity with, hmm?"

He's not exactly wrong, though the wild animal is gone now...

Jack sighs and slumps back against the wall beside the bed again. "We're going to have to talk about this, I take it," he says ruefully. "You haven't changed. I haven't changed. I do not think you are what I am, though." Or he would have known right off what happened to that young man.

"It's not my favourite topic either," Methos says, which may not be the largest understatement he's ever made, but is certainly in the top hundred. Typically, he goes out of his way to avoid his fellow Immortals.

Typically, he has advance warning of their presence. Even if Javier was new - and he has to be new, or there would never have been any need to treat his injuries on their first meeting - he should have sensed the potential.

No surprise, then, that it's that final supposition that most firmly seizes his attention. "You can't detect people like you?" he asks.

Edited 2023-09-01 05:22 (UTC)

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