paradisa | 79;

[Things have changed from the days when getting into bloody shootouts and being thrown out of windows were all part of a routine procedure for Spike. When they had the technology to treat severe injuries, and he could bounce back from broken bones in a matter of weeks or even days. Now he has to experience the whole damn thing. It's out of sheer stubbornness that he doesn't get impatient and put out an open call for a "magic" doctor to speed up the process of regaining use in his hand. (Whatever they're really called. As many times as he's had to use them before, he should probably know that.) Too bad the only ones he could trust aren't around anymore.

For a while he had daydreamed about jumping off of the castle; which isn't the most original idea, and yet never seems to happen. Something always holds him back. The spectacle of it all, maybe. Spike is generally a private person, and the last thing he wants is to have his name blasted over the journal after he made a mess on the castle steps. Still, in two weeks he could be as good as new. If he were less experienced with the whole process, it would have been an easy sell.

Instead, here he is, slumped in a chair in the clinic lobby. Bored out of his mind.]

Hey. [He hasn't opened the journal once in weeks, and he doesn't bother to look back at what he missed when he dictates to a blank page. The only reason he has it open now is to put off walking up to that counter and have them berate him for leaving in the first place. Small steps.] What's the next holiday? I need to start marking this shit down.

[LATER --]

( Queen Anne )

[After his prognosis he has the journal on him again. He thinks about doing this in person, but he does a better job at faking good health this way. He has a feeling he'll be doing a lot of that in the foreseeable future.

She doesn't deserve to wait.]

I haven't forgotten.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[Spike is careful not to move, and even more so to appear casual as he turns his eyes away when the dressings are peeled off. Seeing his burned skin was only fascinating at first. Now that he can barely feel the air brush against the exposed areas, it's just a reminder. Even with his stance on the issue, the fact remains that he did it to himself. He knew it would happen, had been warned enough times, and he tried anyway. This is nothing but an obnoxious show of proof for how much he cared about her despite anything he might say. Would anyone really go that far for someone they only thought of as a friend?

Eventually, the silence that follows his question brings his gaze back to the man. Does he think he can do better? That's only mildly insulting, since it would be hard to do worse than where he ended up. Still. They don't have enough doctors to sacrifice. If it's anyone...

...]

I wouldn't recommend betraying them. [In case it wasn't spelled out already, he's the one who was lacking in common sense.]

[Is it a show of the Doctor's arrogance that he thinks he can help? It might be. Or maybe the Doctor is a fool for wanting to help, perhaps he doesn't know better, too idealistic. He's the same man that let his would be assassin on board his ship to travel with him after all.

Regardless, he still wants to help if he can. Perhaps he's all of those things, arrogant, simple, idealistic and just that little bit innocent.

His gaze flicks up to Spike and then back down.]

And that's you telling me to stay clear?

[He's very careful in holding Spike's hand as he inspects the burns and looks for any obvious signs of infection other than Spike's fever. He understands well why Spike turns his head away, so that he doesn't have to see the flesh. Mindful of his own position so as to not joggle Spike, the Doctor reaches for one of his aerosol cans, clamping it between his knees so that he can remove the cap.]

I took the liberty of adding an anti-biotic to these beforehand. It's a synthetic skin, a bit like a, well, a paint job actually. The compound is breathable and it will make a very good protective seal and layer while your arm heals and eventually grows new skin underneath.

[For his next, he does have the decency to look a little contrite.] I did say I don't know what colour it's going to be. I wasn't joking. Let's see, shall we. [He shakes the can and there's an unmistakeable sound of a ball-bearing or two in there. Angling it carefully so that he's not spraying it in either of their faces, he makes the first sweep.]

[In so many words, that was exactly what Spike was telling him. He doesn't nod, or move at all, but the weight of that silence -- like so many with him -- speaks for itself.

Another possibility is that he's concentrating too hard on the aerosol can, anticipating a sudden horrible pain to properly counteract the odd lack of it thus far. Despite what the Doctor says, he doesn't entirely believe that he knows what he's doing when he gives that description.

Bracing himself mentally, he's silent as his gaze is forced back by morbid curiosity as the mist is sprayed onto his hand...

...and turns blue.

His voice drops into dangerously sardonic tones. What just happened?]

Are you sure that isn't spray paint?

[First sweep made and the Doctor stops, still holding the aerosol can up in the air. A little colour of his own starts to creep up his neck, or that could be the reflection from his collar.]

Er, no. That would be silly. Heavy metals for the pigments, xylene, benzene... Not very safe. This now. Collagen, glucose, anti-biotics of course. And a rather fetching shade.

[He started, so he will finish. Another shake of the can and off he goes with it, sweeping over the area and making a good go of a second coat.] You don't have a favourite sports team that wears blue, do you? We can add a compression bandage, to further protect, how's that?

[As for the silent answers, he's getting used to them all right. That he should stay away is exactly what Spike means. Whether it's for Spike's pride that he believes he can deal with it on his own or from a show of concern that he not get involved. Perhaps both of them could be motives for Spike.]

I can stay with you tonight. Or you can come with me if you prefer. I have a room that promotes healing and a good night's sleep wouldn't do you any further harm.

[Spike watches as the next sweep deepens the color. Even the Doctor's joking don't seem to crack the deadpan expression on his face.

The offer to stay seems to be the first thing he hears, and he lifts his head.]

Is it going to wear off? [His tone makes it difficult to tell what exactly he's talking about; the color or the way the Doctor managed to repress his pain. Both would be good to know, but he still hesitates for some reason.

Eventually, he shakes his head.] You don't think I've been handling it well enough on my own?

[A pause and a clearing of his throat. If he had a free hand it'd be tugging at his collar because that is a very nice blue.]

It will do, yes. Gradually, as you start to heal and new skin grows underneath. See how it dries? Flexible, breathable, and it will help things along. I can't say for sure if it will help with reducing scarring. Time will have to tell for that.

[Another shake of the can and sweep, making sure that he is covering as much of the burns as possible before lifting his gaze.]

I didn't say that. [But should the 'friend' that did this decide to come back for seconds...] Distance will make it harder for me to help with your pain. A good night's sleep would do you the world of good. I'll go out on a limb that you tend to like your privacy, [understated,] so I'll leave the choice to you. Besides that...

[He bobs up and down, inspecting Spike's arm again.] I think, I am almost finished here.

[It's a regular marvel of modern medicine, sure. Spike can't exactly test how flexible it is right now, but he has his doubts when it looks like his arm could be made out of plastic. Which, granted, is a better look than before so he should learn not to complain.

There may be a telling sigh of relief when the Doctor says he's almost finished, which is sort of embarrassing. At least he kept his famous temper in check with all the poking and prodding he usually can't tolerate. Likely a sign of how tired he really is.]

I always was more comfortable sleeping on the couch. [An open offer to stay or just a statement, who's to say.]

[Relief indeed. Well Spike will get himself into these things. The Doctor schools his features carefully to not show a reaction but his gaze is quick, seeing the double meaning in the statement.]

Really? In your condition I still advise a bed, but each to their own.

[Letting go of Spike's arm gently, apart from the colour he does think it's not a bad job after all. Perhaps letting it and Spike settle for now is the best thing, and another dressing in the morning. He begins to clear away the used dressings and equipment, making the area tidy again as if he hadn't been here at all. The last thing the Doctor thinks, is if Spike needs anything else, anything bringing to him, or assistance with actually lying down.]

If you insist on staying on the sofa... [Looking around the room, his gaze comes to the door before coming back around to Spike.] I'll be right outside. I'll expect you to shout if you need anything. [Less unnerving than watching someone sleep at least, but a reminder that the Doctor won't be far. Just in case and a sentry on guard.]

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