fuckitybye | 017

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[Filtered to the infirmary staff + Claire, Paddy, Rube, Parker (i.e. the people he sort of almost trusts).]

Is there anything at all in the fucking infirmary for a migraine? I feel like sodding Riverdance is stamping and kicking its Hibernian way through my fucking skull.

[OOC: What's this about? Well, perhaps the current general election in the UK (and the corresponding one in his native canon, which will no doubt be closely based on the one in the real world) is sending some kind of psychic fallout across the multiverse, and it's giving Malcolm a big headache. Unless a current copy of the Guardian somehow appears in the library, there's no way he can know about either the real election or the TTOI one, but it seemed only fitting that he react somehow. Infirmary staff, feel free to use this to bully Malcolm into coming in for a checkup.]

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Malcom showed up at the infirmary in fairly short order, because truth be told, his head was killing him, and he privately admitted to himself that he''d have fellated the BNP leader if it meant it'd make the fucking headache go away.

Blinking a little at the lights, he stepped inside and regarded Martha with a slightly narrowed gaze. "Well. Do your fucking worst."

It was funny, he thought distantly; the longer one was here, the easier it got to not think I saw you on the telly every time.

Edited 2010-05-07 20:04 (UTC)

Martha was ready for him at the doorway with the scanner in one hand and a hypospray in her pocket for taking down the headache after she had gotten him to submit to the exam. Martha was trying to be good about being the bully, because she didn't want to alienate people by having Denise do it, and she didn't want to alienate Owen by asking him to do it, so she was trying for the happy medium and doing it herself. (Really she expected that she would fail at it, but that Leo would be back soon.)

When he met her with narrowed eyes, she responded with a grin and lead him to the curtain. "Up on the table, please. I promise you it won't take a minute and then we'll take care of the headache. Really," she added, her tone calm and cheerful. "Easy as can be."

Malcolm eyed the science-fiction crap suspiciously, but resigned himself to the fact that this was what you got around here, and what the fuck, it might actually work. He shrugged off his jacket and removed his tie—more out of a sense that that was just what one did at the GP's—draped them across one end of the exam table, and sat down with a gloomy sigh.

"All that shit really works, huh?"

Edited 2010-05-07 20:48 (UTC)

When Malcolm asked if it actually worked, Martha nodded quickly. "I know it's all a bit sci-fi-y, but it actually does work, I wouldn't use it if it didn't." It was times like this that Martha actually forgot that she, herself, was fictional in some universes. Given that no one had brought it up since Kurk had left, it didn't really enter her thoughts. The scanner moved over him, and two fingers flicked the beeping off; she didn't want to make his headache worse. What she saw on the readings made her take a step back and raise a brow towards the ceiling. "Malcolm, do you have a history of high..." Before she even finished asking the question, she just looked at him and shook her head. "All right, so what were you taking at home for high blood pressure? Because yours is quite high."

"Oh don't you fucking start!" he groaned. "I get that cut-back-on-your-fucking-salt-intake, calm-the-fuck-down shit enough from my GP at home."

He glared at her, as if willing her to just drop the subject.

When he groaned at her, Martha just stood there, and when he glared at her, she met his expression and smiled benignly. "That's because your GP was on the right track, everything considered. Given your blood pressure right now, I'm willing to make a wager that you were brought here via a stroke. Do you want to have another one, Malcolm? I'm going to proscribe something, and suggest that you don't do a large amount of salt, and actually try and relax. My friend Inara does things like yoga and tai-chi in the spa; I think you'll like her. Now, are you allergic to any medications?"

Pure incredulity. "...did you just fucking suggest I go to the spa?"

No, he didn't want to have another stroke (or aneurysm, or whatever it was that killed him off), and no, he wasn't allergic to anything and she could damn well prescribe whatever she wanted, but—what?

[OOC: I refer you to this.]

"I didn't suggest it so much as proscribed it out right." Martha said quickly, and calmly, keeping that smile on her face. "Now, for your headache, I'm going to give you an injection that should kill the pain as well as help lower your blood pressure, all right?"

[I laughed SO HARD. I fucking love Malcolm]

Edited 2010-05-07 23:21 (UTC)

"I am not doing any fucking yoga or tai chi," he grumbled as he rolled up his sleeve. "What do I look like, some Chinese pensioner?"

"You look like man who's having far too much stress. I can nearly see the vein in your head popping out over this. I know that people tend to think that things like strokes or heart-attacks can't happen here, but they can. We had one a few months back even. You can die and even if you don't, you can end up paralyzed, which I think for you would be far worse. You need to do something to lower your stress, Malcolm." Martha injected the hypospray at the base of his neck, knowing that was wear it worked best. "You should feel better in a moment."

He'd gotten the "forehead vein" thing from other people before, not least from that bloated ballsack general during the war runup, years ago. And it very nearly earned Martha another earful, except that the hypospray took Malcolm by surprise and he yelped, more from being startled than any actual pain. "Fuck's sake—" he began. He blinked; for a moment his ears felt like they were stuffed with cotton wool, and then the sensation quickly passed, followed by the pain in his head, which receded like floodwaters to a dull throb.

"I'll be fucked." He rubbed his forehead. "That shit worked."

After the hypospray was injected, Martha traced the scanner over him again with a little grin. When he rubbed his forehead, she just shrugged. "Yes, it's amazing how much better we feel when our blood pressure is within normal parameters. Lower your stress however you see fit, and watch the salt. I'd prefer it if you didn't have a stroke on me, all right?" She pulled off the rubber gloves quickly. "Come back if the headache does."

"Yeah, all right." He fixed his shirt and replaced his tie and jacket. "Much obliged, Jones."

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