ways_infirmary | (no subject)

His eyes are clear for the first time since he collapsed, no longer fogged with drugs meant to keep him still and quiet. It still hurts, has there ever been a gunshot would that hasn't hurt? Now, however, it does not feel like a mortal wound.

Some kind of sawbones they have working here, certainly.

"As well as can be." His voice is soft, gentler than one would expect from a man that carried such a wicked-looking gun. "Thank you, for your kindness."

"I was glad to help," Simon tells him. It's more or less his standard answer when thanked by a patient; it's the truth, and it doesn't attempt to deny or minimize their thanks.

"I'm afraid I don't know your name, sir."

It almost comes out as sai. Almost.

He watches him for a long moment, seeing, measuring, analyzing. This doctor seems to be a good man, even if he can't rightly place him with that unusual accent. Where a man's from doesn't change what a man is, after all.

"Call me Shane." The pause afterwards is expectant.

"Shane. Thank you. I'm Dr Tam, Simon Tam." A slight pause. "I'm going to want to change the dressing on that wound, and examine it."

Shane nods, which could mean many things - go ahead, I don't mind, I couldn't stop you, or I won't try to stop you, or perhaps a mingling of all of those choices and more besides. There's no use talking about a thing that needs doing.
"Doctor Tam, would you know what became of my horse?" He asks quietly, after another long moment of watching Simon gather his supplies.

"I believe my sister took it out to the stables."

He carefully moves the man's shirt out of the way, and starts gently removing the bandages.

It. Not a horse-man then. Sometimes doctors in small towns were, since they were the only folk around that knew anything about medicine and surgery and healing, or at least, they were the ones trusted to know such things. This man must be from a larger town, then, somewhere they have others to take care of the beasts of burden.

He tenses, slightly, as the bandages pull slightly on the still-healing wound. Very consciously he forces himself to relax and let the man work.
"Give your sister my thanks, for me." His voice is still as calm and even as ever.

"I will. She'll be pleased."

There's not much further conversation as Simon examines the wound (healing nicely) and replaces the dressing.

Finally, as he removes his gloves: "It's doing well," he says. "You should be fine in a few weeks, given plenty of rest. I could probably release you from the infirmary by the end of the day."

Infirmary? That is hardly a word that comes up often in his world, other than when he takes shelter in the many forts scattered throughout the West.
"Infimary?" He asks, cautiously. This place seems too... well, clean, and bright, to be a military fort.
"Might I ask where I've washed up?"

"You're at Milliways. The details of which are difficult to explain, but for right now suffice it to say you're quite a long way from wherever it is you've come from."

The unspoken subtext of which is: quite a long way from whoever shot you.

He's actually a good deal closer, seeing as the dead have been known to patronize the bar, but he is still very glad to have put some distance between himself and that small dusty town.

"Milliways." He muses, dark eyes sharp and watchful. "Don't recall seeing that on any map, Doctor Tam. Is it a newly founded town?"

"To the best of my knowledge, it's not on any map."

He says it carefully, watching the man for signs of alarm.

More than one person has had cause to be glad that Shane is not one to become overly alarmed. A fair number have died due to that same calm, but they don't have any cares about it one way or the other, anymore.

He doesn't say anything, but his expression clearly demands details. The good doctor is being worryingly vague.

A small sigh. "I did say it was difficult to explain. Would you like me to try?"

"I would take it as a kindness." Smug satisfaction shines in his eyes, but it does not bleed into his voice, which is as gentle and polite as ever. He has long played the game of gaining as much information possible about his surroundings while surrendering as little of his own story, and it always pleases him to find he still has some skill at it.

Simon nods, and considers for a moment.

"Milliways is a place at the end of time. As far as we can tell, it can be reached from almost anywhere, in a limited and sometimes unpredictable fashion."

Quite a long silence greets this somewhat unique and unexpected explanation. A long, disbelieving silence. Science fiction does not exist in Shane's experience, and so he is completely and utterly unprepared to even consider the possibility of a place at the end of time, or to believe that one can reach there after a short ride on an anbling horse.

"I beg your pardon?" He finally manages, eyebrows raised.

Simon raises an eyebrow right back at him.

"Shall I repeat myself, or move on from the difficult-to-explain into the merely difficult-to-believe?"

Shane's expression tightens. While he might be injured, and weak, there is no call to be telling him fantasy stories in response to a simple question.

"As you like." He allows, still ever-so-calm, but there is a sense that it is the deceptive calmness of a coiled spring.

Or a coiled viper.

Simon's seen that kind of deceptive calmness before.

"Sir, I've got no reason to lie to you. You're in a place that may seem impossible to you."

Pause.

"It did to me. And frequently still does."

Minutes drag their feet to stretch into what seem like hours as Shane studies Simon intently, re-assessing his initial take on the man. He could have been wrong. He has been wrong before.

Then, without any fanfare, the sense of danger bleeds away into nothing. He doesn't feel that he's wrong, not this time.

"Go on then, you said there was more?" If he is going to be given a fantastic explanation, he might as well hear the whole of it.

A small headtilt, like a shrug. "Most of it follows from what I've already told you. There are people here from ... different realities. Things you may be used to thinking of as, as fantasy. Fairytales." Pause. "They're real here."

A slightly longer pause.

"I might be better able to explain if I knew something about where you're from. What seems normal to you."

A spark of respect is the only outward acknowledgement of a hit well taken as he crafts his reply. He has never been keen on revealing his past to all who ask, for various reasons.
"From down south a-ways, though of late I've spent more time in the west, rambling." He assumes he's already been marked as a gunfighter - the wounds and the gun hardly leave room for misinterpretation in the land he rides through.

Yes, but he's not in the land he rides through. Apparently Simon has failed to make that clear.

"...South and west of where, exactly?"

Shane is still wrapping his mind around that concept - besides, Simon said they were at the end of time. He did not say a word about having left Wyoming.

"Of the country." Shane elaborates with another one of his raised eyebrows. He has decided to trust Simon for the time being, but Simon is making it deucdedly difficult.

This may take longer than he thought.

"The, ah ... the country I come from is called Osiris." Beat. "What's yours called?"

Shane's eyes narrow slightly. Simon he does not doubt, for now, but clearly there is something he is missing, and that is not a feeling he relishes.
"United States of America." He answers shortly, not annoyed so much as confused.

He nods. "This is the part that's difficult to believe. You're going to encounter people here who have never heard of the United States of America. And people who've heard of it, but only as something out of distant history."

Shane rubs his face wearily, noting with distant pleasure that his hand doesn't shake so much now as it did when he first started rising above the haze of drugs and blood loss a few days ago.

"You seem to be an honest man, Doctor Tam, but the things you ask me mto believe..." He trails off, not feeling the need to elaborate further.

"I know," he says. "If it'd be easier for you, you might ... put it aside, for now. Wait to decide whether or not to believe it until you've seen more for yourself."

"I might have to, at that." He nods, agreeing with the suggestion. The movement, however, dirupts the careful balance in posture that keeps him from feeling the effects of his wound, and he grimaces. He has had to rely on such tricks too often in his life, and after a moment of careful, minute shifting, his expression relaxes again and he focuses on Simon.
"You have been very patient with a displaced man, Doctor Tam. Thank you."

He's noticed the grimace.

"I can give you something for the pain, if you like."

Shane considers, carefully. He does not like the idea of being drugged senseless, especially if the doctor's impossible story turns out to be true. A man would need his wits about him in a place such as that.

He als cannot deny that the pain has been growing ever since he woke up, and if it goes on as it has he won't be able to ignore it for much longer.

Slowly, carefully, he nods. Best to heal, for now.

Simon turns to the cabinet, and returns in a moment with a hypo full of painkiller.

"Try to rest," he tells Shane as he sets the needle. "You're doing well; I think I should be able to discharge you by tomorrow, if not this evening."

Another careful nod as the drug speeds into his bloodstream. Considering that he thought himself a dead man a few days ago, he is in no position to protest a little more time in a bed.
"I'll do that... Doctor..." The rest of his sentence is swallowed by a jaw-cracking yawn as the drug takes hold and the sharpness in his eyes dulls.