Bodily Reconstruction, part three
Aug. 25th, 2014 05:42 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lb_leeBodily Reconstruction, part three (Part One; Part Two; read those first!)
Word Count: 14,658
Summary: Biff wants top surgery, but he can’t get it in Vaygo. Luckily for him, M.D.’s junior healer.
Notes: This is REALLY late in the timeline; M.D.’s been junior healer for a few years now, turns nineteen over the course of this story, and is by all accounts a functioning adult. Biff turns twenty-eight. Medical grossness towards the end. Also, this is all Lee’s fault.
Month Five
It was getting down to the line now, but that didn’t mean things slowed down. It just meant that on top of giving him work, Ribbonblack was constantly prodding and poking him to make sure he didn’t have any surprise reactions or health problems that would cause him to drop dead during the operation. The assortment of drugs that Biff kept under his sink turned out to be useful; it spared Ribbonblack the strain of having to find out a good local mix.
Biff got progressively antsier and antsier, and sublimated the anxiety into huge sprees of cooking. One day, I came home from work to find Biff already up, a steaming pot of something delicious on the camp stove burner. I sidled up to it, sniffing, but Biff fended me off with his elbow, then smacked me with the spoon when I reached for it.
“Your punishments are cruel and unusual,” I complained, rubbing my wrist. “You’re up early. You don’t need another favor, do you?”
He shrugged. “Nah, couldn’t sleep. Surgery coming up, so Ribbonblack said no smoking.”
“You complied? I’ve been nagging you to quit smoking for years!”
“Yeah, well, you ain’t taking a knife to me. Once that’s over, I’m starting again. Had to go off my shots too.” He lifted the lid, prodded the contents with a spoon, and grabbed some cubed meat on the cutting board. As he used the knife to slide it into the pot, I cocked my head.
“How you holding up?”
He shrugged. “Enh, fine for now. Give it a week and I’ll feel like shit, though. Gimme some of that… that purple potato thing.”
I passed it over and as he did mysterious culinary things, I caught a look at his chest.
“Hey. Your vest is gone.”
“Yup.”
“Your illusion is gone.”
He gave me a look that asked whether I thought pointing out the obvious made me smart.
“Ribbonblack again?”
He took sudden inordinate interest in the soup. “Me.”
I let him stir for a bit, then said, “So, do I get an explanation, or what?”
He shrugged. “Just… coming up soon, and I could die, so I thought… y’know. Maybe if I tried enough, I could just deal.” He gave me a defensive look and added, “Ain’t like nobody here can tell the difference.”
“True. So? How does it feel?”
“Shitty. Gonna try the full day.”
“Good luck with that.”
He had the vest and illusion back on before the soup was done.
Month Six
Taking Biff’s addictions away never went smoothly. It’d taken him years to taper off the binge-drinking, and he still sometimes toppled off the wagon under stress. This was worse; he was going cold-turkey on everything, all at the same time. His personality, never stunning, took a heavy downgrade, and he pretty much stopped sleeping, which only made it worse.
Now we did start fighting. It was impossible not to; with his endocrine system in full revolt and no drugs or bloodshed to distract him, Biff hated everything. A missing sock was cause for an emotional explosion, and nothing on earth seemed to calm him down. Even cooking turned into an emotional minefield. My only consolation was that Biff would soon be under the knife and this would all be over.
Then we got a message from Ribbonblack’s practice. She was sick; the surgery would have to be delayed “until further notice.”
Biff hit the roof. Though it took all of my self-control, I managed to refrain from joining him. Everything would be fine, I told myself. Fine. Ribbonblack would be fine, the surgery would be fine, everything would be fine, fine, fine.
Two weeks, I did this. It was the third-longest two weeks of my life, but I managed to at least imitate a responsible adult.
Then I came home to find my entire place wrecked and Biff in full tirade because he was positive I’d hidden his spice rack. (It was, in fact, back in his apartment in Vaygo. But by that point he was so sleep-deprived that he’d forgotten.) He’d overturned my furniture. He’d tossed my bedding everywhere. He’d disorganized my books.
Within five seconds, we were roaring and waving our arms at each other like furious baboons. After all that restraint, it was a relief to finally let loose, and it looked like Biff would finally get the violence he craved, but right as I was hefting the frying pan, I had a flash of common sense. Biff was going under the knife soon. (Hopefully, oh god, oh please.) He couldn’t afford to take damage. As junior healer, it was my responsibility, my duty, not to hurt him.
Never have I been so tempted to violate my professional scruples. I might have anyway if not for the second realization that hurting him might delay the surgery even longer.
That did it. Unclenching my hand one finger at a time, I gently set the frying pan down and forcibly dampened my volume. The effort made my voice sound strangled.
“Pack,” I said. “You’re leaving.”
Self-control completely exhausted, I stormed out before he could tempt me further. Looking around, I saw Scorch and Flame’s tree and hurled myself up it as high as I could. Once I’d climbed as far as was structurally sound, I sat, stared at the canopy spread below me, and did my own personal stint of hating everything.
After a minute or two, Biff slunk out, body language reminiscent of a dog caught defecating on the carpet. Guilt was not something he usually expressed; I would’ve found it funny if I hadn’t been so mad at him.
“Hey. Do—”
“Go rot!”
“But—”
“Go away!”
He did.
For a while, I stayed in that tree, scowling into space. Eventually, I’d have to climb down so I could ship him off to Vaygo, but that would mean dealing with him, and I’d had enough of that for the time being. As it was, I had a nice view of a sunny sky, and that seemed a much better use of my attention. This exploding ball of nuclear hot air was billions of miles away, mercifully silent, and much prettier.
The sky was getting painted in pink and gold when Biff came out a second time. This time, he didn’t say anything to me, just climbed up. It took a couple near-falls, but eventually he made it up to my branch. I refused to acknowledge his existence. The silent treatment had never been my style, but I was angry enough to give it a try.
“Still mad, huh?”
Understatement of the year.
“I made dinner.”
His dinner could rot, for all I cared.
“I cleaned up,” he said.
He’d probably sorted my books alphabetically.
“C’mon. Don’t send me back.”
“Why not?” Okay, fine, so I was lousy at the silent treatment.
“If I go back, I’ll drink.” His voice was weary. “I don’t want to do that.”
“Just because you have lousy impulse-control doesn’t mean I’m obligated to tolerate your behavior.”
Silence. I let him stew; it was that or kick him off my branch. At this point, I almost looked forward to him giving me a good excuse. Forget professional scruples; the way he’d been lately, not a single healer would convict me.
I was already planning the best direction to shove him when he said, “Nah. You ain’t.”
I squinted at him suspiciously. This was far too good to be true. Any minute now, he was going to revert to the over-defensive ball of wrath that I knew so well.
“I’d’ve decked me a week ago, and you done a lot for me, the past few months.” He looked to be developing an ulcer. “I…”
“Yes?”
Through his teeth: “I appreciate it.”
I cupped my hand around one ear. “What was that? I can’t hear you over the emergency snowstorm announcement in Hell.”
“I said I ‘preciate it, okay? Jesus fuck, you want a medal or something?”
That was more like it. “After what you’ve put me through, I deserve three.”
“No shit, you think I don’t know how crazy I am right now? I ain’t been off my shit in years, ‘cause when I do, I get like this. Look, I’ll change my schedule, stick myself in solitary, whatever, I just can’t go home. If I drink like this, I’ll ruin everything. I just got to get through this, so I never have to do it again. Please.” The ulcer was back. “Just… please.”
He rubbed his eyes, and I sighed.
“You have one day. Spend tomorrow behaving like a person, or your departure will be merely a day delayed.”
I started to climb down, and Biff said, “Hey.”
I looked up, ready for him to say something worthy of a face-punch.
“Can we do something?”
I frowned. “Meaning…?”
“Look. I can’t fight, I can’t drink, I can’t smoke, and my work’s done. I need something to do, ‘fore I kill this whole fucking town.”
“I’ll get back to you.”
Then I climbed down to see what he’d cooked me in penance, and he helped me reorganize my books.
…
The next day, I took Biff hiking to Lookout Point. This was a common act of recreation all over Silver Fern, even in winter, so we weren’t the only hiking party. Banded together, the group was big enough to protect from attack, and Biff had been around enough that he could finally recognize predatory plants, which saved me a lot of bother.
Vaygo was flat as a pool table, while Silver Fern was full of hills and small mountains. Biff was used to an aerobic lifestyle, but not on this level, and his wind was short; I could wear him out without exhausting myself in the process, and enjoy great views in the bargain. It worked, too. After the first hour, he could pass for human again.
We arrived at Lookout Point not long past noon and broke for a meal. It was good, clear weather. We could see the bay, busy with boats, and the colors and movement of the Freeport market. The rocky cliffs and grassy hills and forest laid out around us, in tones of blue, brown, and green. If we turned around, we could see Treehouse’s tree-line wall and the lookout towers.
Biff didn’t seem impressed, but he never did.
“Dusk and dawn are the traditional times to come here,” I said, plunking down and chomping into my sandwich, “but your night-vision is lousy and I can’t take another day off work to spend the night in Freeport. Too bad, really. The sunsets are amazing, and the Freeport market’s the best in Silver Fern. I’m sure Scorch would be glad to let me handle the trip for once. Another time, if you want.”
Biff settled back, breathing hard but less winded than I’d expected. I wasn’t sure which had helped his lung capacity more: getting rid of the cigarettes, or getting rid of the Ace bandages. “Sure. After the surgery. When I’m better.” He clapped a hand to his pocket, then frowned when he found it empty. “When I can smoke again.”
I tossed him water. “Your incisions will thank you for your brief abstinence.”
He drank, and when he came up for air, he said, “How they gonna put me under?”
“Who said you were getting put under?” At his frown, I said, “We can’t use global anaesthesia here for long procedures, so Ribbonblack will put you in a trance state, plus local anaesthesia, just in case you don’t go down easily.”
He paused in his hunt for a sandwich. “Shit.”
“It’s not as bad as it sounds. You won’t be aware of anything, and anaesthesia can be really nasty stuff. This way, it won’t take you hours just to wake up, you won’t need a tube down your throat, you won’t be nauseous—”
“Naw, I mean, she got to go into my head to do that.”
“Not really. The ability was initially meant for hunting; it doesn’t require a deep connection. It’s basically a hypnotic trance, and your shrinks and showmen have been inducing that for decades without any psychic ability at all. Ribbonblack’s a professional. You’ll be out in seconds.”
Biff bit his lip, tapped his fingers against the pocket where his cigarettes used to be. “Can you be there for it?”
“Biff,” I said gently, “you know how much I suck.”
“Didn’t say you got to do it. Just… be there. Make sure she don’t fuck around. Make sure I don’t wake up in the middle.”
He was staring fixedly at the horizon.
“Sure,” I said. “I can do that. I highly doubt I’ll need to, but I will.”
That seemed to help a little. He nodded a couple times. “Okay. Sure. Think it’ll go okay?”
“Of course.”
He shoved me.
“You’ll most likely live through it,” I amended. “If you don’t, you’ll never wake up.”
He was silent for a moment, mulling it over. Then he said, “I kick it, you got to promise me something.”
“What?”
He smirked. “You got to deck Ribbonblack for me.”
I rubbed my chin. “Hmm. I don’t know, we healers aren’t supposed to punch each other, professionalism you know…”
He shoved me again.
“Okay, okay. I promise, if you die on the table, I’ll punch Ribbonblack in your memory. But really, far more likely is that you’ll live through the surgery, but look like Scorch chewed on you.”
He nodded, as though he’d come to the same conclusion. “I can deal with that.”
I nodded, and we sat and watched the boats and rafts come in to Freeport, little blips of white and yellow on the great expanse of blue.
“It better be good when we come back here,” he said.
“It will,” I swore. “It totally will.”
…
For that whole month, Biff stayed with me in Treehouse. It wasn’t pretty, but somehow he stayed sober and clean without me aching to murder him.
Considering the stress and anxiety leading up to it, the surgery day itself was anticlimactic. I think by that point, we all just wanted it to be over. Biff didn’t sleep the entire day before, and by the time he got to the operating table, he was so drained that he was out like a light the moment Ribbonblack touched him.
I stayed in his mind, made sure he was good and under, then slipped out, and all that was left for me was to leave the room and wait.
…
‘Fine’ is a relative term, especially with first time surgeries involving filleting a guy across the chest. I’ll spare you the grisly details; suffice to say, Biff lived, he was never dangerously close to dying, and things were incised, excised, and sutured relatively cleanly. By all accounts, a rousing success.
I didn’t get to see the result right away, and neither did Biff. My gore tolerance had improved over the years, but I drew the line with people I knew too personally, and by the time Biff regained consciousness, he was wrapped in so many layers of bandages, plus the compression garment, that there was no way of telling how it’d gone.
His first semi-conscious words were, “Y’punch Rib’nblack?”
“Nope. Congratulations, Biff, you lived.”
“The fuck you say.” And then he slept for fourteen hours.
He spent the first three days in Ribbonblack’s infirmary, so she could keep an eye on him. It was going to be a week, but Biff was almost as rotten a patient as I was, and he was in a lot of pain most of the time, so we got him moved back down to my place. I emptied his drains (if you don’t know what that means, don’t look it up), kept him entertained and medicated, and we waited for the bandages to come off.
Then Ribbonblack got sick.
“Again?” Biff whined.
I couldn’t blame him; I’d said the exact same thing when I’d heard.
“Wait, it gets better,” I said.
Biff was no longer able to shout (it hurt too much), but a growl crept up from the back of his throat. “When do these fucking bandages come off?”
“Eventually.” When it looked like Biff was going to start yelling, regardless of stitches, I said, “Look, they have to come off soon. Those tubes under your arms have to come out. If she isn’t better in time, either her junior or Scorch and Flame will do it. We’ll get it done. You wanted the Treehouse healer experience; now you’re getting it.”
He let his head fall against the chair and groaned.
“Look, I’m not thrilled about this either, but Ribbonblack is old, rickety, and catches everything that comes through here. That’s just how it goes.” I pressed the heels of my hands against my eyes and rubbed.
He raised his head. “You said it got better.”
I chuckled and rubbed harder. “Yes. Yes I did.”
“Well?”
I let my hands fall with a sigh. “Guess who has to take up the slack with Ribbonblack down?”
Biff looked at me. His head fell back against the chair again. “Shit.”
“My thoughts exactly. I’m going to need to get outside help; I can’t work double shifts and take care of you at the same time, even if I do live right below my workplace.”
“No way. Ain’t no giant bug emptying my drains.”
“I… wasn’t planning on using a Treehouse resident, actually.”
He stared at me. I gave him my most charming, ingratiating grin.
…
“Raige! Buddy! Pal! Friend…”
“You need something, don’t you?”
“Oh god, do I…”
…
Raige was there by noon, armed with flashlight, books, and cup Ramen, and bless his heart, he acted like Biff bandaged up with drains pinned to the front of his vest was the most normal thing in the world. Smart as he was, Raige could pull off impressive performances of good-natured obliviousness when he chose to.
“Hey,” he said, bending over so as not to hit his head on the doorsill. “How’s it going?”
Just as well it was a general question. Biff was too busy marinating in self-righteous sulking to do more than glare.
“Surviving,” I said, trying to bolt down lunch and talk at the same time. “I’m headed back out in a moment. Drain log is on the wall—”
He held up my instructions. “Yup, you wrote it all down, I’ve got it.”
“Be sure to measure the amount of Biff juice in them every few hours; don’t forget, he doesn’t take more than one Vicodin every—”
Raige started ushering me out the door. “I got it.”
“If he starts leaking through his bandages, get me immediately, I’ll be right upstairs, Scorch and Flame know what’s going on—”
“Have a nice shift, sweetie.”
“And don’t let him needle you, he’s just grouchy, and—”
“Get outta here, will ya?” Biff barked, and I hugged Raige and left him to his babysitting. Hopefully everyone would be alive when I got back.
With Ribbonblack down, the shift was a madhouse. Flame was resting up for the night work, which meant it was just Scorch and me, and he was slow and sluggish from winter dropping his metabolism. Naturally, we had an out-of-town crisis case in the middle of things, someone falling out of a tree and breaking half of everything, so we had to further divide the practice, Scorch heading to deal with that while I stayed in and single-handedly held the day practice myself. (Thankfully, during the interim nothing exotic came up, just the usual sprains, bruises, and blue worms cases, so I didn’t have to wake Flame.) Somehow, we both soldiered through it, though I was never so relieved to clock out, long after the sun had set.
But there was no time to rest. I had to scrub off and check on Biff and Raige, make sure they hadn’t driven each other to tears or madness, make sure everything had gotten done, double-check it all…
When I came down, I found the fire blazing and Biff and Raige calmly eating dinner. A big bowl of it had been left out for me, and Biff must’ve had a hand in it, because the ramen was filled with meat and vegetables. Raige was reading one of his purple paperbacks, Biff was resting, and everything looked tranquil as could be.
Raige looked up and smiled when he heard me come in. “Hey, how was work?”
I moaned and collapsed onto the floor next to my bowl.
“That busy, huh?”
I nodded and promptly fell asleep over my ramen. Nobody tried to wake me.
Despite working from dawn till past dusk, I was still a light sleeper, and Biff had a naturally blaring voice, even when he was trying to keep it down. I surfaced periodically, just enough to register someone draping a blanket over me or quiet talking, and then I’d be out again, reassured that no one was dead.
Once, I woke up enough to make out the words.
“She tell you why I’m here?”
“Is it any of my business?”
“No.”
“There you go, then.”
It wasn’t their voices that ended up waking me for good so much as the crick in my neck from sleeping slumped over a table. I twitched and made a bleary whining noise. It seemed the height of injustice to be denied slumber for such a trivial reason.
“Evening,” Raige said, ruffling my hair. “You should eat something. The ramen’s great.”
“Ugh.” I rubbed my eyes, blinked blearily at them. “What time’s it?”
“Moon high. I’m surprised you were able to sleep in that position as long as you did.”
Biff snorted. “I slept nights like that.”
I rotated my neck until it popped. “I lack your padding.” My stomach growled plaintively, so I grabbed the ramen and began devouring it cold. “I presume everything went smoothly?”
“No problem,” Raige said, “if by ‘no problem’ you mean enough fluid coming out of him to fill a water balloon.”
“That’s normal,” I said, and turning to Biff, “how’re you feeling?”
Biff shrugged with his mouth and eyebrows. “Like I got hit by a truck.”
“Also normal.”
“You think they’ll call you out during the night?” Raige asked.
“They better not,” I snarled, slurping the food down. “They have me pull a triple and I quit.”
They didn’t. Praise be.
…
Three days later, Raige went home and Ribbonblack summoned us. At long last, the bandages were coming off.
“Do I get to see the work?” I asked as I helped wrestle Biff into my coat. It was three sizes too big, which was the only way any clothing of mine would fit over his shoulders. “Because if you’d rather I didn’t….”
He didn’t seem to hear me at first, too involved with getting the coat on with minimal pain. Then, “Nah, it’s okay.”
A surprise storm had left snow to our knees. Scorch had already tramped a path to the main road, but most of the snow remained powdery and pristine, reflecting the blues of immediate post-sunset. The air smelled sharp and clean, a pleasant contrast to my room, which had grown increasingly stuffy with Biff stuck there for over a week without a shower.
He hadn’t been out that day, and anyway, he was from Georgia. When he saw the snow, he looked dazed for a moment. Then he raised his face to the air and sighed a long column of steam.
“Didn’t know it snowed here.”
“Mostly it doesn’t.” I stamped my feet and tucked my hands in my armpits. “Come on, you’re wearing my only coat. Let’s get to Ribbonblack’s before I freeze.”
Thankfully, Ribbonblack’s practice was nice and warm. Off came the bandages, off came the vest, and out came the tubes. That was a queasy process, and for the first time ever, I almost saw Biff faint. We laid him down to recover, and after making sure he was all right, Ribbonblack left to deal with other business.
After everything he’d gone through, I expected Biff to be impatient to see the result. But no, he kept his eyes screwed tightly shut, looking a little gray under his dark complexion, clenching his fists tight at his sides.
“How you feeling?” I asked.
“Should’ve punched her.”
“You heard the doctor; T-rex arms for seven weeks. You aren’t punching anybody.”
“You do it.”
“And take on her workload again? No dice.”
Silence.
“You can look down, you know. Whatever you’re imagining, I promise it’s not as bad as all that.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Need help getting up?”
“I got it.”
It still took him a moment, since he was light-headed and couldn’t use his arms. I took the opportunity to drag the mirror over to a position where he could see it.
The stitches were black and precise, a stark contrast against the raw red wounds that stretched across his chest under his pectoral muscles. There was a good amount of swelling, and under it, I could tell that his chest would be uneven, as though he’d suffered a major accident. The scarring would be massive and ragged.
Biff smiled. “Perfect.”
Then he fainted. At least I managed to catch him before he burst anything.
Word Count: 14,658
Summary: Biff wants top surgery, but he can’t get it in Vaygo. Luckily for him, M.D.’s junior healer.
Notes: This is REALLY late in the timeline; M.D.’s been junior healer for a few years now, turns nineteen over the course of this story, and is by all accounts a functioning adult. Biff turns twenty-eight. Medical grossness towards the end. Also, this is all Lee’s fault.
Month Five
It was getting down to the line now, but that didn’t mean things slowed down. It just meant that on top of giving him work, Ribbonblack was constantly prodding and poking him to make sure he didn’t have any surprise reactions or health problems that would cause him to drop dead during the operation. The assortment of drugs that Biff kept under his sink turned out to be useful; it spared Ribbonblack the strain of having to find out a good local mix.
Biff got progressively antsier and antsier, and sublimated the anxiety into huge sprees of cooking. One day, I came home from work to find Biff already up, a steaming pot of something delicious on the camp stove burner. I sidled up to it, sniffing, but Biff fended me off with his elbow, then smacked me with the spoon when I reached for it.
“Your punishments are cruel and unusual,” I complained, rubbing my wrist. “You’re up early. You don’t need another favor, do you?”
He shrugged. “Nah, couldn’t sleep. Surgery coming up, so Ribbonblack said no smoking.”
“You complied? I’ve been nagging you to quit smoking for years!”
“Yeah, well, you ain’t taking a knife to me. Once that’s over, I’m starting again. Had to go off my shots too.” He lifted the lid, prodded the contents with a spoon, and grabbed some cubed meat on the cutting board. As he used the knife to slide it into the pot, I cocked my head.
“How you holding up?”
He shrugged. “Enh, fine for now. Give it a week and I’ll feel like shit, though. Gimme some of that… that purple potato thing.”
I passed it over and as he did mysterious culinary things, I caught a look at his chest.
“Hey. Your vest is gone.”
“Yup.”
“Your illusion is gone.”
He gave me a look that asked whether I thought pointing out the obvious made me smart.
“Ribbonblack again?”
He took sudden inordinate interest in the soup. “Me.”
I let him stir for a bit, then said, “So, do I get an explanation, or what?”
He shrugged. “Just… coming up soon, and I could die, so I thought… y’know. Maybe if I tried enough, I could just deal.” He gave me a defensive look and added, “Ain’t like nobody here can tell the difference.”
“True. So? How does it feel?”
“Shitty. Gonna try the full day.”
“Good luck with that.”
He had the vest and illusion back on before the soup was done.
Month Six
Taking Biff’s addictions away never went smoothly. It’d taken him years to taper off the binge-drinking, and he still sometimes toppled off the wagon under stress. This was worse; he was going cold-turkey on everything, all at the same time. His personality, never stunning, took a heavy downgrade, and he pretty much stopped sleeping, which only made it worse.
Now we did start fighting. It was impossible not to; with his endocrine system in full revolt and no drugs or bloodshed to distract him, Biff hated everything. A missing sock was cause for an emotional explosion, and nothing on earth seemed to calm him down. Even cooking turned into an emotional minefield. My only consolation was that Biff would soon be under the knife and this would all be over.
Then we got a message from Ribbonblack’s practice. She was sick; the surgery would have to be delayed “until further notice.”
Biff hit the roof. Though it took all of my self-control, I managed to refrain from joining him. Everything would be fine, I told myself. Fine. Ribbonblack would be fine, the surgery would be fine, everything would be fine, fine, fine.
Two weeks, I did this. It was the third-longest two weeks of my life, but I managed to at least imitate a responsible adult.
Then I came home to find my entire place wrecked and Biff in full tirade because he was positive I’d hidden his spice rack. (It was, in fact, back in his apartment in Vaygo. But by that point he was so sleep-deprived that he’d forgotten.) He’d overturned my furniture. He’d tossed my bedding everywhere. He’d disorganized my books.
Within five seconds, we were roaring and waving our arms at each other like furious baboons. After all that restraint, it was a relief to finally let loose, and it looked like Biff would finally get the violence he craved, but right as I was hefting the frying pan, I had a flash of common sense. Biff was going under the knife soon. (Hopefully, oh god, oh please.) He couldn’t afford to take damage. As junior healer, it was my responsibility, my duty, not to hurt him.
Never have I been so tempted to violate my professional scruples. I might have anyway if not for the second realization that hurting him might delay the surgery even longer.
That did it. Unclenching my hand one finger at a time, I gently set the frying pan down and forcibly dampened my volume. The effort made my voice sound strangled.
“Pack,” I said. “You’re leaving.”
Self-control completely exhausted, I stormed out before he could tempt me further. Looking around, I saw Scorch and Flame’s tree and hurled myself up it as high as I could. Once I’d climbed as far as was structurally sound, I sat, stared at the canopy spread below me, and did my own personal stint of hating everything.
After a minute or two, Biff slunk out, body language reminiscent of a dog caught defecating on the carpet. Guilt was not something he usually expressed; I would’ve found it funny if I hadn’t been so mad at him.
“Hey. Do—”
“Go rot!”
“But—”
“Go away!”
He did.
For a while, I stayed in that tree, scowling into space. Eventually, I’d have to climb down so I could ship him off to Vaygo, but that would mean dealing with him, and I’d had enough of that for the time being. As it was, I had a nice view of a sunny sky, and that seemed a much better use of my attention. This exploding ball of nuclear hot air was billions of miles away, mercifully silent, and much prettier.
The sky was getting painted in pink and gold when Biff came out a second time. This time, he didn’t say anything to me, just climbed up. It took a couple near-falls, but eventually he made it up to my branch. I refused to acknowledge his existence. The silent treatment had never been my style, but I was angry enough to give it a try.
“Still mad, huh?”
Understatement of the year.
“I made dinner.”
His dinner could rot, for all I cared.
“I cleaned up,” he said.
He’d probably sorted my books alphabetically.
“C’mon. Don’t send me back.”
“Why not?” Okay, fine, so I was lousy at the silent treatment.
“If I go back, I’ll drink.” His voice was weary. “I don’t want to do that.”
“Just because you have lousy impulse-control doesn’t mean I’m obligated to tolerate your behavior.”
Silence. I let him stew; it was that or kick him off my branch. At this point, I almost looked forward to him giving me a good excuse. Forget professional scruples; the way he’d been lately, not a single healer would convict me.
I was already planning the best direction to shove him when he said, “Nah. You ain’t.”
I squinted at him suspiciously. This was far too good to be true. Any minute now, he was going to revert to the over-defensive ball of wrath that I knew so well.
“I’d’ve decked me a week ago, and you done a lot for me, the past few months.” He looked to be developing an ulcer. “I…”
“Yes?”
Through his teeth: “I appreciate it.”
I cupped my hand around one ear. “What was that? I can’t hear you over the emergency snowstorm announcement in Hell.”
“I said I ‘preciate it, okay? Jesus fuck, you want a medal or something?”
That was more like it. “After what you’ve put me through, I deserve three.”
“No shit, you think I don’t know how crazy I am right now? I ain’t been off my shit in years, ‘cause when I do, I get like this. Look, I’ll change my schedule, stick myself in solitary, whatever, I just can’t go home. If I drink like this, I’ll ruin everything. I just got to get through this, so I never have to do it again. Please.” The ulcer was back. “Just… please.”
He rubbed his eyes, and I sighed.
“You have one day. Spend tomorrow behaving like a person, or your departure will be merely a day delayed.”
I started to climb down, and Biff said, “Hey.”
I looked up, ready for him to say something worthy of a face-punch.
“Can we do something?”
I frowned. “Meaning…?”
“Look. I can’t fight, I can’t drink, I can’t smoke, and my work’s done. I need something to do, ‘fore I kill this whole fucking town.”
“I’ll get back to you.”
Then I climbed down to see what he’d cooked me in penance, and he helped me reorganize my books.
…
The next day, I took Biff hiking to Lookout Point. This was a common act of recreation all over Silver Fern, even in winter, so we weren’t the only hiking party. Banded together, the group was big enough to protect from attack, and Biff had been around enough that he could finally recognize predatory plants, which saved me a lot of bother.
Vaygo was flat as a pool table, while Silver Fern was full of hills and small mountains. Biff was used to an aerobic lifestyle, but not on this level, and his wind was short; I could wear him out without exhausting myself in the process, and enjoy great views in the bargain. It worked, too. After the first hour, he could pass for human again.
We arrived at Lookout Point not long past noon and broke for a meal. It was good, clear weather. We could see the bay, busy with boats, and the colors and movement of the Freeport market. The rocky cliffs and grassy hills and forest laid out around us, in tones of blue, brown, and green. If we turned around, we could see Treehouse’s tree-line wall and the lookout towers.
Biff didn’t seem impressed, but he never did.
“Dusk and dawn are the traditional times to come here,” I said, plunking down and chomping into my sandwich, “but your night-vision is lousy and I can’t take another day off work to spend the night in Freeport. Too bad, really. The sunsets are amazing, and the Freeport market’s the best in Silver Fern. I’m sure Scorch would be glad to let me handle the trip for once. Another time, if you want.”
Biff settled back, breathing hard but less winded than I’d expected. I wasn’t sure which had helped his lung capacity more: getting rid of the cigarettes, or getting rid of the Ace bandages. “Sure. After the surgery. When I’m better.” He clapped a hand to his pocket, then frowned when he found it empty. “When I can smoke again.”
I tossed him water. “Your incisions will thank you for your brief abstinence.”
He drank, and when he came up for air, he said, “How they gonna put me under?”
“Who said you were getting put under?” At his frown, I said, “We can’t use global anaesthesia here for long procedures, so Ribbonblack will put you in a trance state, plus local anaesthesia, just in case you don’t go down easily.”
He paused in his hunt for a sandwich. “Shit.”
“It’s not as bad as it sounds. You won’t be aware of anything, and anaesthesia can be really nasty stuff. This way, it won’t take you hours just to wake up, you won’t need a tube down your throat, you won’t be nauseous—”
“Naw, I mean, she got to go into my head to do that.”
“Not really. The ability was initially meant for hunting; it doesn’t require a deep connection. It’s basically a hypnotic trance, and your shrinks and showmen have been inducing that for decades without any psychic ability at all. Ribbonblack’s a professional. You’ll be out in seconds.”
Biff bit his lip, tapped his fingers against the pocket where his cigarettes used to be. “Can you be there for it?”
“Biff,” I said gently, “you know how much I suck.”
“Didn’t say you got to do it. Just… be there. Make sure she don’t fuck around. Make sure I don’t wake up in the middle.”
He was staring fixedly at the horizon.
“Sure,” I said. “I can do that. I highly doubt I’ll need to, but I will.”
That seemed to help a little. He nodded a couple times. “Okay. Sure. Think it’ll go okay?”
“Of course.”
He shoved me.
“You’ll most likely live through it,” I amended. “If you don’t, you’ll never wake up.”
He was silent for a moment, mulling it over. Then he said, “I kick it, you got to promise me something.”
“What?”
He smirked. “You got to deck Ribbonblack for me.”
I rubbed my chin. “Hmm. I don’t know, we healers aren’t supposed to punch each other, professionalism you know…”
He shoved me again.
“Okay, okay. I promise, if you die on the table, I’ll punch Ribbonblack in your memory. But really, far more likely is that you’ll live through the surgery, but look like Scorch chewed on you.”
He nodded, as though he’d come to the same conclusion. “I can deal with that.”
I nodded, and we sat and watched the boats and rafts come in to Freeport, little blips of white and yellow on the great expanse of blue.
“It better be good when we come back here,” he said.
“It will,” I swore. “It totally will.”
…
For that whole month, Biff stayed with me in Treehouse. It wasn’t pretty, but somehow he stayed sober and clean without me aching to murder him.
Considering the stress and anxiety leading up to it, the surgery day itself was anticlimactic. I think by that point, we all just wanted it to be over. Biff didn’t sleep the entire day before, and by the time he got to the operating table, he was so drained that he was out like a light the moment Ribbonblack touched him.
I stayed in his mind, made sure he was good and under, then slipped out, and all that was left for me was to leave the room and wait.
…
‘Fine’ is a relative term, especially with first time surgeries involving filleting a guy across the chest. I’ll spare you the grisly details; suffice to say, Biff lived, he was never dangerously close to dying, and things were incised, excised, and sutured relatively cleanly. By all accounts, a rousing success.
I didn’t get to see the result right away, and neither did Biff. My gore tolerance had improved over the years, but I drew the line with people I knew too personally, and by the time Biff regained consciousness, he was wrapped in so many layers of bandages, plus the compression garment, that there was no way of telling how it’d gone.
His first semi-conscious words were, “Y’punch Rib’nblack?”
“Nope. Congratulations, Biff, you lived.”
“The fuck you say.” And then he slept for fourteen hours.
He spent the first three days in Ribbonblack’s infirmary, so she could keep an eye on him. It was going to be a week, but Biff was almost as rotten a patient as I was, and he was in a lot of pain most of the time, so we got him moved back down to my place. I emptied his drains (if you don’t know what that means, don’t look it up), kept him entertained and medicated, and we waited for the bandages to come off.
Then Ribbonblack got sick.
“Again?” Biff whined.
I couldn’t blame him; I’d said the exact same thing when I’d heard.
“Wait, it gets better,” I said.
Biff was no longer able to shout (it hurt too much), but a growl crept up from the back of his throat. “When do these fucking bandages come off?”
“Eventually.” When it looked like Biff was going to start yelling, regardless of stitches, I said, “Look, they have to come off soon. Those tubes under your arms have to come out. If she isn’t better in time, either her junior or Scorch and Flame will do it. We’ll get it done. You wanted the Treehouse healer experience; now you’re getting it.”
He let his head fall against the chair and groaned.
“Look, I’m not thrilled about this either, but Ribbonblack is old, rickety, and catches everything that comes through here. That’s just how it goes.” I pressed the heels of my hands against my eyes and rubbed.
He raised his head. “You said it got better.”
I chuckled and rubbed harder. “Yes. Yes I did.”
“Well?”
I let my hands fall with a sigh. “Guess who has to take up the slack with Ribbonblack down?”
Biff looked at me. His head fell back against the chair again. “Shit.”
“My thoughts exactly. I’m going to need to get outside help; I can’t work double shifts and take care of you at the same time, even if I do live right below my workplace.”
“No way. Ain’t no giant bug emptying my drains.”
“I… wasn’t planning on using a Treehouse resident, actually.”
He stared at me. I gave him my most charming, ingratiating grin.
…
“Raige! Buddy! Pal! Friend…”
“You need something, don’t you?”
“Oh god, do I…”
…
Raige was there by noon, armed with flashlight, books, and cup Ramen, and bless his heart, he acted like Biff bandaged up with drains pinned to the front of his vest was the most normal thing in the world. Smart as he was, Raige could pull off impressive performances of good-natured obliviousness when he chose to.
“Hey,” he said, bending over so as not to hit his head on the doorsill. “How’s it going?”
Just as well it was a general question. Biff was too busy marinating in self-righteous sulking to do more than glare.
“Surviving,” I said, trying to bolt down lunch and talk at the same time. “I’m headed back out in a moment. Drain log is on the wall—”
He held up my instructions. “Yup, you wrote it all down, I’ve got it.”
“Be sure to measure the amount of Biff juice in them every few hours; don’t forget, he doesn’t take more than one Vicodin every—”
Raige started ushering me out the door. “I got it.”
“If he starts leaking through his bandages, get me immediately, I’ll be right upstairs, Scorch and Flame know what’s going on—”
“Have a nice shift, sweetie.”
“And don’t let him needle you, he’s just grouchy, and—”
“Get outta here, will ya?” Biff barked, and I hugged Raige and left him to his babysitting. Hopefully everyone would be alive when I got back.
With Ribbonblack down, the shift was a madhouse. Flame was resting up for the night work, which meant it was just Scorch and me, and he was slow and sluggish from winter dropping his metabolism. Naturally, we had an out-of-town crisis case in the middle of things, someone falling out of a tree and breaking half of everything, so we had to further divide the practice, Scorch heading to deal with that while I stayed in and single-handedly held the day practice myself. (Thankfully, during the interim nothing exotic came up, just the usual sprains, bruises, and blue worms cases, so I didn’t have to wake Flame.) Somehow, we both soldiered through it, though I was never so relieved to clock out, long after the sun had set.
But there was no time to rest. I had to scrub off and check on Biff and Raige, make sure they hadn’t driven each other to tears or madness, make sure everything had gotten done, double-check it all…
When I came down, I found the fire blazing and Biff and Raige calmly eating dinner. A big bowl of it had been left out for me, and Biff must’ve had a hand in it, because the ramen was filled with meat and vegetables. Raige was reading one of his purple paperbacks, Biff was resting, and everything looked tranquil as could be.
Raige looked up and smiled when he heard me come in. “Hey, how was work?”
I moaned and collapsed onto the floor next to my bowl.
“That busy, huh?”
I nodded and promptly fell asleep over my ramen. Nobody tried to wake me.
Despite working from dawn till past dusk, I was still a light sleeper, and Biff had a naturally blaring voice, even when he was trying to keep it down. I surfaced periodically, just enough to register someone draping a blanket over me or quiet talking, and then I’d be out again, reassured that no one was dead.
Once, I woke up enough to make out the words.
“She tell you why I’m here?”
“Is it any of my business?”
“No.”
“There you go, then.”
It wasn’t their voices that ended up waking me for good so much as the crick in my neck from sleeping slumped over a table. I twitched and made a bleary whining noise. It seemed the height of injustice to be denied slumber for such a trivial reason.
“Evening,” Raige said, ruffling my hair. “You should eat something. The ramen’s great.”
“Ugh.” I rubbed my eyes, blinked blearily at them. “What time’s it?”
“Moon high. I’m surprised you were able to sleep in that position as long as you did.”
Biff snorted. “I slept nights like that.”
I rotated my neck until it popped. “I lack your padding.” My stomach growled plaintively, so I grabbed the ramen and began devouring it cold. “I presume everything went smoothly?”
“No problem,” Raige said, “if by ‘no problem’ you mean enough fluid coming out of him to fill a water balloon.”
“That’s normal,” I said, and turning to Biff, “how’re you feeling?”
Biff shrugged with his mouth and eyebrows. “Like I got hit by a truck.”
“Also normal.”
“You think they’ll call you out during the night?” Raige asked.
“They better not,” I snarled, slurping the food down. “They have me pull a triple and I quit.”
They didn’t. Praise be.
…
Three days later, Raige went home and Ribbonblack summoned us. At long last, the bandages were coming off.
“Do I get to see the work?” I asked as I helped wrestle Biff into my coat. It was three sizes too big, which was the only way any clothing of mine would fit over his shoulders. “Because if you’d rather I didn’t….”
He didn’t seem to hear me at first, too involved with getting the coat on with minimal pain. Then, “Nah, it’s okay.”
A surprise storm had left snow to our knees. Scorch had already tramped a path to the main road, but most of the snow remained powdery and pristine, reflecting the blues of immediate post-sunset. The air smelled sharp and clean, a pleasant contrast to my room, which had grown increasingly stuffy with Biff stuck there for over a week without a shower.
He hadn’t been out that day, and anyway, he was from Georgia. When he saw the snow, he looked dazed for a moment. Then he raised his face to the air and sighed a long column of steam.
“Didn’t know it snowed here.”
“Mostly it doesn’t.” I stamped my feet and tucked my hands in my armpits. “Come on, you’re wearing my only coat. Let’s get to Ribbonblack’s before I freeze.”
Thankfully, Ribbonblack’s practice was nice and warm. Off came the bandages, off came the vest, and out came the tubes. That was a queasy process, and for the first time ever, I almost saw Biff faint. We laid him down to recover, and after making sure he was all right, Ribbonblack left to deal with other business.
After everything he’d gone through, I expected Biff to be impatient to see the result. But no, he kept his eyes screwed tightly shut, looking a little gray under his dark complexion, clenching his fists tight at his sides.
“How you feeling?” I asked.
“Should’ve punched her.”
“You heard the doctor; T-rex arms for seven weeks. You aren’t punching anybody.”
“You do it.”
“And take on her workload again? No dice.”
Silence.
“You can look down, you know. Whatever you’re imagining, I promise it’s not as bad as all that.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Need help getting up?”
“I got it.”
It still took him a moment, since he was light-headed and couldn’t use his arms. I took the opportunity to drag the mirror over to a position where he could see it.
The stitches were black and precise, a stark contrast against the raw red wounds that stretched across his chest under his pectoral muscles. There was a good amount of swelling, and under it, I could tell that his chest would be uneven, as though he’d suffered a major accident. The scarring would be massive and ragged.
Biff smiled. “Perfect.”
Then he fainted. At least I managed to catch him before he burst anything.
no subject
Date: 2014-08-27 03:48 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-08-28 12:53 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-08-30 06:47 am (UTC)Finally, I liked that the result of the surgery was as imperfect as M.D. predicted. I guess a part of me was too used to Hollywood endings where the outcome is better than anyone has any right to expect. I liked it even better that Biff still thought it was "perfect." His ferocious will was the true drive of this narrative, a reminder of the lengths a being will go to in order to find their place and their shape. That's the story behind every good story, really.
no subject
Date: 2014-08-30 05:43 pm (UTC)Before she got chucked to Treehouse and got stuck doing basic medic work, Ribbonblack took her work as an aesthetic surgeon very seriously. That said, even the best surgeon in the world is limited by their experience and their equipment, and Ribbonblack just wasn't in a position to give Biff a perfect result. Which is fine; he never expected one. (And besides, even here, people haven't perfected the technique. I based Biff's experience on mine, only more so.)
Treehouse generally runs on a lot of jury-rigging and acceptance that things go wrong. Everything takes a long time because there just aren't enough people and they don't conceptualize time the way we do.
--Rogan
no subject
Date: 2014-09-02 03:39 pm (UTC)(Okay, this is ridiculous. It seems to be a problem with one of my custom hotkeys, sorry for the multiple notification.) One of the things I like about Treehouse is that it's far from a perfect place though it has a lot of things going for it. All too often when people dream up an otherworld society it's just wish fulfillment, much like Earth except better. You never skimp on the alienness and imperfection of Treehouse, which ironically makes it much more likable than any drearily perfect World of Wank.
no subject
Date: 2014-09-03 12:16 am (UTC)One person we know, however, has recently had surgery and was basically back on his feet after something like three or four weeks. I don't know how the hell he did it; I think his procedure was less invasive and involved less body mass being lost.
I find your comment very reassuring, since I worry that Treehouse comes off as too human and wish-fulfilly. I really wanted it to be a foil to Vaygo, where there's a lot more money and tech, but very little sense of greater community and often a sense of emotional isolation. In Treehouse, your business is EVERYONE's business, for better or worse.
What a weird glitch to be getting from your comp!
--Rogan