Moira/Manuel

[x-mactaggart.livejournal.com]

Moira sat cross-legged in a chair near where Manuel lay asleep. Her fingers moved fast but silently as she worked on one of her experiments and fiddled with some data. Nathan was a murmur in the back of her mind, not enough to distract her but enough to let her know she wasn't alone. She glanced up at Manuel and sighed to herself. He looked like death warmed over, even unconscious. No matter what he had done, she still felt sorry for him.

Everything was such a mess these days.

Manuel stirred in his dreams, and cried out softly under his breath in Castillian. One word, though, was spoken in English, repeated over and over again between bursts of Castillian. "Amanda."

She couldn't help but wince at that. She was now well aware of what a link meant and knew that the cut off for both Amanda and Manuel had to have been tough. Especially with everything else that had happened to the two of them. While she didn't think it had been a healthy thing for them to have been linked, she also knew that sometimes there wasn't a whole lot you could do to prevent it. She placed the laptop aside and stood by the bed, watching with concern.

Manuel's eyes snapped open as he moaned "Amanda!", then looked around the room like he wasn't sure where he was. When he sees Moira, he draws into himself. "Who are you?" he asks in bad, badly-accented English.

"Doctor MacTaggart," she replied softly, suddenly glad she had left her lab coat behind. It probably wouldn't have been a good idea for him to wake up and see someone in lab gear standing over him. "I'm 'ere ta let Shinobi an' Marie catch some sleep."

Manuel nods, once. "I see." he says, his English improving slightly as the nightmare faded. He then stares at Moira rudely, like he's looking _through_ her or trying to imagine what she looks like in the nude or something.

An eyebrow quirked slightly, but Moira didn't let it phase her. She figured it had something to do with his power but if not, no harm no foul. She'd had patients do worse. And she was far too tired to let it bother her, even if it would have normally.

"There is something odd here." he mutters to himself as he studies Moira. "It's so hard to see it, but there's something wrong. Something different." He then rests his head back down on his now-clean pillows. "My head hurts." he whines.

"Aspirin?" she asked, blinking. That was indeed odd. He couldn't sense the link, could he? Did it work like that?

"I don't know, you're the fucking doctor. My head hurts. Fix it." he whines again, rubbing his eyes with his fists.

Moira settled for mentally rolling her eyes but scooped up the bottle of aspirin that was on the nightstand. She eyed him, mentally tried to figure out his weight, and shook out two of them. There was a glass of water, cold since she'd been refilling it every so often just in case he woke up, and she handed over that and the aspirin to him. "If th' 'eadache's still there in half an 'our, I'll give ye another aspirin."

Manuel sits up, takes the glass of water with a shaky hand, and manages to get the aspirin down without A) drowning himself or B) spilling more than a quarter of the glass of water down his shirtless front. "Thank you." he says, letting his body flop back down onto the bed gracelessly. "So why are you here? Here to laugh and jeer at the empath, or here to dissect him, write a few papers on how his broken brain works?"

"I dinnae find this situation much wort' laughin' 'bout, really." Moira brought the chair closer to the bed and sat back down. "An' I dinnae need ta write any more papers. I'm simply 'ere because I wanted ta make sure ye were okay an' ta make sure Shinobi an' Marie dinnae run themselves inta th' ground doin' th' same thin'."

"I'll live, if that's what you mean. Can you not speak correctly? You're very hard to understand." he complains, giving up on the prone to prop himself up so he can look at Moira more. "And what is that _thing_ sticking out of your brain? I can just barely see it, but I don't think it's normal."

"I could always try me Latin out, but I believe me Scottish accent would kill tha' as well," she responded dryly. "Ye can see th' link?" She looked slightly surprised. That wasn't expected. Not at all.

"Is that what it is called?" he asks, the fatigue slurring his words even more than his accent normally does. "It's so hard to see, but there are feelings in it. I think. I don't want to think too much, my brain hurts."

"I believe so, aye." Well, that made sense, kind of. Interesting to think of how strong it might be, then. "Then dinnae, jus' rest. D' ye want anythin'? More water, food...?"

Much to Manuel's everlasting embarrassment, his stomach chose just then to rumble loudly. "I suppose I am hungry, now." he admits. "I haven't been for a long time. I couldn't make myself care - about food or much of anything."

Moira glanced over at the supplies she had brought. Among them were crackers and some microwavable soups that would be easy on his stomach. She got up and retrieved them, handing over the crackers on her way to the microwave. There had also been something else near the pile and she assumed Marie brought them when she came back. "Looks like someone brought a few CDs," Moira informed him, punching in the buttons on the microwave. "Probably if'n ye were 'avin' trouble sleepin'."

Manuel brightens somewhat at this. "I've always liked music. Even when I wanted to die, when I was sure everyone wanted to kill me, music was there for me."

"Then music ye shall 'ave." She waited patiently for the microwave to beep and then fished out a spoon. It was warm but not too hot, she didn't want him to burn himself by accident with it. After a bit of searching she found the paper towels and brought everything over to the bed stand beside him. She then rescued the music and put that on the bed. "We can slip somethin' inta me laptop if ye like."

Manuel waved his hand dismissively at Moira as he tore into his soup. "Just put something on." he mumbles around bites.

"There's more o' tha' if ye want it." She nodded at the soup and picked up the first CD. Moira really hadn't heard of this before but she shrugged and picked up her laptop again. After settling herself and it back in the chair, she slide it home and started up the music.

Manuel's lips twisted into a half-smile as the trance CD started playing. "Assemblage 23. Good choice. Fits my mood like a glove right about now." he says, having polished off his soup in record time.

Moira's head tilted to a side slightly as she listened to the music. It was much harsher than anything she'd normally listen to and she didn't like the fact that it did fit Manuel's emotional state right about now. But she couldn't blame him, after all. "Aye, I can see 'ow it would," she murmured.

Manuel swayed a little from side to side in time with the music, and then looked over at Moira. "You don't like my music." he said flatly.

She chuckled slightly. "I'm nay *used* ta it." Moira shook her head. "I'm old, remember? 'Tis...different, I'll give it tha'." So was he.

"Does that matter?" he asks curiously. "And it's not different. The stuff they play here is different. It sucks." he says, taking a deep breath and clenching his hands into fists.

"Maybe nay." She watched in concern as he clenched his hands. "Wha's wron'?"

"I feel sick." he says, before emptying his recently-consumed soup and half-dissolved aspirin into his vomit pail. "Ow."

Moira was on her feet quickly as years of experience not only as a doctor but also as a mother showed through. The other CDs were pushed to a safe distance as Manuel became sick again. His body was shaking with the effort and Moira was afraid he'd fall over, into the bucket and onto the floor, both of which were not good options. He jerked a little when she held him but came to the same conclusion as she had about falling over. When she felt the muscles in his back seize up from the effort, she instinctively rubbed his back soothingly, which seemed to help.

Luckily the bucket wasn't near to being filled, yet, so Moira wasn't worried about that.

Manuel tried to flinch from the contact, but his posture and the emptying of his stomach left him nowhere to go, and no escape. His skin is warm, almost feverishly so, and very dry to the touch. Eventually, after what seems to be an eternity, his gag reflex settles down and he wipes his mouth.

Moira let go and reached for the glass of water. There was still some in there from earlier and it wasn't as cold as it had been, which is good. Cold water on his stomach would only end in tears. Wordlessly, she handed that to him and got up to get a wash cloth. In reality, she's letting him have a few minutes to regain his composure without having her hovering.

Manuel rinsed out his mouth and spat gracelessly into his vomit pail. "Gaaaaah." he said intelligently.

When Moira was done rinsing out the wash cloth, she came back in and handed it to him. "'ere, this should 'elp."

Manuel takes the washcloth and bathes himself off as best he can. ~That was unpleasant~ he says in Castillian, forgetting himself for a moment.

Moira doesn't comment on the slip, just sits back down on the chair. "I'd ask if ye felt better after tha' but..." His stomach would, at least. She should have paid attention to how fast he had eaten that soup. He'd just ended up shocking his system, going from not eating to downing the food in a matter of minutes, if that slow.

Manuel sits up in bed, hugging his knees to his chest. He's very carefully not looking at Moira, or at anyone else for that matter. "I don't suppose you know any way to make me stop feeling?" he asks in Moira's general direction.

She sighed softly and her mind went back to her own days of trying to feel numb, through liberal use of whiskey and beer. Not something she'd suggest. Ever. "Nay, I dinnae. Ten years o' doin' this an' tha's nay somethin' I've figure out 'ow ta do."

Manuel, still very carefully not looking at Moira, says "I know a drug that works. Do you have any thorazine in your office?"

Moira also went very still. "Nay, I dinnae," she said, firmly but gently. "If ye *do* need somethin', ta sleep or th' like, I'll confer wit' th' rest o' the medical staff an' Emma an' see wha' we can."

Manuel finally turns to look at Moira directly - to stare _though_ her like he was earlier. ~Dammit, I can't tell.~ he says in Castillian. "I don't want to sleep." he says in English this time. "Too many bad dreams."

"Ye dinnae 'ave ta if ye dinnae want to. If ye jus' want to sit an' listen ta music, I'll turn it up louder for ye." She fished her laptop off the floor where she had hastily put it when Manuel had gotten sick. "Would tha' 'elp, even a wee bit?"

Manuel shrugs very slightly. "I don't know. I don't want to dream about doctors, or asylums, or guards with enema kits, or Angelo, or Bobby, or Amanda, or any of them."

"Then jus' focus on th' music an' nothin' else." Moira edged the sound up a little higher. She was surprised to find herself not minding the music selection.

Manuel decides that it can't hurt to give her suggestion a try, and focuses on the music. He closes his eyes, to better concentrate on feeling the beat, and the emotions behind the words.