Patent Pending – Doctor by Night
Jul. 15th, 2015 11:43 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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xp_logsJean isn't happy to be dragged into the world of nighttime vigilantism and lets Warren, Matt, and Miles know what she thinks. The men don't take criticism so well.
Miles wrung out the wash cloth over the sink, wincing a little at the red-tinged water that ran off. Matt had somehow managed the trek back to his apartment in Hell's Kitchen, but then had promptly fallen over once they got inside. While they waited for Warren to return with help, Miles busied himself by trying to clean up the worst of Matt's injuries. Gen X hadn't gotten to field medicine yet, though, so he had no idea what his shaking hands were doing.
Draped on his couch, Matt had definitely seen better days. Eyes closed his mask was at least off, which helped a bit. Concentrating on breathing, Matt was pretty sure that was all he could do. In and out.
"Here." Miles held out a glass of water and a small handful of aspirin. Probably more than the recommended dose but Matt looked like he needed it. "What happened? How come he went after you so hard?"
Taking the aspirin, Matt shoved them all in his mouth and crunched them without water, then slowly took the water and tried to drink it without spilling too much. "We've met before," Matt grunted, "He's not too fond of me. I keep interrupting his burglary attempts."
"Seems like a lot more than just a burglar. Burglars don't carry throwing knives and bombs that explode into nets." Miles returned to the kitchen to fill up the glass again. "You know his name? Thought I heard you say it over the comms."
"I know him as the Prowler," which may or may not be a self-chosen name. He'd gotten Daredevil bestowed on him since 'the Devil of Hell's Kitchen' was a mouthful. Idly, his arm fell off the couch onto the hard wood floor. "He's...high tech. Not a mutant that I can tell. Don't know much more though. He's not...not always here. Not regular," his brain felt garbled, he wasn't making much sense.
"Prowler," Miles repeated uneasily. Something about the villain was unsettling (besides the obvious), but Miles couldn't place it. He almost seemed to remind Miles of someone. "Don't think I've ever heard Peter say that name. They didn't seem to recognize each other, either. He definitely would've told me."
When he came back from the kitchen, he placed the glass on the coffee table and knelt down beside Matt. "You gotta take that off," he suggested, indicating the battered body armor. "Can't be good squishing against you like that. Lemme help."
Groaning, Matt let Miles manhandle him out of the armoured jacket and the under armour shirt beneath. He was cut in several places and his skin was already turning colours with bruises. "Go get the door," he muttered, hearing Warren and Jean approaching.
I will not pass out, I will not pass out, I will not pass out, Warren thought to himself, doing his best to shield these thoughts from Jean. Their narrow escape from Crossfire, coupled by the beating he'd just taken from both his adversaries, meant that he was running on fumes. He'd flown as quickly as he could from where he'd found Jean, much to the chagrin of his body.
The aches and pains would not be stopped and when they landed on the roof of Matt's building, Warren almost groaned in relief at setting Jean down. Shuffling his way down the stairs to Matt's apartment, he knocked lightly and when Miles answered, Warren sighed sadly. The boy looked like he'd aged overnight, with dark circles under his eyes, and blood all over his hands. "Hey bud," Warren said softly, walking in. "Good job. We can take it from here."
Clutching her medkit, Jean crossed the apartment threshold with a heavy limp, quickly making her way toward Matt. Her scrubs were caked in dirt with small patches of blood and bits of dead leaves and other debris clung to her hair, which resembled tangled bits of copper or a bird’s nest.
She stopped a moment to glance Matt over as she made her way over toward the sink to wash her hands. A nearby dining chair scooted its way over next to Matt in preparation.
“Is everyone hurt? Or is it just Matt, Warren and--” Her attention flickered up and she caught sight of Miles there, remembering him as one of the students at the mansion. In a Spider-Man costume. He couldn’t have been any older than 16. She stared at him a moment, narrowing her eyes with surprise and dismay before it evaporated into an impassive, laser-like focus. That wasn’t important right now. What was important was the medicine.
"Matt, have you lost consciousness? Are you able to breathe or is it difficult?” she said, noticing the droplets of blood Miles hadn’t gotten to clean up yet as she sat down in the dining room chair with a stifled grimace. The medkit opened up, and Jean began to take out various medical supplies.
"I'm breathing," Matt stated, laying propped on pillows, "Wish I'd lost consciousness, but not yet. He hit me with a taser and....everything else," gripping the back of the couch, he tried to pull himself up. "My eyes won't respond to light," he added, perhaps unnecessarily, but he always said it to medical professionals out of habit. Especially when looking for a concussion.
Miles hung back, nervously looking between Matt, Warren, and the woman he remembered from picking up Rahne in Scotland. An X-Man, he was pretty sure, so he wasn't worried that his mask was over in the kitchen. That title came with something, and he knew it meant he could trust her.
"What happened to you guys?" he asked when he snapped out of his contemplation and noticed how banged up they were. He knew that Warren had taken a beating earlier, but he hadn't looked this bad when they split up.
From the look on Jean's face, blatant honesty wasn't going to be his best option. At least now. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you," Warren answered, trying not to look worried at the sight of his friends. His fault. This was all his fault.
"We'll be fine," Jean assured Miles, offering him a soft smile. She didn't want to get the boy more worked up when he was already worried about Matt, who looked like death warmed over. Luckily he seemed conscious and relatively active so hopefully it wasn't as bad as it looked.
"Alright, let's take a look," she said, immediately noticing the taser wounds on his body, as well as the forming bruises from kicks and punches, and his split lip and incredibly swollen jaw. Even without telling, she could've guessed what happened. The body was often like a map: it gave directions to the journey it had been on. She continued on, gently poking and prodding some places to see how the bones rested and where the wounds were, checking his head wound.
"Hmm," she finished, tilting her head at the gashes on his chest and side that were staining his couch. She nodded.
"It's not good but it's not dire. You'll live. You're going to need some stitches and ample time to rest in our luxurious infirmary. I don't really think you have a concussion. You would've shown other symptoms. But, barring an MRI just to be safe, you should be fine in a few weeks. I would prefer to do the stitches at the medlab but I'm afraid of infection by leaving them open too long. I'm going to need some warm water and towels to clean the wounds. I brought some anesthetic, but you'll still feel some pressure. I'm going to need you to hold perfectly still."
She seemed perfectly calm as she spoke, at ease, despite being in the middle of someone's living room about to dig what amounted to a needle and thread into his flesh.
Letting Jean do her thing, Matt stayed quiet as she looked him over, only making noises when she poked at something particularly painful. He knew that he hadn't broken any ribs or hurt his lungs, he was breathing fine. It was just the taser, cuts and bruises. Not much she could do for the latter.
"No anesthetic," Matt stated, "and no hospitals," he fully intended to be at work the next work day regardless of his injuries. "No medlab, either."
Jean tilted her head. "I would only suggest a hospital if you were literally dying right in front of me. I know our....extracurricular activities are best kept out of public. As for the rest, Warren and Miles can you please wait in Matt's bedroom? I need to speak to Matt privately for a minute."
He was currently her patient, and the question she was going to ask was something she wasn't sure the other two knew about. She believed in doctor/patient privilege and building trust as important.
"We don't really have any secrets here anymore," Miles protested, hesitant to leave Matt in his current state, but Warren's hand reassuringly squeezing his shoulder was sufficient to make him give up his objection. He quickly went to the kitchen to retrieve his mask and then followed Warren into the other room to afford Jean and Matt their privacy.
Jean waited until the door closed, then glanced back at Matt.
"Is there a reason why you're refusing medical care? I can understand the necessity for timeliness in assessing your condition, which is why I'm here. And I understand why rolling into Claremont in your Daredevil costume is a shitty idea, but why not the Medlab? No one there is going to tell. Not without shooting themselves in the foot at the risk of exposing their equally less-than-legal activities. If there's something you need to tell me, now's the time to do it."
"Not refusing care," Matt disagreed, "refusing pain meds and hospitals," which included the medlab in his mind, "Pain meds make me wonky, I don't like them and I can take it without. And don't need Daredevil tied to Xavier's. Gotta keep separate, stay safe," he was at least trying to do that. "Can't risk Xavier's. I'm fine here," he was really ready for her to do her doctor-thing now.
Jean tilted her head. "I understand your reasoning in wanting to keep people safe, but I am not going to perform surgery on your dining room table if your spleen ruptures because you declined to get a MRI, which, as we discussed earlier, the medlab has. I think the Professor would rather you be alive than a random obituary in the Times." He's already had enough people die around him in the last year. I'm not adding another.
"If Charles were really worried about vigilantes being tied to him he would stop sending them out to save the world and taking in strays so I don't think you have to worry about that," she said, then shook her head with a soft smile.
"You're not alone, Matt. We're in this together."
"He doesn't know," Matt managed, eyes focused somewhere near his kitchen, "Never...never told anyone. And you said you can't read my mind," Warren and Miles knew of course, and his brother, but it wasn't really something you brought up in casual conversation. Matt wasn't affiliated with any of the teams or groups at the school except Gen X, which was just for training and powers purposes. They didn't go out and fight like the others.
"A masked man with wings saved my life from a cybernetic assassin who tried to kill me. And since blonde winged men aren't that common....it wasn't that hard to guess who he was. And when I saw your bright red armor on the ground when I came in it was easy to figure out who you were. Your costume's pretty unique. Doesn't take a telepath," Jean said. She glanced back toward the bedroom where Miles and Warren were waiting.
"I get it. You all want to make a difference, but you want to keep the people close to you safe, so you to do that you put on a mask. Who am I to judge when I do the same thing? But I do it with a team. Because I know people will have my back. It can be the same for you guys if you let it."
"Pero ya tenemos un equipo," came a hushed voice from the next room over. They could hear the sound of shuffling, a yelp, and then the door banging open as Miles tumbled out after it. He quickly jumped to his feet, eyed Jean and Matt, and retreated back into the bedroom, shutting the door again behind him.
No shit she figured out who he was when she came in. He had known she would. He just didn't care right now. "Ahora no, Little Bug," Matt called, overhearing him. "This started before we knew you. Before Xavier's. And what we do is different, we're not saving the world or parts of it. We're just here in NYC, protecting our city and everyone in it. That's it."
"It doesn't mean you have to suffer," Jean said. Letting out a sigh, she shook her head. This was going nowhere.
"Fine. No medlab. But I'm keeping an eye on you," she said, the displeasure in her voice clear. "Let's get started."
Matt decided not to argue with the doctor with the needle in hand, but he was stubborn and not going to let her dictate what he did or didn't do. Some sleep, some meditation and he would be almost as good as new. "You think they'll scar?" he asked when Jean was finished.
"If you move around a lot, possibly. So I recommend being leisurely for a few days, at least," Jean said. She sounded friendly, and though she respected his decision, she still didn't like it.
"Okay, since you declined anesthetic this is going to hurt...a lot. But I'll try to be as gentle as I can. Please try not to move."
Readying her supplies, she got to work. Given the amount of time it took to do stitches well, after about 10 minutes in to the first set of wounds, she called Miles and Warren back in. About a half hour after that she was finished.
"Alright, I think I'm done with the first patient. Next," she said. She turned to Warren and motioned toward a chair not occupied by a formerly bleeding blind vigilante.
"While I check you over, can someone please tell me what happened?"
Silence answered Jean, so Miles, perched on the kitchen counter, offered a response. "We were trying to find someone, but they, uh, found us first." There, appropriately vague. That would be satisfactory.
Warren gave a wry grin. "That basically sums it up, only let me add the following sentence: it was all my fault. Shocking, I know. I dragged everyone in on this so all the yelling should be directed at me." He shifted slightly, wincing as the pressure in his side increased. "But let's save that for when I'm my usual debonair self, shall we?"
Jean just stared at Warren, then turned to glance back between the three, who were fiercely determined to keep everything under wraps.
"Nope. You called me here to play doctor so you get to hear all about it while I do it," she said, rising up from her chair with a grimace that she shoved aside as she looked him over. A heavy dose of exhaustion and pain from her own injuries had started to effect her mood and her impulse control. Grabbing a towel, she dabbed at the thin layer of sweat on her forehead and continued her assessment of Warren's injuries.
"You're going to tell me why you thought it was a good idea to drag a 15-year-old boy into what is obviously not your first fight that got your friend 35 stitches, taser burns, bruised ribs, a busted jaw and a possible concussion. Not to mention your own wounds. And I don't consider 'protecting the city' a good enough answer. I don't care how good he is. He should be nervous about learning how to drive or his first kiss, not about someone trying to kill him and his friends," she said. She glanced to Miles and his increasingly distressed expression, then softened a little.
"I'm not saying don't be a hero, Miles. I'm saying, if that's what you want to do with your life, it can wait until you're older."
"Okay, first of all," Miles started as he hopped off the counter and stepped into the living room proper, crossing his arms defiantly over his chest, "I've kissed a girl before. I'm almost 16, not 12. Second, no one dragged me into anything. I've been Spider-Man for almost two years now. This is who I am. New York City is my home and it's a mess. I have the power and therefore the responsibility to clean it up, and I've done a good job. I've literally saved lives. You don't get to tell me to wait."
Warren was always amazed at Miles. One day, he'd like to be half the man Miles would end up being.
"Jean, you're judging again. Take a moment and think about this -- do you think this is our first rodeo?". Warren motioned to the three of them, overwhelmed with a feeling of pride. "I appreciate you coming and helping, as you had every cause to not help me, but I'm not going to sit here and listen to you berate our choices. Now," he said, clearing his throat. "How much do I owe you for this?"
Slipping off her stethoscope, Jean put it back in her bag. "I didn't come here for money, Warren," she said quietly. She'd moved past worried and frustrated and had settled on numb as her only other option.
"I came because I care about what happens to you. All of you. No matter how much you might think I'm judging you or raining on your parade. I just want to make sure you're safe," she said. Gently dabbing away the blood from a small cut on Warren's arm, she put on some antibiotic cream and covered it with a bandage.
"You don't have to listen to me. But at least get help with whatever's going on. Please."
"And we appreciate that, Jean," Matt said, drinking a bottle of water. "But there are lots of ways to help people and not every way is good for every person. This is ours. You don't have to like it and we won't call you in the future for help if things get dicey if you don't want us to," which would suck since she was a doctor, but it was her call. They'd made it this far after all.
Warren simply nodded, realizing he was far too tired to keep arguing. Taking his arm back from Jean, he rubbed his eyes and sighed. "Your call, Jean, but you don't have to decide tonight. Are you about done? I'll get you a cab, or a hotel room, whatever you need. Miles will stay with Matt. I'll be on the roof, guarding." The tone in his voice meant this wasn't up for discussion. There was no way he'd let them sleep without any protection.
Miles shook his head, avoiding eye contact with everyone else in the room. "I had a girlfriend before, you know," he informed them as if it were the most important thing to know right now. Not anything about the night's adventures, and not about the reasons behind his choices. He had a reputation to protect. "Back in my last school. For like six months. I even got to feel her ta . . . Man, being Spider-Man is easier, s'all I'm saying. Probably better to do that, know what I mean?"
Jean laughed softly. "It was just an example, Miles. I believe you. You are the man," she said. Shaking her head, she rose from her chair, steadying herself on her good ankle as she put up her supplies.
"I'm done looking you over. I'll take that cab, thanks," she said. She was not feeling very good about the idea of Crossfire still being out there. Letting out a breath, she glanced between the three of them as she hobbled toward the door, then paused.
"You should all be resting after your injuries but I know the likelihood of that happening is probably nonexistent. So just...be careful."
Miles wrung out the wash cloth over the sink, wincing a little at the red-tinged water that ran off. Matt had somehow managed the trek back to his apartment in Hell's Kitchen, but then had promptly fallen over once they got inside. While they waited for Warren to return with help, Miles busied himself by trying to clean up the worst of Matt's injuries. Gen X hadn't gotten to field medicine yet, though, so he had no idea what his shaking hands were doing.
Draped on his couch, Matt had definitely seen better days. Eyes closed his mask was at least off, which helped a bit. Concentrating on breathing, Matt was pretty sure that was all he could do. In and out.
"Here." Miles held out a glass of water and a small handful of aspirin. Probably more than the recommended dose but Matt looked like he needed it. "What happened? How come he went after you so hard?"
Taking the aspirin, Matt shoved them all in his mouth and crunched them without water, then slowly took the water and tried to drink it without spilling too much. "We've met before," Matt grunted, "He's not too fond of me. I keep interrupting his burglary attempts."
"Seems like a lot more than just a burglar. Burglars don't carry throwing knives and bombs that explode into nets." Miles returned to the kitchen to fill up the glass again. "You know his name? Thought I heard you say it over the comms."
"I know him as the Prowler," which may or may not be a self-chosen name. He'd gotten Daredevil bestowed on him since 'the Devil of Hell's Kitchen' was a mouthful. Idly, his arm fell off the couch onto the hard wood floor. "He's...high tech. Not a mutant that I can tell. Don't know much more though. He's not...not always here. Not regular," his brain felt garbled, he wasn't making much sense.
"Prowler," Miles repeated uneasily. Something about the villain was unsettling (besides the obvious), but Miles couldn't place it. He almost seemed to remind Miles of someone. "Don't think I've ever heard Peter say that name. They didn't seem to recognize each other, either. He definitely would've told me."
When he came back from the kitchen, he placed the glass on the coffee table and knelt down beside Matt. "You gotta take that off," he suggested, indicating the battered body armor. "Can't be good squishing against you like that. Lemme help."
Groaning, Matt let Miles manhandle him out of the armoured jacket and the under armour shirt beneath. He was cut in several places and his skin was already turning colours with bruises. "Go get the door," he muttered, hearing Warren and Jean approaching.
I will not pass out, I will not pass out, I will not pass out, Warren thought to himself, doing his best to shield these thoughts from Jean. Their narrow escape from Crossfire, coupled by the beating he'd just taken from both his adversaries, meant that he was running on fumes. He'd flown as quickly as he could from where he'd found Jean, much to the chagrin of his body.
The aches and pains would not be stopped and when they landed on the roof of Matt's building, Warren almost groaned in relief at setting Jean down. Shuffling his way down the stairs to Matt's apartment, he knocked lightly and when Miles answered, Warren sighed sadly. The boy looked like he'd aged overnight, with dark circles under his eyes, and blood all over his hands. "Hey bud," Warren said softly, walking in. "Good job. We can take it from here."
Clutching her medkit, Jean crossed the apartment threshold with a heavy limp, quickly making her way toward Matt. Her scrubs were caked in dirt with small patches of blood and bits of dead leaves and other debris clung to her hair, which resembled tangled bits of copper or a bird’s nest.
She stopped a moment to glance Matt over as she made her way over toward the sink to wash her hands. A nearby dining chair scooted its way over next to Matt in preparation.
“Is everyone hurt? Or is it just Matt, Warren and--” Her attention flickered up and she caught sight of Miles there, remembering him as one of the students at the mansion. In a Spider-Man costume. He couldn’t have been any older than 16. She stared at him a moment, narrowing her eyes with surprise and dismay before it evaporated into an impassive, laser-like focus. That wasn’t important right now. What was important was the medicine.
"Matt, have you lost consciousness? Are you able to breathe or is it difficult?” she said, noticing the droplets of blood Miles hadn’t gotten to clean up yet as she sat down in the dining room chair with a stifled grimace. The medkit opened up, and Jean began to take out various medical supplies.
"I'm breathing," Matt stated, laying propped on pillows, "Wish I'd lost consciousness, but not yet. He hit me with a taser and....everything else," gripping the back of the couch, he tried to pull himself up. "My eyes won't respond to light," he added, perhaps unnecessarily, but he always said it to medical professionals out of habit. Especially when looking for a concussion.
Miles hung back, nervously looking between Matt, Warren, and the woman he remembered from picking up Rahne in Scotland. An X-Man, he was pretty sure, so he wasn't worried that his mask was over in the kitchen. That title came with something, and he knew it meant he could trust her.
"What happened to you guys?" he asked when he snapped out of his contemplation and noticed how banged up they were. He knew that Warren had taken a beating earlier, but he hadn't looked this bad when they split up.
From the look on Jean's face, blatant honesty wasn't going to be his best option. At least now. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you," Warren answered, trying not to look worried at the sight of his friends. His fault. This was all his fault.
"We'll be fine," Jean assured Miles, offering him a soft smile. She didn't want to get the boy more worked up when he was already worried about Matt, who looked like death warmed over. Luckily he seemed conscious and relatively active so hopefully it wasn't as bad as it looked.
"Alright, let's take a look," she said, immediately noticing the taser wounds on his body, as well as the forming bruises from kicks and punches, and his split lip and incredibly swollen jaw. Even without telling, she could've guessed what happened. The body was often like a map: it gave directions to the journey it had been on. She continued on, gently poking and prodding some places to see how the bones rested and where the wounds were, checking his head wound.
"Hmm," she finished, tilting her head at the gashes on his chest and side that were staining his couch. She nodded.
"It's not good but it's not dire. You'll live. You're going to need some stitches and ample time to rest in our luxurious infirmary. I don't really think you have a concussion. You would've shown other symptoms. But, barring an MRI just to be safe, you should be fine in a few weeks. I would prefer to do the stitches at the medlab but I'm afraid of infection by leaving them open too long. I'm going to need some warm water and towels to clean the wounds. I brought some anesthetic, but you'll still feel some pressure. I'm going to need you to hold perfectly still."
She seemed perfectly calm as she spoke, at ease, despite being in the middle of someone's living room about to dig what amounted to a needle and thread into his flesh.
Letting Jean do her thing, Matt stayed quiet as she looked him over, only making noises when she poked at something particularly painful. He knew that he hadn't broken any ribs or hurt his lungs, he was breathing fine. It was just the taser, cuts and bruises. Not much she could do for the latter.
"No anesthetic," Matt stated, "and no hospitals," he fully intended to be at work the next work day regardless of his injuries. "No medlab, either."
Jean tilted her head. "I would only suggest a hospital if you were literally dying right in front of me. I know our....extracurricular activities are best kept out of public. As for the rest, Warren and Miles can you please wait in Matt's bedroom? I need to speak to Matt privately for a minute."
He was currently her patient, and the question she was going to ask was something she wasn't sure the other two knew about. She believed in doctor/patient privilege and building trust as important.
"We don't really have any secrets here anymore," Miles protested, hesitant to leave Matt in his current state, but Warren's hand reassuringly squeezing his shoulder was sufficient to make him give up his objection. He quickly went to the kitchen to retrieve his mask and then followed Warren into the other room to afford Jean and Matt their privacy.
Jean waited until the door closed, then glanced back at Matt.
"Is there a reason why you're refusing medical care? I can understand the necessity for timeliness in assessing your condition, which is why I'm here. And I understand why rolling into Claremont in your Daredevil costume is a shitty idea, but why not the Medlab? No one there is going to tell. Not without shooting themselves in the foot at the risk of exposing their equally less-than-legal activities. If there's something you need to tell me, now's the time to do it."
"Not refusing care," Matt disagreed, "refusing pain meds and hospitals," which included the medlab in his mind, "Pain meds make me wonky, I don't like them and I can take it without. And don't need Daredevil tied to Xavier's. Gotta keep separate, stay safe," he was at least trying to do that. "Can't risk Xavier's. I'm fine here," he was really ready for her to do her doctor-thing now.
Jean tilted her head. "I understand your reasoning in wanting to keep people safe, but I am not going to perform surgery on your dining room table if your spleen ruptures because you declined to get a MRI, which, as we discussed earlier, the medlab has. I think the Professor would rather you be alive than a random obituary in the Times." He's already had enough people die around him in the last year. I'm not adding another.
"If Charles were really worried about vigilantes being tied to him he would stop sending them out to save the world and taking in strays so I don't think you have to worry about that," she said, then shook her head with a soft smile.
"You're not alone, Matt. We're in this together."
"He doesn't know," Matt managed, eyes focused somewhere near his kitchen, "Never...never told anyone. And you said you can't read my mind," Warren and Miles knew of course, and his brother, but it wasn't really something you brought up in casual conversation. Matt wasn't affiliated with any of the teams or groups at the school except Gen X, which was just for training and powers purposes. They didn't go out and fight like the others.
"A masked man with wings saved my life from a cybernetic assassin who tried to kill me. And since blonde winged men aren't that common....it wasn't that hard to guess who he was. And when I saw your bright red armor on the ground when I came in it was easy to figure out who you were. Your costume's pretty unique. Doesn't take a telepath," Jean said. She glanced back toward the bedroom where Miles and Warren were waiting.
"I get it. You all want to make a difference, but you want to keep the people close to you safe, so you to do that you put on a mask. Who am I to judge when I do the same thing? But I do it with a team. Because I know people will have my back. It can be the same for you guys if you let it."
"Pero ya tenemos un equipo," came a hushed voice from the next room over. They could hear the sound of shuffling, a yelp, and then the door banging open as Miles tumbled out after it. He quickly jumped to his feet, eyed Jean and Matt, and retreated back into the bedroom, shutting the door again behind him.
No shit she figured out who he was when she came in. He had known she would. He just didn't care right now. "Ahora no, Little Bug," Matt called, overhearing him. "This started before we knew you. Before Xavier's. And what we do is different, we're not saving the world or parts of it. We're just here in NYC, protecting our city and everyone in it. That's it."
"It doesn't mean you have to suffer," Jean said. Letting out a sigh, she shook her head. This was going nowhere.
"Fine. No medlab. But I'm keeping an eye on you," she said, the displeasure in her voice clear. "Let's get started."
Matt decided not to argue with the doctor with the needle in hand, but he was stubborn and not going to let her dictate what he did or didn't do. Some sleep, some meditation and he would be almost as good as new. "You think they'll scar?" he asked when Jean was finished.
"If you move around a lot, possibly. So I recommend being leisurely for a few days, at least," Jean said. She sounded friendly, and though she respected his decision, she still didn't like it.
"Okay, since you declined anesthetic this is going to hurt...a lot. But I'll try to be as gentle as I can. Please try not to move."
Readying her supplies, she got to work. Given the amount of time it took to do stitches well, after about 10 minutes in to the first set of wounds, she called Miles and Warren back in. About a half hour after that she was finished.
"Alright, I think I'm done with the first patient. Next," she said. She turned to Warren and motioned toward a chair not occupied by a formerly bleeding blind vigilante.
"While I check you over, can someone please tell me what happened?"
Silence answered Jean, so Miles, perched on the kitchen counter, offered a response. "We were trying to find someone, but they, uh, found us first." There, appropriately vague. That would be satisfactory.
Warren gave a wry grin. "That basically sums it up, only let me add the following sentence: it was all my fault. Shocking, I know. I dragged everyone in on this so all the yelling should be directed at me." He shifted slightly, wincing as the pressure in his side increased. "But let's save that for when I'm my usual debonair self, shall we?"
Jean just stared at Warren, then turned to glance back between the three, who were fiercely determined to keep everything under wraps.
"Nope. You called me here to play doctor so you get to hear all about it while I do it," she said, rising up from her chair with a grimace that she shoved aside as she looked him over. A heavy dose of exhaustion and pain from her own injuries had started to effect her mood and her impulse control. Grabbing a towel, she dabbed at the thin layer of sweat on her forehead and continued her assessment of Warren's injuries.
"You're going to tell me why you thought it was a good idea to drag a 15-year-old boy into what is obviously not your first fight that got your friend 35 stitches, taser burns, bruised ribs, a busted jaw and a possible concussion. Not to mention your own wounds. And I don't consider 'protecting the city' a good enough answer. I don't care how good he is. He should be nervous about learning how to drive or his first kiss, not about someone trying to kill him and his friends," she said. She glanced to Miles and his increasingly distressed expression, then softened a little.
"I'm not saying don't be a hero, Miles. I'm saying, if that's what you want to do with your life, it can wait until you're older."
"Okay, first of all," Miles started as he hopped off the counter and stepped into the living room proper, crossing his arms defiantly over his chest, "I've kissed a girl before. I'm almost 16, not 12. Second, no one dragged me into anything. I've been Spider-Man for almost two years now. This is who I am. New York City is my home and it's a mess. I have the power and therefore the responsibility to clean it up, and I've done a good job. I've literally saved lives. You don't get to tell me to wait."
Warren was always amazed at Miles. One day, he'd like to be half the man Miles would end up being.
"Jean, you're judging again. Take a moment and think about this -- do you think this is our first rodeo?". Warren motioned to the three of them, overwhelmed with a feeling of pride. "I appreciate you coming and helping, as you had every cause to not help me, but I'm not going to sit here and listen to you berate our choices. Now," he said, clearing his throat. "How much do I owe you for this?"
Slipping off her stethoscope, Jean put it back in her bag. "I didn't come here for money, Warren," she said quietly. She'd moved past worried and frustrated and had settled on numb as her only other option.
"I came because I care about what happens to you. All of you. No matter how much you might think I'm judging you or raining on your parade. I just want to make sure you're safe," she said. Gently dabbing away the blood from a small cut on Warren's arm, she put on some antibiotic cream and covered it with a bandage.
"You don't have to listen to me. But at least get help with whatever's going on. Please."
"And we appreciate that, Jean," Matt said, drinking a bottle of water. "But there are lots of ways to help people and not every way is good for every person. This is ours. You don't have to like it and we won't call you in the future for help if things get dicey if you don't want us to," which would suck since she was a doctor, but it was her call. They'd made it this far after all.
Warren simply nodded, realizing he was far too tired to keep arguing. Taking his arm back from Jean, he rubbed his eyes and sighed. "Your call, Jean, but you don't have to decide tonight. Are you about done? I'll get you a cab, or a hotel room, whatever you need. Miles will stay with Matt. I'll be on the roof, guarding." The tone in his voice meant this wasn't up for discussion. There was no way he'd let them sleep without any protection.
Miles shook his head, avoiding eye contact with everyone else in the room. "I had a girlfriend before, you know," he informed them as if it were the most important thing to know right now. Not anything about the night's adventures, and not about the reasons behind his choices. He had a reputation to protect. "Back in my last school. For like six months. I even got to feel her ta . . . Man, being Spider-Man is easier, s'all I'm saying. Probably better to do that, know what I mean?"
Jean laughed softly. "It was just an example, Miles. I believe you. You are the man," she said. Shaking her head, she rose from her chair, steadying herself on her good ankle as she put up her supplies.
"I'm done looking you over. I'll take that cab, thanks," she said. She was not feeling very good about the idea of Crossfire still being out there. Letting out a breath, she glanced between the three of them as she hobbled toward the door, then paused.
"You should all be resting after your injuries but I know the likelihood of that happening is probably nonexistent. So just...be careful."
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