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“Give it to me straight, Doc!”
“I-I’m afraid it’s terminal.”
“Tell me,” Bim gasped, clawing at the Doctor’s shirt, “how long do I have?”
“I’m sorry,” Dr. Iplier said, without a hint of a smile. “You’re dying.”
“Well, fuck.”
“Cut, cut!” Wilford yelled, snapping on the overhead lights.
Bim and Dr. Iplier dropped their scripts, laughing.
“You can’t possibly expect us to take this seriously, Wilford,” the Doctor gasped, holding his sides. Bim, laying on the ‘examination table,’ threw his head back in a fit of giggles.
“You have to take this seriously,” Wilford huffed, pushing his hair out of his eyes. He looked between them, almost pouting. “You’re the next stars of ‘Warfstache TV!’”
Dr. Iplier began to protest, again, that he didn’t even have a TV show, but Bim hushed him.
“Okay, okay.” He wiped his eyes, struggling to keep a straight face. “We can try again.” He lay back down, composing himself, and Dr. Iplier moved back into position.
Wilford sighed, moving back behind the camera. With a snap, the lights turned down, and a steady red blink came from the lens. “Speeding? Three… Two… One…”
The door to Wilford’s room opened with a loud bang. With a loud curse, Wilford paused his recording and straightened up to glare at the newcomer.
“Dr. Iplier, the Host is requesting–” Google_B trailed off, staring widely at Bim and the Doctor, nose to nose, with Wilford behind the camera. “Is this, perhaps, something that I should not have interrupted?”
Bim burst out laughing again, and Dr. Iplier fought valiantly to keep a straight face as Wilford went from pink to red to purple. Before Wilford could find the presence of mind to explode the android into a burst of glitter, the Doctor had excused himself, dropped his script, seized Google_B’s hand, and dragged them both out of the room.
Once outside, Dr. Iplier succumbed to his laughter. From inside the room came barely-contained, angry mumbles and unapologetic giggles. Google_B looked at the Doctor, now crouching against the wall in a fit of laughter, and back to the closed door, looking confused.
“If you were busy–”
“It’s- it’s fine, Google,” Dr. Iplier said, composing himself with difficulty.
Google_B raised an eyebrow in skepticism, but decided not to press further. “If that is the case, the Host requires your assistance. After you.” They began to walk down the hall towards the Host’s room.
“Did something happen?” the Doctor said, beginning to grow concerned.
Google_B looked at him blankly. “The Host relayed his request though his door; I did not see him, I merely followed orders.”
Dr. Iplier broke into a sprint, mind jumping to every logical explanation he could think of. He bounded down the stairs and turned towards his office.
“Doctor?” Google_B said, puzzled. “The Host’s room is in the other direction.”
Dr. Iplier rummaged for a moment, but reemerged from his room in a flash. Google_B looked him up and down: the Doctor had replaced the costume that Wilford had given him with his real coat, the head mirror back in place on his forehead. He clutched his first-aid kit in his hand.
Dr. Iplier looked at Google_B, who trailed behind him all the way to the Host’s door. “Uh, Google, it might be best for you to stay outside.”
Google_B nodded, but said, “I will, however, remain outside, in case you need any assistance.” He leaned against the wall without another word, looking resolute.
The Doctor moved to stop him, or shoo him away, but stopped. Visions of the Author flashed across his mind. “Um. Thank you.” He jerked his head and opened the Host’s door.
“T-the Host senses the presence of Dr. Iplier, and t-thanks him for responding so p-promptly.”
“Host? Where are you?” The Doctor’s voice was shaking, barely, but it was nothing compared to the tremor that was the Host’s normally confident voice. Suddenly, Dr. Iplier was no longer scared for himself, but for the Host. For his friend.
The Host rarely came out of his room, even on the best of days. He’d made it crystal clear that he wanted little to do with the other Egos, only wanting a place to write, produce his podcast, and rest. When he’d moved in, no one had tried to talk to him. Wilford had gone in one afternoon, resulting in the Googles’ first memory of the Host being him chasing after Wilford, a heavy, bloodstained bat in hand.
Now, the Host emerged every few days to make polite conversation with the other Egos, if a little shyly. He was excellent at what he did, forcing even Dark to eye him with grudging respect.
Dr. Iplier had found that, powerful as the Host was, he’d never had to be on peoples’ good sides before. They’d talked as the Doctor cleaned up his patients, the Host amused at his jokes and lightheartedness in the face of death; the Doctor grateful for company that didn’t speak continuously (unlike Will or Bim), or criticize (like Dark or the Googles).
The Host’s bandages had become a concern for the Doctor almost immediately after seeing him for the first time. Blood tears seemed to constantly stain it, even though the Host assured him that he changed his own bandages, thank you, and very regularly. Dr. Iplier itched to help the Host– he was a doctor, after all– but he’d always felt as though he hadn’t gained the Host’s confidence, at least not enough to ask. So he stayed quiet, watching the Host’s bandages grow loose and dirty.
Now, he crept through the Host’s darkened room, heart in his throat, knuckles white against the first aid kit’s handle.
“Host?” Dr. Iplier stepped further into the room, carefully maneuvering around the fallen books and papers littering the floor.
“D-Doctor.” A light flicked on, and Dr. Iplier could see the Host, slumped at his desk.
“Host, are you–” he stopped, taking in the scene. The Host sat with his head in his hands, and even from here, the Doctor could see that he wasn’t wearing his bandages. The floor around him was littered with bloodstained rags and gauze. Dr. Iplier rushed forward, seeing blood drip from the Host’s face into his lap.
He sank to his knees in front of the Host, opening his first-aid kit with trembling fingers. “Host, Host.” He repeated his name, turning the Host’s chair to face him. “Look at me, please.”
The Host lowered his hands, and Dr. Iplier took a shaky breath.
Where the Host’s eyes were– used to be– were gaping, dark eye sockets. Every few seconds, blood pooling in the recesses of his face dripped down his cheeks. Blood tears. His face was stained with them, droplets soaking into the fabric of his shirt and pants where he sat. Even as Dr. Iplier watched, more blood dribbled forth.
The Doctor frowned, scrutinizing the normally concealed features of his face. The tell-tale white lines of scars crisscrossed his brows, the bridge of his nose, even his temples, and Dr. Iplier felt revulsion. Not for the Host, but for whatever had done this to him.
“It hurts,” the Host whispered, drawing his mouth into a thin line, whispering. “It’s never hurt so much before and– and it won’t stop.”
Dr. Iplier reached for his first-aid kit, slipping on gloves.
“I thought–” the Host shook his head, furrowing his brows, squinting the muscles around his eyes. Blood dripped from his eye sockets, faster, and the Doctor felt a horrible pang of pity. “I thought it would be best to seek the help of a professional.”
Dr. Iplier swallowed hard, ignoring the Host’s use of first person. The Host was scared, and seeing this, so as he. “I-I’m very glad you asked for help, Host.” He held up a handful of wipes, pressing some into the Host’s hand. “We have to clean you up first, okay?” He said the words gently, watching the Host’s fingers go over the soft tissue.
The Host nodded. He let out a soft breath, and the Doctor’s face softened, watching him. The Host had been on edge, on the verge of tears, but relaxed into the first touch of the wipes.
Carefully, painstakingly slowly, Dr. Iplier brushed the dried blood and dirt off of the Host’s face. Blood kept falling, dripping from his eyes, but the Doctor wiped it up each time.
“Thank you,” the Host whispered, raising a hand to touch his own cheek.
“I haven’t even done anything yet,” Dr. Iplier said, lightly, setting down the tissues. “Next, I need to clean, um…”
The Host tensed, and Dr. Iplier stuttered, “W- we don’t have to, if you really don’t want to–”
“No, the Doctor is right,” the Host sighed.
Dr. Iplier reached for the Host’s hand, folding a cotton ball into his palm. “You can do it yourself, if you don’t want me to–”
“The Host– I trust you,” he said, pressing the Doctor’s fingers.
Dr. Iplier fell silent, eyes on the cotton ball. “It’ll be a little cold,” he finally offered, reaching for the Host’s head.
The Host flinched at first, the sensation of the cool, wet cotton in his eye socket a new and terrifying feeling. He reached up to touch the Doctor’s hand lightly.
Dr. Iplier froze as the Host reached for him. “It’s alright,” the Host said, giving him a halfhearted smile.
Dr. Iplier continued, carefully, even more slowly and gently than before. The Host’s hand remained on his, tracking his movements.
The Doctor finally pulled away, examining the bloodied wad of cotton. “I believe you have a clot in your eye, Host. If you’ll let me remove it, it would greatly reduce the pain.”
The Host nodded silently, Dr. Iplier looking uncomfortably up at him, still kneeling at his feet.
“It, uh, might hurt a little– it looks as though it’s been in there a while.”
“I understand.”
Dr. Iplier reached for his pocket light, shining it into the Host’s empty eye. In the bright light, the old injury looked even worse, and he winced audibly.
“Doctor, if you are uncomfortable–”
“I-I’m fine, Host,” Dr. Iplier said, picking up his tweezers. “It’s just… it’s a lot.”
The Host fell silent as Dr. Iplier gently poked the inside of his eye socket, moving aside folds of bloodstained skin.
After a moment, the Doctor spoke up. “Um, I see the clot, Host. I’m about to pull it out– this shouldn’t hurt.”
The Host shifted nervously for a moment before going still again, waiting for the Doctor to remove it.
With a slight tug and the slither of blood, Dr. Iplier gently withdrew the tweezers. He grasped a long tendril of dried blood, covered in coagulated tissue and dripping fluid. The Host gasped.
“I-I’m sorry,” he stuttered, wrapping the clot in used tissues. “Did that hurt? Are you okay?”
The Host reached up to feel at his face, the new stream of blood down his cheek. He shook his head. “That feels much, much better.” As Dr. Iplier scrambled to hold a clean wad of gauze to his face, the Host gave him a shaky smile. “Thank you, Doctor.”
Dr. Iplier searched his face carefully, frowning. “Host, I need to ask you to do something for me.”
“What is that?”
“Let me change your bandages for you, please.” The Doctor’s voice was pleading, full of concern. “We can avoid this happening again, and it’ll be easier for you.”
“The Host– the Host would like that very much.”
“Thank you.”
“The Host thanks you, Dr. Iplier.”
Dr. Iplier finally finished cleaning up both the gauze he’d brought and the bloodstained rags on the floor. Drawing a fresh bandage from the first-aid kit, he stood and turned to the Host. “I have a new bandage if you want to put it over your eyes– er–”
“The Host would appreciate if Dr. Iplier would assist.”
The Doctor carefully stepped behind the Host, winding the bandage around his head. “Is that okay?”
The Host nodded, gently tugging on the bandage. “The Host believes this is satisfactory.”
Dr. Iplier quickly packed up the rest of his first-aid kit, ignoring the return to third-person, aware that the Host was listening for his every move. “Is– Is there anything else you need?”
“The Host believes that he is all right.”
The Doctor fidgeted with the handle of the first-aid kit. “Wilford will be throwing a fit, I’d better go.” He took a step back, then another. The Host turned back to his work.
Dr. Iplier stopped with his hand on the door. “Thank you, Host, for letting me help you.”
“I am grateful, Dr. Iplier. Thank you.”
With a click, the Doctor was gone.