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The new patient is quiet, avoidant and interesting.
She hides away more often than not, on the good days where he doesn’t strongly insist she stay in bed. She resides in the spare room, white sheets and dingy walls where the inpatients stay. Normally, its for patients who cannot move on their own, or those who need around-the-clock-care. Or dying, even. Her illness isn’t particularity life-threatening, but with Winter in full force and knowing she’s without a proper shelter, Wilson doesn’t tell her that room is usually reserved for the less fortunate.
His professional opinion insists that her well-being will only worsen should she leave and face nature. She’s hesitant, not exactly trusting and he doesn’t blame her. But the matchstick woman eventually relents on the promise of a raging fireplace and warm meals, and no one has been sick enough to come to his office and be in need of that room anyways.
Days are filled with sniffles, sneezes, snot and other unfortunate symptoms she’s grown a habit of complaining about. Very loudly, he’ll note. That is, until he breaks out the vials and the cups of medicine and the woman has made the haste retreat to the spare patient room, locking the door and calling him less-than-savory names from the other side of it. He has a key, mind you, he’s not a fool to lock himself out of parts of his home. But he’s a gentleman as much as he is a doctor and scientist, so he patiently waits until she’s done having her fit, leaves a cup of hot cider outside the door and walks away to tend to something else.
A few minutes later she waddles into the kitchen with an empty cup, mouth down turned and furrowed brows as she wipes the snot on her sleeve and quietly asks for another cup. Wilson obligates, fixing her another before settling down in his chair, reading the paper. The woman doesn’t question the routine until she’s halfway out the door. “You haven’t asked me to take my medicine today.”
The doctor does not look up from his reading, sipping at his own mug. “You already have.”
Willow squints at him in suspicion before her eyes widen in realization, glaring down at the mug and mumbling under her breath. She scuttles off to patient room again, and Wilson feels the smallest tug at the corner of his mouth in smugness. Then he reads the headlines, ‘Scarlet Fever Raging Through The City’, sighs, and continues with the rest of his workday.
Despite his professional, Wilson is not without flaw. He’s attentive when he needs to be, careful in stitching and surgery, organizing his remedies and needles. Though sometimes he forgets. Human errors, like forgetting where he’s placed his gloves or what time one of his appointments were. Nothing too drastic.
Willow makes fun of him the night he strides in from a house call and all but freezes in shock when there’s a woman curled up close to his fireplace, draped in his blankets and blinking slowly over to him in bleary, sickness coated stare. They connect eyes, wrinkles in his forehead as he stares at her and the state of her health and-Oh! Right, he almost forgot he was housing a stray for the time being.
“What’s the matter with you?” She sneezes before continuing. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
He doesn’t comment that her skin is just as sickly pale as one. Wilson sighs, makes sure she takes her medicine for the night, (It’s takes a little more insistence and no more trickery, but she agrees once he mentions that the longer she puts it off, the more she’ll have to take.) and excuses himself to his office to write out prescriptions
It takes some getting used to, as she does with him, for Wilson to walk up to his home and finding that the lights are still shining on through the windows, casting back out onto the snow like a beacon in the night. It becomes a routine, almost, knowing exactly which room shes in by which window is alight. He hasn’t heard any complaint from his neighbors yet.
The habit becomes involuntary, he notices after a few weeks, looking up into the windows as he returns home that he does a double take when one night, the house is dark. No lights shine through his windows, and he never noticed how incredibly life-less his home looked without it.
Unlocking the door and walking inside, he finds her crumpled up into a ball on the ground, lying next to the the fireplace. It wouldn’t be an unusual sight if it wasn’t’ for the fact that the fireplace’s flames appeared to have died hours ago, and Willow does not respond when he calls her name.
Doctor takes over. His lets his bag drop to the ground, crouching and turning her shoulder. Her skin is clammy and cold, the color in her face has washed away, leaving her appearing nearly corpse-like. Once would assume death if it wasn’t for the obvious discomfort in her expression, face twisted up even in unconsciousness.
Wilson sighs, carefully hoisting her up and making sure to keep her head elevated. Fainted, probably. He’ll bet his doctorate on it. Lingering illnesses will always get worse before they get better, especially with inconsistent treatment. The fact that he’s able to carry her up the stairs without too much difficulty causes concern for malnutrition, but that’s a detail he’ll address later.
He settles her in the bed, draws the sheets up to her shoulders and holds the back of his hand to her forehead. The movement may have been too quick, because she stires and dull, amber eyes peak open up at him. They’re glazed and unfocused, but find him somehow anyway. “Wha-”
“You fainted.” He speaks before she can strain herself. “How do you feel? Did you hit your head?”
She opens her mouth to speak, but closes it after a moment and shaking her head. She blinks up at him in a daze, and Wilson wonders for a moment if she even understood the question at all. He pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. “That’s good, at least. I take it you’ve been taking medicine proper when I’m away, correct?” When she doesn’t answer, his voice flattens. “That is correct, isn’t it, Miss Willow?”
The woman blinks, doesn’t meet his gaze and looks off to the side to busy herself with the snow thats collecting outside the window till. “I might have missed a couple doses.”
If Wilson wasn’t a patient man, he might have scolded her. Instead, the man simply thins his mouth into a line, excuses himself and leaves the room to return with a familiar looking vial and a grim look. “Let’s catch up on those then.”
Willow is sitting up by this point, eyes widening and glaring at them with obvious distaste. “I’d really rather not.”
He’s pulling up a chair to her bedside, plopping himself in it. “It’s my professional opinion that you did. You won’t get better otherwise, not in this kind of weather.” And with such a weak immune system, he’ll bet. But he says nothing about that part.
The matchstick womanly, although no more color has filled her face, appears to be waking up little by little more in alarm. She fidgets as he uncorks the vial, measuring the correct amount before pouring the slightest in the cup, enough to do the job without overloading the taste (She’ll just spit it back up. She’s already done it once before.) He’s calm and automatic in his actions, Willow’s behavior differs. “You’re wasting lots of supplies on somebody that can’t pay for it, you know.”
Wilson recorks the vial. “It’s not a waste.”
“Don’t you think you should save that stuff for people that, I dunno, could actually use it? I mean, I’m just, like-” She fumbles with her words for a moment, searching for an excuse. “I’m just snotty. And cold. But I’m not sick sick, you know. Like the people that got consumption. Or the fever. I’m not dying.”
Wilson’s expression deadpans, but doesn’t look up from his mixture, swirling it with a spoon. “Yet you’ve not been symptom free in weeks.”
“It’s a cold.”
“A persistent one.” He counters. “I don’t mean to scare you, but it’s not uncommon for something as simple as a cold to take a life. You can never be too cautious. Maybe one day, science will procure a cure, or perhaps better medicine to treat it. But until then,” He holds the mug out to her. “Drink, please.”
She wrinkles her nose at it, but her expression has a hint of something other than stubbornness. Worry lines edge into her face and Wilson waits patiently as she’s hesitant to take the mug from his gloved hands, staring into the cider. She sees herself reflected back at her in the liquid, dark circles under her eyes and looking worse for wear. The doctor is polite when he tells her she doesn’t look par to health.
Her fingers tap alongside the mug. “This alotta work you’re doing for a nobody, Doc.”
Wilson’s face doesn’t shift. “I frankly remember you having a name.”
“That’s a first.” A laugh, but there’s no humor in it, raw from sickness. “I’ve got other names too, you know? Street rat. Beggar. Gutter whore. Don’t know what I did to deserve the last one, but my favorite’s always been Matchstick girl.”
It’s fitting. There’s even a box of said matches settled on the bedside table, and who knows how many more she’s got stashed away in her multitude of pockets. Wilson goes to speak, but she continues first. “Got accused of arson once, you know? Didn’t do nothing. No, really, I didn’t.” She’s quick to speak in her own defense, despite him voicing no suspicion. “I just happened to be there, warming up. Gets really cold in the winter time out there. I hate the cold.”
Wilson watches her fingers tap against the mug and quietly notes that she’s stalling. “With your previous history, I’m not surprised.” He nods his head towards it. “Let’s make sure the cold you’ve caught doesn’t linger any longer, then?”
She opens her mouth, closes it. There’s a nervous fidget about her. “I’m gonna leave when I get better, right?”
Wilson blinks. He doesn’t mean to keep her against her will. “You’re free to leave anytime you wish, Miss-”
“No, no. I mean-” She waves a hand to interrupt him and doesn’t look in his direction. “You’ll kick me out. There’s no reason for me to stay if I’m not sick. I’ll go back on the streets, good as new.” A pause. “Or at least, good enough.”
Silence takes the room for a split moment as her words process. The doctor doesn’t speak right away, squinting at her and tilting his head. Then the realization dawns on him.
Willow’s gaze flickers to the window, frost creeping up on the glass and snow drifting downwards against a dark sky. She shivers. Subtle, and the doctor’s throat goes dry. Wilson takes off his monocle and secures it to his shirt, looking back up again. “I’m certain you’ll figure something out.”
Her eyes don’t leave the window. “Yeah, sure.”
“But in the meantime, this room is welcome to you till you’re better, and then until you’re back on your feet again.” Wilson continues, and she swings her head around to stare at him. “Normally this room is reserved for patients with unique circumstances, and your situation is no different. I don’t have faith that you’ll remain healthy without a proper place to stay, seasonal or otherwise, and it would certainly make my job a little easier if I didn’t have to hunt you down in the middle of the night to make sure you’re not frozen to death.”
Her eyes widen, Willow’s face lifts in both confusion and surprise at the slightest of smug that twitches the corners of his mouth as he finishes. A cough overtakes her throat when she tries to speak. “Doc, that’s-”
“On the condition,” He raises a finger up to hush her, right in front of her eyes so she’s paying attention, and slowly brings it down to point at the mug. “That you cooperate.”
Her nose twitches, different hints of emotion flashing through her face. It settles as she makes a noise between a laugh and a cough, mouth curled up in both disbelief and what Wilson is inclined to believe; relief. “Yikes, you’re driving a hard bargain.”
The doctor smiles at her. “You overcharged me for those matches.”
“Hey, don’t drill me just because you can’t tell when you’re getting swindled.” She jests at him, sniffling as she teases. The woman pauses for a second, looking down into her drink before tilting it backwards and taking a gulp. When she pulls back, her nose is crinkled. “Eugh. It’s cold now.”
“You can’t blame me for that one.” The doctor stands from his seat, setting his monocle back on his face and makes for the door. She seems disgusted, but he’ll have the faith she’ll drink the rest of the dose (and hopefully the future ones) on her own. “I’ll be in my office. Knock on the door if you need me.”
He faintly hears a ‘you got it, doc’, before he shuts the door behind him. Something is said as the wood shuts closed, but it’s too muffled for him to hear, and he’s too busy of a man to inquire about it.
On a Saturday evening, about 7PM give or take, there’s a hardy knock on the door. Willow, sitting on the living room floor again, abiet too close to the fire (and she never sat on the sofas when it was lit) turns her head to stare at the door. The doctor is upstairs in his office to her knowledge, and there’s no call nor sound of footsteps of him coming to greet whoever is knocking. So she sits, staring at the door in silence.
Another knock, expect this is harder, firmer this time. Not quite the urgent, panicked knocking of someone in need (she’s heard many of those by now, but doctor never tells her about what happens after he leaves) but it’s insistent. Routine almost. The brunette’s mind brings up images of police men and burning alleyways, and Willow feels a chill down her spine.
A third knock, strong enough she can methodically feel the wood of the door splinter and Willow stands from her spot. A glance towards the stairs. Wilson has made no noise, no indication of him coming to check on her or their visitor. She swallows, cautiously walks to the door and lays a hand on the knob. She won’t call out to him, maybe to not alert the stranger. Just a peek, just to see…
She bends the handle and the moment it moves a fraction, the door swings outwards and Willow finds herself swooped up in bear hug by a large, heavily muscled fellow with enough enthusiasm to mimic child.
“Tiny-man! Wolfgang is glad to see you well!” A loud, accented booming voice. Willow’s scream is muffled by a chest full of padded clothing that smell slightly of booze. “You’ve gotten lighter, yes? Haha!”
Wilson’s voice breaks through somewhere behind her. “Old friend, you’re mistaken.”
She feels the booming laughter of the man stop, arms around her loosen and Willow is ungracefully held up in the air by under the arms, looking back at grizzled, yet overly-friendly face staring back at her in mirrored confusion. The stranger, (Wolfgang, so he called himself?) blinks at her before giving an dramatic grasp. “You are not tiny man!”
“Not I’m not you stinking-!” She flails in her place, face flush at the indignity of her feet hanging off the ground. “Put me down!”
Her shoes touch the floor and she’s one second away from spewing some very unladylike words before a coughing fits fights it’s way up her throat, and Willow has no choice but to stand awkwardly in between the two men as they watch her sputter like a hacking cat.
A hand on the upper of her back, and Wilson is there. “I think you’ve given her too warm of a greeting.” He’s polite, familiar in the way he talks. She doesn’t miss how he’s careful to keep up appearance with the stranger, while both glancing her way to make sure her breathing isn’t too labored. The coughing subsides.
“Ah, apologies, little lady! I did not mean to crush you.” Said man gives her a apologetic smile. He seems to be missing a tooth. “Sometimes Wolfgang forgets he is stronger than many.”
“Yeah, yeah-okay.” Willow takes a deep breath, one two. Both of them look to her. She feels oddly out of place. The man is large, burly, and no one she’s ever seen before.
A glance towards Wilson. He’s in his casual attire, no monocle nor coat to be found, only in his vest and slacks. There’s bags underneath his eyes and he seems slightly slow to reaction, as if he was just awoken by the noise. It would not be surprising if he fell asleep at his desk again.
She stammers for a moment, turns back to the stranger, holding back a fidget. “Hi.”
Wolfgang smiles brighter. “Hello!”
“Wolfgang.” Wilson interrupts the greetings, wordlessly guiding Willow to sit on one of the nearby sofas, (she whines something quietly about the fire, but Wilson pushes her shoulders downwards until she’s sitting in his recliner with a huff, crossing her arms and sniffling snot.) “It’s been a while since I’ve seen you. I take it you’re doing well?”
Willow doesn’t know if Wilson is making polite talk or being sarcastic, because a simple glance over to the larger man shows that he is obviously injured. There’s a bruise on his cheekbone, a cut on one of his brows but the man beams positiveness regardless. “Very well! Had a mishap last match, though. Need tiny man’s assistance with this one.”
“For yourself, or your opponent?” The doctor questions with a raised brow.
“For Wolfgang!” He’s waved off. “That was only one time. I am more careful now, as promised!”
“I’d hope so. You put me in a particularly difficult situation before, you know.” The men nod their head in recollection. Willow’s gaze darts from between the two. There’s not an inkling to a clue as to what they’re talking about, but she’s seen a few fights or two, and it doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together with that casuallness of the man’s injuries.
“You a fighter?” Willow pipes up. Her sudden voice causes Wilson’s head to swivel towards her.
“Boxer! I am the strongest.” Wolfgang punches his fist together as if to emphasis with his point. The man excludes such optimism that it was difficult to picture him in a ring. Then again, a second glance at all that muscle and Willow cringes. Never mind that, that bear hug was enough to squeeze the life out of her alone.
The man strides into the living room, shutting the door being him and setting his coat on the rack. Wilson and him talk about something Willow tunes out from hearing, scattering away from the sofa and back towards the fireplace once the doctor’s attention was turned elsewhere. This wasn’t anything she should be involved in. Make herself unnoticeable as possible, exchange pleasantness as needed and stay in the background. Getting involved with the doctor’s other affairs weren’t her business, and the fire needed to be tended.
Wilson must have caught onto her hesitance, because he spares her glance as he nods the boxer towards his office, mentioning words of clean rags and disinfectant. He’s halfway through questioning Wolfgang if he felt like he’s had any broken or fractured bones laltley when the man abruptly stops and spins on his heel, gesturing widely to the woman scuttling on the floor.
“Wait! We’ve not been introduced. Eh, proper?” He not-too-gently elbows Wilson in the side for a jest, (it’s forceful enough for the doctor to stumble a bit, clutching the spot where it dug into his flesh) and laughs. “Is it not gentlemanly to introduce me to lady-friend?”
Maybe she’s just imagining things, but Willow’s eyes narrow at the slight twing in the last of his words. Perhaps she didn’t hear it right, or it’s just his accent adding onto the extra meaning. Though, the wiggle of the boxer’s eyebrows is unmistakable and the doctor’s stammer before them breaks any sort of those doubts.
“She’s a patient, mind you.” Wilson’s voice is as even-toned and calm as one would expect a seasoned doctor would be. The color of his face betrays that facade, though. “Did you get clunked in the head too hard? Your manners are lacking.”
“I joke with you, friend. Your face is flush! Perhaps use one of those leeches to aid you, yes?” Another hearty laugh.
The doctor’s face is red with a frown. Willow sits huddled in her spot near the fire, eyes wide and silently watching the interaction. People watching was always so interesting, she hasn’t been able to do it in a long time since her stay here began.
Then, the boxer turns to her, gives a tip of his head and bares a gap-toothed grin in her direction. “Tiny-man looks like red mushroom like this, doesn’t he?”
She glances back to the crumbling, grumpy Wilson with his face twisted in a half-pout, sleep flushed and snorts. “Yeah, he kinda does.” A grin on her face. Said man whips to stare at her wide eyed in her apparent betrayal. “Your face is burning.”
“Don’t you join him-” Wilson starts.
“AHA! Yes! The pretty lady agrees with Wolfgang!” He none too gently slaps the back of the doctor in good gesture, and it sends the smaller man into a wheezing fit himself as the air is promplty knocked out of his lungs. Wolfgang snickers at his friend. “I like her!”
“Uh, are you okay?” She calls out from her spot near the fire. She doesn’t really want to leave it, but the sound of him catching his breath makes her feel a little bit more uneasy than she’s comfortable with. “Doc?”
Wilson sputters something that doesn’t cross Willow’s ears as comprehensible, but Wolfgang makes some sort of sense out of it anyway, even if it’s wrong. “Yes, yes. I know you like her too. Do not worry, I will not get in the way-”
“Okay, enough.” None too gently, Wilson flicks the bruised portion of Wolfgang's face and the man recoils, though the grin he has never leaves. “B-both of you hush. You.” A final cough, he jabs a finger towards the man. “Upstairs. Let me at least take a look at the damage this time before you accidentally give me a punctured lung. And you-”
He swings that finger over to point at Willow, who makes the extra decision to bat her eyes as innocently as possible. Wilson pauses, mouth twitching before waving his hand. “Don’t burn down my house.”
“Whatever you say, Willy.” She announces the name a little too loudly, and Wolfgang’s laughter nearly bursts Wilson’s ears.
As the weeks grow colder, the fever grows stronger. Wilson is careful, doubly so with his sanitation, both with himself and his patients. Those who are affected strongly are not advised to come to his office, so he makes house calls more often, disappearing out into the cold. More often than not he comes back with a surgical mask still on his face and Willow makes fun of him for it. He lets her burn them because they’re too tainted to use again, and they’ll only take up space and contaminate the area if he leaves them about.
With illness in full blown, there are less direct visits to his office, save for the occasional sprained wrist or the elderly who threw out their back. He’s writing more papers detailing autopsies and death than he is birth certificates and it’s a moody, depressing process, but someone has to do it. Seasonal depression comes and it slams harder than a train, and the Christmas decorations and lights being put up all around town, (a month too early, he thinks) does hardly much for his mood.
Willow has gotten better. In fact, she’s good as new, just as she’s said she’d be. He doesn’t know exactly when the fainting stopped, nor the sniffling and the coughing fits, but over time she stopped barricading herself in the patient room or huddling near the fire. Sometimes she makes tea on her own accord and takes the medicine without him asking, even to the point where he needed to tell her it was no longer necessary. She’s mobile, more talkative, and slightly bossy. She’s even brought in a teddy bear from god-knows where outside, and Wilson doesn’t recall her even leaving the house to go get it.
The house is…livelier with her in it. She makes him tea sometimes. She keeps the fire lit, almost constantly, and that’s just a given. It’s warmer, it’s better than being alone. He shows his appreciation with small gestures, leaving breakfast for her before he leaves in the morning and offering to invest in some clothes not-so-ratty as the one she owns (she always refuses) but the gratitude goes unspoken, and it should be kept that way.
Wilson quietly reminds himself as he secures the cloth around a young man’s arm, one of the very few that has made an in-office visit this week. Young thing, couldn't be more than 20 or so, maybe around Willow’s age or so. Strong bones but too-over confident in a bar fight and got his arm crushed between a barrel and a boot. He relays his story to the doctor as he’s treated, boasting a bit in his voice and when the young man asks if the doctor had been in any scuffles himself, Wilson gives a polite smile and ties off the sling.
He’s been paid for and is about to leave when the door of his office creeps open, and Wilson mumbles under his breath about the manners of knocking when Willow peaks in. “Hey, uh. Doc?” She’s fixing her pigtails, walking into the room and ignoring the secondary presence there. “I, uh. Kinda made a mess in your storage earlier.”
Wilson inquires. “And that would be?”
“I broke one of your leech jars.” She looks everywhere in the room except at him. “There’s leeches everywhere. On the floor. I think there’s one on my leg. Maybe”
The doctor pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. It’s funny almost, because he’s both frustrated yet not, angry per say, because there’s a sheepish tone to her voice that his mind zeroed in on until it battered out any sort of agitation that would have arose. He tries not to think about it too much, so the doctor just clears his throat and goes to address the patient still present.
The man beats him to it. “Aye, never seen you around here before. You a new gal?”
The phrasing makes it obvious he’s not talking to Wilson, and Willow’s gaze lands on the man, blinking at him as if noticing he existed for the first time. “I’m the what?”
“The new gal. Assistant? Heard you took one, didn’t you?” He nods in Wilson’s direction, never taking his eyes off of Willow with a fashionably boyish grin.
He half expects Willow to refute, change the conversation topic or simply give a vague answer and scutter off into the hallway to avoid any more questions. (She does a lot of that with the patients that come in, he’s noticed. He briefly wondered if she was hiding from someone, but never had the heart to ask.) but instead the woman goes still. There’s the slightest of a twitch, the sharp dart of her eyes to Wilson and back to the man again, and it takes about half a second for Wilson to realize the position the patient has put her in.
Willow is very clearly not sick, and from first impression, comfortable enough in Wilson’s home to be messing around in his storage (he’ll find out why, later), and she is also a pretty, young lady, which usually don’t live with a man alone lest one wants to avoid slimy implications in this day and age. Unfortunate, but true, and Wilson knows his reputation as a doctor won’t be touched.
He knows better with Willow, and she’d rather much avoid the attention. “Yes, she is.” He speaks up right as the young man was beginning to narrow his eyes at them, wary of the prolonged silence.
Willow’s face flashes surprise for a split second before falling right into a performance worthy facade. “Yep. Been working here for a while now.” She fakes a giggle. He can tell it’s so, because the real one she gives him aren’t as flat and dull.
But the younger man seems to dive right into it. “Oh, good! Heard a rumor, you see, the two of ya’s were together, you know. Best put an end to that before someone gets the wrong idea, right?” He nods his head with the confidence of doing someone a selfless favor, tipping his sling in favor of a handshake towards her, and tells her a name. “Pleasure to meet you, Miss…?”
Willow smiles. “Nice meeting you too.”
The disappointment flashes across his face, but the grin doesn’t fully drop.
The young man bids them both good day and makes his way to leave, not without lingering by the door when Willow goes to take her place by the fire (after Wilson successfully finds and extracts the leech from her ankle, of course) attempting to make small talk as he struggles with his coat.
Eventually, he’s there for too long, or maybe Willow is feeling nice, because Wilson comes down the stairs and she’s holding out the attire for him to slip his arms into the sleeves. The man is smiling politely, but seems a little too close. There’s a slight mischief in his voice when he complains about not being able to button his coat.
Wilson’s not sure if Willow’s a good actor or simply didn’t care, but the grip on the stair railing tightens as she buttons the first two and steps away. “Good to go.”
“You’re a sweetheart, thank you.” She’s given a posh look before he catches sight of the doctor on the stairs, nods his head in appreciation and makes to leave.
Willow turns to him. “You’re not gonna make me clean up those leeches, are you?”
Wilson’s grip lessens, and he sends her a playful look. “I don’t know. Isn’t that what ‘assistants’ are supposed to do?”
They clean them both up together, (and by together, it’s mostly Wilson, because he knows how to handle them and keep them alive while she is much too insistent on throwing them into the fire.) It’s a relaxing chore, when he thinks about it, save for the moments where she mocks him for having named each and every one of the little buggers.
He lets her name one for the sake of humor, and is not surprised when she holds it up between gloved fingers and proudly declares it’s name ‘Matchstick’.
Wilson does not see that man again until the next week. It’s a simple check-up, making sure that the sling was still proper and the bone was healing nicely. He prescribes pain medication to ease the process and tells him not to do any heavy lifting, get plenty of sleep and stay away from any sort of blood thinner that could possibly react horrible with the medication. He means booze, indirectly, but something tells him that the man is going to disregard his warnings with a shrug and half-ass agreement, so he sighs and relents to let him learn the hard way.
Things go smoothly. Uneventful, just another patient visit. Until the man is leaving and he spots Willow through the space of the kitchen door, striking matches to light the stove. He calls out to her, and the woman jumps at the sudden noise. The stick crumbles in her hand, very clearly alight and yet Willow makes no hiss of pain nor acknowledges her mistake, just shaking off the crumbled charcoal bits as she eyes the man approach her.
Wilson immediately looks for burns to her hand, tuning out the conversation. Brows furrowed in confusion. There’s none that he can see. Maybe he needed more sleep.
Their conversation brings him back to attention. “Are you fairing well, Miss?” The man beams at her, and doesn’t wait for an answer. “I hope he’s not working you to death. I haven’t seen you out and about in the city so I’m assuming you’re cooped up in here a lot, aren’t ya?” He laughs what is presumed to be a friendly laugh, and surprisingly enough, Willow returns it.
“It’s easy work.” She tells him, washes her hands from the soot. “It’s too cold to be out and about anyways. I hate the cold.”
“That right, innit? I feel the same.” The young man uses the doorway to lean on and Wilson is just about to comment on his unwelcome behavior before he speaks again. “You’re missin’ out on the festivities if you’re letting the cold demand ya, you know? I’m sure if you’re bundled you’d survive just one night, maybe go take a look at the lights they have near the square? Seen em’ myself. Pretty things, like you.”
His voice is sweet, confident and hearty. Wilson’s body goes a little ridged, cringes as his own teeth dig into his tongue and in a sudden, carefully controlled action that prevents him from saying something that a doctor of his status really shouldn’t. He keeps quiet, he’ll mind his own affairs, he tells himself as he quietly walks in between the two, seemly to reach something from a high shelf.
Willow gives a non-committal shrug and sends a fleeting glance towards Wilson with a strained smile. “Sounds cool, but I’m too busy.”
“Surely not on Christmas, you won’t be?” The man, who has already over-stayed his welcome, still sounds innocently hopeful in his insistence. Wilson looks a little harder for the jar that doesn’t really exist. “You can’t be working on Christmas, it’s a holiday!”
Willow doesn’t seem phased. “Yeah, well. I’m sure the lights are the same as they are last year.” There’s a touch of something sad on the end of her tone, and it peaks the doctor’s interest. But now was not the time to ask about it.
Again, the man is not deterred, and minds wonder briefly if this was the sort of attitiude that got him into a scuffle back at that bar that he boasts was so noble. “Sure you’re not free, not even for a couple of hours?-”
The jar slams onto the counter, a little harder than Wilson had mean’t for it to be, but it’s action is a final cut through the repeating cycle that’s been grating his ears and causing a boiling headache to form in the back of his mind. “We have plans, actually.” He turns to the man and forces his face into a neutral line. “I’m afraid we’ll both be out of commission. Fever doesn’t care to take a break on holidays and we’re to check on a few distant patients of mine. The office will be closed on Christmas as well.”
The bright look on the man’s face slowly but surely dims, and Wilson would feel perhaps the slightest twinge of guilt in his heart if there wasn’t already a boiling feeling of something else there was gave him the oddest satisfaction of watching this man’s plans fall apart at his lie.
He doesn’t dare look in Willow’s direction, but the room has become awkward enough, and the young man nods his head in understand. Again, he thanks them both, bids them good day, this time slinging his coat over his shoulder and disappearing into the city. The door clicks shut in finality.
A moment passes, and he hears Willow exhale a breath as if she’s been holding in the tension for far too long. She mumbles under her breath, returning to the stove.
Wilson’s gaze lingers on the doorway a second longer before turning to her. “Why didn’t you just refuse him bluntly?”
Her tinkering stops, Willow raises a hand to her cheek in memory and the doctor inwardly cringes. “Never mind that.”
The woman shakes her head, blowing a huff of hair (it poofs up her bangs, suddenly Wilson’s throat is dry and he’s getting an idea of why he felt so sour moments ago.) “Now people pay attention to me cause I’m not a street rat anymore, right when I don’t need the attention. Could have used some when I was trying to sell matches.”
He leans on the counter, raising a brow. “Street rat, anymore?”
“Temporarily.” She corrects herself, waving off a hand.
“Or, permanently.” Wilson hums. The woman squints at him, and he clears his throat before continuing. “You’re pretty good at acting as my…’assistant’” The quotations he makes with his hands are unnecessary, but it tweaks a smile onto her face, so he feels a little less stupid for doing them now. “Would you consider not pretending?”
She blows air at him. “Pretty bold offer to someone who doesn’t know how to read.”
He shrugs. “And if I taught you?”
“Are you trying to charm me? Cause it really sounds like you’re trying to win me over like the bar-boy that just left.”
The look on his face is priceless, and it sends her into a giggling fit. “I’m joking. It’s….something I’ll need to think about.” She doesn’t look him directly in the eye. Her face is flushed with color. Just a biological action, the doctor knows, but it’s drawing his attention a little too closely for his liking. The brunette doesn’t notice, or at least she pretends not to, instead leaning against the counter along with him, arms crossed and touching shoulders. “I mean, I could leech off of you and not feel guilty about it. I do kinda owe you for…well, everything.”
There is no scientific diagnosis for the fluttery feeling he feels. Wilson makes the prompt decision to look busy adjusting his monocle. He’s forgotten his it upstairs, laying atop his desk, so he just looks like an idiot tapping his own face. “So that’s a maybe?”
“Maybe….” She trails off, sending him a grin. “if you tell me about these so called ‘Christmas plans’ you’ve got going on for us.”
She frankly pokes him in the chest to which he swats it away, setting up the kettle as she lit the stove so he could pour her cider. (Without the disgusting medicine in it, she reminds him, and he pours honey in it instead.)