Archive of Our Own ^beta

Under normal circumstances Professor Litefoot absolutely refused to see living patients. The first and foremost, it wasn’t his field of expertise. Nor did he posses the type of personality that dealt with anguished people with the best possible bedside manner. Not to say he was rude, far from it. It was an utter impossibility to even imagine a man more genuinely polite than Litefoot – but truth to be told, he had spent almost four decades with corpses. One doesn’t tend to develop the most agreeable mannerisms under those conditions.

There were odd exceptions of course. Some prompted by Sergeant Quick, and sided with either proper criminal investigations or the strange and peculiar, them being a Professor Litefoot’s speciality. Or, to say, it was his and Mr. Jago’s joint speciality. He'd want to be completely accurate and not belittle his friend’s full influence. From which without the Professor, surely, wouldn’t have ever grown a reputation of an investigator in his own right. 

Other times the hospital required his assistance. In cases, let say, a sudden influx in intensive care robbed the free time of all the other colleagues, just to set an example. St. Thomas was a poor facility, and Litefoot would frankly tell you it wasn’t terribly professional either. Sure, the senior staff was educated and experienced, but most of the actual work was carried by students of varying skill-level, under less than enthusiastic supervising. So Litefoot had had his fair share of needing to intervene with the workings outside of his laboratory. Which didn’t please as much as it just stressed and worried him, but things were how they were for the time being.

The third exception to his no-living-persons-policy was Mr. Jago. Not only because he was still leaking sand after a week since the incident with the nefarious Scorchies and that wasn’t something you could go and expect a sane physician to believe, but also because he had found out that Jago wouldn’t see a doctor even in a case of regular illnesses.

“Open your mouth and stick out your tongue”, ordered Litefoot firmly. Jago was squirmish and unwilling to cooperate.

“Bah! Mind if I point it out to you, that I don’t appreciate being poked and reviewed like some sort of priced animal!” Jago complained, “Now, now Litefoot, couldn’t you just simply write me some of your nice prescriptions, eh? Something to help me sleeping, nothing overzealous, nor indeed needing to romp me full body.”

“I wouldn’t be better than a rotten charlatan, if I prompted you to take any medicine without a proper examination. And I don’t see how requesting to see your throat is much of a “romping”, I am not asking you to strip yourself and do the cancan!” said Litefoot exasperated. This was exactly why he didn’t like working with the living. A good, well-mannered and best suited doctor would know how to breed comfort and trust in a patient, without ever showing off his annoyance. But as soon as Mr. Jago displayed his reluctance the Professor just couldn’t help but get visibly vexed.

And all this because he was truly worried over his dear friend! Jago had been suffering all sorts of symptoms since the Scorchies had tried to turn him into a puppet. He’d hate to see him suffer, if he could help it.

But well, Jago was a prideful man. More than a little stubborn too. But this seemed more than just thick-headedness. He had many times before dismissed Litefoot’s suggestions to treat something like flu at a proper clinic, but now that Litefoot had to insist on taking care of him himself, he had right out refused! Vocally! Very adamantly! Only after much pleading and coaxing had Litefoot made him agree on a light scrutiny. Though that was certainly not going as well as planned either. 

At first Litefoot thought it was an issue of money – but after a brief conversation he realized that wasn’t the case. Though it would have made sense, Jago had been poor most of his life. But no, even if the Scorchies had brought such serious ill to their lives, Jago had also made a small fortune within the month or so they were the top attraction of The New Regency, performing twice a day. Even if a large sum of it was now quite literally burned in the repairs of the theatre.

Mr. Jago fiddled with his feet and twisted and turned his thumbs. He was looking immensely uncomfortable sitting, while Litefoot was standing in front of him as doctorish as he could be. A droplet of sand sprinkled fro the corner of his eye and he let out a muffled sob. And another sob. Litefoot dropped his harsh demeanour immediately.

“Oh. Oh, Henry…” he sighed. A sudden punch of empathy flushed over him, it almost crushed his chest. He would have wiped the odd magic tear away with his thumb, if Jago hadn’t flinched away from his touch. That might have distressed him more, if a thing hadn’t just dawned on him.

Litefoot took another chair from the wall and sat next to his friend. On an equal level rather than haunting above. Grey grains of sand dribbled from Jago's cheeks to all over his chest and stick to the embroidery of his clothing… Litefoot was very careful not to touch him carelessly, instead he offered his hand.

“You’re scared of the clinical examination, now aren’t you?”

“Hmph! Scared! Scared is such a nonny word”, Jago huffed, but it was an affirmation if anything. Litefoot had never felt as much shame from being so inconsiderate and insensitive as he did now. Of course he should have been sensing his dearest mate wasn’t being just melodramatic. Granted, it wasn’t always easy to tell Jago’s theatrical antics and sincere upset from each other, but this is exactly what happens when the majority of your human contacts is with the dead.

“Dear, I am truly sorry if I pressured you too much, Jago, I didn’t know you have a dread for doctors.

“You must think I’m a right old coot.”

“Now, it’s not so uncommon! But my man, you do see I am only worried? You shouldn’t be leaking sand from any part of your dignified person! Luckily I don’t see how it’s immediately dangerous... however, it can’t be too pleasant for the eyes.”

“You don’t have the foggiest, Professor”, said Jago, but with  enough of a whiff of his characteristic cheer in the background, that Litefoot knew he hadn’t somehow totally broken him with his rubbish bedside manner. Which was a relief to say the least – though, after allowing Litefoot to to take his hand and give it a little reassuring squeeze Jago’s dams stills broke. He bawled. He reached over to press his head to the Professor's shoulder, which prompted Litefoot to caress his back and kiss his head.

“There, there”, said Litefoot. He wasn’t very good at this, but for Jago he had made the effort before, and he’d make it again and again as long as he’d welcome it. The sand found its way under the shirt – and pretty much everywhere. One can only venture a guess where it was coming, really, as the Scorchies hadn’t obviously been successful in turning Jago into one of them. Any guess as as good as any, but maybe the sleepless nights and other enduring symptoms actually had more to do with stress. 

After all, it hadn’t been awfully long since they had been wanted criminals. Despite Jago's history, he still hadn’t been very adaptable to the situation as it was. Or maybe it was because he knew hunger and desperation from a first hand experience and he had been very, very upset because of it, where as Litefoot had simply shrugged the misfortune off as something in passing. 

Which it had been, but that much was obvious at this point. But Jago was still suffering from the lasting effects of that strain. Uneasiness, difficulty to sleep, night terrors, that on top of all the physical nastiness that the Scorchies forced upon him. All the more reason for Litefoot to grow and grow and grow in empathy. Same empathy, he had always thought he was lacking for not being able to treat patients without his own pride or arrogance getting in the way.

“You know Professor? I might be turning entirely into sand. Henry Gordon Jago, a big cove shaped sack or dirt! Hah, anyone could have told you that, and it would have been as accurate as the archbishop.”

“Tosh.”

“It is true!” Jago insisted and picked up his head enough to look Litefoot in the eye when he said it, “Even the ones who I love are as concrete as piles of sand!”

“Nonsense”, said Litefoot. Just the old impresario's style to waddle  in what ultimately had been an illegitimate affair and a cruel hoax. He might have thought he loved Abigail Woburn, but when there's no honesty between lovers, you might as well be strangers to each other. And there cannot have been love, when there was nothing to love. 

But Jago was more than sand, sure he was. He was made of flesh and blood. His warm, kind man. Litefoot kissed Jago, right at his sandy moustache and what do you know – all the grains twinkled in the light and turned into wet salt. Jago reached out to rub his own cheek. He was flustered and red and still rather weeping. Litefoot smiled.

“I think I found a cure. And no further examination needed!”

“Hmmph”, Jago wiggled his nose while wiping the floating tears to his shirt sleeve, “I still demand another dose of the medicine, though, if you’d be so kind, love”, he continued, and in his turn took a happy kiss from the Professor’s lips. And that was pretty much the best exception Litefoot ever had in his code of conduct, when it came to his medical expertise.

FIN