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POOPHEAD189
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OOC: JP from @wanderingwolf and @Xandrya
Once Imani finished typing up the medication that’d been dispensed to Abby, she saved the information and opened up a blank e-form on her datapad. Most of the new information would be entered as she went, mostly from a drop-down list. Resetting the equipment took less than a minute, though it was within that short time that her next patient showed up. None other than their captain. Imani hadn’t quite interacted much with him since their conversation about her new role, not that was much to discuss anyway.
So, here he was showing up to the infirmary treating Imani like the bonafide medic she was. The steel of the doorway felt cold as he lighted on Imani’s brown eyes. She had a datapad in hand, but there was some mystery in the depths of those calculating browns. Could be that he just wasn’t used to seeing her all official like–more in the bruising sort of nature. He pursed his lips, considering the bruising that could come out of a checkup with Imani. He’d dragged himself here trying a new thing akin to ‘leading by example.’ So far seemed more like he was following Abigail’s lead. He nodded to himself; that suited him just fine.
“Hey Doc. Heard you’re looking to suss out the crew.” He ran a cursory glance over the countertops of instruments that looked a mite mean. “Seems sensible to me: so here I am.” Cal spread his arms before taking off his duster.
“Right on schedule,” she typed a few letters and selected his name to have his pre-saved information load up. It was after a few moments that she finally met his gaze. "Go on and stand on that scale there,” Imani motioned. She was being polite, or so she thought. Despite his presence drawing no smile on her face, her tone was friendly. “Stand still while it gets your height and weight.” And there, were she interacting with someone else, she would have made some joke or another about watching the number of meat pies they were consuming in a day.
Coat slung over the chair in the center of the room, the Captain did as he was told, lumbering like the cattle he felt like–terse was Imani’s directive. “What? No wise-crackin’ at my figures?” he smart-alec’ed, as he set boot on the scale. His tone weren’t exactly friendly, but weren’t otherwise. He took another gander at the medic from head to toe. Comfortable was how she looked in the infirmary, but maybe uncomfortable under his gaze. Maybe it was his declaration that she oughn’t be flying solo when lives were on the line... It was honest of him on account of he hadn’t seen her mettle just yet, but maybe he hadn’t expressed his enthusiasm enough for her new post.
Same as before, Imani went on to record his first set of stats, subtracting a few pounds to account for his clothing and whatnot. She smiled just enough to get him to stop reading her mind, or something of the likes. “I coulda sworn I heard something about a diet, maybe it was someone else’s promise to theyselves to cut back on some carbs, not that it’d last... Up you go," she motioned.
“You look like you’re settlin’ in. How’d it go with Abigail? She give you any trouble?” Trouble? Abigail? He snickered at his own jest over his shoulder, so as to stand as still as she’d bade him.
“You happen to catch her, maybe a slight limp? That wasn’t my doing, well, not directly. When she happened to be roughed up real good back then, some of it stayed with her, as it always does with any of us. Any which way, she was insisting I teach her some defensive moves, treat her as if she were a real foe. She surely felt my heel digging into her shin while her arm was wrapped around my neck, but now she’s a tiny bit wiser when it comes to saving herself so...win-win?
Strand arched an eyebrow, mouth slightly agape, paired with an inquisitive look that slowly turned into a knowing nod. That all tracked. Imani was no egghead; he’d learned that watching her pull knives in a bar brawl. The fact that she could stitch a wound was tangential to the fact that she could kick pi goh. No soft hands found here…
Imani then looked up at him, lowering the datapad to just about her midsection and hugging it as if it were a favorite book of hers. “Can you keep this between us? I don’t want her to know I told you.”
He cocked his head, surprised by Imani’s display of vulnerability. This woman could travel the gamut of emotions in a heartbeat. There was more to it, though: expressing a confidence as consoler. Cal’s jaw worked in his cheek as he considered the implications of what Imani had mentioned regarding Abigail.
And exactly why had she told him? Imani’d be lying to herself if she did to give him a heads up on Abby's most recent “battle scar”. That wasn’t it. The real reason was to have him in the know as to her mental health. Maybe Abby had already told him something, maybe not, but Imani felt it to be of enough importance to occupy some space in that head of his.
In the silence that followed Imani’s question, Cal reviewed her report: Abigail had seen the business end of a biker gang–come out on the other side by taking their colors. It still stuck with her. She wanted to know how to protect herself, reached out to Imani to learn. Then it dawned: Abigail still felt unsafe.
That part hit him like a blow. In his mind, simple maxims like ‘the China Doll is home’ and ‘we’ve got each other’s backs’ were the salve and inoculant to fears and worries, but Abigail was still just a girl–young woman, now. She didn’t have her feet under her yet. Cal scratched the back of his neck, his brow furrowed in recognition of similar personal fears at her age.
“Yeah,” he pursed his lips, “I won’t mention it.” He stepped off the scale to lean against the nearby counter, brows still drawn. “Thanks for tellin’ me, Imani.” Strand nodded, “She mightn’t’ve told me outright, prideful as she is. Much as I can empathize, I reckon she feels safer with you.”
Imani showed instant regret. Out of the many possible outcomes, she had not expected Cal to react as such. “Maybe it’s tough talkin’ to you bout certain things cause you’re her boss and well, a man…” She absent-mindedly tapped the back of the data pad with her fingertips before smiling akin to someone trying to convince there’s good news when there really ain’t.
“Can’t change either of those things so…” Cal’s gaze measured Imani’s posture as she changed tune.
"Alright, let's get back on track, shall we? Any concerns since your last work-up? And don't try to be the hero you otherwise are out there—in here, you're just another patient needing to tell the truth or otherwise you'll be getting the stern talking to like we usually do with the hardheads.”
Strand let out a deep laugh, “Last checkup? I don’t reckon I’ve let a doc at me for a physical on my ship in memory.” Thinking of Alana for a moment, he added, “An’ I don’t think our last medic kept notes on my health, though physical we were…” Cal just let that last bit hang in the air.
“Mhmm,” she nodded all too quickly, taking away Cal’s chance to follow up if he wanted. Imani began tapping away on her datapad, eyes on the screen. She opened a new tab and sure enough, his medical history was blank. “Ya mind if I get a blood sample from you? I’d prefer the log to have some information instead of it being nothing but a blank."
Strand wore a button down green-plaid shirt, saddled with brown suspenders, and was already tightly fitted around his elbows. He pursed his lips a mite before he deftly began undoing the buttons from his neck southward. “S’pose it couldn’t hurt.” Beneath his shirt there lie only his chest hair and lean-ish physique as he undid the last button and shrugged out of the garment. Imani had caught him on an up swing in his physical regimen, following his grief at the loss of Alana. Morning routines had shown results, and though his stomach wasn’t board-flat, his chest and obliques were toned to his liking.
He tossed his shirt over one shoulder, “This arm good?” he asked, indicating his left. “Where do you want me?” His hazel eyes measured hers.
Imani looked up for a fraction of a second when she noticed movement out of the corner of her eye. He was undressing; a good sign. That meant he wasn’t opposed to getting a needle in him. A bit overdone though, with his whole shirt gone in the moments she was preparing to go fetch a needle and sample tube, among other things.
“Sit over there on the exam table for me.” Imani fixed her eyes on his. Despite his obviously toned physique, she would not get caught ogling him. As he made himself comfortable, she went and reached for a pair of gloves. “That arm is good with me if it’s good with you. I can find a vein in the dark, not that I’ve ever attempted that...” she smirked at the thought of that one evening many moons ago.
“Uh huh,” he let his incredulous tone ring a moment as he looked around the infirmary. Under Alana’s care, he hadn’t questioned her request for some updated equipment; probably the very same Imani planned on using to extract all the figures from his blood. Thinking about Alana sobered him a bit. He had almost forgotten the feeling of coming around a corner and seeing her in here, measuring her mixtures, tallying her tinctures. Those broad eyebrows used to raise in greeting. In the end, though, she looked right past him. He chewed his cheek as Imani returned to his side, gloved hands ready with a swab for his elbow. “You ever run medical for a crew this size before?”
“Plenty of times if I dare say so myself,” she added, placing a soft ball on his hand and instructing him to squeeze in short intervals. Imani wiped clean the skin over his vein right at the crease of the elbow, then putting the alcohol wipe aside, she got a better grasp on the needle to place the tip a mere centimeters away. “This won’t be but a pinch...” As Imani spoke, she inserted the needle into his arm. There was about a second delay until she saw blood, which then slowly began to fill the sample tube. “You can drop that now.”
The Captain nodded as he watched his new medic work. She was hospitable and professional in here. If he squinted, he reckoned he could still spy the bruiser underneath the healer, but it was a long shot. Not a lick of sass while she was engulfed in her work.
There was a paper napkin holding gauze and a bandaid beside him. Imani slowly pulled the needle out once she had drawn enough blood, simultaneously stopping the tiny bleed with the gauze. The dirty needle was replaced by the bandaid, which she applied over the gauze. “Wasn’t too bad, was it?"
“You know what you’re doin’,” Cal said, slipping arms into his shirt. “We’re only on Little Moriah for a mite, so any supplies you need for our long job, you’re cleared to net.” He finished buttoning up his shirt and peeled into his suspenders, “Swing by Yuri for petty creds.” She’d only taken a small vial, but he still tasted pennies on his tongue. The infirmary had taken on that cold of deep space mingled with the anticipation of stretching your legs, and Cal had a mind to take a stretch alongside Abigail to clear a few things up. “Anythin’ else, Doc?”
“You’re free as a bird, captain.” With the sample tube aside, she trashed the dirty needle in the appropriate receptacle followed by her gloves. “I must say,” Imani then turned to face him, "while this may be hard, consider cutting back on the smoking a bit. You’re healthy enough; I’m sure finding another fix won’t be hard for you."
The laughter that followed her recommendation rolled on in stops and starts as Cal donned his duster, head shaking, and disappeared out the infirmary with a wave back to his medic.
