[center][h3]No Flyin’ Solo[/h3][/center]

[center][img]https://lilymg.sirv.com/Cal.jpeg?w=200&h=200[/img]			[img]https://lilymg.sirv.com/Imani.png?w=200&h=200[/img]
[/center]

JP/Collab between [@wanderingwolf] and [@Xandrya]. Scene set sometime prior to the galley meeting. 


It’d been a spell since that fateful night on Pelorum–he’d put it completely out of his mind. In fact, he hadn’t touched mango wine at all for fear of the specters it might conjure. No, instead, the Captain had decided nothing but whiskey, scotch, and bourbon would do–and it would do just nicely to drift off into oblivion when his head and his heart were at odds. There was only one person there who stood as witness, one shoulder who had stood resolute and made calls he was in no fit state to make. 

He’d been meaning to express his thanks, served cold as they were these many ticks later, to the woman herself, and that’s the very reason which drew the Captain to the infirmary. His knuckles rapped on the door frame, their custom and his motorized memory. Cal strode into the infirmary to find Imani there, busy with something or other, and that suited him just fine. When he’d hired her on, he had in mind the particular feats of strength she’d shown full-boar in that bar-brawl-turned-tussle that she could handle herself, replete with a knife to boot. He cocked his head to the side just to take in a general assessment of how many sharp objects might be within reach of the abundantly capable woman. Pure curiosity. Nothin’ he was going to say ought cause ire, but he’d never really drawn a bead on what put a woman in a state.

Cal cleared his throat, “Imani, might I have a word?” he asked, sidling opposite her, the treatment bed between them.

"Uh oh," she smiled, not diverting her gaze away from her still arm laid out in front of her and now pointing towards the captain. Imani was currently applying disinfectant foam to a cut that'd occurred maybe 20 minutes prior. Some scrap of metal she wasn't paying much mind to slashed her as she went on by. Given the stitching was expertly done already, she now was focusing on the final touches. "If it's bad news just give it to me straight, don't beat 'round the bush." His tone of voice was neutral; no use reading into it. "If it's 'bout me dirtying up yer boat with a drop or two of blood, well she started it," 

Imani placed the bottle aside and looked up at Cal. "How may I be of assistance?"

“No bad news, least not today. Now, wouldja look at that! Looks like a [i]mean[/i] cut. You say the Doll gave you that? Oughtta get Elias to smooth out what caught-ya.” He clicked his tongue as he leaned in a mite to take a look. Cal’s brow raised when, to his surprise, the lack of medic aboard hadn’t resulted in a Frankenstein-esque array of stitches, but a neat row of tightly-tucked laces on Imani’s forearm. He whistled, “Where’d you learn to stitch yourself up like that?” Cal asked, lips pursed.

“Hold on, before you answer that, I actually came down here because it’s been a tick since Pelorum, but I haven’t forgotten.” He stood up straighter now, to look Imani in the eyes. “What you did for me back there is somethin’ I’m not likely to forget. Thank you. Made a call when I couldn’t, and your gut steered you right. Even got me to the China Doll in one piece.” He leaned over her arm again, “Now as to  why she’d want to go and do a thing like this, I’m vexed.” Idly, his hand reached for the bottle Imani had set aside to read the label. Disinfectant, he mused, she knows her way around both sides of a knife, I wager.

“Losing a partner’s only accompanied by a great deal of pain, especially when it’s sudden, no warning…no nothing. Just figured ya needed the support during such unfortunate circumstances.” Imani, then satisfied with the work on herself, pulled the bandaged arm closer to the rest of her. “And just so you know,” she added, shifting the conversation. “since you’re ‘er captain, I’ll hold ya to this not happening again.”

That got a chuckle from Cal as she eyed him. He raised his hands in surrender, “Ship’s alive, in more ways than one. You got to square with her yourself.”

Imani got on her feet to clean up after herself. "Very keen eyes you got there too." Imani had her back to him putting away some items she'd used. Somehow, she was feeling reluctant to let him know another one of her skills. She felt it to be a touchy subject given the doctor's recent passing. "I apply no drunk stitches ‘cause I've been trained not to. I'm no means a doctor, but I can do more than slap a bandage on your [i]pi gu[/i]. Cal, if you’ll allow it, I can fill in here until you find yourself another doctor…whatcha say?” Imani turned to face him.

That request caught him out, eyes frozen where he was looking, mouth agape–but only for a moment. Recovering, the Captain circled the infirmary, checking the state of things. The space was clean and orderly, tools and tinctures were in their places; Imani had kept things clean since… since their last medic. That’s what [i]she[/i] was becoming now, Alana, the ship’s [i]last medic[/i]. It was less complicated that way. Cal turned toward Imani.

“The place looks good,” he paused. “Said you’ve been trained, whereabouts?” He leveled his eyes with hers.

“Ah, well, I did my time as a squad medic for a few years.” She came back around, settling across Cal once more. “A lieutenant of mine gave me plenty of training and I gained some field experience but course, I could never measure up... If needed, I’m able to fix someone up temporarily, though any extensive and long-term care is out of my reach I’m afraid.” Imani let her gaze fall to the deck. “Never brought it up cause there was no need, y’know?”

“We got need now. Squad medic, huh? Was that with the Brown or the Purple?” his eyes were steely.

“I was a browncoat,” Imani responded, feeling almost as if she were in the hot chair. Clearly the captain held strong beliefs, and who could blame him. 

Strand nodded, “Either way, folk need to be stitched up, and lookin’ at your work, I reckon you’ve got the chops. If you do this, it’ll be on top of what you got on your plate, you hear? When a body needs fixin’, you’re Jane-on-the-spot, otherwise, it’s business as usual. Shiny? Talk to Yuri and he’ll settle your share, plus extra as you’re needed in here.”

“I’m glad you’re open to this, just figured it wouldn’t hurt to have a temp until we find a proper replacement…and I promise not to overstep. If I may just ask for your complete trust when I make my decisions, I’d be beyond thankful. I’ve gone on with full blown arguments and it nearly cost a life therefore I’d rather not repeat.”

Complete trust–he shook his head. Such a thing Strand reserved only for his own two hands. “This here’s my boat, and on my boat I reserve the right to question, veto, and kibosh anythin’ I cotton to. Since you’re fillin’ in on stitches and scrapes, here, that’s your wheelhouse. When the ante gets upped, and there’re lives on the line, you pull in a body. You don’t fly solo, hear?” Cal’s face had hardened, but now he arched a brow, “That Sister; I reckon she might have some experience. Ask her to help you out.” His brown eyes were still on hers, watching for comprehension.

“I meant-” a sigh of defeat replaced the words that would follow. Imani thought on what he’d said for a moment, knowing his mind was fixed on his decision. She had no blame to place on him, the loss of Alana had hurt him beyond suffering the loss of his love. “Two heads are better than one if she happens to have the right kinda knowledge. I’ll chat her up with the idea, I’m sure we’ll make a mighty fine team here in the med bay.” 

Imani couldn’t conjure up what else to say, anything to ease him up. She began to make her way towards the door to go searching for Sister Lyen.

The Captain watched Imani’s back fade from the infirmary. He’d come to say thank you; he’d come to say he’d been a leaf in the stream at that moment, and she was the wind; he’d come to put his hat in his hands. He pursed his lips and tilted his head.

Whether he’d communicated any of that, he wasn’t sure. Imani was bright. No doubt, she’d make a good medic. No doubt, he could trust her. So why did he sour her ask? Because he was the [i]Captain[/i] of his own ship. Because, now and probably ever, he could only trust himself. Because it was easy to grandstand, if he was being a mite honest.

And so it was to an empty medbay that Cal straightened his lean, alone with the ghosts, and uttered, “Dismissed.”