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@doctormacdonald-blog
âOwww,â she winces sympathetically. âThat wasnât pleasant, Iâm sure.â Her wince turns into a teasing smile. âA doctor who doesnât like shots. Thereâs a joke in there somewhere.â
âOh, sorry...I meant the biter. Though I canât say I like getting them either, to be honest.â
âSo...have you done this for long? Volunteering?â It was nice to have another civilian about, never mind one who practiced medicine.
As comfortable as we can. That word always seemed quite sadistically employed on those kind of situation. How could a dying man ever be comfortable? Isaac knew no peaceful death. No pleasant one. Still, he told himself the doctor meant no harm. This was the medical language, some sort of speech that made them go through all they too had to endure during a war. Isaac told himself not to blame the man whose only fault was choosing to be where good news were rare.
âIââ Izzy began, swallowing the obscenities he intended to spill on everyone. He was simply tired. Of losing. Surviving. âYeah, the lad might have something to say, so there must be someone there to listen, right?â because he knew he would. Isaac couldnât leave this world without telling someone, anyone, that Isabelle was the best part of him and that he thought of Ciara and Saoirse until the very end. It just didnât seem fair to let that man go without listening his final words. It was the least he could do.
He looked a bit tired, poor fellow. Just...off, somehow. Like a candle someoneâd put out. Alastair could empathize...combat wore people down, soldiers and doctors alike. He himself hadnât slept properly since...well, since the trenches last time around. Even now, decades on, he woke up to screams echoing up at him from battlefields long since vanished. Memories of blood and barbed wire, of bodies ripped apart, gassed to death, taken as payment for naught but a few feet of open field. The war to end all wars, theyâd said. Never again.
And yet here they stood.
Alastair nodded. âIâm sure heâll appreciate it. Follow me.âÂ
Walking down the rows of cots, he glanced back at the man, eager to break the uncomfortable silence. âIâm Alastair, by the way. MacDonald.â This wasnât exactly the time or the place for introductions, but nowhere was. Not really. Not out here. âItâs good of you to sit with him. Your friend. Not everyone gets the privilege of last words.â
Tristan nodded, looking back down into his lap. The manâs grasp on reality had been slipping a bit when Tristan found him, so there were no doubts it would only get worse. Initially, Tristan had chalked it up to blood loss, at least thatâs what he was hoping. No one wanted to say they had all but carried a dead man through four miles of frozen forest. Itâs not really what Iâd like to do that matters, he thought to himself, itâs whatâs right to do that does.
âI suppose I should,â He said quietly, getting up from his seat.
He felt for the boy. Ladâd done everything he could.
âAlright. Follow me.â Alastair led him past a row of beds to one in the far corner with the curtain drawn. âHeâs in there. Iâll be right outside if you need anything.â
Staring at the manâs chart, he hesitated. This fellow wasnât an officer, or a soldier. He didnât have any records or paperwork. He was dying, and there was no one to notify. It was a long shot at best, but maybe this young man knew. âI--erm--I know itâs a silly question, but I have to ask. Do you happen to know his next of kin? Someone we can tell?âÂ
Shit. Bullseye gritted her teeth held the side of her head, before huffing out a breath as she looked down at the ground. Her clothing was stained with the blood of her fallen comrade, since sheâd carried the soldier to the tent after sheâd seen him get shot. Her mouth was slightly agape as she attempted to form words, but she couldnât, so she gave a slight nod of her head, âWas he in pain?â she asked quietly, not knowing if it was stupid to ask that.
Alastair never knew how to answer that. Short of a quick head wound, the answer was almost always yes. But how did you tell someone that their friend spent the last few moments of this life in pain and misery? Neither, though, was he much of a liar. So he opted instead for a half-truth.
âThe morphine helped.â
âIâm sorry for your loss, Sergeant.â
It wasnât an unusual occurrence that Bullseye got hurt but she hated going to the medical tent. She preferred to be on the field at that. Sheâd gotten lucky this time; the bullet had went clean through her shoulder, so not a lot of treatment was needed. Liv sighed as grabbed her tank top, looking down at her torso and seeing all the scars that littered her skin, knowing fully that there were the same amount of scars on her back. The blonde bit on her lower lip as she slipped the top over her head, âI know youâre standing there⌠do you need anything?â she murmured, not bothering to look at the person.
â...no. No, Iâm sorry. Surgeonâs habit. Canât see scars and not wonder.â Alastair looked down. âI know thatâs probably rude, on several counts, mind, and I apologize for it.â
âHowâs the wound looking? Arm function alright?â
Isaac felt his limbs going numb, mouth dry. He shouldâve been used to it by now; shouldâve known it would happen again. But nothing made it bearable. Not years of bloodbaths and deaths on the field. Not nights up whilst nightmares and traumatizing memories. And certainly, not recognizing that sickening will to survive that drove him so far and was beaten on those bodies he carried around in his conscious. That was another man whose family would mourn for the rest of their lives, â though, at least, this time he didnât get to know who was waiting for him back home. This time, Izzy didnât laugh during nights of service, hearing stories about a baby boy who was far too intelligent to his age or a fiancĂŠe whose beauty was known to the entire battalion. He didnât get involved. Just the right amount, the enough, so he could stand back on his feet if something was to happen. As it did. âDoes he have enough morphine?â was all he managed to say, both hands attached to each other on his back in a concealed attempt of keeping them from doing something stupid. Isaac knew himself to teeter on the edges of madness at every death. He knew no mourning, just loss and violence as a way out. Shame that none helped him to forget.
Stomach wounds were the nastiest sort, short of explosions. Clean deaths were a mercy. But gut wounds...no two were ever alike. The bullet, the range, the location of the shot...everything mattered, and was rarely the same twice. This fellow had caught a bad one. A few centimeters over, and heâd have died on impact. A few over from that, he mightâve lived. Instead, itâd penetrated his abdomen. Had, essentially, left him to die. It wouldnât be quick. And it wouldnât be gentle.
Alastair nodded. âYeah. Yeah, heâs...heâs resting, now. Weâve made him as comfortable as we can.âÂ
This man was a wee bit unsettling. They stood at eye level, but he was bigger, somehow...and grieving, besides. Heâd been a medic, once upon a time. He knew soldiers, and he knew loss. And he knew the cocktail that resulted from training men to kill and then taking their friends away.Â
Never mind being the one to tell them about it.
âDo you want to see him?â
âNatĂźrlich,â Tristan muttered under his breath. He wasnât upset with the doctor, of course. This wasnât his fault. It just seemed Tristan was often in the pursuit of lost causes. He had forgotten he was meant to speak English for a moment, his conversation with the internee playing relentlessly in the back of his mind. Ich bin kein Verbrecher. No, not a criminal, just a Jew. And the thought of that man â bloody and battered⌠there was so much blood and Tristan couldnât even tell where it had been coming from.
âItâs, uh.â He failed to come up with words, his fist hitting his thigh for a moment. It wasnât okay, this wasnât okay. What had been their plan? Leave this man by the tracks to die? âYou did the best you can,â Tris said finally, the words sounding more like a question than a statement.
âHis name is Moishe,â he said again, as if that made some sort of difference. âHeâs from Mittenwald, like my brother.â A hand carded through his hair, and he looked back down at the ground. He knew that in the grand scheme this was nothing, that this was happening on a scale so large it was nearly incomprehensible â but he didnât find comfort in that fact. Instead, he felt nauseous. Nauseous and angry. âIs he⌠conscious?â
Alastairâd been a doctor, in some form or another, for 20-odd years. The procedures got smoother, the equipment got more advanced, but this part...this part never got any easier.
He nodded. Heâd heard it all before...had punches thrown at him, a time or two. Been cursed out, cussed at, insulted and belittled, as though medicine were an exact science. If only. Funny...all the things he was taught, all the advice he was given, and no oneâd ever mentioned luck.
âYeah,â he said quietly. âHeâs awake. But heâs not--all there.â He hadnât been doused with sulfa powder in the field, and infection was already setting in. The poor man was hallucinating.
âYouâre welcome to come see him, if youâd like.â Say goodbye.
She takes his hand and shakes it, laughing. âYes, Charlotte. Thatâs me. Itâs nice to meet you, Alastair.â
âSo youâve fallen prey to our, um⌠our teething friend over there? Or were you just a witness to someone elseâs misfortune?â
âPleasure to meet you. And yeah...yeah, Iâm afraid I have.â He held out his other hand to show her. âTeeth marks, just there....not a fan of shots, this fellow.â
My Favourite âDavid Tennant, you sexy bastard!â Moments feat. Arthur Eddington - Einsten & Eddington (25/?)
âTheyâre going to be just fine.â
âSurgery went well. Clean shot...no bullet. Missed any major organs. Got them in right on time. They got very lucky, your friend.â
âI donât--erm--I donât think theyâre gonna make it.â
âWeâve done all we can, but the bullet didnât pass through quite right. Got--erm--got stuck in the abdomen. We removed it, but the intestinal damage...â Alastair looked up. Theyâd repaired it as best they could, but the damage was already done when they brought him in. âIâm sorry.â
Headcanon #1: The MacDonald Siblings
Alastair has seven siblings--two older full siblings and five younger half-siblings--and 11 nieces and nephews. His mother was fond of A-names, and after her death his father couldnât help carrying on the tradition.
His oldest sister Aileen (b. 1895, FC: Emily Watson) is the widowed mother of three boys (Fergus, William, and Balloch, all of whom are currently enlisted). Her husband worked in the shipyards and died in an accident several years ago. She works as a seamstress in Glasgow, volunteering her spare time to the war effort so as to distract herself from worrying about her children.
Ainsley (b. 1898, FC: Gerard Butler) also served in WWI. He was exposed to gas on the front lines, and now suffers from sporadic seizures that have prevented him from enlisting in WWII. Â Heâs married with five children (Iain, Cameron, Fiona, Hamish, and Moira), and loves to tease his brother about anything and everything. Heâs recently taken up a job in a munitions factory, so as to best serve the war effort, and joined the Local Defense Volunteers (Home Guard) along with their brother Artair.
Adair (b. 1906, FC: Kelly MacDonald) is Alastairâs oldest half-sibling. She has two children (Elspeth and Callum), whose father enlisted in the air force and is currently Missing In Action. She works as a clerical secretary in a law firm in Glasgow, having replaced several of the drafted male paralegals.
Artair and Argyle (b. 1908, FC: Chris OâDowd) are twins. Argyle is a pastor, and Artair is poised to take over their fatherâs bookkeeping business. Argyle volunteers his time as a chaplain at local military bases. Artair, suffering from weak lungs and flat feet, was rejected by the military, and instead joined the LDV with their older brother Ainsley.
Angus (b. 1911-d. 1943, FC: Eoin Macken) was Alastairâs youngest brother. He enlisted right away, leaving behind a pregnant girlfriend who later gave birth to his daughter, Mackenzie (Kenzie). He never had the chance to meet her, and was killed in action in last year. Kenzie and her mother moved in with Alastairâs parents, and the family canât help spoiling the little girl.
His youngest sister Annabel (b. 1915, FC: Rose Leslie) works as a bomb warden for their local district. Sheâs studying to be a nurse, and plans to follow in Alastairâs footsteps and volunteer her time at the front as soon as possible. She took Angusâ death the hardest of anyone, and uses her grief to fuel her work...to heal others as best as she can, and prevent other families from going through what hers went through.
Additional Note: Alastair writes all of his siblings regularly, but canât keep track of all of his nieces and nephews. Heâs created pneumonic devices for remembering their names, but his success rate is still only about 3 in 5.
âA-. Oh! Thatâs-. Well, thank you for the warning, Doctor, Iâll be sure to keep it in mind.â
âAnytime. Oh! Havenât properly introduced myself, have I? Alastair.â He held out his hand. âYouâre--erm--Harley? No, sorry...Charlie! Charlotte.â
A nod. âBorn and raised.â She rolled her eyes at his next comment. âHey, I donât discriminate. I only throw a punch if Iâm provoked.â
âOh, sure.â She shrugged off her jacket and pulled her sweater over her head, letting her simple shirt hang around her frame. She pushed herself onto a seat and watched him carefully as he sat in front of her. She wasnât nervous â no, Callista wasnât one to get nervous around new people â but there was something at least a bit odd about being observed by a brand new doctor who sheâd never seen before.
âNo.â She shook her head. âNothing like that. Iâve been good.â Left the implied âI havenât even done anything to myselfâ hang in the air. Doc would pick up on it, and maybe this man would too, or maybe heâd just let it pass. Hopefully heâd just let it pass, but one never really knew. âItâs probably nothing, maybe the cold?â She said, the uplift on her voice showing that she wasnât sure, just throwing out suggestions. âAnd Docâs the best. Ever.â Narrowed her eyes just slightly in case he had any thoughts to disagree. But he didnât seem to and so she moved on. âI think we need more doctors. If I was smarter, maybe Iâd be one. But Iâm not, so I do other work.â She looked down for a moment before looking back up. âWhat else do you need to know to figure out whatâs up?â
He studied her shrewdly, wondering what she meant by being good. But heâd only just met her, and it wasnât his place to pry...well, beyond the medical, at least.
"Alright, not a war wound, then. When was your last--erm--menstrual cycle?â Alastair saw no point in skittering around the necessary questions, and it was an obvious culprit, but at the same time, asking about such...private matters felt a bit odd, even for a doctor. âCould be the cold, yeah...but better we know for sure, donât you think?â Letting her go only to watch her die of something heâd missed was not in Alastairâs planner for the day.
At her comment about Doc, he smiled. âNo arguments here.â He quite liked Markus Stone, and heâd meant it when he said sheâd been kind to him.
Shaking his head at her, he scoffed. âAw, come, now. Iâm sure youâre plenty smart. Could be a doctor, if you wanted. Tell you what--how âbout you come around, now and then, when youâve got the time. Iâm sure Doc wouldnât mind. Her and me and the rest...could teach you some things, if youâd like. Be good to be prepared, should the worst happen.â
âWaitwaitwaitwait, no, donât leave!â Charlotte puts a hand in the air, palm outwards to stop the new arrival. âJust-. I need-. Gimme seven seconds, Iâll be right thereâŚâ She finishes signing her name to the report sheâd been writing and looks up when sheâs finished, smiling.
                                                  âOkay, go. Iâm all ears.â
âThat patient there, in the corner...watch out for him. Heâs a biter.â
