For @too-saxy and @kanirou-crosshack! :-)
Boil had been fully prepared for the ridicule, and prepared to own it - or, more to the point, to make everyone else eat crow, because he had been looking forward to this rotation for a week. They wouldn’t know what had hit them, he’d thought, smugly, as he changed in the locker room - it was going to be sheer comedy to walk up to pediatrics, deadpan Boil and his grumpy ass, and dare them to mock his scrubs. The kids will love it, he’d be able to say, archly, as he plucked at the hem. You got something against Mickey Mouse, punk?
But then Waxer, the bastard, had decided to show up in what even Boil had to admit was a brilliant set of Superman duds, and his day was officially ruined.
“You’ve been in the clinic this morning, huh?”
“How could you tell?” Waxer said, smirking, as he flexed. His forearms were covered in Captain America band-aids, the proof of having stuck himself a couple of dozen times to show the kids that getting their vaccines was Totally Not Scary, And Also Turned You Into a Superhero. “What?”
“Ugh,” Boil groused, because he could, shaking his head as he handed over his chart. “Cap band-aids, Superman scrubs? You can’t mix Marvel and DC, asshole.”
“Aw, man,” Waxer said, and Boil could see that there was heavy, fond fatigue in his face as he peered at their next round. “You didn’t tell me she was back.”
“It’s been three weeks. You knew. And you shouldn’t get attached,” Boil warned, for the umpteenth time, as Waxer reached for the doorhandle.
“And you’re a hypocrite,” Waxer shot back, right as he was arranging his face into a broad smile. “Hey, squirt!”
“Nerra!”
“Yeah, yeah, nerra,” Waxer laughed. “How’re you doing today?”
Numa was gaining back weight, and Boil would be lying to himself if he wasn’t pathetically glad to see it. Her hair was proving slower to return - quadruple-combination chemo tended to do that, and today wouldn’t help - and she’d dug deep into her large and always-growing collection of hats for this visit, jingling merrily in a jester-type arrangement that was a truly alarming shade of green, its flaps dangling over her shoulders. “Itches,” she was saying, pouting as she pointed to the portacath in her collarbone, and Waxer was quick to take a look.
“Hey, Mr. Bril,” Boil said; Numa’s uncle was a kindly man who had been with her thick and thin through her first few months of treatment, but it was easy to tell he found it overwhelming. “Has Dr. Kenobi been in to see you yet?”
“No,” Nilim said, keeping his voice lowered and anxious as Waxer loudly started to show off his war wounds, saying that she shouldn’t worry, Numa could totally handle having the cath adjusted. “I don’t suppose you can tell me anything about - whether I’m a match? The test results?”
“No, sorry. But for what it’s worth, I hear it’s good news. And her prognosis hasn’t changed - it’s looking promising.”
“Nerra!” Numa was looking at Boil, now, all her customary five-year-old mischief on display, and demanding a hug, her skinny arms stretched out.
“Oh, fine,” Boil said dramatically, making her giggle; when he bent down and wrapped her up she felt over-warm and very much alive, her blasted, sickened blood quick in her veins.
Fuck ALL for all it’s worth, he thought, viciously, and knew - as he looked at Waxer, who knew just when to drop the act and look for all the world like he belonged in special ops, armed with syringes the size of your head - that he wasn’t going to give up on this one.
