2013-01-11 Clone and Creature

Friday nights are always busy and dangerous. Tonight, it's icy and wet at once. Stray is regretting her return to New York already, except that it was one of the most accepting places to be a mutant. And, it had some of the best dumpsters in the country. Very important when one is a hungry little creature. Half-cat, half-human, she can sniff and scrounge the good bits with ease.
Hungry as she is, she gets lost for a moment in gnawing the bones of a chicken she dug out from under coffee grinds and rotten lettuce. Her instincts nag at her but she pushes the warning aside so that she can salvage a little more goodness from the bone. 
She's rarely so foolish but it's winter and she's wet and cold and--in all honesty--she's gotten a bit careless lately. Maybe arrogant. She's not expecting people to be out hunting mutants, not in New York.
Being pelted by bottles is nothing new. She's off like a bolt of lighting but not before someone at the end of the alley gets a shot off at her. An actual gun. She's seen them used but never been fired on. Heat spreads through her leg and arm as she flees.
This is new for New York. Someone frightens her as she lurches out of an alley and she dashes into the street, shouts following her.
The sound of a huge single-action revolver being cocked is ominously loud on an otherwise quiet night. As a resident of this particular stretch of street, it was easy for One to sneak up on the group of ruffians. Now he uses the tip of his weapon to poke the one holding the gun in the back of his head. "Leave. Now. All of you." He's wearing a thin-lipped smile, and the look he shoots at each of them is awfully calm and confident for a single, heavily outnumbered man. "Unless you'd like to throw bottles at me?" 
 
In any other place and time, One would likely mind his own business. He doesn't like trouble on his street, through. And he especially doesn't like gunfire. His eyes narrow and he spreads his feet slightly, prepared for any response. His overcoat is buttoned tightly to ward off the cold, but the bulging outline of another weapon is visible beneath it. There's a black doctor's bag dangling from his free hand; the handles creak as he tightens his grip on it. "Well?"
 
The would-be assailants stop and size up the interloper, gauging the condition of their friend who's frozen on the spot. Stray didn't expect that at all. She stops in the middle of the street to watch, head tilted curiously. The exchange is fascinating, the war of smells and subtle body language. Oh, humans.
"Dude, let's just go," one of them whispers frantically as their leader looks as though he's about to say something.
"Yeah. Whatever," the largest of the group says, backing up a pace. "Ride's here anyway. You want to help the mutie, that's your business."
Wheels screech and an SUV barrels around a corner. Stray is so caught up in watching the exchange that she only flings herself aside in time not to be completely flattened.
One steps aside, but he doesn't speak or lower his weapon. He just flicks the tip of the revolver to indicate they should board their vehicle and depart. Once it's clear that the group is no longer a threat, he unbuttons his coat and stores his Webley away in a shoulder holster. A gust of wind elicits a shiver as he buttons back up and makes his way toward the girl who'd been on the receiving end of all the bottles and bullets. 
 
As he gets closer, he holds both hands out to show that except for his bag, he's unarmed. At least for the moment. "Hey," he greets her. "You're safe now. I'm a doctor, I'm not going to hurt you. Are you hit?"
 
Stray might well have been able to ignore the shotgun but being clipped by the SUV was insult on injury. She scrambles back up onto the sidewalk, awkardly, trying to get closer to the shadows of a narrow space between buildings. On closer inspection, she definitely doesn't look quite human. Her hands are long, lightly furred, with sharp nails, and the way that she forms words is made awkward by her sharp teeth and short fangs. 
"I'm fine. I was careless." She shakes her head and holds up a hand to make sure he keeps his distance. She knows what a doctor is but she's never seen one before. "I'll be okay." It's been a long time since she got hurt like this. Her lower lip quivers slightly--she's not accustommed to being so foolish, or the consequences. "They might come back so you should go away. There's only one of you."
"One suffices," he replies, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Don't worry about me. You're hurt and you look like you haven't had a decent meal in days. I can help you. My office is right across the street. Let me treat you and get you something to eat. No charge." 
 
One's tone hasn't changed, but his expression has softened. Memories of being mocked and chased, of being attacked and misunderstood and underfed, these are still fresh in his own memory. He allows himself to be held at bay, but he doesn't retreat. Instead, he moves to stand between the girl and the vehicle. It's a small gesture, but a very purposeful one.
 
The vehicle peels out as soon as it's obvious there's nothing to wait for here--not a good area, for anyone. 
"Winter," Stray explains. She's slightly embarrassed by her condition. Even animals have pride. "Everyone's poor. And angry. Wasn't like this before. Some even put food out. I never got hurt in New York before." She tilts her head and looks One over carefully. His expression seems honest and she can read people-language well enough now. "Okay. You a people doctor?"
"Things have changed," One agrees, a little sadly. "This is a rough part of the city, too. As for me, I'm mostly a people doctor, but I'm not picky. I fix anything that gets hurt or sick." 
 
There's a brief pause, then he takes a slow step closer and holds a hand out. Enough to be considered an invitation, but not far enough to break the bubble of personal space. "I'm different, too," he continues. "I know what it's like to be cold and hungry. Scared. Nobody deserves that, especially on a night they've been shot at."
 
"People use guns on people. And I was hungry." Stray finally accepts the hand. Getting up is awkward. With the adrenaline gone, she can feel all her injuries. 
"I don't like guns. They're mean. Angry. And they put things inside. I can feel it." She frowns and pokes a claw into one of the bloody holes in her jeans. "There's things in me." The injuries make it so that it would be a concerted effort to change form like this, though the change might spit out the metal under her skin even if the injuries remained.
"Damn. You are hit. Let's get you inside." After a quick peek to reassure himself that the wound isn't life-threatening, One gently leads the girl toward his apartment. For once, the external stairs are a blessing, being the shortest possible route to his apartment. "Few flights of stairs coming up. Once we get to the top, I'll order us some steaks and we'll get you patched up." 
 
He pauses to offer his arm for support, and while they're stopped he gives the youngster a looking-over. Ragged. Thin. Bloody. Though sympathy isn't often in his repetoire, it's hard not to feel something. "What's your name, anyway? Mine's One. Some people call me Doc."
 
"Don't have one. Get called all kinds of names. Old guy down in Baltimore I stayed at a bit one winter when I was small called me a stray. It's a nice word. Means the right thing." Stray accepts the offer of the arm with some uncertainty--she's not sure what his manners expect her to do. She's comfortable enough with contact, at least. "Only a few letters, I learned it quick."
"Stray. Well, if you like it, I like it. I'm a bit of a stray, too." With professional ease, One transfers Stray's hand to his shoulder and loops his own arm around her waist, taking most of her weight as they hobble toward the third floor. When they reach his apartment, he unlocks the door, then reaches up and unhooks a wire that's strung between the inside of the knob and the trigger of a shotgun that's aimed to blast unwary intruders. Once his little trap is disarmed, he gestures for Stray to follow him in. 
 
He sets his bag aside, grabs a white cloth from a shelf next to the door, and spreads it out over a battered leather couch. "Have a seat and take off your coat. I'll order dinner, then we'll get started."
 
Stray is watching everything he does with fascination. "That's smart," she says of the shotgun. 
When he points her to the couch, Stray shrugs out of her jacket, cautiously. It hurts when she does it and she pokes at her right shoulder with a frown. Something's wrong with it, but it'll get better. It always does. She sits as she was told, without making a face at the pain. After a while, it just is what it is. It can wait. She's very small and wiry, the ragged coat had given the suggestion of more flesh than really existed underneath.
One has already shucked his jacket and pulled his phone out. "Hello? Hi. Delivery for Doctor One. I'll take the porterhouse for two. Rare." He pauses to glance over at Stray. "And a roasted chicken. Dessert? Send the flan. My address and my card should be on file. Thanks." 
 
He hangs up, sets the phone aside, and rolls back his sleeves. When he approaches, he sets his bag on the floor next to the couch and draws up a chair for himself. "Looks like it hurts. Want something for the pain?"
 
Stray wrinkles up her nose at One. It's a very grimy nose, spattered with freckles under dirt and a smudge of blood. "I don't want to get crazy like other people. Things hurt. Then they don't." Getting hit by the car didn't feel very good. Trying to shift, even a little, was excruciating. "I didn't get hit by a car since I was a baby," she says irritably.
There's a headtilt from One, then he shrugs and opens his bag. "Let me know if you change your mind. I can make it stop hurting without making you crazy. I'm a pretty good doctor." 
 
He snaps on a pair of exam gloves and pulls out a small, sharp pair of scissors. "I'm going to have to make a cut in your pants so I can get at that wound. Hold still, okay?" Without waiting for permission, he snip-snips an opening so he can get at the gunshot wound. "I'm going to have to go in and get that bullet out. It's going to hurt. Brace yourself."
 
"I can stay still." Stray sets her lips in a thin line, looking stubborn, but there's uncertainty in her eyes.
One has a great deal of practice with GSWs. It's the work of a moment for him to slit the ragged wound open with a scalpel, locate the bullet, and extract it. Then he's stitching it up, quick as can be. All the same, it can't be comfortable. 
 
When he's finished, he moves on to the rest of the examination. Most of Stray's wounds seem minor, and best left to their own devices. The exception is a dislocated shoulder, which he briskly sets. "There. All done," he says. "It might take a little while, but now you'll get better."
 
Stray didn't whine or squirm, though her eyes did fill with tears when One reset her shoulder. She feels sick-ish from the way that it hurt and that's not very nice either. 
"I didn't like that," she says bluntly. "The needle is almost the worst bit." Scowling she fingers the stitches on her leg. "It's all pokey. And then the string is slidey." Somehow she manages to curl around herself enough to sniff suspiciously at the stitched wound, then she pokes herself in the shoulder several times to test it. It hurts less when she's the one making it hurt. 
"Seems okay though. Thanks." That last bit is hard to remember to tack on. If she wasn't happy, she'd have bit him.
"You're welcome." One is just pulling off his gloves and disposing of all the bloodied odds and ends when the buzzer for the door sounds. "That'll be dinner." 
 
There's a brief conversation with a delivery boy and the signing of a tab, then he turns away from the door and heads for the kitchen table holding a parcel that smells richly of meat, vegetables, and caramel. He unpacks the meal with the ease of a man used to eating from disposable containers. An enormous porterhouse steak, a whole roasted chicken, dishes of pilaf, potatoes, and mushrooms, and a tiny flan with strawberries. "Come on over here. Test that leg out, we'll see how good I really am."
 
Stray gets up and, between her healing ability and One's work, she's much more stable now. "Hurts less without that thing in it." The smell of food--new food--is overwhelming but she pauses. Last time she ate, she got shot. The circumstances are different, but she has to think about it. 
One hasn't set off her sense of danger yet, and the food smells clean, not drugged. He didn't give her any medicine, so she thinks she's thinking well enough. The situation is different enough, she decides. To most people, the process of deciding would seem completely illogical, but she can hardly help it. 
Stray limps over to the table where she hesitates again, uncertain of what to do to be polite. The basics are clear enough, she's seen people sitting to eat at tables plenty of times, just sometimes they seem to have an order in which they like to sit and some of them run about and fetch and carry. She looks One over, gauging his body language to see what he expects of her.
Again, One cocks his head to the side as he considers Stray. Studying her, but never judging her. "Don't worry about me. You're hurt and hungry. Sit down, be comfortable, and eat." He smiles his small, thin-lipped smile, but now there a secretive, friendly tilt to it. The sharing of something that's normally kept private. 
 
A generous portion of rare beef and half of the chicken are sliced off, slid onto a plate, and handed to Stray. One serves smaller portions for himself, but he doesn't bother with grains or vegetables either. Then the unthinkable. Rather than carefully dissecting his meal with impeccable manners, he picks up a chicken leg and tears into it. It's a gesture and a setting of tone. Do what you will.
 
Stray watches carefully and does what One does, though when it comes time to eat, she goes after the beef first. Her nails are short and sharp now, her teeth jagged and bright. Getting comfortable means sitting oddly on the chair, with her feet on the seat as well so that her bony knees are up around her ears. 
Between nails and claws, Stray somehow manages to eat ravenously without making any kind of a mess. She can devour an astounding amount of food at one sitting, much like other animals. While not overtly defensive about her plate, there is a wariness about her as she instinctively checks to make sure no one is impinging on her space while she eats. Her plate is clean in short order.
One wastes no time in tipping the remainder of the meats onto Stray's plate, as well as small portions of the side dishes for her to try. There's something different about him. Something rarely seen, if ever. He's protective and considerate. Almost fatherly. 
 
When he's finished eating, he peels open a couple of disposable spoons and digs into the flan. "Eat all you can. It'll help you heal. When you're finished, you can sleep on the couch," he says when he's finished with his first mouthful. "Mmm. S'good. We'll talk more in the morning. For now, get some rest. You look like you need it."
 
Stray has the wisdom to stop before she makes herself genuinely sick, but shapeshifters do have some leeway on that count. She makes a face at the spoon, but apparently the flan is worth the annoyance of a utensil if she can't just lick it out of the dish. By the time she's done, she making happy low purring noises like a car idling out in the street. 
When One offers her a place to say, she nods, taking it in stride. Nice people have helped her out from time to time, it's not too unusual. "Hard to sleep when it's cold. Things are worse in the south, though. Sleep's good." She'll be mostly healed by morning, too.
The last thing One does before finding his bed is locate a thick, slightly worn quilt and spread it over the sofa. He disappears into another room for a moment and comes back with one of his own pillows. When he's finished making up a spot for her to sleep, he gives her good shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "Sleep well," he bids her, smiling. "This is a safe place. I'll see you in the morning."
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