dr_conscience | [ in-character contact ]

If it came up, he'd be perfectly happy admitting to chatting up the nurses a bit, but really it's neither here nor there. Things in this City are oddly informal anyway-- it must be what comes of being stuck in such a small place for so long, at least for some Citizens-- he's willing to bet he's not the first to try this tactic.

"I was hoping I might ask you a favour, actually." He helps himself to a seat. "I didn't think to mention it when we spoke, but as you're a doctor-- I've some stitches that ought to come out. If it's not too much trouble."

Wilson leans back, shrugging easily, "No, it's certainly not too much trouble. Though, I'm sure anyone would have been happy and able to help you down in the clinic."

Which is clearly not voiced as an objection, just an observation. It does seem like a bit of unnecessary trouble for Isaak to go to, coming to him when he could have walked in and had it taken care of.

That's true, but it wouldn't have served the additional purpose of further looking into his small circle of acquaintances. And, well, force of habit; he's not the sort of man who willingly goes to the hospital to have things taken care of. Asking personally might mean escaping a paper trail, though it probably doesn't matter here.

He shrugs it off. "Hospitals always make me a bit nervous," he says simply, with a trace of a smile. "Whenever would be convenient for you-- if you're busy today, I can come back."

Being uncomfortable in hospitals isn't particularly unusual - and he's been sought out specifically before, here, by acquaintances who preferred a bit of familiarity.

"Not at all - somehow, I doubt the computer will mind waiting, and I've got a few hours before I have any patients to see." He closes out what he's working on, setting the computer into standby as he begins to rise from his chair.

Truthfully, having people come to him instead of to the hospital in general is hardly something Wilson minds, though the readiness with which he accepts the charge isn't something he takes note of. He sees no reason not to help, but even he isn't entirely conscious of the satisfaction he derives from any opportunity to do so.

Most of Wilson's acquaintances probably aren't quite so concerned with staying off Interpol's radar. He shifts forward in his seat so he can shrug off his jacket, and unbuttons the cuff of his left sleeve.

"I do appreciate it," he says warmly, rolling the cuff up carefully to bare his forearm. The stitches are not quite professional, but they're small and neat, closing up the long, fairly shallow knife wound.

Well, there's certainly no reason for Wilson to suspect Isaak of being on Interpol's radar in the first place. He'd intended to find an exam room, but really, there's no reason he can't deal with such a minor thing here if it's preferred. He's got a little pack of supplies on his shelf, from which he removes a few antiseptic wipes, forceps, and small surgical scissors, placing them on the edge of the desk. He seats himself in the seat next to Isaak, taking the bared arm gently by the wrist and looking at the wound.

"Well, that doesn't look too bad, now... can I ask what happened?" He reaches for an antiseptic wipe, cleaning off the area the first order of business as he eyes the job that's been done closing the wound.

"Mugging," he replies easily, a lie he'd decided on while Jurg was still sewing the damn thing up. And he smiles wryly, stretching his fingers absently as Wilson examines the wound. "At least, they tried."

Why they failed ought to be self-evident, even if one assumes Isaak was unarmed. Why anyone would try is the real question, but it's a well-known fact in any world that desperate men do desperate things.

Edited 2012-12-30 20:23 (UTC)

Wilson returns the smile, shaking his head as he wipes it down, reaching for the forceps and scissors next.

"I take it I wouldn't want to see the would-be mugger, then." It's a well-humored response, not judgmental. Really, he wouldn't really fault anyone for defending themselves, and he certainly isn't considering that Isaak may have exacted any great violence upon anyone. Easily, he pinches the first stitch between the forceps, and adds an easy warning, "You're going to feel a slight pull, now."

Indeed, he does need to lift the stitch a bit, to slip it between the blades of the small scissor.

"More or less," he agrees dismissively, watching the doctor work with stoic interest. If they'd been at a less awkward angle he might have simply picked them out himself, but as it is it seemed worth the trip.

"Not so bad," he murmurs. "They were a good bit worse going in."

Well, he wasn't going to say anything about the handiwork, but he figures his curiosity fits in neatly with the line of conversation. "They usually are. Were these done at a hospital, before you came here?" Of course they look neat enough, but not quite like they were done at a hospital - but he never can be sure, never knowing what world someone came from.

Pull and cut - it's a simple enough repeated maneuver, and he's making easy, fast work of it.

"Ah. No," he confirms. "I'd a friend with some experience and the supplies on hand, it seemed easier to have a drink and let him tend to it than worry about navigating your health care system."

Plus, of course, the fact that he'd just killed three men, but that's hardly something he wants to share.

Wilson gives a slight, understanding nod, as he works on the rest of the stitches. "Well, he seems to have done a fine job of it. It could use a regular bandage for a while, but it should heal up fine."

And, of course, now he's just curious. "Where are you from, if you don't mind my asking?"

"Ukraine," he answers. "I live in Kiev, though I do travel a fair amount."

He watches with a vague interest; it's not the first time he's had to be patched up, after all, though generally Jurg is on hand to take the stitches out as well as put them in. It's rather interesting that Wilson-- a near-stranger, and obviously important enough here to pass off something so mundane-- has chosen to help in spite of all that. That says something about a man.

"I was in Miami, on business, prior to arriving here."

"Really? Well, I can certainly understand our health care system appearing a bit convoluted."

And the last stitch is cut, then pulled out with the tweezer. That being done, he wipes down the thin line of a wound again with antiseptic. Just that and a fresh, standard bandage left to the whole procedure. It's a simple task - he could have left it to a nurse, but really, it's hardly a bother.

"What sort of business were you on?"

"Oh, just checking up on some... investments."

He flexes his arm experimentally, working out the slight stiffness of keeping it in one position for so long, before rolling down the sleeve and buttoning the cuff.

"I own a chain of gentleman's clubs there. The Fox Hole."

Gentleman's clubs in Miami, huh? Wilson nods at that, a little smirk belying a touch of amusement.

"Well. Sounds like those are probably some lucrative investments."

The T-and-A business has never been as good as the heroin business beneath its facade, but it's true, it's nothing to sneeze at. He smiles in return.

"I can't complain, in general."

He chuckles slightly at that, and the smile stays as he rises from his chair. He gives a nod to indicate the recently-stitched area on Isaak's arm as he stands.

"You should just need a few more days on the arm. It's best to keep it bandaged, to let it finish healing up entirely, but it looks like it's doing just fine."

"Excellent. I do appreciate your taking the time, Doctor Wilson."

Rising himself, he offers his hand.

"It's really not a problem at all."

And he takes Isaak's hand, shaking it as he shifts expressions to his reflexive doctor smile.

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