like the wheel

[theorized]

Without doubt, one of the most frightening things about Darrow is how easily one can get their hands on another individual's personal information. Chase never expected Spike Spiegel to make a return to the hospital for a check-up, but it isn't until a couple weeks after the man was discharged that Chase even begins to make an attempt to find the erstwhile patient, idly searching through the rather limited online resources within the city and fully expecting for Spiegel to end up as one of a great many individuals who simply passed unnoticed through the netting. Apparently, however, the regular drops of cash that make it into bank accounts every other week come with their own drawback — privacy in the city is negligible at best.

Mentally, Chase makes a note not to go through the exercise of trying to seek out patients again. Too much obligation that he isn't yet prepared to bear, particularly considering the many doubts he still holds about his personal sanity altogether.

That all being said, as Chase lifts a hand to rap smartly on the door to Spike's apartment, he has to wonder if the man's staying there at all. Something about him strikes Chase as a potential drifter.

Comments

[bellpeppers]

Spike is a drifter, for the most part - in that his apartment is a place, generally, for sleeping, eating, hygiene and not much else. And, in point of fact, when he answers the door with surprise written across every one of his features - because who the hell in this place would even be looking for Spike Spiegel, ever be looking for Spike Spiegel, so it must be someone who has the wrong door and the conversation is bound to be short and awkward - he's wearing little more than a pair of clean boxers and a towel looped around his shoulders. He's freshly shaved, but there is still toothpaste foam on his chin, and Spike has the brush gripped in his free hand as he opens the door on the hallway.

It isn't a stranger. It's the doctor from the hospital Spike came to in.

"Right," Spike blurts out, with what at least seems like genuine, if a little flat, surprise. "I was supposed to come back for some check-ups." And he hadn't. Spike doesn't say, 'sorry, it slipped my mind,' because he's not sorry, and though it would be true to say he'd forgotten, well, it had never been that strong of a priority for Spike, since the minute his shoes hit the pavement outside of the hospital.

[theorized]

"Magically forgotten," remarks Chase in a matter-of-fact way, the small smile on his face one which easily says, 'I get it, not that it means I'll let you off any easier.' There's a quick glance over Spike's shoulder, one fast enough to display idle curiosity without lingering long enough to be overly intrusive. "That hurts, y'know. Could make a fellow feel a bit used to receive so little thanks for having seen you out of a coma." Shrugging both of his shoulders lightly, Chase continues to shift his weight slightly, both hands heavily stuffed in his pockets in a gesture that isn't quite nonchalance, although perhaps it falls closer than a doctor strictly should.

After all, if Spike shows any resistance, it's not like Chase spending his time and effort will be worth the while.

"Look, it doesn't affect me much one way or another what you do; don't think I've ever seen a place that lets doctors off with so little accountability until I got here, anyway. Benefit's that my job's not really at stake as a result of my being here, but I did still take the time and effort to find you, so perhaps you could let me in for an informal check-up?"

[bellpeppers]

"Magically," Spike agrees with a shrug of towel-draped shoulders, before moving out of the way and waving for Chase to come on in.

"Can you shut the door behind you?" he calls out, already moving back to the bathroom to rid himself of the towel and toothbrush and find a clean shirt. Clean, at least, in a given sense of having been washed. It used to be white, but currently has an over-worn greyness, and lingering iodine stains, and it's stretched so that it hangs off of Spike in all the wrong places rather than clinging in all the right ones. Everything in the small, private apartment, in fact, gives the impression of someone who just doesn't give a shit, a far cry from the blood-stained suit he arrived in.

"You're welcome, by the way." It's wry, but not pointedly sarcastic. Chase does deserve thanks. Spike doesn't hold anything against the man for any reason. "As a reward for your time and effort, you can tell me whether or not the cut on my side is infected. I'm not sure I know how to tell." And his idea of medical attention is to pour some alcohol on it, pat it dry, and check again in the morning.

Spike's eyes grow dark for a moment at the reminder that he does look exactly like someone who's been recently carved up. Even still. But he moves on quickly enough. "It's red, but it doesn't feel hot to the touch. That's what the nurse in the discharge office told me to watch for."

And strangely enough, everything else is moving along to healthy just fine. Everything but the fucking stab wounds. And doesn't that figure.

[theorized]

Politely, not unlike a young boy suddenly caught in a stranger's house, Chase carefully closes the door behind him. The apartment isn't much to look at, but one wouldn't know it from the way that Chase carefully steps around, less worried about possible sources of infection — after all, Mister Spiegel does seem to be in decent shape — than he is just prone to respecting others while under scrutiny. Habits from seminary school that haven't been wiped clean yet, and perhaps may never be.

"Going to be the highlight of my day, taking a look at your wound and assessing whether or not you'll need more antibiotics," Chase announces, the sarcasm in his own voice also faint, almost playful, as he slides his hands into his pockets. "You could've made a great joke about being hot all the time, you know. Wasted potential right there." Swinging the messenger bag that hangs from his shoulder, Chase starts to rifle through the contents, tugging out bandages and gauze as he stares around for a place to sit, then walks forward, only to stand awkwardly in the middle of the room.

[bellpeppers]

The politeness is a little bit too much for Spike to handle after so long spending most of his time on the Bebop. He can't help shuffle a wryly amused look the other guy's way after he comes back out of the bathroom, wearing what at least passes as clothing - sweatpants and a clean shirt - and running damp hands through his hair.

"I could've, but you made the joke for me, so I guess I win out." The smile quirks before Spike slaps the 'brew' button on an ancient-looking coffee-maker and tosses himself, all limbs for the moment, into one of only two chairs at a tiny kitchen table.

He scrubs his face awake with his hands. "It's not bothering me that much," he admits. "S'why I forgot. The pain's really not there anymore. Most of the time. It's just stiff when I'm moving around, wherever it's had to heal over. Like the skin's tugging."

And if Spike's upset about any of this, the matter-of-fact answer gives little preview.

[theorized]

"And that's completely natural. Your new skin hasn't had a chance to adjust to so much movement yet, and it's going to take time before it gets there, and I'm fairly confident that it will get there for you. Perhaps you'll never feel like you're at a hundred percent again, but just as much of that is probably in your head as anything," Chase says, pausing before taking the initiative to set his things and himself at the table, sighing slightly at the fact that the examination would probably be easier if Spike hadn't just put on his clothes.

"Which you may not be used to, considering how you got this injury in the first place. I imagine it required very easy movement," remarks Chase, preparing a bandage before tapping Spike's arm. "Raise your arm for me?"

[bellpeppers]

"Well, that blows," is Spike's thoughtful assessment of things that require time - time or patience. But the mention of exactly how Spike got the small myriad of still-healing scrapes, cuts and burns is just right to sober him up for a minute or two as he raises his arm obediently enough, both eyes staring at his own lap. With Spike stuck here in this tiny little nowhere city with no exit, the universe, in this respect, is narrowed down to just the two of them.

The only two people in all of it with any idea what Spike had been doing just before one thing ended and the next began. And Spike is just unfortunate enough that Dr. Chase is a man who can't have the truth hidden from him with a couple smooth words.

"The other guy deserved it," he says, not sure why he bothers. Maybe because the city's so small, it's not like he can hide the truth from himself, either: he'll be at the hospital again before too long. He's Spike Spiegel.

[theorized]

"I have to say, I've heard that line before," Chase replies quietly, his eyes narrowing a touch as he keeps his gaze pinned on Spike's movement, watching the stretch of the skin. It's not quite as well healed as the skin of someone who had stuck strictly to rehabilitation would be, but that's to be expected. Without personal expertise, there's simply no way that a person can monitor himself well enough to stay on the best trajectory.

And Spike seems like a rather forgetful man, at that.

But it's not a remark that Chase makes yet, not wanting to do anything to push Spike further still from him, not when he needs to keep an eye on the other man's progress, and not when his own thoughts are swirling back to years ago. Justice and power are two words so far from synonymous, but they tangle beyond separation in his mind.

"So, let me guess. Eye for an eye? Do you have any idea if the other guy made it?" he asks, voice slightly tense, and he finds he isn't sorry for that.

[bellpeppers]

"Have you?" Spike asks, a little amused by the sharp look his scarred injuries are getting - like the doctor cares more about his health than Spike does, and maybe that's true. Heck, maybe it's true of a lot of people. Just one of the reasons Spike's not a doctor.

There are lots.

"He deserved it because he was a criminal and a monster and he was never going to change. Wouldn't call it eye for an eye. Especially if we're talking about this," Spike murmurs, reaching up to give the false bionic eye a couple taps with the tip of his finger, blinking quickly afterward like someone who's just inserted a contact lens. Point made. The doc's seen x-rays of his skull, no sense ignoring the elephant in the room. "He was hunting me. Found me, and was hunting me, like an animal. Wouldn't have stopped. Would have destroyed everything I left behind me if I didn't just solve it once and for all. And if I didn't solve it once and for all ... " He shrugs broad shoulders.

"I'd have never been alive anyway. Waiting to die's no better than already being dead."

[theorized]

"Didn't mean that literally, though that's one neat implant you've got, if I do say so myself," Chase replies smoothly, gaze flickering briefly up and towards the bionic eye, the color of the iris only slightly different than Spike's natural hue — but enough that Chase does wonder why a little more care couldn't have been put into an obviously complicated piece of machinery. More important to the tale is the rest of what Spike has to say, a sob story that would probably convince a right number of juries with the guileless charm that Spike seems to carry about him.

Or, conversely, the way that Spike doesn't seem to care a bit about his own welfare.

"A criminal and a monster, huh," he says quietly, unrolling a length of bandage to wrap over Spike's wound. Just in case. "Well, I know that there can definitely be stalkers out there with nothing better to do and no good reason for following the targets they randomly choose... but something tells me you're not the type of person those people go for. Why hunt you?"

[bellpeppers]

The comment about the implant gets an awkwardly dismissive chuckle. There's a lot of story around it, but not a lot of conclusions. That's the way his life seems to go.

Wincing only a little as the wounds - still draining a little in places and not all fully healed - get bandaged again. Whatever else about this doctor, he tries his best. Spike would be hurting a heck of a lot more under his own inexpert touch. If he even bothered.

Which, clearly, he hasn't.

"A woman," he says plainly, not meeting Dr. Chase's eyes. It's not the whole answer. It mostly doesn't even sound like an answer. Yet it's the most pertinent one Spike's gut offers him to give.

[theorized]

"A woman," repeats Chase, raising his brows. Never in Chase's life has he gotten mixed up with such violence as that he sees mapped out over Spike's skin, and yet it all comes down to the same thing. It comes down to the basic need and drive that seems to overwhelm so many people. It'd be funny if it weren't so real. He falls silent for a while, focusing on the bandages and little else, before quirking a brow in Spike's direction.

"Both in love with her, I'd assume. If cliches exist for a reason, anyway," Chase concludes, patting the wound slightly once finished, taking a couple of steps back to give Spike the space. "Which tells me that you're a whole lot more stubborn than your tale would otherwise suggest."

Not blameless, Chase thinks, glancing at Spike's good eye.

[bellpeppers]

"Someone like Vicious isn't capable of real love," Spike says, floating voice edged with quiet vehemence in a way that makes it sound like he'd rather be railing and shouting, but he can't gather the energy up to do it anymore.

"But I am stubborn." He stands, pulling his shirt back on and giving a shrug. "I don't have any cash or anything to give you for stopping here. I'm still waiting for the rest of the hospital bills to show up at my door." He's not paying those, either. He never asked anyone to wake him back up. That doesn't mean he's not a little grateful to, beholden to this pale-haired man standing in his space and thinking after him. It only means he's in conflict about feeling as grateful as he does.

[theorized]

"Psychopath? Sociopath?" Chase questions, and however direct the question is, his tone still remains respectfully muted at either suggestion. They're not to be taken lightly, after all — people incapable of love or empathy are to be feared indeed.

But then again, Chase has no reason to trust his patient. If anything, there's a great deal about Spike Spiegel that seems to slip past the lines, muddled and unclear. Hidden behind murky tones.

"Anyway, Vicious aside, you seem to be in luck in this town, at least," he announces, cleaning up after himself and wrapping everything in a disposable sheet to be properly taken care of back at the hospital. "Socialized medicine. One way or another, the costs will be covered — and since this city seems to magically record the personal information of everyone who steps in, I wouldn't count on ducking what the government wants from you. Just a fair warning. No skin off my back either way." Tucking the sheet into his bag, Chase shrugs his shoulders, relaxing the tension.