Dr Mills answered the door against his better judgment. Late-night wakeups were rarely good news, but thanks to a glance at the camera he was prepared to give his former junior partner the best unamused look in his arsenal.
“Hello, Joff. You sick?”
“Hi, Arun,” said his visitor, sheepishly scratching the back of his neck. “Can I come in?”
“Are you sick?”
As the only two doctors on the station, when they’d parted company after the Wilfred Feeney incident they’d agreed to treat each other. Each privately thought he was getting the raw end of that deal. Either way, they had agreed emphatically not to socialize.
“I brought a peace offering.” Joff Philippe hoisted a bottle. Glass, full of something amber that might not have been distilled in a repurposed fuel tank. He looked haggard; probably wasted.
“I’m not going to get drunk with you. Or high. What do you want?”
He felt bad when the man winced, but he’d gotten enough trouble out of sparing Joff’s feelings.
“We have to talk, Arun. It’s getting bad. They’re killing each other.”
“They’ve been killing each other for months. They can stop whenever they want.”
Joff shook his head. “It’s serious now. It’s all-out war, Arun, a shooting war. It’s an all-hands-on-deck situation up there.”
“And you’ve come to me for help.”
Joff swore under his breath, half making it a laugh. “You think I want to? I’ve barely slept; I’m living on modafinil and amphetamines. I’ve had to pressgang a couple of those damn gangsters as the worst nurses you’ve ever imagined.”
Mills folded his arms. “I suppose you’re still taking payment in women and drugs.”
Joff laughed bitterly. “I’m taking payment in keeping my teeth.”
“Well hell, how do I get in on a deal like that?”
“I don’t blame you for being angry with me,” Joff said quietly, leaning in so far that Mills felt the sudden urge to try to catch him. “And I don’t blame you for focusing your practice on whatever decent folk are left. I’m not one of them and I know it. But the only reason I’m not even busier than I am is that half of these poor berks are just being left to bleed out where they fall. It’s a nightmare. Please.”
“I’m no trauma surgeon, Joff.”
“Me neither, but I’ve learned. God, I’ve learned. Just do what you can.”
Mills gritted his teeth as he caught himself mentally pushing appointments back and planning what would have to go into his bag that he wouldn’t mind being stolen. He’d already basically agreed, damn it.
“How bad are these nurses?”
“I caught Skeeve doing what he thought was cocaine off a bedpan.”
Mills struggled with that sentence and landed on, “Skeeve?”
“Technically ‘Other Skeeve’ but nobody’s seen Original Skeeve in a while, and if he’s dead, then Other Skeeve feels he inherits because ‘a man has rights’.” Joff’s expression grew haunted. “That is a sentence that has come out of my mouth. I can’t take it back, Arun.”
Cursing himself for a soft fool, Mills got his bag. He did take the whiskey, though, and figured he’d need it.