Title: Doctor—Patient Confidentiality.
Disclaimer: I don't own Legion, never will. I make no money from writing this.
Summary: Winema has been going through so much stress lately and before she has a breakdown at a conference, she goes to see the only doctor she knows and can threaten into silence. In connection to Big Momma and Careless Father, but longer and in chaptered segments.
I have no idea why I'm writing this, but perhaps it's because nobody writes for either the elder Londo or elder Wazzo. It annoys me so much that I'm actually writing a chapter fic, and I hate writing those. Hate.
Any suggestions for venting on Winema's part would be excellent. Not just about Londo, or work, though. Like sex and aging. You know, all the good stuff.
Proposition:
3 a.m. in the morning and somehow, by some cosmic joke, Mar Londo woke up from his usual sleeping area—the couch—to someone knocking on his door. In a friendly manner. A steady, calming and repetitive flurry of knocks that freaked him out so badly he grabbed the laser gun he kept under his pillow before opening the mini-window in the door. And then he did a double take.
Eyes like a doe's stared in a seemingly pleasant way back at him and blue/black lips smiled deceivingly when his own eyes, crusty and drowsy from sleep, lit up with recognition. Oh, Sprock, what was this shrieking banshee doing back here?
"Hello, Dr. Londo," Winema Wazzo greeted as she lightly jiggled the handle to the door, "May I come in?"
"It's three in the morning," the man growled, obliging anyway in opening the door and sneering at the woman as she padded into the room and over to the couch, still warm from his own body heat, "Why the hell are you here?"
Winema raised a brow at Londo. Last time she made a surprise visit he was…well, better clothed for one thing and not wielding a gun hunched over like he was going to die for another. His lab coat was draped atop one of the kitchen chairs and his shoes were thrown into two separate corners of the place. He presently looked like an average guy in a wrinkled button-down white shirt and equally wrinkled black pants. Oh, and his glasses were still where his face had been; atop the throw pillow not an arms' length from where the President sat.
"No need to be snippy," she replied lightly, "I just came to offer you a proposition."
Unable to resist, his reply was quick, sharp and nasty, "Proposition? What are you, a hooker?"
"No, Doctor. As I said, I want to offer you a proposition, but it's not sexual. Not at all—where are you going?"
The doctor allowed her to remain unanswered as he stumbled into the kitchen, pulled the semi-fresh, ultimately disgusting coffee from its cradle in the coffee maker and downed three whole gulps right from the glass pot. It burned his tongue and his taste buds would swell in exactly five minutes, but it would keep him from passing out like a narcoleptic or an idiot in front of this woman. The fact that she gave him a very disturbed look was bonus as he turned around towards the cupboards and pulled out two mugs. One for him for the sake of salvaging his dignity from this moment in time and one for the woman herself.
He was cranky, but he was not completely horrible.
Grabbing both mugs and, somehow, the coffee pot itself, he stalked back over and sat on the other couch. The glass objects sort of clanged on the table and he glared half-heartedly at her to get to the point before he went back to the kitchen, picked up his gun again and shot her.
"Er, as I was saying," Winema coughed, "I sort of need your help with something. It's personal and it can't get out and you will be paid for every hour that you do the deed for me."
"And the deed you speak of would be…?"
The President picked up the mug offered to her and took a sip before answering, a slight blush that he didn't notice at all creeping up her neckline and to her cheeks, "I…need you to be my therapist."
Quickly and with no warning, Londo snorted into his coffee, choking on it a little and then gave her a look that was both mocking and amused at the same time, "I'll assume you already know this, Madame President, but I'll say it anyway: I'm not that kind of doctor. I have never been that kind of doctor and I actually mock those kinds of doctors. If it's not pure science and based mostly off of guess work, I don't believe it's a profession."
"Yes, I actually read that in one of the essays you wrote in school," she nodded, "But I don't actually want you to analyze me. I just want you to listen to me vent about various things in my life and add in your two cents when you'd like."
"Oh, I get it. It's like confession, but with someone you can threaten into silence."
"In a manner, yes. That's exactly what it is. Though, I'm not an unfair person. You will of course get paid."
The grey haired man leaned back into the couch and groaned pathetically, sore muscles clenching and unclenching along his back when they came into contact with the hidden coils in the couch. They seemed to stick into him and make this whole thing harder than it had to be, making him all the less pleasant to be around.
"And how much will I be getting paid?"
"Two-hundred credits per visit. Two-fifty if you provide meaningful advice and don't just bitch at me for taking up your time."
His neck allowed his head to flop back upon the sofa as he let out a little growl. He knew that she would come back no matter what and spill her guts no matter what he did to piss her off on her way in or out. Should he turn down the offer to be at the very least paid for having to listen and not even react?
No. Even in his sleep deprived state of mind, he knew that turning down this one offer of money for doing what was basically a monkey's job would be…stupid. He had an entire thesaurus in his mind for what else he could be called if he turned this down, but he just wanted to get her out so he could go back to…the couch she was on.
"If I say yes, will you come back at a decent hour some other time?"
"Mm-hmm."
"Then yes," he said rather nonchalantly, kicking his legs up on the coffee table as his upper body started easing into the feel of the couch he was on, toes wiggling at the woman. He missed the look of astonishment on her features, but relished in the sound of her getting up and heading for the door.
He heard her stop just at the exit and turn around, but ignored those irritating factors in favor of her next words.
"Expect to see me within the next week when you're more lucid and wearing appropriate clothes."
His hand, which had been settled atop his knee, trying not to fall off, gave her a little wave. It was short and only two of his fingers wiggled when he had commanded all of them to do so, but she got the message.
He passed back into blissful unconsciousness at the sounds of her stifling a giggle and his door opening and closing with a discreet click.