Doctor McNinja returned to consciousness vividly aware of three things: he was hurt, he was in a strange place, and he wasn't wearing any pants.
He held himself perfectly motionless, eyes closed, not letting his breathing change. He had a headache. A familiar headache: the sharp stabbing pain of a hangover. But there was more than that, a raw soreness to his scalp that suggested that he might have taken a hit to the head. His back and shoulders were killing him, the pain of multiple blows.
His stomach growled in passing; he ignored it. He was more concerned with whether he was fit to fight or not – and the location of his pants.
His hands felt fine, so did his arms and legs. But he was cold all over, too cold: cold enough that it made his muscles ache. He was shivering, and no matter how he concentrated he couldn't stop shivering. He was lying on something not particularly soft, and a blanket covered his body. Under the blanket, he was stripped down to his briefs; his ninja mask clung damply to his face.
He listened, and heard the storm. A storm heavy with rain, and hard winds lashing though the trees; he could hear tree branches snapping. The storm was outside; inside with him was the crackling of a fire, and another person breathing, somewhere close. He smelled wood smoke and pond water, chemicals and sweat.
He tried to remember how he had gotten here. No luck.
Through his closed eyelids, he could see light flickering on the left-hand side of his face; he slowly opened his right eyelid just a hair. He saw a ceiling, and an arm hanging down, fingers brushing his chest, from a small red couch at his right side. The hand of a woman or a small man: probably a woman, the nails had (rather badly peeling) clear nail polish on them. The arm and the heavy breathing seemed to be from the same person. And there was a tiny flashlight by his head, standing neatly on end.
He opened his left eye, carefully, because the light was on that side of his face. He saw a glassed-in fireplace with a roaring fire. He was lying on the floor by the fire, on carpeting over what felt like concrete.
His sword! It was beside him with the handle at hip level, the long blade gleaming in the firelight. Beside it were his other weapons, and his cell phone. The sight made him relax, invisibly. Wherever he was, he wasn't a prisoner: no one would leave a prisoner with their weapons. Then he tensed again, because the sword was placed in such a way that he couldn't take it without his motion being visible in the firelight.
His mind calculated the angle that the apparent sleeper must be lying at, and his left hand made a practiced slide towards his sword hilt. He reached it, and paused.
The sword was placed at exactly the right angle for him to reach it – which meant he probably had been the one to place it there. But why? Where was he, why couldn't he remember coming here?
Then he suddenly remembered part of it. If he had not been holding himself still, he would have certainly risen to go find a desk that he could pound his head on. What could have made him think that getting drunk before he challenged his mother to battle was a good idea?
He'd probably been watching too many Drunken Master movies late at night, with the sound off, and had decided to try some drunken ninja-ing. He must have fought Mitzi, and lost. And stumbled out into the storm…there had been a storm. Rain at first, and then suddenly hail: ice clinging to him all over, a heavy weight across his head and shoulders, freezing to him as he stumbled back down the mountain towards his car. The wailing of the wind, and another wailing…
He remembered: BREATHE! a voice screaming in his ear, and shouting back NO! into the smile with too many teeth. He reached for more memories, but that was it: a fragment that made no sense.
He opened both eyes wide now, looking. There was no light in the room except for the fireplace, and he could hear no humming of motors: no furnace, no refrigerator. The storm could mean there was a blackout – or maybe the power had been cut deliberately.
The person above him stirred, and then moved towards him.
Time seemed to slow: attack, or pretend to be unconscious? Both plans had their merits. He was still trying to decide when someone blinked at him from over the side of the couch. A woman, with sweat-lank hair and very, very tired eyes.
He desperately wanted to ask her where his clothes were, but for some reason the first words to come out of his mouth were "Why am I on the floor?"
She tilted her head as though thinking, and finally replied, "Gravity?"
His eyes widened in confusion. She gave a little shrug, and then lay back down where he couldn't see her.
"Wait, why am I on this floor?"
She came back; the firelight showed her frowning. "Because you're too tall for this couch, and I couldn't put you on anyone else's floor." She turned her face away, and muttered "More's the pity…"
"No, wait, what. What am I," he tried to get up and stopped himself, feeling his arms tremble with fatigue. "What am I – doing on – your – floor?"
She groaned and blinked down at him, then stared blearily at her wristwatch. "Well, it's time to check you anyway." Her voice was as tired as her face, but she didn't sound quite American. British?
He tensed. "Check me for what?"
"Concussion side effects. Y'said I should check." Without another word she was suddenly crouched over him, hands and feet on each side of him. She was wearing sweatpants and a sweatshirt, grey and black in the flickering firelight. She was quite vulnerable to any number of strikes from this position – that is, if he didn't feel too weak to lift a hand against her.
"Could you look at the fire, please?"
He let his head turn and she looked at his eyes quickly with a flashlight. "Even contraction, so that's right. What's your name?"
"Doctor McNinja."
"What day is it?"
"Sunday."
"Was. Now it's Monday. What color is Paul Bunyan's ox?"
"It's – blue?"
"Three for three."
"My turn. Who are you, what am I doing here, and how did I get a concussion?"
"You don't remember anything?"
"No."
"You did before. Do you think it's from the concussion?"
"How did I get a concussion?" he said again, getting a little frustrated.
"A tree fell on you."
He raised his chin a fraction, feeling vaguely insulted. "Oh, sure it did. I could dodge a tree…"
She arched one eyebrow at him. "It was dark, and it was a very big tree." She leaned a little closer and then flinched, one hand going to the back of her neck. "Ow."
His medical interest suddenly perked up. "Are you hurt?" There had been cuts and scrapes on her hand, now that he thought of it. Looking closer he could see bruises on her wrist and neck in the firelight, pale red and blue against her skin.
"Just a stiff neck from driving. Think you can sit up?"
Sitting up would let him see where he was, and if there were any other weapons at hand. "Yes."
She stood over him and grabbed him under the armpits, heaving with surprising strength. He clutched the blanket over him as she dragged him up and onto the couch. He leaned back into it, tucking the blanket close up under his chin. He was suddenly, vividly aware that he wasn't wearing anything under the blanket except his briefs, and desperately trying to remember which pair he'd put on this morning. One of the white ones? The grey ones? Please, not the black ones with little yellow Batman logos all over them…
"Do you have any more blankets?" he asked.
She sat down beside him and sighed, shoulders slumping. Then she looked up at him considering. "No. I only had the one."
He looked her over, trying not to be too obvious. The short-cut hair that clung to her high forehead was pale blonde in the firelight, and her eyes were pale too, a light blue that was almost white. Not a face that he remembered, square and intelligent with a slight double chin. She was definitely in very good physical condition, from the way she had lifted him to the couch.
"What's the last thing you remember?" she asked, standing over him.
"What happened?" he asked back.
"You go first."
"I - look, I need to get back to my office." The idea burned in him: he wasn't safe here, whatever had happened. He didn't have time to stay here and interrogate her. He needed to get back to his base, figure out what had happened to him.
"No, you should stay here and rest."
"Look, I have to-" He started to shrug out of the blanket and then quickly pulled it back over him. "Where are my clothes?"
"No," she said, hands out. "Stop. You said-"
"I need my clothes, now. I have to leave, there might be patients waiting!" He snaked one arm out from under the covers and tried to lever himself to his feet, and she shoved his arm aside and sat on him.
His breath whooshed out in surprise. Not that she was crushing him, but she was a lot closer than he was used to being with people who weren't patients. She was sitting facing him, one knee on each side of his hips, and her face was close enough to his that he could feel her breath on his skin.
"Doctor-"
"Let me go," he said, his voice dropping dangerously. "Now." He put his most Batman-esque growl into that last word, but she didn't even blink.
"Your medical opinion. Hypothermia, what are the symptoms? Severe hypothermia."
He promptly came back with the textbook definition. "Caused by a dangerous drop in core body temperature. Prolonged shivering, confusion, lack of coordination, lassitude…shallow breathing...oh." She was nodding as though checking off a list, and he finally connected his shivering with his wet mask with his weakness.
"All of the above, Doctor. Plus the concussion."
All right, he could work with this. He was a doctor; it was just a coincidence that he was the patient as well. "Okay then, to treat hypothermia you need to remove the patient's wet clothes-"
"Did that."
"Warm them – I mean me - gently."
"Did that too."
"Share – ah, no, supply warm liquids? For dehydration?"
"I only had cold water, and you kept choking. And you skipped the step about 'share body heat.'"
"That's only for very severe hypothermia," he countered weakly.
She rolled her eyes. "Doctor, you were turning blue. All over. Your breathing was irregular, your pulse was weak, you were trying to talk to people who weren't here, yes and fight them too. You needed body heat, you got body heat."
Shared body heat. Keep it that way, he told himself: Don't think snuggled, or cuddled, or anything else. They had shared body heat, and that was it. He wondered where they had - shared. Here on the couch? On the floor? In her bed? "I don't remember anything…bad," he said guardedly.
That earned him a glare. "Thank you. Now, you told me," she poked him gently with one finger, "that you would try to leave as soon as you were awake, and that I had to keep you here, or you'd push yourself too hard and freeze and die out there. So, do you promise to stay if I get off you?"
He looked at her suspiciously.
"Aw, come on! I'll feed you," she grinned, a peculiar closed-mouth grin that didn't show any teeth.
His stomach went from growling to howling in an instant. He was hungry, starved: he had to have food. Food, water. The weakness in his limbs, the dizziness and pain in his head, the burning thirst in his mouth, all would be solved.
But there was food back at his office too…
"I'll stay," he lied.
"Do you swear?"
"I swear," he lied again.
She leaned back and held out one hand in front of his face. Slowly, she curled her fingers down, leaving only her little finger raised.
"Do you pinky-swear?"
He looked at her, horrified. How could she –that was a secret! His secret! What – why would he tell her that?
"Pinky-swear," she sing-songed. "Or else."
Slowly, he took one hand out and locked his pinkie to hers. He swallowed, hard, cringing inside at what she might say, but instead her expression was calm and even approving. Not giving the slightest hint that she thought this was all silly.
"I pinky-swear to-" to what?
"To stay here and rest until we both agree that you are well enough to leave."
He felt furious and abashed as he quickly repeated the words after her. How – what had he been thinking, telling her that?
"So then, what do you want to eat? Fats, carbohydrates, sugars, protein, fiber? You can't forget your fiber, the last thing you need now is consti-"
He cut her off. "What do you have?"
"Not much," she grumped. "I just got here – as in a few hours ago – and as soon as I showed up, the storm blocked me in."
"Storm?"
"Ice storm. The power went out. And before that tree fell on you, another tree fell on my car. I decided to take the hint and stay put."
She grabbed a flashlight from the floor and rose to her feet.
"My clothes?" he asked, faintly.
She looked at him thoughtfully, and pointed. "They're over there, and as dry as I could make them." She padded out of the room, lighting her way with the flashlight.
As soon as she was turned away he lunged, grabbing his clothes in a single smooth motion and retreating with them under the blanket. At least, that was the idea.
Instead, he found himself on hands and knees on the carpet, colored spots billowing in front of his eyes. He was weak, so weak he couldn't even stand straight. All his ninja grace had deserted him as he tottered to his clothes, took them up in trembling hands, and retreated to the couch to dress. The cloth was still damp and gritty with mud, but they were wearable.
He had on the white briefs, he was relieved to note.
His lab coat was torn in several places, and his shirtfront was in ribbons, but clothed he felt a lot more comfortable: weak but whole. He carefully went down on one knee at the hearth, refilling his pockets with the various lethal tools that had been left there to dry. After that, he curled gratefully back under the warm blanket and looked over the room.
There wasn't much to see; the only furniture was the couch. No decoration, no plants. The grey carpet had felt new under his bare feet, and there was fresh grey paint on the wall, but the place was about as inviting as a bunker. The windows were narrow slits, and stacked against the wall were what looked like powered armored shutters. Waiting to be installed; he could see the wires hanging out of the walls. Raw blueboard showed around the edges of the doors; two doors flanking the fireplace, and one opposite.
There was a shovel leaning by the door that probably led outside; it was wet, and the wetness showed a sharp gleam along the edge of the blade. Interesting….