This one came to me because I have to go see a doctor at some point (haven't been in years). So I can totally sympathize with Virgil here. And I remembered there's a line at the end of "Pandora's Box Part 2" where Norman references Virgil having high blood pressure, which also made me wonder. Inspiration struck in a moment of boredom at work, which is somehow always productive, just not the way they think it is.

Disclaimer: I do not own Max, Virgil, Norman, the magazine "Vogue," or any other products/characters who popped up in this thing. Nor is the email address that happens in this story real, so don't try it. I do, however, take credit for the character of Brendan Craven, in homage to an old friend of mine (who really is an ornithologist) and a budding interest in the "Godzilla: The Series" cartoon. I don't own them, I just play with them for my amusement. Or something.

Without further ado...

"I can't see why you think I need to do this," Virgil complained bitterly. He knew better than to try to actually flee with Norman walking determinedly beside him, but he permitted himself to flounce along indignantly. The great Viking shrugged and gave a small smile as they waded through mid-morning pedestrians on a common city street.

"It HAS been more than forty years, and that last one was pretty useless," he said.

"Yes, but, well, really! I'm perfectly able to determine these things on my own, you know."

"It'll make the Mighty One feel better," Norman pointed out. Virgil gave a very undignified snort. That was the problem with the Guardian: anything Mighty Max said or suggested or thought was sacrosanct. And once that stubborn boy got an idea in his head, it took a force greater than the sun's gravity to dislodge it.

"I don't see you dragging him around like this," Virgil grumbled.

"He has his mother for that. And we're here," Norman said, gesturing.

With a long-suffering sigh, the ancient Lemurian drew himself up and attempted to regain his composure. He would not be humiliated any more than necessary. With resignation, he marched into the small building at Norman's side, pointedly ignoring the sign out front:

Drs. Anderson & Craven
Veterinary Science and Ornithology

--==OOO==--

"We're here to see Dr. Craven," Norman announced politely to the bored woman at the reception desk. Without even looking up from her magazine, she waved at a pile of papers in front of her.

"Take one and fill it out. Make sure you include your pet's name, shots, and how long you've had him," she said with a know-it-all, nasal voice.

"He's not my pet," Norman said, not an ounce of amusement in his expression. Virgil stepped forward, cold fury in every line of his body.

"Indeed I am not."

"What...woah," the verbose assistant breathed, eyes bugging out behind the still-upraised issue of Vogue at the form before her. "What sorta bird are you? Some kind of chicken?"

"I am not. I am a Lemurian fowl." Virgil was nearly bristling with offense.

"I'll tell Dr. Craven you're here," she mumbled, cowing somewhat under the glare of the surprising patient. As she watched the enormous man sit gingerly on one of the slightly-too-small plastic seats and begin to fill out the requested information, she shook her head. Who knew?

"What should I put for your last name?" Norman asked, looking at the form. Virgil had sworn to ignore the entire process; otherwise, it would have been simpler to let him figure this out.

"Leave it blank," Virgil replied.

"Um...how about address?"

"Leave that blank, too."

"Phone number?"

"Blank."

"Shots?"

"I don't NEED shots, Norman. Leave that blank as well." Virgil's face was beginning to resemble a storm-cloud.

"Okay, then. How about the optional email section?" By now, Norman was caught between a quiet desperation to put something on the form besides the word "Virgil" for the name and "Lemurian," for the species, and an increasing perverse joy at his friend's discomfort.

"You know my email. VirgiltheLemurian at booyah dot com." the ancient fowl scowled as he recited it. He hated giving out his email; it always resulted with receiving yet more ads encouraging him to buy products that supposedly did things which, for a Lemurian, were anatomically impossible. Or at least, very, very improbable.

"Just checking." That was about all Norman could legitimately write on the sheet of paper, after deciding that "date of birth" would just confuse the woman at the desk more than was strictly necessary.

Given the exotic nature of this particular appointment, it was only a few moments after Norman handed back the form, less than half-complete with Virgil's annoyed answers, before the pair were shown into an examination room by the same perplexed assistant. It was sterile, but not nauseatingly so, complete with several pictures of tropical birds in jungles and parakeets on the shoulders of bright-eyed children.

"It's nice," Norman commented, nodding vaguely at the room. Rather than sitting in these even-smaller seats, he leaned against a wall, looking amused. "Could be worse. Do you remember that one doctor in London? Back when they still used bloodletting?"

"I most certainly do not. I especially do not recall the part where he offered us one-hundred pounds to send me to a taxidermist for his collection." The fowl glowered.

"I think you're supposed to sit up there," Norman said dryly, gesturing to the metallic table in the center of the room. Virgil huffed. At least the Guardian hadn't pointed to the perch next to it.

"My dignity will never recover," he moaned as Virgil hoisted himself onto the cold, unforgiving surface. The Lemurian ignored the laughing snort from his muscular friend and continued to take in the scene around him. Looking at the doctor's cupboard of supplies, he found himself shuddering at some of the various implements awaiting use.

Behind the examination table was a diploma that declared Dr. Craven, in addition to a PhD in Ornithology and Veterinary Science, had a Master's degree in Ethnoornithology. Virgil sighed with a touch of relief. At least the Mighty One had done his research before sending them to some crack-pot excuse for a man of medicine.

The door opened then, and a young man with sandy-colored hair and a tanned complexion entered. His white coat showed evidence of the birds he worked with, but the polo shirt and khakis underneath were clean and unmarred. He held a clipboard in his hand but his eyes were all for Virgil. The ancient fowl read a great deal of interest in the young man's face, but, thankfully, no immediate desire to dissect him.

"You're...Virgil?" he asked, trying to sound normal.

"I am."

"And you're a...Lemurian," he stumbled over the unfamiliar word.

"Indeed."

"Oh. Well, I'm Dr. Craven. Umm, what can I do for you today?" Dr. Craven asked, moving towards the table and attempting to restore some professional behavior to this odd situation.

"Virgil needs a checkup," Norman answered simply for his friend.

"Right. And you are...?"

"Norman."

"Okay..." he said, writing something hesitantly on the clipboard. Virgil began to feel rather sorry for Dr. Craven, who was apparently trying to work out who and what Norman could be, and what possible relationship might be in place here. As the doctor did not ask the "pet" question, Virgil assumed he had been warned by his receptionist and warmed very slightly to him.

"Norman is my friend," Virgil explained, now trying to put the poor ornithologist at ease. He couldn't be long out of school, and surely had never expected anything as odd as this on a Tuesday morning like any other. "And he is correct. I have not been to see a doctor in quite some time and apparently Norman and another mutual friend believe I am due for a...checkup."

"All right then," Dr. Craven said, straightening his shoulders and turning to his notebook. If they were going to handle this as though nothing were out of the ordinary, so could he. Theoretically. "If you'll let me ask you a few questions, we'll get started..."

--==OOO==--

An hour of questions later, some of them rather intelligent, some of them incredibly personal, both Virgil and Dr. Craven were exhausted. The one asset that made the whole scenario even nominally palatable was the intricate information Virgil possessed regarding his own physiology. Being able to tell the ornithologist in precise medical terms "where his parts were," as Norman so crudely put it, was the only reason the young doctor held together at all in the face of such unusual circumstances. But now, with as much information gleaned as either could think might be needed, it was time for the examination itself.

"Perhaps you would like Norman to leave?" Dr. Craven asked hesitantly. The old friends exchanged glances.

"I'll wait out here," Norman decided, chuckling as he exited into the hallway at the half-stricken look on Virgil's face. It wasn't as though he had never seen his long-time fowl friend unclothed when they went swimming or something, but there were things even a friend did not want to watch. Mostly involving some of those uncomfortable implements. The Guardian leaned against the door and tried not to listen.

All things considered, this had been a good idea. It was true that both Norman and Max were periodically concerned about their Lemurian friend; Virgil was not young, nor was he precisely immortal. They had been through some pretty rough adventures recently, and the ancient fowl had taken a few nasty knocks. Mighty Max had suggested a visit to a vet in jest, but after some consideration, both he and Norman agreed that it was probably for the best. Just in case. As Max had said, if they went to all that trouble to protect him and the Cap but lost Virgil in the process, it could hardly be good for the prophecy. That reasoning, along with the threat of Norman physically dragging him in on orders from the Mighty One, was what finally coerced an agreement from the proud fowl.

The Viking closed his eyes as a squawk leaked through the thick door. Whatever was happening, he just didn't want to know...

--==OOO==--

"Well, I suppose we're done," Dr. Craven said awkwardly as he helped his patient climb back into a cavernous toga of some kind. He was still full of questions, but he felt it was just not the right time to ask. First and foremost among them was "where did you come from?" but he was certain this would be taken poorly by the already-irked fowl.

"Yes. Thank you," Virgil said stiffly, tying his rope-belt with unnecessary precision. He could count on one hand the number of times he had submitted himself to such an invasive examination since the Lemurians had disappeared from the earth, and, although this one had been done with great respect for his person and a measure of professional gentleness, he still felt mildly embarrassed.

"You'll need to want to watch your temper, since we don't want your blood-pressure going any higher than it is already," the ornithologist advised, "and if you can, try to adjust your lifestyle to one more...relaxing."

"I don't believe that will be possible, but I'll take it under advisement," Virgil answered dryly, thinking of the work they had planned for that very afternoon.

"Other than that, you seem quite fit. But I would encourage you to come back sometime for a follow-up. You really should see a doctor more often." Dr. Craven tried to sound less eager than he felt. Clinically, he found Virgil the Lemurian absolutely fascinating and he would jump at the chance to learn more about him and his complex but incredible body and mind. But as a person who loved birds on a personal level, he felt a certain affinity for the intelligent being before him. From something Virgil had said, the doctor was to understand that he was the last of his kind. What could any responsible ornithologist do but try to preserve such a one as best he could?

"You won't...publish anything, will you?"

"No, of course not!" Dr. Craven began assuredly. Then he broke into an honest laugh. "Besides, who would believe it?"

"True. Then I believe I could be convinced to return more regularly." Virgil smiled back. Somehow this young doctor reminded him of himself eons before: personable, enthusiastic, intelligent, and passionate to learn and serve. "For my own health, of course. Not just to satisfy your curiosity."

"Obviously."

"It's been a pleasure, Dr. Craven," Virgil said, holding out a hand. He had been more open with this individual about his body and his biology than he had in several-hundred years; the grace with which this invasion into his privacy was handled by this young man had earned Virgil's grudging respect. Not that he would admit such a thing to Norman or the Mighty One.

"Call me Brendan. And take care of yourself, Virgil. Although I'm sure that mountain of a friend of yours will do a job of that as well," he said, returning the handshake.

"Indeed. But please do me one favor."

"Anything."

"Please ask your assistant to refrain from calling me a pet next time."

--==OOO==--

"So, really, how did it go? Besides the blood-pressure. As bad as you feared?" Norman asked as they walked back down the street towards the bus connection that would take them to the next exit portal where they would wait another four hours for the Mighty One to get Virgil's message.

"Surprisingly, the whole thing went quite well. He's very competent," Virgil said noncommittally.

"Glad to hear it."

"But this ordeal has got me thinking," the Lemurian speculated, a wicked gleam in his eyes.

"About what?"

"When was the last time YOU saw a doctor, Norman...?"