DISCLAIMER: I own nothing you recognize. If you don't recognize it it may or may not be from that weird cavernous place my brain resides in.

So. He would like to state this was absolutely not his fault. He was just walking down a quaint little street, having an evening stroll, minding his own business, when all of a sudden he was almost flattened by a blue person falling from the sky.

Ok, so the street wasn't really quaint, or really even a street, and he might have been prowling for hapless muggers to terrorize, which may not have been the best hobby (what do you do, right?), but the random blue guy was totally not his fault at all. Even a little. Nope.

At least he didn't think so.

He quietly reviewed all illegitimate doings he had participated in in the last couple weeks, and concluded it was indeed not his fault. He should just walk away. Now.

Now.

Now now now.

Now was a funny word when you thought about it. It actually sounded a lot like the word 'no', which was also applicable to this situation.

But the guy was so pitiful, bleeding out on the concrete of the alleyway, looking like he was just dumped from the top of…something very tall. And possibly magical. And most definitely not his problem. And it was starting to snow. So why was he moving forwards to take Mystery Blue Man's (MBM! That would be his name.) pulse?

Oh dear.

He couldn't do it. Get involved, that is. Then he would get attached, and be sad when MBM inevitably left. But, stopping death isn't involvsion…involvilating…involving? Himself with MBM, right? Right!

Ow!

He looked at his stinging fingertips and drew on all of his meager Med School knowledge to conclude a.) MBM had a pulse and b.) he was very, very cold. Yet another sign from above to scoot.

Did he (He? Her? It?) have ice based abilities? Was he made of ice or liquid nitrogen or something of that caliber? Was he just freakishly cold? How was he going to move him? Wait…

He wasn't going to move him, he was going to walk away and call 911, where the MBM would be packed up by creepy governmental agents and locked in a secret facility where they would run horribly inhumane experiments and…yeah…MBM was coming with him. Somehow.

He ran his stinging fingertips through his hair in thought, where they promptly got stuck in the curls. Ow again. He kept forgetting only people with straight hair could do that. First he needed MBM's condition.

Carefully edging closer, he realized his previous assessment of MBM's danger of bleeding out was a bit dramatic. Blood, worryingly dark blood, was really only coming from a good sized gash in his forehead, and a couple of nicks from landing on the local décor (broken bottles, nails, possibly a couple of rats). He was afraid someone had gone at MBM with a razor or something, but on closer inspection with his handy dandy phone light, they were just scar…things. No danger there. Probably.

Next, bones. His left arm was most definitely broken, unless blue people had a random joint there. Which was unlikely. Yes.

That actually looked pretty tender. He made a sympathetic face MBM definitely would have appreciated if he wasn't in, you know, Lala Land. He estimated at least cracked ribs from the fall, and his ankle looked a bit screwed up as well.

Ok, plan of action.

He needed to set the bones before anything else, or he might sever something important, like a brachial artery. Unless MBM was like a frog and absorbed oxygen directly into his skin…he kind of looked like a frog. Better not risk it though. To do that he would need to touch the guy.

He couldn't physically touch MBM unless frostbite sounded pleasant, so coverings for his hands were a must. As well as possibly a sort of tong-apparatus.

Plastic trashcan lids? Not bendy enough. He would never be able to properly maneuver MBM's bones back into place.

What about something from in the trashcans?

Oh look, a stick! And lots of questionable rope. Goodie. A good sized board would work until he could get MBM home, where he could find…a cleaner good sized board. Sadly, there were no tongs or handy medical equipment stashed in the top of the cans, and he wasn't going any deeper.

Suddenly, he was hit by an idea so great it deserved a little celebratory dance, which was promptly carried out. After what looked like a sudden, vicious shiver fit of epic proportions he sprinted off to his apartment.

"Don't go anywhere!"

He came back, gasping for breath and victoriously carrying what had to be the ugliest oven mitts in the history of New York City (Flowers. Just flowers). They were from his big brother, and he was trying to find a way to accidentally burn them to ashes. Freezing them into nothingness would work too. It was a win-win situation.

MBM was now covered in a thick layer of frost. Oops. Maybe he should have covered him with something before he ran off. On the other hand, he was bundled up in a capey-jacket thing, so he was probably toasty enough.

He looked at the arm and winced. That was just nasty. And would really, really hurt. Lots. Wow. Was he even qualified to fix that? Of course he was. Three and a half years of Med School better have prepared him for this. Heck, his childhood had pretty much prepared him for this. But still.

Ow.

After a grounding breath, he carefully straightened out MBM, because there was no need to accidentally turn him into a pretzel, and wow was he heavy. Must be the ridiculous leather getup.

On closer examination, it was actually some strange amalgamation of leather, armor, and chainmail, with a breastplate and a useful arrangement that went up and supported his neck a bit. It was like a built in neck brace!

The outfit was actually pretty handy. It was probably keeping ribs from jostling and stabbing his patient's internal organs. Always a plus, even if it probably added about thirty pounds to his overall weight.

Anyway, on to the actual medical issue.

He deftly slipped on the mitts, carefully took the issue-ridden arm above and below the break, and gingerly pulled the wayward bone back into place. Taking the debatably trustworthy board, he broke it into roughly two pieces (which was a warning in itself to the dubiousness of the board, he wasn't exactly muscular), and carefully braced the arm with the questionable objects he found in the trash.

Now for the fun part. How on Earth was he planning to lug MBM back to his apartment? The guy was a good foot taller than he could ever hope to be. And horribly injured. And freezing in both meanings of the term. And…he did not think this through at all. Hmm.

His eyes wandered aimlessly over the surrounding area, flicking here and there before finally landing on his salvation.

Trashcan lids…

He could make an incredibly stealthy sled out of a couple of lids and some more of his questionable rope (there was plenty of that), and make his way back to the apartment unnoticed without causing undue harm to MBM! They were flat, and the snow was piling up quite nicely, which would help the sliding along. He surprised himself sometimes.

Alright, the lids weren't quite as sneaky as he thought they'd be. They were actually very loud, especially after he managed to finagle a 200 (400? 600? Whatever.) some-odd pound blue person onto them, dragged them over the asphalt and broken glass for a good three blocks, and then tottered up to his apartment complex. He was so happy he had sprung for the crappy, rundown, non-grand staircase type of building. He may have shed a tear or two when the elevator came in sight.

Never again. Ever. That was the worst idea in the history of ideas that were horrible. What was he thinking? Now he was morally obligated to deal with this guy until he got better.

Drat.

He trudged into the rather lackluster body of his apartment, and looked around for a place to stash…put…place…nothing sounded good. It sounded like he had just abducted MBM off of the street if he said it like that. Drape? Whatever. Lids were not a good place for the injured.

The couch seemed acceptable. It was a bit small for MBM's frame, but it was better than the floor.

Now to lift his ridiculously heavy guest up onto the stupid thing. Great.

Needless to say, it was a monumental effort in contortion and upper body strength he really didn't possess. He kept having to stop to rest, which wasn't helpful in the least. There were a few moments of panic, and MBM may have hit his head once or twice (Only a bit!), but he ended up in the least crunched position that was really feasible on the tiny hand-me-down couch.

With his legs hanging slightly over one end of the couch and his torso propped up against the other end, MBM was not going to be happy when he woke up. He was going to have a nasty crick in his neck, and his arm wasn't really receiving the attention it needed, but prioritizing was the key. Triage and all that. Speaking of, he probably needed to check MBM's ribs out, but that would involve removing clothes.

Nope. He was going to pick his battles.

Then it was time for the first-aid kit to come out and make its rounds. A fun time if there ever was one, because everybody loves hydrogen peroxide.

He studiously prepared a wet washcloth, dunked a cotton ball into good old H2O2, cleaned out all the little cuts he could see, and then carefully began to check out the frankly nasty head wound MBM was sporting over his right eyebrow. The washcloth idea was a bit of a bust, as it froze on contact with any bit of his guest, but the cotton ball seemed to be doing its job. The hydrogen peroxide was fizzing away quite cheerfully before it struck him that he might have actually just poisoned MBM.

He stared warily at the areas of contact for a while, checking for signs of melting, agony, poisoning, or any sort of adverse reaction. Like hives. Or acne. Could this guy get acne?

While pondering such important questions, he admittedly wasn't paying as much attention to MBM as he should have, and missed when one of his eyelids slid open, revealing a red eye and downright murderous intent.

He started to notice when a ridged blue hand shot out, grabbed his wrist in a crushing grip, and yanked him forwards in an incredibly violent and unnecessary manner. This was not a good sign.

He may have yelped, but he wasn't going to admit to anything.

Fighting the urge to yank backwards out of the frostbitten and freakishly solid grip ( because trying to escape just made people hold on harder and break his wrist accidentally-on-purpose), he relaxed and watched with detached interest as frost spread down his arm.

Ow, but oddly pretty. Maybe he could enter his corpse into an art show or something. It would pay for his funeral at least. And the frost made him match his oven mitts! And the couch, and the wallpaper, and…Wow. His apartment was apparently very flower oriented.

Busy examining his frankly disturbing internal decoration discovery, he once again lost track of the scary, possibly alien personage latched onto his arm. Which was a shame because it seemed like he had said something and was glaring expectantly at him. Oh dear.

Time for fallback answers!

"No. Yes. New York. Um…I'm Janie," He put on his brightest smile. Had he answered it?

According to the unimpressed look MBM was giving him, Janie's patented all-purpose answers had failed. But his pupils seemed to be the same size, and he had dropped Janie's hand. Both were very good things.

Without any more input from MBM, he hazarded another guess at the question, "You've got a broken arm, a couple of cuts, and probably a concussion, but that's all. I think."

Lie. His ankle was screwed up, and his ribs had probably seen better days. Oh well, it was mostly truthful, and he wasn't really sure what was wrong with the ankle anyway.

MBM had slipped into unconsciousness while Janie had been contemplating his deception. It was a very small deception after all. Nothing really to write home about.

He then realized he would have to wake MBM up in two hours to check for brain damage and such. Dang. That would not be fun.

Janie stood and brushed himself off, holding his right wrist out for inspection. It looked like he had been grabbed by an angry freezer coil, but the rest of his arm was thawing out quite nicely. He would need to soak it though. Hot water, here he comes!

As he entered the kitchen, Janie glanced through the window and realized 'snowing' didn't quite cover what was happening anymore. Perhaps 'blizzarding' or 'armageddoning' would be more appropriate. Was armageddoning even a word? He thought so, but verbing had never been his forte.

Anyway.

There was no space between the flakes to see more than the sad little flickering of the streetlight outside his window, and it was freezing. More so than MBM back on the couch. It made his face hurt to stand too close to the window and that was not a good sign. Again.

Tonight just wasn't his night.

He scowled and stumped into his bedroom, grabbed one of his fluffiest, warmest quilts (It was not flowery, thank you very much!), and wow did that make his wrist hurt. Hissing in pain and irritation, he dragged the darned thing back to MBM and started to drape it over him.

Wait. Something was different here. What was it?

Oh. MBM was no longer blue. He had thawed into a frankly unhealthy looking pinkish paleness while Janie had been musing. Also, he had sprouted hair. Or had that been there the whole time? Black hair down to his chin, and when he thought about it, the hair had been there, because it kept poking him in the eye when he was trying to move MBM. Or was it MPM now? He was pink, and Janie was nothing if not flexible.

The gash also looked to be almost gone, and the smaller nicks were healed up. Good thing he had cleaned them out. There was some stuff in them before and he knew from experience super-healing didn't get rid of debris, just healed around it. That was always nasty to fix. Bleh.

Luckily, he still looked out for the count, and Janie hoped he stayed that way for a while, because he didn't feel like being assaulted again. Assault was never fun. And what was with the shape-changing?

Was he a shapeshifter? Cursed? Magic? Some combination thereof? He would have to ask when MPM woke up. From a safe distance. Yes.

After covering the now pink MBM with the quilt, he turned on his heel and marched back into the kitchen to actually fix his wrist.

One bowl of warm water and twenty minutes later, Janie was gingerly removing the clear blisters that had cropped up and silently praying the blood vessels weren't damaged. He was rather attached to being attached to his hand after all. He and MPM were going to have a talk when he came around.

He really should have gone to a hospital, but if he had gone outside to get there he would have turned into a popsicle, and that was counterproductive to the whole frostbite prevention process. Besides, he totally had frostbite handled. It was only really on his wrist, and that was a hard place to freeze solid. The pain he had while grabbing the quilt also pointed to an O.K. prognosis, and he could move all of his fingers.

Ew. That one was bleeding. Moving on…

His conveniently placed First-aid kit was currently an operation table, and operating on himself with his non-dominant hand was harder than he thought it'd be, but the skin was soft now (Very good.) and the blisters were being properly taken care of (Also good.), but oozing onto the box a bit (Not so good). He was going with majorly-minor frostbite as his professional opinion.

Janie carefully picked up a roll of gauze and began to meticulously wrap his wrist. There were a couple of false starts, and he ended up sort of leaning over sideways with his tongue sticking out to find the right angle for wrapping, but he got it done in about ten minutes. It didn't matter that he only remembered to do it loosely at the last minute. He did it right and that's all that counted.

Now that the medical emergencies had been taken care of properly for everyone, he was starving. Ravenous, even. He peeked in on MPM and, deciding he looked stable enough, got ready to make ramen. Mmm, ramen. College manna from the gods.

He figured he had an hour until he had to wake MPM up. In preparation for the event, he had found the longest non-lethal object in his apartment to poke at his guest with (An umbrella, also not flowery). He was also ready to bolt if need be. Some people just woke up swinging, and they usually hit him if he was standing close enough.

Ramen, like most of his ideas that night, may not have been the best choice. He also probably should have cut the gauze hanging off his wrist a bit shorter before operating a stove. Oh well. It was short enough now, that was for sure.

Catching on fire tended to do that to most things.

After the Great Ramen Debacle of '11, Janie sat down to properly enjoy his noodles at his rather rickety kitchen table. The three chairs all creaked and rocked, the table was scored with scorch and fork marks, and the finish was finished, but it was a little piece of home away from home. His mother had practically threatened him to take it, so it was probably a magical family heirloom or something.

Speaking of magical, he had to go wake up MPM at some point soon. Might as well do it after he ate. Would MPM need something to eat? Just in case, Janie set aside a bowl of precious ramen noodles for later. No need for all the ramen to get cold and go to waste though, so he gleefully ate most of it in one sitting. Usually he could barely finish a half of one anyway, but ravenous.

Licking the last drops of broth of the spoon (Broth! Broth was good for sick people, so maybe he could eat the noodles and leave MPM that!), he washed and put away his utensils and bowl, carefully avoiding the cupboard next to the living room, because sometimes it just sprang open. He didn't feel like dodging falling cutlery tonight.

He glanced at the clock, and estimated two-ish hours had passed (Math was not a strong point, much like verbing.), so he grabbed his most definitely not flowery umbrella, and marched off to poke the proverbial bear sleeping on his couch.

It went about as well as could be expected.

First, he couldn't decide where to poke, because ribs were out due to their maybe injured status, head was never a good place to poke in the first place, and arms were most definitely a no-poke area due to the huge break in his…ulna? No, tibia. Ulna was in the lower bit of the arm. How did he even break it there?

That reminded him, giant anatomy test on Thursday, he should study for that. His memory just plain sucked. And feet…foot…whatever bones freaked him out. He was pretty sure half the bones in the human body were located in the feet, and there was no way he knew them all.

Focus.

Janie decided the knee was the place to poke, and promptly did so. Repeatedly and deliberately. MPM wasn't waking up so he may have poked a bit harder than was strictly necessary, but eventually a hand shot out, grabbed his wrist, and yanked him forwards…again. He had gravely underestimated the length of his umbrella.

He was proud to say he didn't squeak this time. Mostly because he was too shocked to make a sound, but still. Also, MPM had grabbed his left wrist, and not his gauzed up right one, which was a big relief, because that would have just hurt. He was also not being turned into a popsicle again, which was a plus.

"Where am I?" Snarled MPM.

Oh. That was his question? He had totally answered it. His all-purpose answers never failed! He may have started to grin a bit and neglected to answer the question, because MPM gave him a shake to get him back into the real world.

Ow.

His wrist really shouldn't have bent like that, and he silently commended himself for not tensing up; he liked not having radial fractures. Anyway, question.

Janie tilted his head slightly, "You're in New York. I already told you."

MPM looked confused, which was insulting because Janie thought he had been very clear. "What?"

"Well," Janie tried to slip MPM's grip, "You already kind of assaulted me, and I said you were in New York, but you might have a concussion, so you may have forgotten," but MPM noticed, and squeezed, which was rude, "but concussions don't usually do that, and here we are."

Once more, OW. And concussions usually did do that. Darn. He'd been doing so good.

Well.

Whatever.

MPM looked to be trying to wrap his head around something, "Midgardian, yes?" He went off into incoherent mumbles, his grip suddenly went slack, and MPM was out like a light.

So…it looked like he didn't have brain damage at least.

Wait. Wait.

Midgardian!?

Well crap. He'd picked up a…not human.

To the phone! Mom would tell him what kind, but he was pretty sure it was Asgardian, aside from the whole blue issue. Mom knew everything. He was pretty sure it was a certifiable fact.

Apparently the phone lines were down. Wonderful. Life was just looking jolly, wasn't it?

And then the lights flickered and died.