"He's fine."

As Kahn folded his arms to stare disbelievingly at the elderly doctor (a Manx) who had dared to say it, Sean took the opportunity to finally force himself into a sitting position on the bed. He been dragged down to the Pride to this bedroom, presumably Kahn's, and then promptly mauled by a mob of Spliced doctors. Some had been in street clothes, some in lab coats, two in formal attire that looked a little too much like what someone may have worn to the Isis breed lecture; one had thrown a coat over pajamas, and one had even thrown a coat over gently used surgery scrubs. Even without the alarming length of Kahn's reach and the sort of people he could make run at his beck and call, Sean was disturbed by the situation.

He was the only human in the room. Save for Kahn, he was the only person not wearing pants. An ingenious way (and quite possibly the only way) to keep him buried under the covers of Kahn's bed, true, but one that did nothing for his nerves.

The Manx, shorter than Sean despite standing on the balls of his paw-like feet and therefore completely dwarfed by the Pride's leader, seemed to rally his courage before speaking again. "The boy is fine."

"The boy is drunk, doctor," Kahn rumbled.

"Yes—"

"And overdosing on Codeine."

"Yes—"

Kahn bent at the waist to lower his eyes to where they could sear into the other male's. "Tell me, doctor, how anyone with those conditions can be fine."

The doctor hesitated, and glanced at the bed before whispering something. Or Sean assumed whispering had occurred. Human, he heard nothing, but several ears of the doctors surrounding him twitched. Kahn noticed this, of course. He held up a stalling claw. "With me. Now," he said tersely and stalked off, the Manx at his heels.

When the door to the adjoining room clicked shut, Sean found himself slumping back down to a vertical position very cautiously. His mother worked as a head nurse at a private hospital, and so a majority of his life's checkups had been performed by her. The rest were either Wayne patching him up and turning it into a lesson on stitches or setting one's own bones, or various rounds of drug testing that, until today, he had always tested negative for. Now he was surrounded by eleven doctors who were not only armed to the teeth with medical equipment, but also armed with teeth.

It was almost enough to make him forget that Kahn had stripped him bare, in front of three men and nine women, when he had refused to get into the tiger's bed. He closed his eyes. Almost, but not enough. He had once told Kahn that Juvie had cured him of locker room shyness, and that had been mostly true. No one looked in the locker room, or the johns. Kahn had looked, sweepingly, and then quirked one brow. Sean had held that gaze for a second before he caved and tucked his chin into his chest. Kahn had then waited another few seconds (years?) before releasing just one of his elbows and pulling him onto the bed without a word.

This was not how he had expected things to be at all. He had not expected Splicing. He had not expected to find a world with waitresses and doctors and a social calendar. He had not expected Kahn. Most of all, he hadn't expected to be living a life.

Before this, the most reconnaissance he had done had been for a few hours, save for the time he had gone as a visitor to the teen help center that had been brainwashing students—and gotten caught. That was the trick to it, not getting caught. He had to admit now that he had been caught up in the tangled life that Sean Kim led. What had tripped him though, was trying to be Terry and Batman at the same time.

If he hadn't reached out for Max, she never would have fallen for him, and he wouldn't be worried sick that he was somehow inadvertently dragging her into Kahn's sights. And if he hadn't been patrolling the night (if he had listened to Wayne and just stayed on alert for an emergency), Bast wouldn't have torn him apart. To keep out of the hospital, not wanting to put his falsified identity through a trial by fire with the health insurance agency, he wouldn't have resorted to some old meds stored in the back of the cave (which apparently didn't work anything like the meds he had grown up with but were actually dangerous to take).

He wouldn't drunk so much—a giggle escaped him—okay, so he would have anyway, but it wouldn't have, what was the word, interacted with the 'drugs' he wouldn't have taken, and the conversation with Kahn in the car would have ended with the tiger grabbing his wrist, gripping his shoulder, smelling his breath with those heightened sense, and declaring him drunk. And an idiot.

The night probably would have gone much the same way, though a little less hurried. Kahn would have dragged him into the room, insisted he get into the bed, and proceeded to strip him to make a point when he refused, regardless. There just wouldn't have been a crowd of twelve witnesses. Sean winced, right as one of the doctors poked his ribs on his right side. He actually wasn't quite sure which situation would have been worse. On one hand, no pain and hard to explain injuries, but on the other hand, no reprieve from Kahn's temper, which was beginning to look like it might snap.

On second thought, maybe he should be glad this had happened. At least with twelve doctors in the room, he would be the last to feel the tiger's wrath.

"All of you out. Now."

All eyes turned to Kahn, who stood framed in the door. Sean's mind offered him the words fearful symmetry. And he didn't whimper. He didn't. But an elderly lioness placed a hand on his chest anyway, even as the rest filtered—or hurried—out. "Kahn." She managed to say a word that was meant to linger in the air sharply, reproachfully, matronly. Kahn frowned. She frowned back. "He's terrified. And he should be, he could have killed himself. But you're not helping." There was a prick.

"Mut."

"Don't you Mut me."

Sean stared at her even as his vision started to haze. "Are you like his mother?" he whispered.

She laughed softly at him. "I'm Mut. Mother of Mothers. I'll explain it to you sometime. Over tea, once Kahn teaches you manners, and you're not about to fall asleep from the medicine I gave you." She waved off the growl from the corner as she put away the syringe in a small case in her purse. It was a mother's purse. Mary aways carried medicine in hers as well, but as pills. "It can't hurt him. The new medicines never interact with anything. No wonder he didn't know what to do with Codeine. He grew up on the modern stuff. I notice you didn't punish Dragonair when he mistook a poinsettia for one of those edible flowers you sometimes give him. Don't think this kit could have known any better just because he's bigger."

"Mut."

"You're stuck on repeat again, Kahn," she pointed out with narrowed eyes and a wry grin. "Well, seeing as the boy is obviously going to survive the night, I think I'll go back to the after-party." She didn't move though, but started to stroke his hair, almost like Kahn had done for a short moment in the car. "You'll be staying here, of course, so I'll explain to the guests about your little family emergency. Don't look at me like that. That's what this is, and don't you worry; I'll soothe the ruffled feathers. He's a sweet boy, just a little rough around the edges. He'll turn out. I'll make sure they see that."

And Mut left, leaving Sean spiraling down into the depths of sleep, confused because villains weren't supposed to have mothers.

It was quiet for a long moment. He liked to imagine Kahn was daring the world to say one word, but his eyes had already closed so there was no way to know. Then the tiger spoke softly. "Are you sure?"

The Manx doctor, who hadn't left with the rest sighed, "One hundred percent? Or even ninety? Never. But I think it's likely."

"...All right. Thank you for the house call, Doctor. Hopefully you won't be seeing too much from us in the future. There will be a cab for you when you're ready to leave. Paid fare of course, but I'm sure a tip wouldn't go unappreciated. A good night to you, and thank you again."

The door shut once more. Sean felt Kahn's weight settle on the side of the bed. Then there was the sound of buttons being pushed that Sean only vaguely recognized as coming from his phone. A smooth breath. Then an intake: "Hello. No. Yes, I realize this is Sean's phone; may I assume you are Max?" A chuckle. "You may assume that I am Sean's father." A long pause. "Did he now? Well I can assure you, my dear, I am very much alive."

And alarming as that conversation starter was, Sean found he couldn't stay awake any longer, and he fell into nothingness.

—

"Kahn!"

At the shout, Sean jerked from sleep into pitch darkness, not knowing if it was morning, night, or the afterlife. Given that he only felt half dead, though, he was banking on it being one of the former.

"Kahn!" That sound again, louder, more grating and like, well, an angry cat. Pushing up on the pillow and finding a handhold on twining woodwork of the headboard, he forced himself into an upright position. He regretted it the moment the heavy comforter fell off his shoulder with a soft thud and he realized just how frigid the room was. A beam of light entered the room as the door to the parlor crashed open. Sean gave up his purchase on the mattress to put a hand in front of his eyes, and slumped against the headboard.

As his eyes painfully adjusted, he was able to make out the figured that had paused in the door frame, arms akimbo. "God dammit," the figure groused, "I can't believe this. Kahn, get up now!" The shadowed outline vanished into the darkness of the room. Then the lights came searing on. Eyes bleeding––or feeling like they should be––Sean whipped his gaze away and down.

A sort of stunned silence followed, probably as the person realized the person in Kahn's bed wasn't Kahn. "God dammit, I don't want to believe this. Kahn! Get in here––now!"

And Kahn appeared through the door, the other one that led to what Sean assumed was either a den or another office. The tiger, to his knowledge, had at least three. Impeccably groomed as ever, the albino moved to a spot between the bed and the newcomer and removed (Sean squinted) reading glasses. Would wonders never cease? "Bast," he sighed. Bast? Oh no. "Get out. Now."

"He––"

"––is too young for me. Out."

Throwing up her hands, Bast turned and stalked back into the parlor. Once Kahn had shut the door behind her, Sean slumped, grabbed the comforter and pulled it over his bare shoulders. He watched the tiger move to the bedside table near his pillow and check the time in an old analog clock. The table also held a few Egyptian jars, a journal (which Sean wanted to kick himself for not noticing earlier), and two cell phones, one he recognized as his own.

"Why is it so cold?" he found himself asking. The human body was amazing. Mortification, shame, abject loathing, all that useless brain baggage could be pushed aside because it was cold and it demanded to know why.

Kahn answered calmly as he opened one of the jars. The hours Sean had been unconscious must have soothed the tiger's rage. "You're lacking a fur coat. Being human in the Pride, it's not done. However, your doctors were very insistent that nothing else be added to your bloodstream until that concoction they gave you cleaned everything out. Mut being the exception."

Sean frowned. "Mut––"

"––will steal you from me soon enough. Until then, save your strength and don't try to understand her …Here we are."

There was a pain in his neck, and then pain everywhere, and then Pantharis opened different eyes to weakly glare at Kahn. The albino was keeping his Splice in a jar by his bed. Maybe it wasn't the same as finding your wardrobe had been moved into your boss's closet, but it was disturbing nonetheless. Kahn, who appeared to be psychic that morning (night?) translated his look perfectly and neutralized it with one in return. "The next time the cooling system breaks, you will be desperate to switch to a species that lives nearer to the equator too. Be grateful I mix a few tigris tigris in with the tigris altaica for such emergencies. Those…clothes you wore are gone, and I doubt Bast would be thrilled to have a naked human shadowing her today."

"What!" came a shout through the door. Spliced hearing really was an amazing thing, but at times too amazing. Add that to the remnants of a drug and alcohol induced hangover tinged with the aftereffects of a detox pathogen, and no wonder Pantharis winced.

Bast hurtled back into the bedroom a moment later. "No," she told Kahn, then stopped short when she caught sight of Pantharis. "No. And if you're going to make me, at least have the decency to turn him back into a naked human first."

—

Five minutes later (it was apparently ten a.m. the next morning, not the afterlife), Kahn was calmly overseeing the meeting he had been late to, and Bast was in an elevator. With Pantharis. Who wasn't wearing pants. Neither was in a good mood but Bast, ever the optimist, flashed him a toothy smile. "So. Those were some interesting bruises. Piss Daddy Kahn off?"

Strangely, the bruises seemed to be the last thing on Kahn's mind when it came to him. Pantharis was sort of hoping to keep it that way. If Bast had given the Siberian (tigris altaica) a detailed account of her little romp upside with Batman, his cover––and survival––might count on it staying that way. So he rose up to his full height and shot the short gray housecat a glare that was half anger, half ravenous hunger. She wasn't impressed.

"Not Kahn, then? Well, then who was it? I want to buy them a celebratory drink."

Growling, Pantharis took it back. He'd died in his sleep and woken up in hell.

Note: I've fallen into the trap of writing about real world things I really know next to nothing: namely how drugs mix with alcohol, but I'm banking on the fact you know less and that doctors 40 years into an alternate future know a lot more. Also? Probably no update for the next few days. My life hath resumed.