Chapter Four: General Practitioner
"Hello, Miss Gayle," Steed said, smiling at her as he walked into her flat.
Miss Gayle looked up. "I don't have time for one of your cases, Steed."
Something dangerous glinted in his eye for a moment, but she thought surely she must be imagining it.
"Admiral Westlake is being honored at a reception tonight," he told her, leaning on the arm of the couch.
Miss Gayle raised an eyebrow. "And?"
"The Ministry believes an attempt may be made on his life."
"And they asked you to play bodyguard?"
"Well, yes, but a pretty woman on his arm…who would suspect her of anything else?"
Miss Gayle frowned, a little puzzled at his wording. Suspect her…? "Sorry; I have plans for tonight," she told him smoothly.
Steed grabbed her wrist, pulling her to her feet. "Your plans will have to be changed," he hissed.
Miss Gayle gasped. "Let go — you're hurting me!" Something was wrong; he was often highhanded, but never before had he been cruel.
"You will help me!" he insisted, his eyes so angry now that she barely recognized him.
"No, I won't!" she insisted, jerking her hand to attempt to free herself. His fingers only tightened painfully, and she aimed a hard kick at him. But he caught hold of her ankle, twisting it with a wrench that made her cry out. "Steed! What are you doing?"
"You don't say no to me, Miss Gayle," he hissed as she leaned panting on the sofa, watching him warily. "Ever!" Suddenly he froze, as if hearing something too soft for her ears. Before she could see it coming, his fist smashed into her nose, and she let out a muffled scream. Then he whirled and dashed out of the flat, leaving her whimpering with pain and holding her hand over her nose in a vain attempt to still the flow of blood.
oOo
''My double's probably taken over my flat," Steed mused shortly after he materialized with Bashir and Sisko.
"Is there another safe place we can go to make our plans?" Sisko questioned.
"I have a key to my friend's flat. Miss Gayle often helps me; even if she's not home, she won't mind us borrowing."
Sisko frowned. "But if she is home? It's bad enough that you know without tangling history by bringing anyone else into it."
"She's as discreet as I am," Steed assured him. "I often have her help me on my cases — unofficially, of course."
Sisko's face showed momentary doubt in Steed's own trustworthiness, if he would routinely involve a non-agent in classified investigations.
"We should check on her anyway," Bashir put in. "If the double knew she was a friend of yours…"
Steed winced, and Sisko offered no further objection.
oOo
Barely a minute had passed since Steed had left, and Miss Gayle still stood leaning hard on the back of the sofa, panting and trying to come to grips with what had just happened. She knew she needed to try to find something other than her sleeve to staunch the flow of blood from her nose, but even the thought of putting any weight on her ankle made her wince. The pain had subsided slightly to a throbbing ache, but the slightest movement brought back a sharp twinge.
Suddenly a knock came at the door, and she jerked her head up. She tried to call out for help, but her voice came out as a croak. Another knock came as she cleared her throat to try again, and then the door swung open and who should come in but Steed himself, followed by two companions.
"How — how dare you!" she gasped, looking desperately for something close enough to throw at him.
"Miss Gayle!" he exclaimed in horror. "Here, take my handkerchief; what happened?"
"Stay away from me," she hissed, snatching the cloth from his hand and applying it to her nose, at the same time taking a quick, incautious step back. All her weight landed on her injured ankle, and it buckled beneath her as she cried out.
One of Steed's companions sprang forward, catching her before she could fall. "Easy," he murmured. "Let's get you to the sofa."
Half fainting from the pain and loss of blood, and the shock of having Steed attack her, Miss Gayle didn't even attempt to struggle as he lifted her and lay her on the couch, gently propping her ankle up on a cushion.
She coughed as some of the blood ran down her throat, and the man was at her head in an instant, pulling her upright with an arm around her shoulders. "Here, lean forward so you don't swallow the blood." He rested a hand over the handkerchief she held to her nose. "I'm a doctor; may I?"
She nodded, letting his hand replace hers. She found herself trusting this man, despite the fact that Steed had brought him. Perhaps Steed had felt so guilty for his strange and unprovoked attack that he had gone to get this doctor to help…? Miss Gayle let her eyes slide closed, her brain too muzzy to attempt to figure it out now.
Bashir gently probed the bridge of Miss Gayle's nose, then eased the cloth away for a moment before again applying pressure. "It's not broken, but it's still bleeding pretty heavily." He thought wistfully of the anti-hemorrhal device in the bag he had quickly set down as he sprang forward to catch Miss Gayle, but knew he could use it only as an absolute last resort. "Steed, get me an ice pack."
Steed vanished into the kitchen without a word, obeying the slight urgency in Bashir's voice. Moments later, he handed him a towel-wrapped bundle. "Here, Doctor." He stepped back quickly as Miss Gayle sent him a sidelong glare.
"I'm just going to put this on the back of your neck," Bashir told her, slipping it beneath her hair. "It should help slow the bleeding. Sisko, see if you can ease her shoe off and get another ice pack on that ankle."
"Miss Gayle, who did this to you?" Steed asked with some urgency.
"You did!" she spat.
"Steed, not now," Bashir said sharply. "Go get some more ice for her ankle."
After about five minutes, Bashir cautiously released the pressure and found that the bleeding had stopped, or nearly so. With a smile, he eased Miss Gayle down to lay with her head on the back of the couch. He glanced at the blood on her clothes and the handkerchief, and that which had dripped to the floor; though she seemed to be a gory mess, he estimated that she had actually lost less than a pint. "You'll be fine now," he told her lightly, a finger on her pulse.
"Doctor," Steed said quietly.
Bashir turned to find him holding a damp cloth, and took it with a nod of thanks. "Why don't you mix some lemon juice in a glass of water for her?" he suggested. He had read in an ancient medical text that lemon juice was once given after nosebleeds to prevent recurrences; he was skeptical about its effectiveness, but at least it couldn't hurt.
"How much lemon?" Steed questioned.
"Try the juice of half a lemon in a glass of water," Bashir prescribed on a guess. As Steed returned to the kitchen, he began gently cleaning the blood off Miss Gayle's hands and face. "I'm Dr Julian Bashir," he told her, "and this is my friend Benjamin Sisko."
She smiled weakly. "Cathy Gayle. I don't know what game Steed is playing at…but thank you for helping me."
"It's my pleasure," Bashir assured her. "Look at my eyes for a minute, Miss Gayle…good; you don't appear to have a concussion. Ah; thank you, Steed." He took the glass Steed handed him, a glass straw in the liquid. "Now, I want you to sit up a little and drink this."
Miss Gayle allowed him to prop her up, but held the glass without drinking.
"Miss Gayle?" Bashir questioned.
"Is it safe?" she asked acidly, glaring at Steed.
"But of course!" he exclaimed with an injured expression.
Bashir took the glass and sniffed the liquid, then took a sip. "He spiked it with some kind of alcohol," he said wryly as he handed it back, "but it's perfectly safe."
"Don't most tonics have alcohol, Doctor?" Steed asked innocently.
"Perhaps they do," Bashir admitted. "You sip that, Miss Gayle, while I see what I can do about your ankle."
"It's pretty badly swollen, Julian," Sisko told him; "I'm not sure how much the ice helped."
"Well, let's take a look," Bashir said easily, gently cradling the injured foot. The swollen flesh was an angry red, and Bashir had little doubt that within hours the whole ankle would be black and blue.
Miss Gayle winced as he probed the ankle and gently maneuvered her foot into various positions. "I don't think anything's broken," he said finally, "but you may have torn some ligaments. You should get it x-rayed within the next day or so to be sure; if the ligaments are torn you may need surgery." Even as he spoke, he wondered if such repairs had been done in the 1960s. And if not, would she have to have a weak or even a lame ankle for the rest of her life? Bashir mentally shook his head; he would repair the damage himself before he let that happen.
"I'm going to give you an injection for the pain," he told her, taking a syringe from his bag and filling it from one of his hypospray vials. Nothing in his manner betrayed the fact that this was the first time he had used an old-fashioned syringe, and Miss Gayle barely winced as the needle pierced her flesh.
After wrapping a snug bandage around Miss Gayle's ankle, Bashir took a stethoscope from the bag and moved back to the other end of the couch. "I'd just like to listen to your lungs a minute and be sure you didn't aspirate any blood," he told her.
He unfastened the top button of her blouse and pushed the fabric aside to press the bell of the stethoscope to her chest. The quality was far inferior to that of his aural monitor, the sounds not as sharp, but within seconds he had adjusted. *
"Breathe deep and let it out slowly, please…and again…once more…" He straightened up, smiling as he removed the stethoscope from his ears. "Everything sounds fine," he told her. He nearly returned the stethoscope to the bag, then recalled that old-fashioned doctors keep them as ready as he did his tricorder and coiled it into his pocket instead.
"Were you hurt anywhere else, Miss Gayle?"
"He had a pretty hard grasp on my wrist," she answered, glaring at Steed, "but I think it's just bruised."
Steed took a step back, hands raised in a show of innocence. "Honestly, Miss Gayle, I didn't do it."
Tools of the TradeShe pushed herself up with her good hand as if she meant to jump off the couch and confront him. "Why, of all the —!"
"Easy," Bashir told her, a hand on her shoulder. "Remember your ankle."
She sighed sharply and flopped back, crossing her arms on her chest.
"Let me see your wrist," Bashir insisted firmly, "then we'll explain everything."
* Illustration for this scene can be found on my DeviantArt account
Next chapter coming next week!
I proofread all my stories at least once before posting, but if you see any mistakes I might have missed, please let me know! (Note that the spelling of some Avengers characters' names has been changed intentionally.)
Please note that I have internet access only once a week, and may not have time to respond to all reviews/messages. If you have questions regarding my Deep Space Nine or Avengers alternate histories, check my profile first to see if they're answered there. Thanks for your understanding! Barbie