taxonomites | [visual] a wish your heart makes

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[visual] a wish your heart makes

After her ill-advised outing the previous day, Emma's decided to obey whatever it is her body is telling her and stay home to rest. She's drinking some chamomile tea, listening to classic rock, and re-reading Persuasion. Usually Captain Wentworth is more than an adequate distraction, but every now and then the twinge in her chest makes her breath catch and she has to set the book aside.

She should probably go check in with Paul since she's exemplifying the lone wolf ignore-it-until-it-becomes-a-huge-problem thing which seems to always get them all in trouble but...who knows if this is conventionally medical. Which is all the more reason to reach out.

Emma props herself up more on the pillow pile she's made on her sofa and fumbles with her tablet. The video comes on and Taxon gets her looking less than perky: limp hair, no makeup, and dressed in a schlubby sweatshirt.

"Should've checked my family medical history for pulmonary issues when I had the chance," she muses with a little frown. "Unless this is just a variation on 'has a tendency to be cursed' or maybe I've hit my magic credit limit and this is payment. Anyway, the pub's closed until this resolves itself, sorry."

She ends the broadcast and settles back again with a little groan. Hopefully there'll be a lull before inquiring minds and nagging mouths assault her phone.

ooc: ridiculous trivia - I only just noticed Mary Margaret/Snow lurking in this icon whoops.

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After a while, Metody's face appears. She is at home - even Taxon can't contain two pink taxidermied deer heads mounted on doily plaques - but that hasn't stopped her from being in full business woman mode. After the pink froth of the candy episode, a pinstripe suit feels safe and sane.

It's purple, and the ruffly lady cravat is sky blue, but it's still a suit, and her hair is in a rock-hard bun.

And there is concern on her face.

" - what kind of pulmonary issues? I have a touch of experience in that arena."

Emma blinks, partly at the deer but mostly at the change from Metody's usual styling. Huh.

"Well, it's probably cardiary...cardio..." She waves a hand vaguely then drops it to her chest. "All of that too. My pulse is high for no reason, I keep trying to calm down but it's not--" Too much talking, she pauses to take a proper breath. "And I can't seem to catch my breath. It's like I'm having an anxiety attack or something but...nope."

Behold Emma Swan, cool as a nicely chilled cucumber aside from the ever-present mild irritation in her glance.

"Cardiac. Um. If you're having trouble breathing, sit up straight. Take deep, even breaths, breathing in at a steady rate. Once an hour, hold a pillow against your middle and cough a few times, then take a few breaths as deep and long as you can. .It pops open the lungs."

"Um. And maybe you should find a doctor or someone to check that you've got enough oxygen in your blood. That's something they're always checking."

"Cardiac, right," Emma says with a little nod and listens. She re-arranges her pillow pile to offer more support, setting one aside to do the squeeze-and-cough thing in a bit. Opening her lungs more sounds really good, she just hopes it actually helps with the whatever-it-is that's happening. Fear is creeping up on her, but the last thing she needs right now is to give into it. She'll try and stick with rational and pragmatic.

"Or someone," she repeats wryly. "Gotta rally myself to get to Smecker's. Or maybe he'll do a house call."

He probably won't be able to run a full diagnostic whatever but it'd be better than nothing. "Thanks for the advice, this is just so...bleh."

"Have you had any spells of dizziness or lightheadedness? And have you checked your pulse? Or temperature, for that matter?"

"Some dizziness," Emma replies, processing all the questions in order. "It comes and goes and right now it's gone. Taking my pulse is tricky since it's kind of erratic but last time I tried it was coming in over 100 bpm. And I...okay, I haven't done the temperature thing. I don't feel feverish though?"

Helpful, maybe?

"Is your pulse usually- " It comes out irritated, sharp and snappy, and she close her eyes a moment. " - I'm sorry, I'm under considerable stress. You need to go to a doctor." But woe, they've got Paul instead. And that was abitchy thing to even think. He'd done well with Nuada's arm, hadn't he? Deep breath. Be sweet.

"Go sit on your stoop. I'll b- well. Daisybelle will be there in a few minutes. This part is a bit father off, but he'll come, too. He's just got to take the train first."

Metody is good as her word. A few minutes ago, the sewers rattle, then vomit a flood of bones. They grind and crackle, folding together to form a hydrocephalic dish of a riding compartment mounted directly on a pelvis that bristles with clawed legs. It crouches down.

Meanwhile, Paul gets a text alert: Emma, irregular pulse, sob; Daisybelle.

Emma, this is Paul. Metody says you're having trouble breathing and your pulse is kicking up? I'll prep for you two to come in.

He has been reading medical texts over the last few weeks, trying to get a better sense of training he just does not have, but now, he supposes, is where the fit hits the shan and he has to actually look like he knows what he's doing.

Thanks, will be there soon. Started yesterday, should have come in then. Sorry.

...no, she's never going to fully get used to bone-creature thing but at least she knows the right attitude to take.

"Hey girl," Emma greets Daisybelle, patting one of the legs as she gets herself settled. "Thanks for the ride. We'll have a good game of fetch once I'm feeling better, okay?"

Once they arrive she thanks Daisy again as she dismounts, then heads for the door. She wonders if she should bother knocking or if it'd be redundant.

There does not seem to be much that Daisybelle can contribute. But she drops her head, which sprouts legs and skitters in after. At least she can provide moral support?

The rest of her settles by the door.

Yeah, well, lectures are 50% off today.

Paul works on prepping the infirmary-- oxygen tank, he has that leftover from Kaylee and jesus that takes him back-- but he really hopes he doesn't need to try and hook up oxygen for breathing purposes.

He opens the door before Emma reaches it, giving the big ol' pile of bone-mount thing a wary nod. "....thanks," he calls, then looks Emma over. In his at-best-quasi-professional opinion, she don't look great.

"You want me to sweep you off your feet, hot stuff?" Which is is way of asking 'do you feel capable of walking the rest of the way in'.

thats generous of u in thes tough economis times

Emma doesn't feel that great either but thankfully it's not an oxygen-requiring crisis...at least she doesn't think so, in her expert opinion.

The question gets a half-hearted (haha) eyebrow and a shake of her head as she shrugs out of her oh-so-stylish jacket. "I think I can manage. No stairs, no problem."

"Infirmary's strictly ground floor," Paul answers, holding the door for her. Sometimes he's a gentleman.

Since the town hall meeting where he'd realized he was kind of stuck with the medical end of things for lack of anyone more qualified being present, Paul's done his best to read up, and to familiarize himself with all the equipment that Dr. Jones had left behind when she'd initially stocked the place. Tried to fix things they're missing, too, but Christ, what he wouldn't give for a real medical professional. Reading books from the library only takes you so fucking far.

But he holds the door for Emma, gives the bone-pile another.... wary nod; shit does it-- does it want to come in? Ehhn-- well, he leaves the door open, anyway. He leads Emma to their-- work area-- and waves at the table for her to lie down on it.

There's a rolly-poley thing that Paul privately calls, to himself, the Speak-N-Spell-on-a-Stick, even though there's a brand-name label on it that says DYNAZOLL. He wheels it over and starts flipping switches, and grabs what he has also given a private name to in his head: the Chip Clip. (Properly, it's an oximeter.)

"Okay, flip me the bird," he says with a toothy smile at Emma, holding out his hand to take hers in turn.

Emma would much rather a proper medical person as well - who wouldn't? - but in the absence of one she'll settle for Paul's ministrations. He's "normal," she still considers herself "normal" despite all evidence that she is deeply not, so it all evens out.

She settles herself on the table and watches him set up, propping herself upon one elbow to get a decent view. It's all good,keep it casual and light and remember that the odds of him finding a fangy alien snake-monster coiled around her heart are (probably)low. This is all routine, she'll be heading home with a lollipop for being a good patient soon enough.

Still, Emma can't resist offering her hand middle-finger first before uncurling the others.

"Get me some good news, okay?"

Daisy meanders around for a moment, then swarms up Emma's legs and onto the Dynazoll to snag the blood pressure cuff. She clearly has experience; it only takes two tries to get the cuff attached to the tubey things, and then she's back on Emma, wrapping it around the arm not currently attached to the oxygen Chip Clip.

She extends a pincer towards the buttons of the machine, then further extends one side of it by way of attenuating the bones themselves, and then hesitates, waving the unpleasant extremity in a little circle.

An embarrassed little cough comes from Emma's tablet.

"Er. I can't see which button - they're printed, and - sorry."

Paul nods at Emma quite literally giving him the middle-finger, there ya go, good girl-- he takes her hand and pops on the oximeter, fortunately before he catches sight of the bag-of-bones literally fucking swarming over the fucking everything in his infirmary, including the patient.

"Jesus goddammit--" escapes his lips before he clamps them shut, hard, stares up at the ceiling. It's fiiiiine. It's fine, the bone-thing brought her here, and Little Miss Green tries really fucking hard and she's being helpful and her strained voice coming over the tablet confirms all of that and he has seriously got to get his kneejerk human reactions under control.

Deep breath.

"Yeah. Okay. Gimme one second," he says aloud, still staring at the ceiling. Two more nice deep yogic-style breaths, peachy, then he lowers his head again and exchanges a brief glance with Emma, wondering if her fairy-tale princess shit means that this is all old hat to her.

"'Kay, this thing's gonna beep when it's finished reading your blood oxygen level, meanwhile, my lovely assistant here and I will take your blood pressure," he says, mostly in order to be saying things that aren't a string of defensive obscenities.

Paul looks to the buttons on the BP machine, taps the appropriate sequence to start the reader. "Hand over your heart, Emma, pretend you're filled with Patriotic Taxon Feeling."

Edited 2013-12-12 10:53 (UTC)

Emma's doing her best to look blasé, partly because it's her policy to not show if she's rattled if she can help it, partly because she's still hoping outward calm with help her situation, and mostly because Metody is helping. She watches the procedure closely since odds are she'll be helping with it in the future. Teaching moment, see?

Her smile is humorless but encouraging, all we'll-get-through-this-weirdness-together as she moves her arm to allow the bone bits to do their thing and nods at Paul's instructions.

"At least there's no pledge to recite," she remarks and complies. The beat she can feel under he palm is fast and she tries to stop thinking about it, instead watching the bone appendage curiously and staying quiet so as to not mess with the reading.

"We could make one. I pledge allegiance to the fuckers who brought me here..."

Paul keeps an eye on the reading, and the other eye on Emma, and no eyes on the bones because he still has heebie jeebies.

"You still feeling all short of breath or is it easing any?"

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[visual] a wish your heart makes

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