8703/The Doctor Is In (Medbay)

The Doctor Is In (Medbay)
Date of Scene:	16 November 2021
Location:	Medical Ward: Triskelion
Synopsis:	Sam checks up on one of his two new trainees. Jon passes on a message. They have tea.
Cast of Characters:	Sam Wilson, Jonathan Sims

---

Sam Wilson has posed:
    People often forget that the USAF's Pararescue program involves more than just diving into dangerous environments to haul out injured military. Sure, that's a big part, and what they're most known for, but given that they're out there rescuing injured personnel it means a huge component of the years of training to become a PJ revolves around providing medical treatment in the field.

    Basically, Sam is the equivalent of a civilian paramedic, continuing education provided by SHIELD.

    Which is why he's in a side room of the medical bay, teaching a bunch of SHIELD grunts some basic first aid. How to provide CPR or oxygen therapy, how to use an automated defib, some basic administration of life-saving medicines and such. It's an intense several day course, and today he and a couple fellow instructors who assisted him have just awarded several agents with their shiny certificates.

    They've all filed out, one by one, after post-"ceremony" conversation has waned. There's some talk of meeting in the cafeteria later, after the dinner rush, for a proper celebration. And Sam's not the type to say no to a party. But for now it's just him in there, finishing up.

    Clean up, double-check inventory, put in requests for his students' records to reflect their newest accomplishment. It's been a tough few days, a lot of information to churn through, but there's almost a skip in his step as he turns the lights off and locks the door behind him.

    Dessert with dinner, tonight. He's earned it.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon had asked to take the weekend off from training, saying something about being exhausted because of some personal emergency. He showed up Monday morning bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, and then /this/ morning seemed slightly under the weather but shook it off. He's been punctual and motivated otherwise, so surely it must have been something serious that had him skip over the weekend.

    Something like the diagonal slash of scarred tissue across his chest.

    He's sitting on one of the medbay beds, wincing as one of the medical personnel takes a sample from the tissue. "So keep an eye on it," she's saying, "and come back in if it's not getting better. Or if it gets worse, obviously."

    "Obviously," Jon murmurs drolly.

    The woman looks at Jon with a raised eyebrow. "I /could/ just keep you here until it heals completely, /recruit/." There's a jovial tone to her voice; she's the sort who jokes with the patients to keep their spirits up.

    "Sorry, yes," Jon replies, a bit sheepishly. "Thank you for taking a look."

Sam Wilson has posed:
    All Jon had to say was 'family emergency' and he was off the hook for training, though with a promise that Sam would make sure he was caught up when he got back, which may have sounded somewhat ominous.

    But really it just means that he has to stick around after Cael left (no doubt grumbling about having to keep waking up at 7AM as she walked away, Sam is sure) for an extra thirty minutes of one-on-one training for the rest of the week. Sam's not a drill instructor. It's just not his style.

    It's also not his style to intrude on patient care being rendered, but Jon is right *there* and Sam has to walk by on his way out the door. "You trying to ground one of my rookies, Sanchez?" he asks, bumping elbows with the woman in casual greeting. Politely, he does not look at Jon's new wound. "My team making yours shake in their little booties?"

    And then he keeps walking, because he's not going to eavesdrop on Jon's medical care!

    But he does lean casually against the wall outside the medbay doors, phone in hand, distractedly scrolling through social media and replying to texts as he waits for Agent Sims to emerge.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "I'm tempted," Sanchez calls after Sam with a grin.

    "I really didn't--" Jon starts to protest.

    Sanchez turns the grin on Jon. "But I won't, because you seem fit for duty despite all this." She goes on as Sam walks on out, presumably giving instructions.

    A couple of minutes later Jon's coming out of the medbay doors, pulling on his blazer and muttering under his breath about 'a taste of his own medicine.' He doesn't actually /see/ Sam, but he stops and blinks and turns to look at the senior agent leaning against the wall.

    "Agent Wilson. Ahh. Did you need me for something?" He looks a little frazzled. The doctor doesn't like medical facilities, one might guess.

Sam Wilson has posed:
    Sam drops his phone into his jacket pocket and pushes up off the wall. "Agent Sims," he replies, with a smile. And then immediately puts his hands up, sensing Jon's mental weariness. "Hey, no, don't worry. I just wanted to chat--in my office?"

    Which, yes, Sam has! He's a senior agent, that's probably a thing, right?

    Well, if you consider his personal quarters an office.

    He gestures Jonathan towards the residential wing of the Triskelion, and then they make the trek across, Sam chattering about the progress Becker has been making in training while they walk. Filling the air, really, and aiming to be distracting. And yes, his office resolves itself to be a workstation he's set up in his personal quarters, with a few monitors and a (currently covered) webcam where he can do teletherapy sessions with his students at Happy Harbor. But there's a seating area, too, and Sam steps into the small kitchenette to get an electric kettle going.

    "I'm going to have some chamomile because I've had a long day. Would you like a cup?" Sam opens one of the cabinets though, and then tips his head towards the top shelf, and the bottles up there. "Or is today a something-stronger kind of day?"

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon followed along, chatting good-naturedly about training--and his recommendation that yoga be added to said training, in part for Agent Becker's sake. He doesn't go into detail about her therapy sessions, of course, but he's quite literally prescribed yoga as one of her therapeutic interventions and he was more than willing to go ahead and do some himself. He seems distracted, maybe, but then the man almost always has an air of distraction about him unless he's laser-focused on a thing.

    Once in Sam's quarters, he goes to sit down and says, "Ahh, no, given everything I think 'something stronger' would just be a distraction. Besides, I don't know how alcohol would interfere with this... whatever it is." He rubs at his chest, frowning slightly. "Chamomile would be lovely, thank you."

    There's nerves in his voice, but that could just be 'called into the office/quarters by the sort-of boss.'

Sam Wilson has posed:
    Sam has no objections to yoga joining their training schedule, though he does point out that he'll need to find another trainer for that, as Sam himself isn't all that familiar with it. Or they can just muddle on along, the three of them, doing the best they can with what will probably be YouTube videos of instructions.

    Still, he cuts that conversation off once they're in his quarters.

    The kettle starts to boil quickly, and Sam is soon approaching the seating area with two steaming mugs. A small bird figure clips onto the rim of each, linked via chain to the infuser full of chamomile now steeping within. "Birthday gift from my nephews," he says with a grin. Once Jon has his mug, Sam settles down with his own, warming his hands around it.

    "I just wanted to check in with you," is how he starts. "I'm not going to pry into your personal life, if you don't want to talk about it--but if you want to talk, I'm here and willing to listen."

    His head tips to the side. "Just one mental health professional to another. In here I'm not Agent Wilson, I'm just Sam for my kids back on Staten Island, and I'm happy to extend that same courtesy to you."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon wraps his hands around the mug, peering at the bird clip on its rim. He frowns, lets the affable demeanor drain away. Finally sighs, without looking up.

    "I'm... not well," he admits. "I've been trying to, ahh, muddle along for weeks now but it's been sort of..." He trails off, frown deepening.

    Finally, he says, "In the past week I have found myself in a ghost church talking to a former Hell Lord, traveled to Egypt to help kill a necromancer who was threatening my friends' daughter--during which experience I channeled the power of two different gods--found out that one of my friends has been impersonated by a demon for at least a month, and last night I fought a pack of vampires, one of which hit me with some kind of spell I don't begin to understand."

    A pause, and then, sardonically, "And for my life of late? That's a /quiet/ week."

Sam Wilson has posed:
    The tea still has a little while yet to steep, but Sam continues to hold onto it. All the time he's spent demonstrating proper CPR technique these past few days has his arms aching all the way from shoulder to fingertip. Getting old sucks.

    He's quiet, though listening actively as promised, observing Jon's body language as they sit opposite each other.

    "It sounds like you have a lot on your plate," Sam says, after. He sets his mug aside on the table between them. "And all of that has nothing to do with your SHIELD duties, does it? Not unless my clearance isn't high enough." Or he doesn't Need To Know. Which is just as valid an excuse for him to not be aware of missions.

    Sam takes a testing sip of his tea, and then unclips the little bird and lifts the infuser out. He lets it drip-drain for a few moments, suspended in the air, before he transfers it to a plate waiting on the table for precisely this purpose.

    Because otherwise he always forgets and has to take his mug over to the sink so he doesn't make a mess.

    "Balancing the workload is hard enough when you only wear one hat, but it sounds like you have to swap between several in your day-to-day life. Do you think you might be close to burning out?"

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon frowns thoughtfully. "It's... not that, so much. There's a part of me that... relishes it, actually. I always used to be just a little jealous, watching Martin go off to work, listening to my patients talk about what they do... I don't know that I'm entirely temperamentally suited to sitting in an office all day. I'd already been... restless." He shrugs. "I used to just... have a lot of hobbies. Spent a lot of time at rummage sales and the like. Now, instead, I spend that time learning about magic."

    He shakes his head as he starts to pull out his own strainer, lets it drip, sets it aside. "No, it's... no, the problem is that I have so much I'm doing that I haven't had a chance to really... stop and deal with the..."

    Low, slow breath. In and out. "A few weeks ago, I woke up and I could hear everyone's thoughts. /Everyone's/. Martin's worry shouting in my ear, the next-door neighbors' anger and lust spilling over from a fight, the... suspicion of people on the street, the weariness and cynicism of the street food vendors..." He shudders. "It's gotten a lot better since then. I've learned to... tune it out, most of it. But this... thing that I am, I wasn't trained for it, prepared for it, and I think it's driving me mad."

    He takes a long gulp of the tea, maybe hoping that will calm him some.

    "Doesn't help that I had a demon gaslighting and manipulating me for a good month there, either." He smiles wryly.

Sam Wilson has posed:
    Sam settles back with his own mug, sipping at it much more sedately than Jon is doing with his own. His gaze is contemplative as he looks at Jon over his tea. "Sure. The work itself is rewarding, but that doesn't mean having to balance it all isn't exhausting," he points out.

    He nods along as Jon continues and comes to a similar conclusion as to what Sam himself had just expressed. It's nothing unusual in their line(s) of work--Sam has too many hats that he juggles too, so he can sympathize--but it is potentially very dangerous.

    The issue of telepathy, though, that's a little bit more out there.

    Which is why Sam takes another sip of tea, letting the moment stretch out as he thinks. "Gaslighting and manipulation usually aren't known for being helpful." He doesn't pry after those details, not when Jon has already clearly identified the negative influence.

    "So you have a particular set of abilities that you don't have the adequate training to handle." Phrasing it that way, at least, makes it more like something Sam feels he might be able to assist with. "What methods have you tried so far to manage it?"

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon chuckles. "You mean /besides/ obsessive spiraling and quite literal conspiracy theory corkboards?" He regards Sam with a bland look. "Red string is useless, however. One uses color-coded push-pins." Is he... being serious? By his expression, he's being quite serious.

    Jon sighs and sits back a bit. "Like I said, I've learned how to tune it out, to some degree. The training here has been helpful. And I have this..." He shakes out his left wrist, shows off a gold bracer with Egyptian-style art and hieroglyphs. "This helps with some of the, ahh, superhero transformation bits. And to be perfectly honest, the training we're doing helps. Some of this is just... needing experience, confidence, knowing I can handle myself in the field."

    A hesitation, and then, "But... well. There's also the fact that 'the Archivist' is in some ways seemingly a separate... entity? Personality? I don't know how to..." He chews on his lip. "Jonathan Sims is... curious, yes, enjoys danger a bit more than he maybe should, can be overly obsessive about things. The Archivist wants to read evil books and run off into the Underworld in search of lost knowledge, without much thought of the danger or who might be left behind. Jon Sims doesn't want to kill anyone, however awful they are. The Archivist..."

    He slides his gaze off to one side, guilt in his expression. "I keep telling myself she was a necromancer. Sold her soul to a demon. But I still can't..." His hands tighten on the mug.

Sam Wilson has posed:
    "Oh no, those aren't red flags at all," Sam replies as he aims a flat look over at Jon. It's not quite a call-out, because he senses that there's some hint of humor included, even if he's also pretty sure Jon is serious about the push-pins.

    He glances down at the bracer on Jon's wrist, takes enough time to sort it into the 'magical doohickey' category of powerful items in his brain (see also: Mjolnir) before moving on. Sam accepts that there are things out there beyond his mortal comprehension.

    Still, the stuff about the Archivist specifically, he tries to work through. Admittedly he doesn't expect to find much success in that endeavour, but Sam tries. "It's sort of a mantle you take on, right? And it's influenced by... previous Archivists?" Okay, a lot of that is pretty much based entirely on conjecture. But he won't understand if he doesn't ask for clarification, so that's what he's doing here. Though first, another sip of tea.

    "And that influence has led you through a series of traumatic experiences, including taking a life." Here, Sam can reframe it: he has known many, many people who, because of some external influence--the military's top brass, a magical sceptre wielded by a mad Norse god, HYDRA brainwashing--have gone through similar.

    Which brings him to the advice he has given many times, even though it's rarely followed. "Do you have a therapist, Jon?"

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon sighs. "I used to. I mean... it's important, I know, particularly when you're taking on all that... second-hand trauma. But I tried calling her up, and as soon as I even /broached/ the subject of telepathy she suggested I might want to get... well. 'Evaluated.'" He does air quotes with his fingers and sighs again.

    "But yes, the Archivist is... I don't know if it's some kind of sum of all previous Archivists, or a... mask of sorts, Thoth using me for his own ends, or..."

    He looks down at his mug. "Or what if it's just... /me/, with the limiters taken off? What if I actually /enjoy/ judging people, feeding their hearts to Ammit or... or sending them to hell? It's an easy out, to claim that it's some... external thing taking me over and not giving into long-repressed impulses."

Sam Wilson has posed:
    At Jon's use of air quotes--well, less at the use of air quotes so much as the situation that forced Jon to use air quotes--Sam rolls his eyes. "Right. Aliens attack New York, gods walk among us, and people can spontaneously develop superpowers along with pimples when puberty hits but telepathy, that's just crazy."

    He's not spitting mad, because Sam's just not the type, but he is visibly annoyed. His brow furrows, and he shakes his head.

    "Well, she's a crappy therapist. The ones they employ here at SHIELD have a much better understanding of how easily things can take a turn for the weird, though I understand if you'd rather try to find someone independent," he says. And then Sam's on the move, setting his mug aside as he stands up and walks over to his desk.

    As he drops into his chair with a low exhale, he reaches for a notepad and a pencil. One's always near at hand. He boots up his computer and types in his password, then spends several moments clicking around, through things. But eventually he scribbles down something, then tears a page free of the notepad.

    When he returns to Jon, it's to present that piece of paper, which has a list of names, numbers, and a list of specialties for each therapist. "Give them a call. They all do teletherapy in this day and age, so you don't even have to go out of your way."

    Which is good, as only two of the eight or nine names are local. The rest are scattered across the United States or in another country entirely.

    "Just let them know you're a friend of mine, they'll figure out how to fit you into their schedule."

    He doesn't address that last question Jon posits, because it's not a question Sam can answer. Only Jon himself can.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon blinks as Sam gets up and goes over to the computer, then blinks even more as he's handed a sheet of names. "I..."

    Suddenly he laughs. "Oh. This must be how other people feel, talking to me." He doesn't seem to mind, really. Certainly not given that he's laughing and smiling. He looks down at the sheet. "I will look into calling them, thank you."

    He takes the sheet, carefully folds it and puts it in his inside jacket pocket. Goes to take another sip of tea. His brow furrows as he does, eyes getting a bit distant. He murmurs, "Tell Sam Wilson to pick up his phone--"

    He looks up at Sam, blinking rapidly. "Have you been getting calls from an unknown number?"

Sam Wilson has posed:
    "They're all good people, I've referred friends to them in the past," Sam explains. "Almost all of my patients are school-aged kids these days except for a few from my old veterans support group, who mostly just like the excuse to sit down and chat." AKA he doesn't provide therapy to any of his superhero buddies. It's both outside his specialty and just asking for trouble.

    He sits back down to enjoy the rest of his tea, which is lovely. Sam's not a particularly ostentatious sort of person--at least once you get him out of the wings--but his creature comforts are very important to him, and he's willing to spend the money for quality items. Excellent tea blends, cashmere blankets, boutique bath bombs for his bubble baths. Because self-care is important.

    He looks up at Jon's use of his full name, which is unusual, and takes note of the strange look in his eyes. The following blinking and question has his head tipped to the side. "I get a few of those. Public identity and all," he admits. "I screen my calls. Is there someone in particular you think might be trying to reach me?"

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "An angel," Jon says slowly. "At least... I think that's what she is. Suriel. She showed up at the SHIELD Halloween party to warn us about a problem in Gotham. And she said..."

    Jon's eyes go distant for a moment, and his voice goes up in pitch, a /lot/, nearly falsetto. "'One more thing, tell Sam Wilson to pick up his phone the next time it has an unidentified number. I /know/ he's heard the call. That's the message, my job is done. Time to go party, ta!'"

    Then he blinks, shakes himself, focuses on Sam. "I'd completely forgotten until just now. Or, well, it had slipped my mind, as much as anything ever does." A pause. "Does that mean anything to you?"

Sam Wilson has posed:
    As Jon delivers this information, slowly Sam's expression begins to close off. The word angel, the mention of 'the call,' those are what really get a reaction out of him.

    He drains the rest of his tea and stands, taking the mug over to the sink to clean it. "Pretty sure I do, yeah," he answers, over the running water from the faucet. And then he spents far longer than a mug of any reasonable size would require, washing it, though eventually he does set it on the nearby dish rack to dry.

    Once he turns back around, he's managed to rearrange his face into something normal again. Sam leans against the counter, arms folded over his chest, and rolls his neck.

    "Something else that took a turn for the weird, that's all," he says, then nods towards Jon's cup. "Did it help?" Though, honestly, Sam's not actually asking about the tea.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon gulps down the last of his tea and stands, walking over toward the kitchenette. He waits, politely, while Sam takes his time washing the mug. His is empty now, but he just holds it for the moment.

    "It did, yes," he says softly. "Thank you."

    Then, slowly, softly, "I know what it is to be called upon by higher powers. To not... not believe you're worthy. Even that tiny smidge of doubt." He smiles, but only briefly.

    Then, more seriously, "Angels don't pop into government agencies and seek people out just to stop raves in Gotham. Something big is happening. Maybe I'm just a messenger, but..." He chuckles. "Oddly enough? This... is actually the sort of thing the Archivist deals with. Big, world-shaking things. I know I'm new to this, but... I'm at least willing to listen, if you ever need to get it off your chest."

Sam Wilson has posed:
    Though there's no satisfying resolution tonight, that Jon has resources in his possession that might, with time and energy, lead to one? That's enough, for Sam. Especially since Jon might actually use those resources.

    Look, superheroes on the whole are a very stubborn group.

    "If it is what I think it is..." he begins, but then Sam has no idea where he's going with that sentence. So he dries his hands on a dish towel and then tosses it back onto the counter. "I don't know. Guess I'll find out next time I get a phone call from an unknown number."

    He smiles too, just as briefly. "We'll see. I'll let you know, once I know for sure."

    His eyes drift towards the clock on the wall, and he rubs the back of his neck. "I have a group of newbie agents waiting for me to come celebrate their shiny new first aid certificates with them in the cafeteria. Want to join us?" Sam manages a more genuine smile. "No pressure."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon smiles as he reaches over and puts the mug down on the counter--it'd be odd to wash the thing in the other man's quarters. Then he nods. "I'd be glad to. I already have that one, I know it can be tough."

    After a moment's pause, "Thank you again. For, ahh, checking on me. I appreciate it, Agent Wilson."