watchtower_rebirth | Late Night at the Thompkins Clinic

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Late Night at the Thompkins Clinic

Picking a lock with two broken fingers isn't a trivial task, but as long as the thumb is intact, it is not an impossible one. Damian flexed his left hand as the right one worked - everything was intact on that side, but he knew from experience that his time would still be better with the damaged right.

A nearly imperceptible click brings a confident smirk to his face, and he slips inside - moving with stealth despite the garish colors of his suit.

He wasn't sure if the doctor was in or not, but this was the nearest safe stash of medical supplies, according to Father's files, and prompt treatment of the fingers would bring him back to his full capabilities all the faster.

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"Next time, try knocking," a voice suggests. A hint of amusement is barely disguised.

Not even a trace of surprise betrayed in his motion or posture. He turns to the voice with utter aplomb.

"Dr. Thompkins, isn't it? If you're still here, you are welcome to assist me. I'm told that your medical skills are well-regarded."

As he speaks, he's fishing with one hand in a box of finger-splints. This kid can't be more than twelve.

She wonders briefly if it's his age, the costume, or the fact that his tone sounds so much like his father's right now that pulls at her heartstrings. Perhaps it's a combination.

A moment later, she's at his side, moving the box away. "Why don't you come with me, young man. We'll have a look at those fingers."

He is genuinely puzzled, for a moment, then a surge of the defensiveness returns.

"If you insist. The index and middle fingers are broken."

Damian pulls off the glove without so much as a wince, revealing purpling fleshy digits. It looks like he's already aligned the bones.

"Blockbuster actually leaned into one of my punches, unexpectedly. Inconvenient for me, but he didn't enjoy the outcome either."

"I don't doubt it."

The swelling is significant and certainly in keeping with his self-diagnosis. His description of the incident also gives her a clue as to the type of fracture. The likelihood that both are broken in the same manner is high. The only way to make sure is with an x-ray. She leads him to the nearest exam room where the portable machine is currently housed.

"'You should see the other guy'?"

Damian follows along to the portable X-Ray machine, a smirk cracking his features as she adds the latter comment.

"Just so. Despite his unusually dense skull, he really didn't stand a chance - he never should have come to Gotham."

She smiles. Regardless of his more formal speech patterns, Leslie can't help but draw comparisons to the other young men who've worn the 'R' on their costumes. They all possess a high degree of enthusiasm.

"If you ever find yourself in need again, I keep that particular closet fully stocked at all times," she gestures to a closet with a 4-digit slide lock in the corner of the exam room. "You're also welcome to call ahead. Barbara knows how to find me. I live a few blocks away so if I'm not here, I can travel quickly."

Edited 2016-11-15 20:50 (UTC)

"Father said you were helpful."

An understatement, to be sure - Leslie had probably done more for Bruce than anyone but Alfred Pennyworth.

"He should probably invest more money in the security for this clinic, though. I can speak to him about that if you like."

'Helpful' is nothing short of high praise when it comes from Bruce.

"Only if you're so inclined. There were a number of upgrades implemented last year after the break in," she informs him as she delicately positions his hand. There have been many over the years but nothing in her mind as significant as the last when whole sections of medical records were stolen.

"The combination to that lock by the way is the year he was born."

He nods, appreciating the gesture of trust for what it is - and resists the urge to point out how little time it would take him to bypass the lock. The struggle is real.

"Are you ready to confirm my diagnosis?"

Damian certainly smiles more than Bruce did at his age.

She'd never had a desire to turn the clinic into a fortress. Perhaps it's a failing. Some of the medical supplies inside would no doubt sell for a pretty penny. She's always considered it a delicate balance.

"So sure of yourself?" she asks with a knowing smile. "Does that mean you'll be joining me here someday as an intern?"

She moves away briefly so the machine can do its work.

He holds perfectly still as he waits for the X-Ray scan to complete - contemplating the question for a long moment.

"I have had to learn abut the inflicting and treatment of injuries since I was old enough to stand."

Damian smiles slightly.

"And I already have an internship."

His other hand taps the encircled 'R' on his chest.

Leslie has long since moved past the notion she can persuade them to change their minds. She dedicates herself instead to supporting them as best she can. "Following in your father's footsteps," she muses. "I used to hope Bruce would follow in his father's footsteps."

It only takes a moment for the picture to become clean. She jams it up into a clip to have a better look. "Care to confirm your suspicions?"

"I am sure Father would have made an excellent surgeon."

That's about as close to agreement as Damian can come to that sentiment, having been inculcated into his father's exceptional nature by his mother and grandfather.

He turns to the light panel and grins again - probably the happiest Leslie has seen anyone at confirming broken fingers.

"I've diagnosed and set them correctly."

There's no mistaking the pride either. "Congratulations," she offers sincerely. "I still might make a medical professional out of you yet."

She reaches into a cabinet to retrieve the very thing she pushed away from him earlier as well as the tape required to secure them. It seems his treatment plan was sound as well.

Ego satisfied, his attention turns to other things as he extends his arm for her treatment.

"How long have you known Father?"

From a small freezer next to the cabinet she pulls an ice pack out. She twists it around to make sure it's flexible before wrapping a few paper towels around it. Gently, she holds it against the fingers. The swelling needs to come down before she's willing to wrap them.

He's gone from happy to somber rather quickly. "His whole life."

"What was he like as a child?"

His only real source of information on this subject is Alfred, after all - Bruce is not the sort to reminisce.

"Inquisitive. Agreeable. He was always rather serious though. Even before your grandparents were killed. More so after, of course. When he was a toddler, he had a favorite train set he liked to play with."

She smiles at the memory, wondering if Alfred has it squirrel away somewhere. She also wonders if 'Alice in Wonderland' still sits open somewhere, ready for her to pick up where she's left off.

"He read everything he could get his hands on. That little reading nook on the second floor in the south wing? He used to spend a lot of time there."

He noticeably raises an eyebrow at 'agreeable'. The rest of the description seems to pass without surprise on his part.

"You miss who he was. You don't entirely approve of his mission?"

"It doesn't matter whether I approve or not."

It's a statement of fact and is devoid of any bitterness or remorse. She's come to terms with his choices despite her own opinions on the matter.

"I suppose it doesn't in one sense, because he will continue - but it's still true that you don't approve."

He seems confident in this conclusion, and goes on.

"Do you think he could have done better another way, or do you simply object to the visitation of violence upon the violent?"

There's no delay due to deliberation. She answers the question immediately. "Both. I've been accused of being a pacifist by many people in my lifetime but I wouldn't say that's entirely accurate. I just don't believe it often solves the problem."

He nods at that.

"Grandfather said that when all you have is a hammer, every problem appears to be a nail. On the other hand, Gotham's population of the criminally insane has proven resistant to other methods."

"And at least you recognize that sometimes it does solve the problem."

"I think your grandfather is correct when it comes to the hammer. We work with the tools of our chosen trade. It falls upon us to consider all the options when those tools fail, not just the ones close at hand. What does violence solve? Ultimately, it leads to further incarceration. Which is just a way of separating the problem, not curing the underline problem."

She removed the ice pack and inspects the swelling.

"As a medical professional, I'm sure you're familiar with the concept of triage. Someone has to staunch the bleeding while the economic fixes have time to work."

The line is vintage Bruce, but the attitude is pure twelve-year-old wiseass.

He flexes the fingers gently, opening and closing them to test the numbness, and then nods his approval. The hand looks almost normal, under the temporary effects of the cold.

The juxtaposition makes her smile. It seems like he's in such a hurry to grow up but the attitude says he's got a ways to go. The apple doesn't fall too far from the tree. She's quite sure they could go back and forth on the subject at length and talk themselves in circles.

"Easy does it," she reminds him. Just because they feel better doesn't mean they ARE better. With the swelling down, she starts to splint and wrap them. "Have Alfred look at this in 12 hours. Then in another 24, I'd like to see you again."

Just the slightest hint of a smile at that.

"I should be patrolling this area tomorrow night, and the night after. I can stop by."

"I don't suppose I could convince you to take the next couple of night off." She knows it's wishful thinking. Unless they're done and out like a light, the self appointed work always calls.

He steps towards the door, then turns back, with a confident smile.

"I'll try to hit them with my other hand. That's all I can promise."

"Maybe you could do me a favor instead," she drops before he walks out the door, hoping to catch some of his youthful curiosity.

Hook, line, and sinker. Damian pauses at the door.

"You have a lead on a local problem?"

It's got to be something like that, he reasons. The Clinic's financials are all taken care of, and Leslie doesn't really seem the type to need a personal errand run.

"I'm not sure," she replies honestly. "What I have is a suspicion and I try very hard not to ignore my instincts. They're not usually wrong."

She spends a few moments relaying information about the break in and the swath of missing medical files. Then she tells him about Anthony Carle's heart attack. His file was just one among the many stolen. "I don't think it's a coincidence. I'd very much like to get my hands on his death certificate."

Damian smiles.

"That part's easy. The county coroner's office has a lot less formidable locks than your clinic. I will look into it."

She realizes all of a sudden that she's just basically asked him to break and enter. If not physically, electronically. The feeling makes her uneasy. The unease however is balanced by the unsolved questions involving Anthony. He'd been a kind man and Leslie missed him.

"Thank you, dear. Take care of yourself."

"I always do. I will let you know what I've found out within a few days."

And then he's gone.

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Late Night at the Thompkins Clinic

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