The Heart of a Villain - Oneshots

The Doctor is Always In

Satisfied that everything is in its place and at the ready, Andrew moves into the entryway. His yellow rain slicker awaits him, the final piece to put in place before venturing out-of-doors to meet his soon-to-arrive guests.

His supplies are always well stocked, never knowing what challenge might arrive at his door. It's his nature to be prepared; that's why they come to him rather than going to someone closer, or a trauma center. But trauma centers are bound by the laws of society. There are things they have to report to authorities: certain types of injuries, certain otherwise untouchable people surfacing to seek treatment. Innumerable back-alley surgeries are scattered about the commonwealth, but those that can afford to be picky, are. Assured safety during treatment, no risk of tetanus or worse during your brief stay, and a well-trained surgeon to attend you? Modestly, he's the best around. So long as you can secure passage, why go elsewhere?

He hums a half-remembered tune as he checks the pockets of his rain slicker, finding a loose coin or two that are soon joined by the keeper's keys for his lighthouse.

Guests are coming.

They have been travelling through the night, the ferry that carries them due to dock within the hour. The morning fog that remains in hazy patches has delayed them, though he's gotten word from the captain that it's burning off enough to make decent time now across the channel. The mist brings an extra chill to the springtime air, and a slickness to the ground that means the occasional squelch is emitted as the soles of his shoes make contact with the concrete and stone path from dock to doorway. Disliking the accompanying sound – the clomp and grind of his shoes as he walks – he redirects, taking a few steps into the wet grass.

Guests. It means payment, but that's not the reason for his snippets of song. His clinic in the village remains afloat on its own because he's good at what he does. His practice there is his way of giving back to the community he holds so dear. This side business is just that – good business.

It hadn't been his intention when he first started out, more an accidental discovery while he was developing his skillset. Late one night he had walked in on one of his teachers trying to tend to two men, suits sliced in worrisome places, blood soaking the expensive material to a darker color and dripping onto the sleek chrome of the medical school. His teacher had simply beckoned him in to help, pausing only to assure the two men of Andrew's skills, and gone back to work.

It wasn't until later, after the men had gone and Andrew was standing next to the sink with his teacher, that he was informed of the character of the he'd just helped to mend. Criminals. A Kingmaker and one of his Crime Lords.

Andrew had felt a bit sick at the notion. Then, as he tossed the remnants of the biohazard waste into the correct container there came a call. More seeking treatment. Eavesdropping without meaning to, the price quoted for services rendered seemed outrageous, but he had no reference point for such things.

Red hair streaked with grey, his teacher had merely lifted his eyebrows at Andrew after ending the call and grinned: "Never lived so well in my life."

Lived well, sure. But how did he sleep?

A few years after going home again, his clinic already prospering, a familiar shadow crossed his path. One of the men he had patched that night, once again bloody and seeking treatment. Just as he had so many nights ago, Andrew had gone into self-preservation mode and set about stitching the man up, deliberately not asking questions.

Halfway through, the Crime Lord broke the silence. "Clinic, then. Not much like Red, are you?"

Andrew just continued stitching, pulling the sutures as tight as he dared to try to minimize scarring.