McCoy really only knows of Ronan by reputation, by sight, pointed out to him by the mages who seem to be slightly in awe of the man. Quiet, pale but handsome, with a thoughtful face he vaguely remembers first seeing under a full moon, on a battlefield he earned a title for and promptly discarded.
They don't travel in the same circles, even in a place as relatively small as Thorne so, what glimpses he has of the other man are always brief. McCoy doesn't know anything is wrong until well after his own magic troubles have started, but soon he can't ignore the smell in the dormitories, the telltale stink of sour putrefaction slipping under his own door. To say it's alarming would be putting it lightly-- the few courtiers he questions look uncomfortable and simply scurry away, but one he nearly collars like a misbehaving pup finally points out Ronan's room.
It's horrible to see another person like this, left to suffer, to sink slowly in the sticky wash of fetid black ichor. Bones sweeps in with the sweet scent of Georgia spring and gapes for just a second, automatically breathing through his mouth so his stomach doesn't churn into useless knots from the smell. He's handled a fair few corpses in his lifetime, in various states of decay; doesn't like it but needs must when the Devil drives, and for a moment he honestly thinks he's got to do it again, steeling himself for the inevitable when he draws nearer to Ronan's bedside.
Except he's breathing.
"My god, kid." Ronan's probably, what, close enough in age to him, but the phrase falls from his mouth like a bad habit. A look of pure venom gets flung over his shoulder, like he could sling it back at everyone who's walked past the man's room and done fuckall for him, before he turns back to swipe black away from his mouth with a handkerchief.
"Ronan, I'm a doctor; Doctor McCoy. I'm gonna roll you onto your side here, and try to make it easier for you to breathe."
Useless reaction goes followed by useful action, a second's hesitation before he commits to getting his hands dirty: literally, pulling back soiled bed linens and moving to maneuver Ronan into the recovery position.
dorm; cw for body fluids, emeto, talkin' bout dead stuff, the whole 9 yards
They don't travel in the same circles, even in a place as relatively small as Thorne so, what glimpses he has of the other man are always brief. McCoy doesn't know anything is wrong until well after his own magic troubles have started, but soon he can't ignore the smell in the dormitories, the telltale stink of sour putrefaction slipping under his own door. To say it's alarming would be putting it lightly-- the few courtiers he questions look uncomfortable and simply scurry away, but one he nearly collars like a misbehaving pup finally points out Ronan's room.
It's horrible to see another person like this, left to suffer, to sink slowly in the sticky wash of fetid black ichor. Bones sweeps in with the sweet scent of Georgia spring and gapes for just a second, automatically breathing through his mouth so his stomach doesn't churn into useless knots from the smell. He's handled a fair few corpses in his lifetime, in various states of decay; doesn't like it but needs must when the Devil drives, and for a moment he honestly thinks he's got to do it again, steeling himself for the inevitable when he draws nearer to Ronan's bedside.
Except he's breathing.
"My god, kid." Ronan's probably, what, close enough in age to him, but the phrase falls from his mouth like a bad habit. A look of pure venom gets flung over his shoulder, like he could sling it back at everyone who's walked past the man's room and done fuckall for him, before he turns back to swipe black away from his mouth with a handkerchief.
"Ronan, I'm a doctor; Doctor McCoy. I'm gonna roll you onto your side here, and try to make it easier for you to breathe."
Useless reaction goes followed by useful action, a second's hesitation before he commits to getting his hands dirty: literally, pulling back soiled bed linens and moving to maneuver Ronan into the recovery position.