FicWad

Joe glanced towards the door to the waiting room for the third time, frowning as he saw The Guv'nor's Aide standing stoically, his arms folded across his chest and staring straight ahead.

“Is he doing what I think he's doing?” Joe whispered to his companions.

Andy glanced over the rim of his glasses towards the door. “You mean, is he keeping us in here?”

“Yeah, that's exactly what I mean,” Joe leaned in to the small huddle.

“I'm afraid he is,” Mr Crab announced. “But I'm not convinced there's anything particularly sinister about it, I think he's just been asked to make us wait while they treat Patrick and he's just being very officious about it.”

Joe frowned, unimpressed with the explanation. It wasn't as if he could go anywhere even if he wanted to. He had no idea where Patrick's room was but he was consoled by the fact that Pete had insisted on going with him. At first it had seemed strange to him that they had put up no resistance to Pete being present, but he had since realised that someone had to be there to answer any questions they had over Patrick's general health. Regardless of the strange nature of the medical condition, they were doctors and would need to establish patient history. It wouldn't have mattered who had gone with them, they all knew each other very well. In particular, the medicals that were required before tours meant that medical histories were not only well known within the band, but also frequently a great source of amusement and teasing. But Pete, being Pete, had insisted and got his way.

Joe had been surprised and also quietly relieved to hear that both Benzedrine and The Guv'nor were doctors, it gave Patrick not just one, but two people personally invested in making him well again. It mattered to both of them that he survived. Even as he thought the word, he pulled his lips into a thin worried frown; the alternative was something that he didn't even want to contemplate.

“Joe?” Mr Crab began gently. “Are you okay?”

Deep in thought, the voice had only just penetrated his conscious mind and Joe found himself blinking to rouse himself from his reverie.

“Hmm?”

“I said, are you okay?”

“I was thinking about Patrick,” Joe replied, frowning as he realised how obvious a statement that was and that it came nowhere near answering the question.

“Can't you do anything?” Andy blurted, before correcting himself to sound less abrupt. “I'm sorry, I mean, can you use luck to help him?”

“At last! I thought you'd never ask!” Mr Crab sighed.

Andy frowned almost angrily. “Why didn't you offer? You did before.”

“No, if you remember, when we were in the nightmare, my initial contribution was a perfectly practical suggestion to ask Donnie what he knew about Dream Bottles. It was Donnie who eventually asked me for some luck.”

“Well… why…” Andy began, stopping when he realised he didn't know precisely what to ask.

“I can't offer luck, and it's not enough to want it, you have to ask for it,” Mr Crab explained.

“You couldn't just have told us that?” Joe asked frustrated that it had taken so long for one of them to ask the right question.

“Not really, that's tantamount to offering. If I did that, it wouldn't work.”

“Oh,” came the reply from both band members, almost in unison. “Well, what can you do?” Joe continued.

“I need to know exactly how they're going to cure him. And, this could be the trickiest part - I need to get out of here and find them.”

“I don't think he's planning on letting us out any time soon,” Andy remarked on the Aide standing, apparently immovable, blocking the exit.

“Well, is it not possible that with a bit of luck that nice gentleman will not only let us out, but take us straight there?” Joe asked with a hopeful grin.

“I think you might be right!” Mr Crab replied with a mischievous smile that matched Joe's own.

*

Patrick alternately shivered and flushed red as his temperature fluctuated wildly and he was shaking again. The purple threads running under his skin had reached his fingers and the tops of his thighs. Only the last injection was preventing them creeping further up his neck towards his brain.

The Guv'nor turned to face Donnie and Benzedrine, both working at a furious pace to make the antidote.

“How are we doing?” he asked urgently.

Benzedrine looked up first.

“I think I've made enough, but I need the information to get the right dosage. The infection is so severe now that even a few milligrams out either way could be disastrous.”

“Hmm, okay.” The Guv'nor was non-committal. He didn't like the amount of strain his son was under. He could see the panic in Benzedrine's eyes; this man mattered to him much more than a normal patient would. Patrick was now dangerously ill and The Guv'nor simply did not want to think about the possible affect on his son if they were unable to save him. “Donnie?” he prompted hoping for good news.

Donnie looked up, his expression was one of sheer exasperation and alarm.

“What?” The Guv'nor asked with trepidation. The feeling that they were all about to be presented with bad news washed over him. “Donnie?”

“We can't calibrate it!” he complained, his tone edged almost with panic. “It's too big, the settings just can't handle it. The best I can do is give you the maximum reading I have and tell you it's at least that.”

“What!” The Guv'nor stormed towards Donnie. “That's not possible, when I was infected Silas figured it out and it was bigger than that!”

“Well, I don't know!” Donnie snapped in his own defence. “You do it then! I've tried everything and I can't get a simple reading off it.”

“No, Father, you're wrong,” Benzedrine began, his voice sounded distant and weak at Donnie's announcement. “Yours was cumulative, from your entire council. All of yours were individual and quite small, but collectively much worse. I was able to calibrate each one separately, but this is different. This is just one man's… just one concentrated mass. It's too big for the device.”

“What then?” The Guv'nor prompted. “Any ideas?”

Benzedrine frowned as he turned his gazed to Patrick, spying one of the purple threads poking out from one of his sideburns and reaching across his cheek. Only seconds later the alarm sounded once more.

“I don't have a choice,” he said miserably. “I have to guess.”

“Guess!” Pete cried in alarm at the suggestion; rushing forward he gripped Benzedrine's arm. “You just said that the slightest mistake could kill him!”

Swallowing hard and with the briefest of nods, Benzedrine peeled Pete's fingers away.

“If I do nothing, in three minutes he'll be dead anyway.”