“You alright, Arthur?”
Arthur nods, clearing his throat. The sound catches on something wet and painful in his trachea, the cowboy turning his head away from you to release a hacking cough into a balled-up fist, the onslaught so violent it makes his shoulders shudder.
You narrow your eyes, turning your full body towards him, your arms coming up to cross over your chest.
“That’s quite a cough you got there. You lyin’ to me, cowboy?” You muse, trying to hide the deep twisting knife of concern under a layer of theatrics and a thrown-on accent.
Your concern grows when Arthur doesn’t immediately wave you off, instead bringing his fingers up to his mouth to wipe his lips. You think you see red.
“I ain’t doin’ too well, partner.”
Your arms slump to your sides, “Whaddya mean?”
“I uh,” Arthur wipes his fingers off on a tissue from the box on your breakfast bar. “I got TB.”
Admittedly, you don’t react the way you think he thinks you will. You sorta just quirk your brow, tilt your head and purse your lips slightly.
“TB…as in tuberculosis?”
Arthur furrows his own brow in response.
“Yeah?”
“Oh. Yeah, nah, yeah, we cured that ages ago.”
Arthur’s gun slips from his hands and he swoops down to catch it before it clatters onto the floor, nearly launching himself off the stool in the process. His fingers grip the edge of the white counter to pull himself up and you struggle not to laugh at the bewilderment on his face.
“Whatchu mean you cured it?” He scoffs, clearly in utter disbelief.
“People don’t die from that anymore,” You shrug, turning back to the cabinet to grab out your mug and your tea. “We’ll just pump you full o’ antibiotics and you’ll be right, mate. Now, you want tea or coffee?”
“Holda- holda- hold on-“ Arthur splutters, holding up his hand to stop you continuing with your morning routine like this isn’t Earth shattering information for him. “Annie buys what now?”
“An-ti-bi-o-tics,” You draw out each syllable to correct him, gently placing two mugs down on the counter and taking the kettle off its stand the second it clicks off. “They’re like…mold or summin’, I dunno.”
“Scuse me?”
“Look, I’m not an expert, I dunno how to explain it!” You sigh, tearing off the top of one of your instant coffee sachets with your teeth and pouring the powder into your mug with little bees on it. You spit the foil into the bin, followed by the rest of the sachet after you tap out any excess powder. “I’ll book in an urgent appointment with my GP – er, doctor – and she’ll sort you right out, promise. Now-“
You waggle the other coffee sachet in front of him.
“Coffee?”
Beez has been there since the start of this series that has turned out to be more than I ever anticipated and his phenomenal STEM brain has been an absolutely invaluable asset to me as a writer. He's always happy to answer any questions I have and I couldn't have asked for a better random stranger to help me develop the most unnecessarily detailed and realistic TB treatment plan for a completely fictional (and completely wonderful) cowboy.
