Chapter Text
Patient is a Robinson.
Dawson knows that name comes with a flashing red sign. Rocky road ahead. Proceed with caution. It doesn’t help that THE Robinson (as far as the media is concerned) is pacing around the room, with his hair in disarray and lightning in his eyes.
“How long ago did you say it happened?”
“Weeks. He’s been keeping this secret for weeks!” Mr. Robinson says, undirected anger and pain in his voice.
“I’m afraid there’ll be no DNA evidence, then.”
“That’s fine. Just make sure he’s not sick or injured, we can worry about the rest later.”
Male… Caucasian… 13… B-…
“Dad, stop talking about me like I’m not in the room!” the boy protests.
“Wilbur…” The man looks helplessly at his son. “The-”
“If you say ‘the grownups are talking’, I’m never speaking to you again.”
Mr. Robinson sighs and turns back to Dawson, looking no less angry. “Just do what you can.”
“Alright.”
Wilbur rolls his eyes when he catches Dawson’s. A mouthed Can you believe this guy? Humor covering for anxiety. “Soooo… what have I gotta do…?”
“Well, could you start by telling me exactly how they hurt you? Did they cause you any injuries?”
“Um, I bled. That stopped after a few minutes then started again on and off for a couple days.”
“Sounds normal, tears in that area are easily re-opened. Anything else?”
Wilbur shakes his head. “The big guy dragged me into place by my hair, but they didn’t hit me or anything.”
“I see. Is there anything else?”
“Well…” He glances over at his father and back down again. “One of those guys sorta… pushed down on my arm. Not hard, but it was already kinda busted and… a few days later it started to swell.” His arm seems fine now - well, as fine as anything can seem in a sling. Wilbur sees Dawson looking. “Yeah. Dad saw that. My regular doctor fixed it up. I said that I must have slept on it wrong…”
Cornelius Robinson covers his face with one hand. “Wilbur…”
“Well, there’s nothing to be done about that now,” Dawson says hastily. “Let’s focus on what we can do, alright? Now, are you comfortable with me taking a blood sample?”
“No problem.” Wilbur holds out his uninjured arm. Mr. Robinson watches the blood flow into the syringe with bated breath, as if he could simply see any diseases in it.
“I’ll get you something to patch that up and then… we’ll get on with the exam.”
Wilbur groans but doesn’t protest. Mr. Robinson stares at the vial and the wall and then down at the floor. His eyes are still there by the time Dawson retrieves the Band-Aid.
“Have you noticed anything strange since it happened?” he asks Wilbur. “You mentioned bleeding, does anything still hurt? Have you felt sick at all?”
“No. Is that good?”
“It could be. Some illnesses don’t show obvious symptoms, or at least not this soon.”
“Oh…”
“I would like to check for any injuries that might have occurred. If that’s alright with you…?”
It is Mr. Robinson to whom this question is addressed.
“If it’s alright with my son, yes,” he says. “I’d rather not make things worse for him. Wilbur?”
“If the doctor thinks he should, I’m okay with it,” Wilbur says, a bit shakily but determined.
“Okay.” Dawson’s always hated this part of his job. This awful, necessary task. Then again, if he enjoyed it, he might want to have his head examined. “I’m going to have to ask that you take some of your clothes off… and then hop back up on the table.” Wilbur does so awkwardly; it is fortunate he doesn’t need to remove his shirt. Expectedly, there is scarring. “It’s left a mark, but… well, no one’s going to see it.”
Mr. Robinson clenches his fists harder. “That, I think, was part of the problem.”