leftwithmybones | [For Emma]

Emma very nearly doesn't answer the door. That kind of behavior merits no reward. On the other hand, it's likely to persist if she attempts to ignore it, so she gets to her feet from where she's been lounging with a book. Crossing to the door, she opens it abruptly, expression distinctly unimpressed: mouth twisted into a frown, brow slightly furrowed. "Is there something I can help you with," she asks, "or were you just testing your ability to raise your voice for the fun of it?"

He puts on a real nice polite smile, even though he's been bellowing the walls down. Hell, kill 'em with kindness, isn't that what Joce always used to do when she got pissed with the neighbors. "I'm not gonna pretend you don't know who I am," is his first comment. "But I'm not here for any pleasantries or neighborhood bakes. I'm here because of Rogue."

Emma's expression, if anything, only grows less impressed. Does she know who he is? Yes, of course, she makes a point of knowing these things, particularly with regards to Jean. Is she about to admit to that? She can't think of any reason why she should, and if it weren't for his connection to these people to whom she is, against her will, tied, she can't think of a reason why she ought to have any idea who he is either. It makes her want to feign ignorance to put him in his place, but he's not worth the effort and she rarely pretends to less intelligence than she possesses. "Delightful," she says, "as I don't even know what a 'neighborhood bake' is, thank you for eventually circling to the point. What about Rogue?"

Well, she's a real peach and a half. McCoy can already feel his smile tightening, the way it does when he's around the kind of little old ladies that like to do nothing more than pinch at him and say he's lost too much weight. "She says you were helping with her troubles. I'm on the case now, thought we might synchronize research so I don't go mixing together the wrong kind of drugs."

"Are you a psychiatrist?" Emma asks, eyes narrow slightly, though she steps back with a sweep of her arm that indicates he can enter if he must. "I was under the impression you were affiliated with that sad little clinic, and Rogue's problem is a complicated psychological issue." One, she reasons, he can't begin to understand. He can try and she doesn't doubt he will, but the troubles of mutants have rarely seen much true understanding from ordinary people.

McCoy's more amused than anything. Hell, he hasn't been insulted like this since he was last married. "I got psychological training, yeah," he retorts, because even though this isn't about that, he's not about to just let it go. "But I'm here to get your take on this complicated psychological issue so I can take my ideas and put them into action. Don't believe me all you want, but I am the advanced field of medicine where I come from, especially when it comes to the brain," he says, as if challenging her. "And it's a helluva lot further in the future than where you're from."

Emma very nearly finds that adorable. If he thinks he'll impress or inform her, he'll have to try harder, but she doesn't mind watching him try. "Then I'm sure with all that advanced knowledge of yours," she says, "you know how to step through a door. Or do they not use those in the future?" So far as she's concerned, no one understands the mind like she does — except, perhaps, his precious girlfriend.

McCoy takes a step inside, giving the whole place a look that says it's just cavernous enough to feel like a mausoleum to him. "Look, if you don't feel like playing nice with me, you can just give me your notes on what you've been doing for treatment, but she came to me because whatever you're doing isn't enough. I just want to help her."

Emma shuts the door behind him, heels clicking as she walks past. This house is infinitely preferable to the absurd little hut she left near the shore, anyone else's opinion be damned. "The trouble," she says, "with a problem like Rogue's is how difficult, how bloody unlikely, it is that any ordinary form of treatment will be sufficient." As she speaks, she looks through a stack of notebooks on her table until she finds the one she uses during her sessions with Rogue. "It isn't a matter of Dissociative Identity Disorder or schizophrenia in their best understood forms. These personalities are people, you understand? I assume she's been frank with you about the nature of her ability."

"I had to have her friend hold her down while I sedated her when those people got a bit too loud," McCoy says so she knows that he knows all-too-well what happens when things get bad. "I'm not thinking of a cure," he says, giving Emma an arched brow and a look. "What I am thinking about is some way to block out what doesn't belong. I've done a good number of brain grafts and I pioneered that field. If I can get some scans of her brain activity and figure out where these remnants are hiding, maybe I can work on a kind of palliative. I'm not an idiot. I don't think I can cure this."

"And how do you intend to do something like that here?" Emma asks. She firmly believes the bit about him being an idiot is still up for debate, but at least not all his assumptions are asinine. Rogue's a difficult case and, though she's not keen to admit anything of the sort, one of the few X-Men, past or future, whom she can stand here. It'll take more than words to take care of her. "The medical equipment here isn't that advanced."

"Maybe not what's in the lab, but my personal equipment is," he says, giving just the slightest of smug looks. He doesn't share everything because he doesn't trust everyone to understand the technology he'd arrived with. "I've got the basic components of a delivery system and I know someone who can get me the rest."

That, admittedly, surprises Emma, who had expected him to rely on Tony Stark as everyone else seems to (she's no slouch herself when it comes to the technological, but even she has to admit he's cannier about working with what he's got than she is). "A man with connections," she says wryly even so. Holding the notebook out to him, she rolls her eyes. "These are the notes I have. Amid the usual, you'll find I've kept track of those keeping house in her mind, as it were, but as I'm already familiar with the majority of these people, you won't find further notes on them, beyond an approximation of when they were absorbed. The population is... extensive."

"You have a timeline on them?" McCoy asks as he flips through the notes, already trying to process through the various delivery systems he can try. "Not that I'll know if it's useful or anything, but I've got some samples to look over first. Need a control from your group with the DNA and someone a little more normal. I'd use myself, but god knows traveling in space puts me far away from normal."

Emma arches an eyebrow at him. "There are differences even between us," she says, "and I'm not altogether certain it still shows in the analysis, given our abilities are gone now. However, it helps, you can use mine." Whatever he has to do to take it doesn't bother, blood or skin or whatnot — it's simple and Rogue is one of theirs, whether or not Emma likes being part and parcel of the mutants here. "And yes, I've done my best to cobble together a timeline, but it's admittedly patchy."

"I'll take a sample from you. I'll get a sample from someone from roughly the same time period who doesn't have any mutations," he says, already focused on the research and giving a pleased nod. "This is good," he says, glancing up past the page. "This is real good. It's a start."

He has to hesitate, here, because this next part is a bit hard. "You have any suggestions once the other personalities manifest for dealing? I already got beat up one night and I don't wanna sedate her all the time."

"Simplistic as it sounds," Emma says, "talk to them. I'm sure you've tried that already, but... don't ask for Rogue. Some of them are more stubborn than others, but they all cede to her in time. They're cooped up inside her head, they have no outlet, no one to talk to. It can be... frustrating." That she knows so many of them, perhaps, makes this more difficult for her, but there's a degree to which that sense of recognition helps her cut to the chase. What they'll do with a stranger — he can't have met all of them, there are so many — she isn't sure. Some of them are capable of terrible things, though. "Keep your distance. Some of them are very dangerous people — as you found the hard way. The vast majority of them are, in fact."

"I ain't breathing so right, that's for sure," he agrees, and there's a wry grin on his face like they've just discovered their own little joke. How about that? He clasps the information in hand tightly, like it's gonna make a run for it. "She's sleeping around mine if you need her. I'll try out the talking thing, brush off the dust on the psychiatrist in me."

Emma nods. "Pay close attention," she says. She's not given to being helpful, but it's not as if she'd deliberately lead him astray. She has no reason to, so it's not worth the fuss. "With time and care, you may learn to tell some of them apart. Some are more... present than others. Some of these are safe and may help you; others will very much not."

"Right. You want to be contacted through any of this?" McCoy asks, taking mental notes on the whole thing. "There any personalities that oughta be flagged and I should alert you the minute they turn up?"

"Mystique." That, at least, requires no thought at all. Emma may not be familiar with Mystique herself directly, but she knows of the woman, her relationship to Rogue, the dangers she could hold, not least because she's best suited to seem like Rogue herself if it helps her. She shakes her head, fingers drumming on the table. "Also known as Raven Darkholme. She's very dangerous and highly manipulative." It takes one to know one. "Though if you've any particular difficulty with the others, I'm acquainted with many of them in one way or another."

"I'll light a torch to signal the distress," he says, mostly a dig at where she's decided to put down her feet. Not because he thinks it's opulent and extravagant because hell, to each their own. He's more irritated with the idea of coming all the way up here in case of trouble. "I'll tweak a communicator and leave it with you," he says, thinking through ways around another big hike. "Make sure I can send you a call if someone's going down."

"I appreciate that," Emma says, and in spite of herself, it's entirely genuine. She's far from where they're likely to be, but she's fast. While she generally opts to take her time, in a case like this, she'll be down there as fast as humanly possible (god, humanly). "You may need the assistance and I'm willing to give it, as necessary. She's a very difficult case."

"Yeah, I'm starting to get that," he says as he sucks in a breath and thinks about the problem at hand. "Nothing a little hard work won't fix," he mutters, like a mantra to convince himself. "Thanks, again, for the help."

Hard work barely cuts it. Emma rolls her eyes at the notion (she's had months with little progress and this is one of her specialties), but lets it go with a wave of her hand. "I just hope it proves useful in your hands," she says dryly. "Is there a time I should find you for that sample?"

"Come by the house anytime. I'm in the lab or the clinic or my place. I've been retrofitting it so I can work from home and not have to deal with as many inane interruptions," he snarls, because sometimes the Compound is just goddamn ridiculous.

It's a concern Emma understands. She sighs and nods, waving a hand. "I'll try to find you after one of my classes, then," she says. She wouldn't ordinarily put too much effort into it, but given who this is for, she must. It's not as if she has any particular love for Rogue, but she looks out for her own kind.

[For Emma]

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