The plane ride is uneventful.
Cato falls asleep. Valentine falls asleep. Jean sits miserably in the back of the plane and is investigated by chickens.
He glances up, as they enter.
"...he'll be holding your medication?"
"...yes. Thank you."
Jean offers the medication to the doctor, silent.
He takes it.
"This is what you took last night?"
"I keep it for work-related reasons. Cato has a count."
"There were eighteen before. There should be sixteen now."
He nods, reaches down to the floor and hands him another bottle.
"There are — twenty, now, here. Keep count of these as well."
He looks back up at Jean.
"...you're the hand fracture?"
He kneels, gestures for Jean to come down with him and holds his hands out.
"Give me your hand."
(Who is this man? How much does he know? Who are all these people?)
He holds Jean's hand carefully in his.
"This will be uncomfortable."
He turns it over, flattens out his fingers one by one, begins to examine his bleeding knuckles.
Jean keeps his hand relaxed; doesn't react to the handling.
(Despite the small pain of it, there's something comforting about the careful touch. He savors it.)
He blinks down at his palm.
"Have you been able to move your hand?"
"The motion is slightly off, but yes."
He squeezes, gently, across his hand, comes to the bone just below his little finger.
Then he presses down there, too.
So does everything else. Jean doesn't bother showing any of it.
"...boxer's fracture. And very high pain tolerance."
Jean already knew both these things. "Thank you."
"You'll need to come in. I need an x-ray and you may need surgery."
He glances at Valentine.
"If it matters."
Jean, reaching the end of his self-control all at once, asks "why?," and then bites his tongue.
"...you're still alive, aren't you? And suffering."
He glances down at Jean's swollen hand.
"Besides. I haven't decided what I'll be doing with you, yet."