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ds_slash2006-04-30 10:09 pm
sivib.livejournal.com) wrote in ds_slash2006-04-30 10:09 pm
Entry tags:
Fic: Room 443 (Fraser/RayK implied) PG
Title: Room 443
Pairing: Fraser/RayK implied
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Language, violence, abuse of ellipses and the rules of grammar. Also, abuse of Fraser.
Author Notes: There is a lot of medical speak in this story. If you need translations, just ask.
Feedback here or by email is welcome. This was originally posted over at![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
hello_marysue, but don't let that stop you. While this is technically a "Mary Sue" story, the guys are the focus of the action. I hope you'll give it a shot.
Summary: Just another day in the ICU.
Author:sivib
Room 443
By sivib
Muenster Community Hospital, Muenster, IL.
0630
Coffee in hand (24oz from 7-11, none of that Starbucks crap), I key my badge and go into the break room. Trace and Estelle are doing the crossword and Steve the RT is drinking a protein shake. He’s trying to lose weight, but I think he’s cute just like he is, all teddy bear shaped. Of course, he’s gay and I’m married so it doesn’t really matter what I think. We flirt any way. He’s a dear.
Lunch in the ‘fridge, coffee in hand, I look over Trace’s shoulder. “Three down is ‘raku’.” I spell it and she thanks me and fills in the squares. “I’m in neuro today?” Trace is charge and she’s got the assignments with her. I hate neuro, but we’re short and I’ve done it before. I like medical better, more variety, but neuro it is. For the next twelve hours anyway.
“Yep. You got 445 and first admit. 445 is nothin’, rule out seizures. Probably move out tomorrow. The admit is in the ER, so you should be getting report soon. Anetha got your room ready for you. Young guy, no ID, got left in the ER pretty banged up. Confused but cooperative, they tell me. What’s a six letter word for ‘comfort’, ends with an ‘e’?”
I look over her shoulder again and think a minute. “Solace,” I supply at last. It fits and she nods her thanks. I hook my stethoscope out of my backpack and drape it around my neck and stuff my report book in my pocket. Anetha’s got a kid, so I like to relieve her early so she can get on home. Night shift is long enough when you’re not waiting around to give report.
0745
“Ruby? ER for you on two,” Neeci calls out. She’s a great tech, going to nursing school herself. Takes no lip from anyone and bakes a mean sweet potato pie for almost every pot luck. “Sounds like they’re in a hurry.”
“Got it.” I pick up the line. “NICU, this is Ruby. Whacha got for me?”
35 year old white male, found unconscious in the ER waiting room at around 0300. No idea how long he’d been there, but there was a lot of blood on his shirt from a head wound that was still oozing when they found him, so probably not too long. No one saw who brought him in and the guy has no memory of how he got there. No memory at all, actually and he’s still pretty loopy when he gets up to the unit.
Becky and Trace help me get him in bed. He’s a big guy, tall and broad and not bad looking under all the bruising and dried blood. ER cleaned him up some, but he’s still a mess. I get him hooked up to the monitor and do my assessment. His admitting diagnosis is concussion and change in level of consciousness. He had a head CT that showed a tiny bleed, but it wasn’t progressing and they weren’t planning a craniotomy just yet.
“Hey there. I’m Ruby and I’ll be your nurse until seven. How are you feeling?” I shine my penlight in his eyes, which are equal and reactive, and have him squeeze my hands. “Can you tell me your first name?”
The guy blinks up at me, squints his eyes and then closes them, shaking his head. “No. I’m afraid not.” It looks like that didn’t feel too good, the whole head shaking thing, because he tenses up and gets real still and pale. His voice is tight when he asks, “What happened? How did I get here?”
I tell him what little I know as the color flows slowly back into his face. I give him a touch of Demerol for the pain and check his IV to make sure it’s infusing with no problems. “What do you remember?” I ask, settling in to lean on his side rail and wishing I could drink coffee in a patient’s room. God, I need caffeine just now. Simon’s teething and he had me up most of the night. I’ve already finished off the cup I had and have segued on to hospital coffee, which sucks but is better than nothing.
“I remember being cold. Darkness. Then waking up on a gurney. That’s all, I’m afraid.” He tries to sit up and I put a hand on his shoulder to push him back down. He’s pretty weak; I’m tiny and he’s a big guy, but I’m able to get him flat. “I need to go,” he says. “I have to find Ray.”
That gets my attention. Keeping my voice calm, I say, “Who’s Ray? He a friend of yours, someone we can call?” The guy has no ID in his clothes, I already checked. The only thing in his pocket was a weird looking quarter and a receipt from Petsco for a bag of Iams dog food. “Is Ray your dog?” I ask, in a sudden burst of inspiration, but he shakes his head and closes his eyes.
“I…no…Ray is…is…I don’t know,” he trails off as the Demerol hits him and he falls asleep. Kinda wish I’d held off, but the guy has got to be hurting. Someone worked him over good.
I finish my assessment, noting bruising to his abdomen, back, and arms and circling his wrists. Someone had him tied up when they did this. I feel a little sick, looking at the damage, and hope the cops are on it. Surely the ER called them, right? I check. Nope. Idiots. I tell Trace and she says she’ll call the house supervisor and see what needs to be done. I settle in and chart.
0900
My rule-out seizure disorder got ruled in with a grand mal in the middle of his bath. Fun times. I keep him from bashing his head against the side rail and up the oxygen and call for the stat CT I know his doctor will be wanting. Sure enough, when I get a moment to breathe, the order has magically appeared on the chart. The trip to CT takes up much of my morning, so I don’t get in to see the hunk in 443 for a while. Em watches him for me while I go get Mr. Alvarez’ brain seen to.
“He’s a lamb,” she tells me when we get back. “He woke up about a half hour ago and asked for a cup of tea.” Juan is still post-ictal and not doing much more than staring and drooling, so I get him cleaned up and then go and check next door.
He’s looking out the window, holding very still so I know the Demerol has worn off more or less and he’s hurting again. “Hey there,” I say, and he turns his head to look at me and my heart just melts. God, he’s got the face of an angel, if a bruised and filthy one. His eyes are too damn innocent for a man his age, like he’s from another world. “Tell me how you’re feeling. Have you remembered anything more?” He starts to shake his head and grimaces. “Hurting?”
“Yes. A bit. I’d rather not have whatever you gave me before, however. It made me feel rather lightheaded.” An understatement, since it had obviously knocked him on his butt, but I let it slide. “I’m afraid I haven’t remembered anything much. I think I was in a park of some kind. There were trees, at any rate.” He looks out the window again, a shadow creeping into his eyes.
“Did you get mugged, do you think? Do you remember who hurt you?” I swab the IV port and push a dose of Toradol, which will dull the pain without knocking him out, then flush the line and hang his antibiotics. This done, I putter about the room gathering supplies to get him cleaned up, running water in the sink and unsnapping the shoulders of his gown. I pull the curtain closed to give him some privacy and pull on a pair of gloves.
“No. I…I thought I had been in an accident of some kind.” He reaches up to touch the bandage at his head and notices the one circling his wrist. “But I wasn’t, was I. My wrists ache. I was,” he licks his split lip and runs his thumb over his eyebrow, smoothing it down, “I was handcuffed, I think.”
“That’s what it looked like to me,” I said, pouring liquid soap in a basin and setting it under the steaming tap. “There was mud all over your clothes, too, so that fits with the trees. There’s a pretty big nature preserve near here, so maybe that’s where you were. Out jogging or something, late, and you get mugged and beat up.” I pull the gown off of his shoulders and start sponging away the crusted blood and mud, mindful of the bruises and slow so he doesn’t get startled. “I wonder why they brought you to the ER, though. Seems out of character for muggers.” The water is turning a muddy pink, so I change it and move down his torso.
“Perhaps a good Samaritan found me,” he suggests, closing his eyes. He’s trembling a little. Not hard enough to see, but his muscles are tense under my hands. I pull the warmed blanket out from beneath the towels and drape it over his upper body, keeping everything covered before I move further south. He’s blushing under the bruises, in keeping with those angel eyes, and I keep everything very professional. It seems to help a little; he closes his eyes and sighs as I soak the dried blood from a shallow cut along his ribs before sponging it gently away.
What a mess. Livid bruises in the shape of boots, fists, and something long and thin. A pipe, maybe, or a club. Black eye and split lip and deeper bruising over his kidneys. The urine in his catheter bag is red and I’m not surprised when I also find ligature marks at his ankles. Big guy like this, he’d have to be tied up to get a beating this bad, unless there was a whole gang of assholes whaling on him at once. I bandage what bleeds and make mental notes for my report. The cops will want to know. Probably take pictures of the damage. Should have gotten that done downstairs in the ER, but no use crying over spilled vodka.
“Almost done, sir.” I help him turn over and clean his back, then quickly change the sheets beneath him, and then his gown. More warmed blankets when I’m done, and I turn the lights low. “The police will be by later to get your statement. Get some sleep.”
Obligingly, he closes his eyes and settles deeper into the pillows. I don’t think he sleeps much, though. He’s twitching at every noise and when I look in on him, he’s gazing out the window like it’s his hope of heaven.
1300
More seizure activity in 445. Mr. Alvarez is turning into a challenge. Lucky for me, the hunk in 443 is quiet. I think he might actually have slept a little, but I’ve been too busy to notice much.
The yelling, however, gets my attention. “Becks, can you watch Juan while I see what the hell is going on next door?” Becky agrees; Mr. Alvarez is coming out of it and he’ll be quiet for a bit now. I wash my hands and put on my stern face. I recognize at least one voice. Phil Blalock. I went to school with him and he’s as much a bully now that he has a badge as he was back in the day. What a putz.
Angel-eyes is looking confused and tired and like maybe his analgesia is wearing off. Phil is leaning over him, getting down in his face, while his partner has taken up a position at the foot of the bed, leaving my patient well and truly trapped. “Don’t give me that ‘I can’t remember’ crap. I got a dead body with your blood on him and your fingerprints on the Louisville Slugger that clocked him. I got a witness who says he saw you beating Freddie Munoz to death. I got you, pal, so why don’t you start telling me….”
“Phil Blalock, just what the sam hell do you think you’re doing?” I wedge my fists into my hips and wish desperately I’d taken lunch when I could. I’m starving and the coffee I had at ten is wearing off and Phil is getting right up my nose with his attitude and his badge and his smirk. “You will come out of there and leave my patient alone, if you’re going to badger him like that.”
Phil glares at me and I can tell he’s about to pull out his badge and flash it around, but he knows it won’t work on me. I beat the snot out of him in eighth grade, when I caught him picking on my baby brother, Joey, and he hasn’t been able to stand up to me since. “Ruby,” he says, “I’m conducting official police business, here. You’re obstructing justice.” Holy cow, he’s going to try it anyway.
“I’m not obstructing anything. This man has no memory of how he was injured or how he came to be here or even who he is. Now why don’t you come outside and let him rest a bit and we can talk. When he’s able to, I’m sure he’ll give you a statement, won’t you?” I look to the embattled man in the bed, who nods gingerly.
“Of course. I want to be of assistance, if I’m able. I was just telling Officer Blalock….”
Phil snorts. “A line of bull, is what you were telling me. But I got time. You’re not going anywhere for a while. I’m posting an officer outside your door. Consider yourself under arrest, Mr. John Doe. For murder.”
I have to laugh. He’s trying so hard to be impressive and intimidating and just can’t quite pull it off. Not what that nose. He glares at me again and I stand aside to let him and his partner out of the room. Clint Pinza is an ok guy, even if he did come from Cicero. Maybe that’s why he can put up with Phil. Cicero could teach a saint to cuss. So could Phil. Clint gives me an apologetic look. “I tried to stop him, Rube. You know how he gets.”
“Yeah,” I say, and pat his arm. “I’ll be out in a minute.”
When they’ve gone, my patient looks a little more relaxed. “Thank you kindly, Ruby,” he says quietly. “Officer Blalock seems quite convinced of my guilt. I only wish I could remember what happened, to set both his mind and mine at rest.”
He actually thinks he might have killed this Munoz guy? “You got nothing to worry about, hon. Phil’s just being a dick.” I fish more happy-juice from my pocket and give him a small dose; it’s enough to ease the tense lines around his eyes, but not enough to make him loopy. “Get some sleep.”
I close his door and then take Phil by the ear and drag him into the break-room, Clint following behind us. “Ruby, what the hell…?” Phil jerks away from me and I take the opportunity to finally get a cup of coffee. “I could arrest you for assaulting a police officer, you know.”
The coffee is strong and bitter, but it quiets my empty stomach. I think longingly of my lunch and even more longingly of seven o’clock, when I get to finally end this crappy day. “Phil, that guy couldn’t have killed anyone and if you think a minute you’ll know I’m right. Now sit down, calm down, and get your head out of your ass.” I sit at the table and Clint joins me. A second later, Phil does too. “Thank you.”
Phil hates me. I have no idea why I agreed to marry him. It seemed like a good idea at the time. The divorce was a better one. “Ruby, you can’t….”
“He was handcuffed, Phil,” I say, cutting him off. “Someone handcuffed that guy and beat the shit out of him. They had him down on the ground kicking him for a while, from the boot prints on his back and legs, and his shoulders are almost dislocated, which means his hands were behind him. Add to that the fact that he’s got a pretty bad concussion, probably from getting hit with than damn bat. He wasn’t in any physical condition to defend himself, much less beat someone to death, so tell me darlin’, what evidence do you really have?”
“That’s what I’d like to know, too.” Out of nowhere, there’s a guy standing at the door, looking madder than hell and like he’s about to jump down Phil’s throat. He’s dancing a little on his toes, shifting and shuffling, like he’s fighting to stand still. “More than that, I’d like to know where Fraser is, so if someone could point the way we can clear this little messy mess up right pronto.”
That’s when the really weird part of my day happens. Out in the hall, a wolf starts howling.
The guy’s head whips around and then he looks back at me, kinda guilty. Not too guilty, though, because he’s gone like a shot, all that potential energy turned kinetic in an eyeblink.
When I catch up, Phil and Clint trailing behind me like ducklings, the guy is hovering over my patient, looking like he wants to climb into bed with him but is too afraid to actually touch him. He keeps making these darting, shifting, tentative moves with his hands and his face is a picture of regret. At his side, the prettiest dog I’ve ever seen is reared up on the bedrail and licking my patient’s hand. This earns a tiny smile and the guy with the spiky hair and wrinkled suit just calms right down.
His voice is soft and sad. “Jeeze, Frase. What the hell happened to you?” He reaches toward that bruised face, all stillness now, like he’s reaching toward some wild thing. To my surprise, he is allowed, and there is no flinching away from the tentative caress.
My angel looks up at this rumpled figure and the look in those blue eyes brings tears to mine. Hope and longing and memory and something like peace. “Ray?” he asks. “You’re Ray? My Ray?”
The guy grins all over when he hears this. “Yeah, Fraser. Your Ray. Your one and only Ray. You scared the hell out of me, Frase. Dief, too. He went a little nuts when they sent us your hat. Then I get a call telling me you’re here and I should go ahead and testify and as soon as I got out of court I got here.”
Angel-eyes, Fraser, looks down at the dog and scratches him tentatively behind the ears. “Dief. Diefenbaker. My wolf.” He looks up at his Ray and all the tension just fades away. For the first time all day, I can see he’s not in any pain. “My Ray. I remember you.” His hand moves from the wolf to the man, and they join hands through the bedrails. I think they’ve forgotten I’m here. I draw the curtain and go back out to the nurse’s station to chart, after I fix my make-up and blow my nose.
1900
“…so it turns out the witness Phil had was the one who killed Munoz and beat up Mr. Fraser. Phil and Clint picked him up and he confessed to everything. Munoz was the one who brought Mr. Fraser to the ER and after he got back the guy…” Bini’s looking very confused, so I cut it short. She doesn’t need to know all this. “Never mind. It was a drug gang thing. Anyway, they’re shipping Mr. Fraser back to Cook County tonight. His transfer paperwork is all done up and I’ve already called report. The ambulance should be here in a half-hour or so. Oh, and the wolf has permission to be here, so don’t try to throw him out.”
Bini’s warm brown face turns pensive and she looks to the drawn curtains of room 443 apprehensively. “A wolf? You are joking with me.” Her accent is a lovely lilting thing and she smells a little like the curry she brought for her supper.
“Nope. His name’s Diefenbaker and he’s apparently deaf, but he’s asleep right now. So’s Mr. Fraser. Poor guy’s had a very long day, but I think he’s going to be okay.”
I sign off my charts and stuff my stethoscope back in my backpack, digging out my emergency bag of granola to munch on during the drive home. Alan usually cooks on the nights I work, but I’m too hungry to wait. On the way out, I stop by Mr. Alvarez’ room. His wife is in with him, holding his hand and talking to him softly. I wave good-bye but don’t interrupt.
Mr. Fraser is awake after all, when I stick my head in. Ray is in much the same position as Mrs. Alvarez, but he’s resting his head on the bed, sound asleep. Mr. Fraser has his hand on Ray’s head, his fingers combing softly through the bush of spiky blond with an awkward tenderness.
Drifting, murmured, I hear, “But, dreary tho’ the moments fleet, O let me think we yet shall meet; that only ray of solace sweet….” His voice is a little scratchy, and soft, but he’s quoting Robert Burns and I think I love him a little just now.
His Ray of solace stirs a little and then looks up at him and smiles one of the sweetest smiles I’ve ever seen. I draw the curtain. Time to go home.
End
Pairing: Fraser/RayK implied
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Language, violence, abuse of ellipses and the rules of grammar. Also, abuse of Fraser.
Author Notes: There is a lot of medical speak in this story. If you need translations, just ask.
Feedback here or by email is welcome. This was originally posted over at
hello_marysue, but don't let that stop you. While this is technically a "Mary Sue" story, the guys are the focus of the action. I hope you'll give it a shot.Summary: Just another day in the ICU.
Author:
sivibRoom 443
By sivib
Muenster Community Hospital, Muenster, IL.
0630
Coffee in hand (24oz from 7-11, none of that Starbucks crap), I key my badge and go into the break room. Trace and Estelle are doing the crossword and Steve the RT is drinking a protein shake. He’s trying to lose weight, but I think he’s cute just like he is, all teddy bear shaped. Of course, he’s gay and I’m married so it doesn’t really matter what I think. We flirt any way. He’s a dear.
Lunch in the ‘fridge, coffee in hand, I look over Trace’s shoulder. “Three down is ‘raku’.” I spell it and she thanks me and fills in the squares. “I’m in neuro today?” Trace is charge and she’s got the assignments with her. I hate neuro, but we’re short and I’ve done it before. I like medical better, more variety, but neuro it is. For the next twelve hours anyway.
“Yep. You got 445 and first admit. 445 is nothin’, rule out seizures. Probably move out tomorrow. The admit is in the ER, so you should be getting report soon. Anetha got your room ready for you. Young guy, no ID, got left in the ER pretty banged up. Confused but cooperative, they tell me. What’s a six letter word for ‘comfort’, ends with an ‘e’?”
I look over her shoulder again and think a minute. “Solace,” I supply at last. It fits and she nods her thanks. I hook my stethoscope out of my backpack and drape it around my neck and stuff my report book in my pocket. Anetha’s got a kid, so I like to relieve her early so she can get on home. Night shift is long enough when you’re not waiting around to give report.
0745
“Ruby? ER for you on two,” Neeci calls out. She’s a great tech, going to nursing school herself. Takes no lip from anyone and bakes a mean sweet potato pie for almost every pot luck. “Sounds like they’re in a hurry.”
“Got it.” I pick up the line. “NICU, this is Ruby. Whacha got for me?”
35 year old white male, found unconscious in the ER waiting room at around 0300. No idea how long he’d been there, but there was a lot of blood on his shirt from a head wound that was still oozing when they found him, so probably not too long. No one saw who brought him in and the guy has no memory of how he got there. No memory at all, actually and he’s still pretty loopy when he gets up to the unit.
Becky and Trace help me get him in bed. He’s a big guy, tall and broad and not bad looking under all the bruising and dried blood. ER cleaned him up some, but he’s still a mess. I get him hooked up to the monitor and do my assessment. His admitting diagnosis is concussion and change in level of consciousness. He had a head CT that showed a tiny bleed, but it wasn’t progressing and they weren’t planning a craniotomy just yet.
“Hey there. I’m Ruby and I’ll be your nurse until seven. How are you feeling?” I shine my penlight in his eyes, which are equal and reactive, and have him squeeze my hands. “Can you tell me your first name?”
The guy blinks up at me, squints his eyes and then closes them, shaking his head. “No. I’m afraid not.” It looks like that didn’t feel too good, the whole head shaking thing, because he tenses up and gets real still and pale. His voice is tight when he asks, “What happened? How did I get here?”
I tell him what little I know as the color flows slowly back into his face. I give him a touch of Demerol for the pain and check his IV to make sure it’s infusing with no problems. “What do you remember?” I ask, settling in to lean on his side rail and wishing I could drink coffee in a patient’s room. God, I need caffeine just now. Simon’s teething and he had me up most of the night. I’ve already finished off the cup I had and have segued on to hospital coffee, which sucks but is better than nothing.
“I remember being cold. Darkness. Then waking up on a gurney. That’s all, I’m afraid.” He tries to sit up and I put a hand on his shoulder to push him back down. He’s pretty weak; I’m tiny and he’s a big guy, but I’m able to get him flat. “I need to go,” he says. “I have to find Ray.”
That gets my attention. Keeping my voice calm, I say, “Who’s Ray? He a friend of yours, someone we can call?” The guy has no ID in his clothes, I already checked. The only thing in his pocket was a weird looking quarter and a receipt from Petsco for a bag of Iams dog food. “Is Ray your dog?” I ask, in a sudden burst of inspiration, but he shakes his head and closes his eyes.
“I…no…Ray is…is…I don’t know,” he trails off as the Demerol hits him and he falls asleep. Kinda wish I’d held off, but the guy has got to be hurting. Someone worked him over good.
I finish my assessment, noting bruising to his abdomen, back, and arms and circling his wrists. Someone had him tied up when they did this. I feel a little sick, looking at the damage, and hope the cops are on it. Surely the ER called them, right? I check. Nope. Idiots. I tell Trace and she says she’ll call the house supervisor and see what needs to be done. I settle in and chart.
0900
My rule-out seizure disorder got ruled in with a grand mal in the middle of his bath. Fun times. I keep him from bashing his head against the side rail and up the oxygen and call for the stat CT I know his doctor will be wanting. Sure enough, when I get a moment to breathe, the order has magically appeared on the chart. The trip to CT takes up much of my morning, so I don’t get in to see the hunk in 443 for a while. Em watches him for me while I go get Mr. Alvarez’ brain seen to.
“He’s a lamb,” she tells me when we get back. “He woke up about a half hour ago and asked for a cup of tea.” Juan is still post-ictal and not doing much more than staring and drooling, so I get him cleaned up and then go and check next door.
He’s looking out the window, holding very still so I know the Demerol has worn off more or less and he’s hurting again. “Hey there,” I say, and he turns his head to look at me and my heart just melts. God, he’s got the face of an angel, if a bruised and filthy one. His eyes are too damn innocent for a man his age, like he’s from another world. “Tell me how you’re feeling. Have you remembered anything more?” He starts to shake his head and grimaces. “Hurting?”
“Yes. A bit. I’d rather not have whatever you gave me before, however. It made me feel rather lightheaded.” An understatement, since it had obviously knocked him on his butt, but I let it slide. “I’m afraid I haven’t remembered anything much. I think I was in a park of some kind. There were trees, at any rate.” He looks out the window again, a shadow creeping into his eyes.
“Did you get mugged, do you think? Do you remember who hurt you?” I swab the IV port and push a dose of Toradol, which will dull the pain without knocking him out, then flush the line and hang his antibiotics. This done, I putter about the room gathering supplies to get him cleaned up, running water in the sink and unsnapping the shoulders of his gown. I pull the curtain closed to give him some privacy and pull on a pair of gloves.
“No. I…I thought I had been in an accident of some kind.” He reaches up to touch the bandage at his head and notices the one circling his wrist. “But I wasn’t, was I. My wrists ache. I was,” he licks his split lip and runs his thumb over his eyebrow, smoothing it down, “I was handcuffed, I think.”
“That’s what it looked like to me,” I said, pouring liquid soap in a basin and setting it under the steaming tap. “There was mud all over your clothes, too, so that fits with the trees. There’s a pretty big nature preserve near here, so maybe that’s where you were. Out jogging or something, late, and you get mugged and beat up.” I pull the gown off of his shoulders and start sponging away the crusted blood and mud, mindful of the bruises and slow so he doesn’t get startled. “I wonder why they brought you to the ER, though. Seems out of character for muggers.” The water is turning a muddy pink, so I change it and move down his torso.
“Perhaps a good Samaritan found me,” he suggests, closing his eyes. He’s trembling a little. Not hard enough to see, but his muscles are tense under my hands. I pull the warmed blanket out from beneath the towels and drape it over his upper body, keeping everything covered before I move further south. He’s blushing under the bruises, in keeping with those angel eyes, and I keep everything very professional. It seems to help a little; he closes his eyes and sighs as I soak the dried blood from a shallow cut along his ribs before sponging it gently away.
What a mess. Livid bruises in the shape of boots, fists, and something long and thin. A pipe, maybe, or a club. Black eye and split lip and deeper bruising over his kidneys. The urine in his catheter bag is red and I’m not surprised when I also find ligature marks at his ankles. Big guy like this, he’d have to be tied up to get a beating this bad, unless there was a whole gang of assholes whaling on him at once. I bandage what bleeds and make mental notes for my report. The cops will want to know. Probably take pictures of the damage. Should have gotten that done downstairs in the ER, but no use crying over spilled vodka.
“Almost done, sir.” I help him turn over and clean his back, then quickly change the sheets beneath him, and then his gown. More warmed blankets when I’m done, and I turn the lights low. “The police will be by later to get your statement. Get some sleep.”
Obligingly, he closes his eyes and settles deeper into the pillows. I don’t think he sleeps much, though. He’s twitching at every noise and when I look in on him, he’s gazing out the window like it’s his hope of heaven.
1300
More seizure activity in 445. Mr. Alvarez is turning into a challenge. Lucky for me, the hunk in 443 is quiet. I think he might actually have slept a little, but I’ve been too busy to notice much.
The yelling, however, gets my attention. “Becks, can you watch Juan while I see what the hell is going on next door?” Becky agrees; Mr. Alvarez is coming out of it and he’ll be quiet for a bit now. I wash my hands and put on my stern face. I recognize at least one voice. Phil Blalock. I went to school with him and he’s as much a bully now that he has a badge as he was back in the day. What a putz.
Angel-eyes is looking confused and tired and like maybe his analgesia is wearing off. Phil is leaning over him, getting down in his face, while his partner has taken up a position at the foot of the bed, leaving my patient well and truly trapped. “Don’t give me that ‘I can’t remember’ crap. I got a dead body with your blood on him and your fingerprints on the Louisville Slugger that clocked him. I got a witness who says he saw you beating Freddie Munoz to death. I got you, pal, so why don’t you start telling me….”
“Phil Blalock, just what the sam hell do you think you’re doing?” I wedge my fists into my hips and wish desperately I’d taken lunch when I could. I’m starving and the coffee I had at ten is wearing off and Phil is getting right up my nose with his attitude and his badge and his smirk. “You will come out of there and leave my patient alone, if you’re going to badger him like that.”
Phil glares at me and I can tell he’s about to pull out his badge and flash it around, but he knows it won’t work on me. I beat the snot out of him in eighth grade, when I caught him picking on my baby brother, Joey, and he hasn’t been able to stand up to me since. “Ruby,” he says, “I’m conducting official police business, here. You’re obstructing justice.” Holy cow, he’s going to try it anyway.
“I’m not obstructing anything. This man has no memory of how he was injured or how he came to be here or even who he is. Now why don’t you come outside and let him rest a bit and we can talk. When he’s able to, I’m sure he’ll give you a statement, won’t you?” I look to the embattled man in the bed, who nods gingerly.
“Of course. I want to be of assistance, if I’m able. I was just telling Officer Blalock….”
Phil snorts. “A line of bull, is what you were telling me. But I got time. You’re not going anywhere for a while. I’m posting an officer outside your door. Consider yourself under arrest, Mr. John Doe. For murder.”
I have to laugh. He’s trying so hard to be impressive and intimidating and just can’t quite pull it off. Not what that nose. He glares at me again and I stand aside to let him and his partner out of the room. Clint Pinza is an ok guy, even if he did come from Cicero. Maybe that’s why he can put up with Phil. Cicero could teach a saint to cuss. So could Phil. Clint gives me an apologetic look. “I tried to stop him, Rube. You know how he gets.”
“Yeah,” I say, and pat his arm. “I’ll be out in a minute.”
When they’ve gone, my patient looks a little more relaxed. “Thank you kindly, Ruby,” he says quietly. “Officer Blalock seems quite convinced of my guilt. I only wish I could remember what happened, to set both his mind and mine at rest.”
He actually thinks he might have killed this Munoz guy? “You got nothing to worry about, hon. Phil’s just being a dick.” I fish more happy-juice from my pocket and give him a small dose; it’s enough to ease the tense lines around his eyes, but not enough to make him loopy. “Get some sleep.”
I close his door and then take Phil by the ear and drag him into the break-room, Clint following behind us. “Ruby, what the hell…?” Phil jerks away from me and I take the opportunity to finally get a cup of coffee. “I could arrest you for assaulting a police officer, you know.”
The coffee is strong and bitter, but it quiets my empty stomach. I think longingly of my lunch and even more longingly of seven o’clock, when I get to finally end this crappy day. “Phil, that guy couldn’t have killed anyone and if you think a minute you’ll know I’m right. Now sit down, calm down, and get your head out of your ass.” I sit at the table and Clint joins me. A second later, Phil does too. “Thank you.”
Phil hates me. I have no idea why I agreed to marry him. It seemed like a good idea at the time. The divorce was a better one. “Ruby, you can’t….”
“He was handcuffed, Phil,” I say, cutting him off. “Someone handcuffed that guy and beat the shit out of him. They had him down on the ground kicking him for a while, from the boot prints on his back and legs, and his shoulders are almost dislocated, which means his hands were behind him. Add to that the fact that he’s got a pretty bad concussion, probably from getting hit with than damn bat. He wasn’t in any physical condition to defend himself, much less beat someone to death, so tell me darlin’, what evidence do you really have?”
“That’s what I’d like to know, too.” Out of nowhere, there’s a guy standing at the door, looking madder than hell and like he’s about to jump down Phil’s throat. He’s dancing a little on his toes, shifting and shuffling, like he’s fighting to stand still. “More than that, I’d like to know where Fraser is, so if someone could point the way we can clear this little messy mess up right pronto.”
That’s when the really weird part of my day happens. Out in the hall, a wolf starts howling.
The guy’s head whips around and then he looks back at me, kinda guilty. Not too guilty, though, because he’s gone like a shot, all that potential energy turned kinetic in an eyeblink.
When I catch up, Phil and Clint trailing behind me like ducklings, the guy is hovering over my patient, looking like he wants to climb into bed with him but is too afraid to actually touch him. He keeps making these darting, shifting, tentative moves with his hands and his face is a picture of regret. At his side, the prettiest dog I’ve ever seen is reared up on the bedrail and licking my patient’s hand. This earns a tiny smile and the guy with the spiky hair and wrinkled suit just calms right down.
His voice is soft and sad. “Jeeze, Frase. What the hell happened to you?” He reaches toward that bruised face, all stillness now, like he’s reaching toward some wild thing. To my surprise, he is allowed, and there is no flinching away from the tentative caress.
My angel looks up at this rumpled figure and the look in those blue eyes brings tears to mine. Hope and longing and memory and something like peace. “Ray?” he asks. “You’re Ray? My Ray?”
The guy grins all over when he hears this. “Yeah, Fraser. Your Ray. Your one and only Ray. You scared the hell out of me, Frase. Dief, too. He went a little nuts when they sent us your hat. Then I get a call telling me you’re here and I should go ahead and testify and as soon as I got out of court I got here.”
Angel-eyes, Fraser, looks down at the dog and scratches him tentatively behind the ears. “Dief. Diefenbaker. My wolf.” He looks up at his Ray and all the tension just fades away. For the first time all day, I can see he’s not in any pain. “My Ray. I remember you.” His hand moves from the wolf to the man, and they join hands through the bedrails. I think they’ve forgotten I’m here. I draw the curtain and go back out to the nurse’s station to chart, after I fix my make-up and blow my nose.
1900
“…so it turns out the witness Phil had was the one who killed Munoz and beat up Mr. Fraser. Phil and Clint picked him up and he confessed to everything. Munoz was the one who brought Mr. Fraser to the ER and after he got back the guy…” Bini’s looking very confused, so I cut it short. She doesn’t need to know all this. “Never mind. It was a drug gang thing. Anyway, they’re shipping Mr. Fraser back to Cook County tonight. His transfer paperwork is all done up and I’ve already called report. The ambulance should be here in a half-hour or so. Oh, and the wolf has permission to be here, so don’t try to throw him out.”
Bini’s warm brown face turns pensive and she looks to the drawn curtains of room 443 apprehensively. “A wolf? You are joking with me.” Her accent is a lovely lilting thing and she smells a little like the curry she brought for her supper.
“Nope. His name’s Diefenbaker and he’s apparently deaf, but he’s asleep right now. So’s Mr. Fraser. Poor guy’s had a very long day, but I think he’s going to be okay.”
I sign off my charts and stuff my stethoscope back in my backpack, digging out my emergency bag of granola to munch on during the drive home. Alan usually cooks on the nights I work, but I’m too hungry to wait. On the way out, I stop by Mr. Alvarez’ room. His wife is in with him, holding his hand and talking to him softly. I wave good-bye but don’t interrupt.
Mr. Fraser is awake after all, when I stick my head in. Ray is in much the same position as Mrs. Alvarez, but he’s resting his head on the bed, sound asleep. Mr. Fraser has his hand on Ray’s head, his fingers combing softly through the bush of spiky blond with an awkward tenderness.
Drifting, murmured, I hear, “But, dreary tho’ the moments fleet, O let me think we yet shall meet; that only ray of solace sweet….” His voice is a little scratchy, and soft, but he’s quoting Robert Burns and I think I love him a little just now.
His Ray of solace stirs a little and then looks up at him and smiles one of the sweetest smiles I’ve ever seen. I draw the curtain. Time to go home.
End
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I love stories that look at familiar characters through an OC's eyes, and this one is plausible and well-written.
I enjoyed it a lot. :-)
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Point of information, here: Ruby is NOT a Mary Sue, technically or otherwise. A Mary Sue is a specific type of character who is an idealized version of the author; she is also young (I think the original was teenaged), beautiful, super-intelligent, etc., and she swoops in and saves the day, usually with her hairpin, a la MacGyver. She also gets the author's favorite hero. Sometimes she gets to keep him; sometimes she dies tragically, usually in the act of saving everyone. The original was in a Star Trek story or essay (the first major media fandom to spawn widely published amateur fanfic as we know it) at least 30 years ago. In Star Trek fandom, back then, anyway, Mary Sue was well understood. One of the Trek spinoffs even included a male Mary Sue (sometimes called Marty Sue or Marty Stu) in canon, Wesley Crusher.
Mary Sue is not realistic. She's not three-dimensional. She's not imperfect. She's not interesting to anyone but the author. She's not a "witness" character. Your Ruby is all that. It doesn't matter if she really is an alter ego for you, because she's realistic and three-dimensional, and no one has to know if you feel she's a lot like you. We all put a lot of ourselves into all our characters, and that's not only okay, it's crucial if we're going to write them deeply and well. So Ruby's not so deep? Well, she's not supposed to be; that wouldn't fit the story. You put in enough detail to make her real and imperfect. She swears, she snarks because nobody called the police, she forgets to eat and gets tired and cross. Human.
I loved how Ruby didn't let on right away that Officer Blalock was her ex-husband. I loved how she thought of Fraser as "my angel." And I loved her teary-eyed reaction to seeing the love between Ray and Fraser. Adored her descriptions of Dief and Ray. And her reaction to hearing Fraser quote Robert Burns. Ray of solace! Awww...
A truly lovely piece...which is an ironic and neat trick, considering the horrible beating Fraser took and the murder, and Blalock's grilling of him, etc.
So I loved the story, and sorry about the rant, but it gets to me when I see authors put down their own work by using the "Mary Sue" term in error. It's fine to write female OCs. We should! You created a neat one here. Be proud. :)
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Yay for Ruby though - a strong female OC who, like any other woman I feel who might come across Fraser, is suitably (but not gooily) smitten.
Plus "You're my Ray" got me - keep up the good work.
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This was just lovely, and so well completed and formed, with enough detail about random things that the OC was doing, unrelated to Fraser, that you got a true idea of someone interacting with the DS characters. They are special and wonderful, but not the only things going on in your OC's day. That was very well done. Thanks.
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