SPN Fic: Upstairs and Downstairs
Title: Upstairs and Downstairs (In His Nightgown)
Characters: Dean, John, OFC
Genre: Gen, h/c
Rating: PG-13 for some language
Word count: 3038
Spoilers: None
Summary: Written for the current comment-fic meme at hoodie_time, with a couple of prompts in mind.
Disclaimer: I am not, and have never been, an actual medical student. Inaccuracies may abound.
It was inevitable as soon as she finally took advantage of the empty stool in the nurse's station and sat down for just a few minutes. Rubbed her temples, wiggled the toes she's pretty sure are turning to dead meat inside her “comfortable” tennis shoes. (Comfortable, her ass. Second day on this rotation, and she's already got three blisters. Tomorrow, she promises herself, first thing, she's taking them back.)
She's trying to act busy, fiddling with the folder someone's left open on the counter, but Angelina has an eye for that kind of thing. She knows.
“We've got a clinger in 318. You wanna go give him a hand out, honey?”
She grimaces at the patronizing term of endearment - seriously, her own mother wouldn't dream of calling her that. If it's against policy to address patients as “sweetie” or “darling” or “sugar,” why does Angelina get to do it to her? But she's new here, and Angelina has the badge that says she gets to call her nurses whatever she damn well pleases, and so she just says, “Sure.” She wonders how much blood is pooling in her socks as she stands up. Reminds herself to sneak into the bathroom for a second later on to check.
One thing's certain. If she's going to keep on doubling as bouncer every time some relative decides constant 24-hour conversation and illegal brownies are the best medicine for their seriously injured family member - well, the hospital better be paying her overtime, that's all.
Right.
Who's she kidding? It's just what she gets for being five foot eleven and three quarters, and a (totally-exploitable) newbie.
- - - - - - - - -
318 turns out to be the scruffy-bearded guy who came up from the ER a couple of nights ago with a mess of broken ribs, two third-degree burns, and a couple of weird gashes that don't quite look like they were made by any animal she's ever heard of. Certainly not any that frequent western Connecticut, but he's got a story about a hunting accident and a forest fire and he's sticking to it, blaze-free weather report or not. She doesn't care, really. Her job is keeping his pain down and watching for infection, and anything else is emphatically none of her business.
Scratch that. Her job has one more responsibility: getting the mess of microbes parked at the foot of the bed out of her patient's immediate vicinity.
As soon as she sees him, she realizes her size isn't what got her this assignment after all, because this guy - he's not going to be hard to manage. He's the color of sour milk, barely older than her kid brother, and he looks like a well-placed slap might knock him onto the floor.
He's crouched in the chair like the whole world's raining around him, and he's doing his best to keep the cold drops from sliding down his collar. It doesn't help that the loose hospital gown he's wearing doesn't actually have a collar, let alone a back. He's put a pair of thick yellow socks she recognizes from the generic hospital supply on his feet, as if that makes him officially Dressed to Receive Visitors - or, in this case, to visit his friend with the mysterious injuries, who, being unconscious, isn't really getting much out of the visit except exposure to what she guesses from the boy's ragged breathing is pneumonia.
Yep, just what the doctor ordered for the infection-vulnerable trauma cases.
“Sir?” she asks tentatively, because it's always best to start out polite and diplomatic. Though if Angelina's calling him a “clinger,” someone's probably already tried that.
He doesn't answer, just shakes his head vehemently, anticipating her question. A cough rattles out through his faintly blue lips.
“Your name is … ?” She twists her head to peer at the paper bracelet on his arm. Eric Walsh, it reads.
“Dean,” he whispers.
Okay. Maybe she guessed the wrong department. It's looking less and less like Respiratory, more and more like Psych. She's already fingering the pager in her pocket.
“Dean? Your bracelet says Eric,” she points out. He does a double take at that, squints at the print on his arm through watery eyes, as though he's just seen it. After a moment, he seems to deflate.
“Yeah. Eric,” he agrees listlessly, not even bothering to explain or argue, and she decides to let it go.
“Listen, Eric,” she tells him, “is this your … ” she does some quick guesswork and mental math in her head, “dad?” He nods, not taking his eyes off the figure stretched full length on the bed. “Okay then. We're going to take good care of him, he's doing fine, but you're gonna need to leave for now, all right?”
“No,” he croaks, stiffening. She can see the germs burning under his flushed cheeks.
“Hon - Eric, he's okay, really. But we've got to make sure he doesn't get an infection, and having somebody sick around is going to put him in danger. Okay? I'm sorry,” she says as his eyes get big and his bottom lip goes under, quivering, but this kid really needs to be in a bed somewhere. Specifically, she's pretty sure, one floor up. Just as she's getting ready to pull out the big guns and threaten to call security, Beatrice pokes her head around the door.
“Got a call from Respiratory; have we seen one of their pneumonias? Angelina said we had someone in here looking kind of peaky.”
“I think we've found him,” she says.
“Okey-doke, then,” Beatrice says, and takes over. “Would you mind coming with me, sir? I've got an awful nice guy upstairs with a bed and some oxygen waiting for you.” She takes Eric's arm and gently touches the raw red mark in the crook of his elbow. “I'd suggest you don't make a habit of pulling out IVs, okay? You'll ruin your skin, for one thing. And take it from me, that'd be a real shame.”
Eric doesn't smile. His face is that special pale that's so absent in color the eye creates weird shades to fill the void: in this light, he looks a sick sap green (she took watercolor in college; the only class she got an A in all junior year. Brad happened that year). His face contorts, and his breathing hitches, and for a second or two she's about to grab an emesis bag from the canister on the wall, because the last thing she needs to do is clean up puke off of the floor and change all the sheets for the second time today.
Instead, he asks hoarsely, “Is he gonna be all right?” He's looking straight at her. She nods.
“I promise.” As long as you leave him alone, sweetie.
One yellow toe scratches against the opposite shin, rubbing the cuff of the sock up and down on his hairy ankle.
“Okay,” he agrees finally, and Beatrice beams.
She's going to have to get Beatrice to teach her that authoritative thing some time. She's getting the sense it'll come in handy.
- - - - - - - - - - -
The next night, he's back.
Paula reports that he showed up about fifteen minutes before she came on shift, which means they've intentionally left him for her again. Great. She grits her teeth and heads down to 318, praying established procedure will prove successful. As soon as he leaves, she's calling Respiratory and recommending that they start keeping closer tabs on their dangerously ill adolescents.
To make matters worse? These new shoes aren't any better than the ones she took back.
At first, she thinks he's left already, but the relief is quickly replaced by alarm when she realizes he's just pulled the chair up closer to the bed. He's bent forward over the older man, his forehead resting lightly on the sheets. From the doorway, she can see his shoulders trembling underneath the dark hooded sweatshirt he's wearing (his new method of escape is revealed, though the disguise won't work a second time - she hopes. The socks, on the other hand, he hasn't changed, though they're considerably dirtier than yesterday).
“Eric.” He flinches, raises his head, color mounting to a deep red as he coughs. “We went over this yesterday, didn't we?” she asks, as gently as she can. He nods miserably.
“Well, you've seen him now. He's okay. I'm keeping a close eye on him. Why don't you go get some sleep, all right?”
That's a negative from Eric. Well, a girl can always try.
“Listen, Eric, I'm going to have to call Respiratory and have them come get you if you won't leave.” She brandishes her pager like a phaser, set on Gently Tear Apart.
“It's my fault,” Eric informs her.
His fault that his father's chest is crushed, hands are burnt, side is sliced across by an unidentified animal? Either this kid is one seriously awful hunter, or he's got the worst case of survivor guilt she's ever seen from a venison-related accident. Also, she's pretty sure he's getting both snot and tears on the sheets, and that needs to stop now.
“First rule of hunting,” he's mumbling between coughs, “y'stay on the same page as y'r partner. And y'don't go out half-assed. Idiot,” he concludes, wiping his eyes with the heel of his hand (and sure enough, she can see a fresh, angry red mark on the back of his wrist).
Time to take control of this situation, all right. She steels herself for the plunge, gets ready to go all Beatrice-mode on this poor bastard's sorry ass.
But Elisha Walsh beats her to it.
“Dean.”
The voice is so quiet she doesn't realize where it's coming from for a second or two. Then she sees the legs shifting underneath the sheets, and hears the slight increase in heart rate from the monitor behind the bed. Eric, on the other hand, freezes immediately, mid-wipe, closes his mouth on the last shaking cough as if in an effort to shut off any and all sounds except for his father's rough, exhaustion-tinged voice.
“Dad?” he whispers.
The man coughs. Groans, his ribs creaking and clattering together underneath the bandages. He's got a hefty dose of morphine feeding into his IV, but there's some pain that just doesn't get washed out by medication.
“Shut up and go to bed. Can't sleep with you coughing,” he mutters without opening his eyes.
And with that, he's out. She can tell, even from here.
And Eric crumples.
She can feel the heat of the fever radiating off him as he lets her maneuver him into a wheelchair in the corridor. He's silent through the elevator ride up, doesn't react to the frustrated exclamations of the nursing staff on fourth, barely seems to notice the needles going back in as they reconnect him to the trailing threads of machinery he left behind. And then he disappears behind an oxygen mask, and all she can see are his eyes, mute and green and so exhausted they look ringed with bruises.
She takes back what she thought about him looking almost as young as her brother. He looks younger. He looks eight.
So far, it's one hell of a cheerful third night.
- - - - - - - - -
A week goes by, and her shoes finally stop wearing holes in her feet. She's working on Beatrice's Method for Achieving Mastery Over the Stubborn, and she thinks she might actually be getting the hang of it. Angelina seems to think so, because she hasn't called her “sweetie” in at least three days. Things on Trauma are definitely looking up. Who knows - maybe, just maybe, she's cut out to be a nurse after all.
And when the bed by the window in 318 suddenly turns up empty one day, she's got a fairly good idea of where to look for her missing mystery hunter.
Room 427 is glazed with sunlight; there's no sign of the rainstorm that came through the day before and churned the trees around until she was surprised none of them simply snapped into instant kindling (she imagined pines exploding into the angry darkness, branches blowing off like fluff from a dandelion). That was all yesterday, and today it's just washed-out cerulean sky, fresh March wind so clean it's like the world's been brushed with mint toothpaste, and pale, brilliant sunlight that fills the whole room without even trying.
The man slumped in the chair at the foot of the bed looks cobbled together, unshaved and half bandages, face so haggard he looks about ten years older than the 47 that's down on his charts. Unlike his son, though, he's managed to get together enough clothing to look at least like a reasonably respectable hobo. He's even wearing a pair of muddy boots under the dark robe. This, she recognizes, is not a man who wanders through hospitals in complimentary yellow socks.
He looks like he's asleep, but before she can open her mouth he puts up a hand, forestalls the inevitable question.
“Shhh. He's sleeping.”
She looks at the bed, at Eric sprawled against the pillows, cheeks flaming and bruised eyelids shut, a thousand freckles standing out tense and precise in the sparkling daylight. The oxygen mask is off, but there's still a nasal cannula slung around his upper lip. She can see his mouth moving gently, almost forming words but without the air to mumble.
“You should get back in bed,” she tells Mr. Walsh. He nods, but doesn't make any move to get up, just sits watching his son's face as if Bed and Rest and Staying Away from Germs While Recovering can wait for another hour or two. “He's asleep,” she reminds him. “He won't know you're gone.”
“Really?” he asks, a wry smile twisting his mouth. “I'm not so sure.”
But he stands up, wincing a little as the torn muscles work, and follows her out of the room. As they approach the elevator, he turns aside for a minute to lean over the counter.
“My son's in 427,” he tells her. “When he wakes up, you call me. Room 318.” He waits for her to agree (to accept the order, really), then turns back to the elevator door.
“Guess you've got me for another hour or so.”
- - - - - - - - - -
Wednesdays are the worst days of the week. Just far enough in for the stress to have built to breaking point, but not far enough that you can console yourself with the thought of a weekend just around the corner. Besides, she's always had a superstition about Wednesdays (“Wednesday's child is full of woe,” her mother always said, and she was born on a Wednesday - her mother is maternal and caring like that), so finding Mr. Walsh missing for the fourth time in thirty-six hours - well, she could do with a little less of it, is all.
The head nurse in Respiratory actually smirks when he sees her, as if it's her fault his patient's started this floor-to-floor hide-and-seek session. She ignores him and heads for 427 without a word.
Eric's awake this time, slumped back with his head tipped to one side as though it's too much effort to keep it up. His complexion isn't looking a lot better, but he's off the oxygen, and the lines of tension cut deep in his face are softening a little.
He catches sight of her, and grins. She's surprised at how the smile seems to take command of his face, give it a life she hasn't seen in it yet. He looks about five, and incredibly pleased with himself.
“Hey,” he rasps. “I remember you.”
His father looks up. “I'm out past curfew, huh?” he remarks mildly.
“Yeah,” she tells him, “sorry.”
“No, it's good,” he says, and puts his hand on his knees to get up, tensing for the pain that's coming.
While she waits, she turns her attention back to Eric. “You're looking better,” she tells him.
“Got all my uncommon good looks back?” he inquires, all innocent green doe-eyes and wicked lashes.
“Less snot, anyway,” she returns brightly before she realizes she's said it, and he wilts a little.
“Gee, you're a charmer,” he says, blinking wearily.
“Glad you're feeling better,” she amends, hiding a smile at his disappointment.
He grunts.
“Dean, just go to sleep,” Mr. Walsh commands. The purplish eyes close instantly, as though they've been waiting for those words, for permission to step down from attention.
She has to ask it.
“Dean?”
The hazel eyes stare straight into hers, steady and unflinching.
“His middle name. After a great-uncle on his mother's side. She always liked it better.”
There's something lurking here, right under the surface, as though if she really looked she could make out its shape through the glimmering afternoon light. Those claw marks aren't made by anything she's ever heard of, and she knows quite a lot about what an animal can do to a man's body: she spent a whole year in Colorado, working as an EMT with the park service. People don't go out hunting during thunderstorms in March, people don't get burned in forest fires that never happened, and Eric doesn't seem to know his name is Eric Walsh.
But those eyes are still fixed on her face, absolutely impenetrable, and suddenly she feels very much that whatever it is hiding underneath that paper-thin surface, she doesn't want to touch it. It's Wednesday, and her feet hurt, and some things -
Well, she's been in the business long enough to know that some things are better left alone.
Characters: Dean, John, OFC
Genre: Gen, h/c
Rating: PG-13 for some language
Word count: 3038
Spoilers: None
Summary: Written for the current comment-fic meme at hoodie_time, with a couple of prompts in mind.
Disclaimer: I am not, and have never been, an actual medical student. Inaccuracies may abound.
It was inevitable as soon as she finally took advantage of the empty stool in the nurse's station and sat down for just a few minutes. Rubbed her temples, wiggled the toes she's pretty sure are turning to dead meat inside her “comfortable” tennis shoes. (Comfortable, her ass. Second day on this rotation, and she's already got three blisters. Tomorrow, she promises herself, first thing, she's taking them back.)
She's trying to act busy, fiddling with the folder someone's left open on the counter, but Angelina has an eye for that kind of thing. She knows.
“We've got a clinger in 318. You wanna go give him a hand out, honey?”
She grimaces at the patronizing term of endearment - seriously, her own mother wouldn't dream of calling her that. If it's against policy to address patients as “sweetie” or “darling” or “sugar,” why does Angelina get to do it to her? But she's new here, and Angelina has the badge that says she gets to call her nurses whatever she damn well pleases, and so she just says, “Sure.” She wonders how much blood is pooling in her socks as she stands up. Reminds herself to sneak into the bathroom for a second later on to check.
One thing's certain. If she's going to keep on doubling as bouncer every time some relative decides constant 24-hour conversation and illegal brownies are the best medicine for their seriously injured family member - well, the hospital better be paying her overtime, that's all.
Right.
Who's she kidding? It's just what she gets for being five foot eleven and three quarters, and a (totally-exploitable) newbie.
- - - - - - - - -
318 turns out to be the scruffy-bearded guy who came up from the ER a couple of nights ago with a mess of broken ribs, two third-degree burns, and a couple of weird gashes that don't quite look like they were made by any animal she's ever heard of. Certainly not any that frequent western Connecticut, but he's got a story about a hunting accident and a forest fire and he's sticking to it, blaze-free weather report or not. She doesn't care, really. Her job is keeping his pain down and watching for infection, and anything else is emphatically none of her business.
Scratch that. Her job has one more responsibility: getting the mess of microbes parked at the foot of the bed out of her patient's immediate vicinity.
As soon as she sees him, she realizes her size isn't what got her this assignment after all, because this guy - he's not going to be hard to manage. He's the color of sour milk, barely older than her kid brother, and he looks like a well-placed slap might knock him onto the floor.
He's crouched in the chair like the whole world's raining around him, and he's doing his best to keep the cold drops from sliding down his collar. It doesn't help that the loose hospital gown he's wearing doesn't actually have a collar, let alone a back. He's put a pair of thick yellow socks she recognizes from the generic hospital supply on his feet, as if that makes him officially Dressed to Receive Visitors - or, in this case, to visit his friend with the mysterious injuries, who, being unconscious, isn't really getting much out of the visit except exposure to what she guesses from the boy's ragged breathing is pneumonia.
Yep, just what the doctor ordered for the infection-vulnerable trauma cases.
“Sir?” she asks tentatively, because it's always best to start out polite and diplomatic. Though if Angelina's calling him a “clinger,” someone's probably already tried that.
He doesn't answer, just shakes his head vehemently, anticipating her question. A cough rattles out through his faintly blue lips.
“Your name is … ?” She twists her head to peer at the paper bracelet on his arm. Eric Walsh, it reads.
“Dean,” he whispers.
Okay. Maybe she guessed the wrong department. It's looking less and less like Respiratory, more and more like Psych. She's already fingering the pager in her pocket.
“Dean? Your bracelet says Eric,” she points out. He does a double take at that, squints at the print on his arm through watery eyes, as though he's just seen it. After a moment, he seems to deflate.
“Yeah. Eric,” he agrees listlessly, not even bothering to explain or argue, and she decides to let it go.
“Listen, Eric,” she tells him, “is this your … ” she does some quick guesswork and mental math in her head, “dad?” He nods, not taking his eyes off the figure stretched full length on the bed. “Okay then. We're going to take good care of him, he's doing fine, but you're gonna need to leave for now, all right?”
“No,” he croaks, stiffening. She can see the germs burning under his flushed cheeks.
“Hon - Eric, he's okay, really. But we've got to make sure he doesn't get an infection, and having somebody sick around is going to put him in danger. Okay? I'm sorry,” she says as his eyes get big and his bottom lip goes under, quivering, but this kid really needs to be in a bed somewhere. Specifically, she's pretty sure, one floor up. Just as she's getting ready to pull out the big guns and threaten to call security, Beatrice pokes her head around the door.
“Got a call from Respiratory; have we seen one of their pneumonias? Angelina said we had someone in here looking kind of peaky.”
“I think we've found him,” she says.
“Okey-doke, then,” Beatrice says, and takes over. “Would you mind coming with me, sir? I've got an awful nice guy upstairs with a bed and some oxygen waiting for you.” She takes Eric's arm and gently touches the raw red mark in the crook of his elbow. “I'd suggest you don't make a habit of pulling out IVs, okay? You'll ruin your skin, for one thing. And take it from me, that'd be a real shame.”
Eric doesn't smile. His face is that special pale that's so absent in color the eye creates weird shades to fill the void: in this light, he looks a sick sap green (she took watercolor in college; the only class she got an A in all junior year. Brad happened that year). His face contorts, and his breathing hitches, and for a second or two she's about to grab an emesis bag from the canister on the wall, because the last thing she needs to do is clean up puke off of the floor and change all the sheets for the second time today.
Instead, he asks hoarsely, “Is he gonna be all right?” He's looking straight at her. She nods.
“I promise.” As long as you leave him alone, sweetie.
One yellow toe scratches against the opposite shin, rubbing the cuff of the sock up and down on his hairy ankle.
“Okay,” he agrees finally, and Beatrice beams.
She's going to have to get Beatrice to teach her that authoritative thing some time. She's getting the sense it'll come in handy.
- - - - - - - - - - -
The next night, he's back.
Paula reports that he showed up about fifteen minutes before she came on shift, which means they've intentionally left him for her again. Great. She grits her teeth and heads down to 318, praying established procedure will prove successful. As soon as he leaves, she's calling Respiratory and recommending that they start keeping closer tabs on their dangerously ill adolescents.
To make matters worse? These new shoes aren't any better than the ones she took back.
At first, she thinks he's left already, but the relief is quickly replaced by alarm when she realizes he's just pulled the chair up closer to the bed. He's bent forward over the older man, his forehead resting lightly on the sheets. From the doorway, she can see his shoulders trembling underneath the dark hooded sweatshirt he's wearing (his new method of escape is revealed, though the disguise won't work a second time - she hopes. The socks, on the other hand, he hasn't changed, though they're considerably dirtier than yesterday).
“Eric.” He flinches, raises his head, color mounting to a deep red as he coughs. “We went over this yesterday, didn't we?” she asks, as gently as she can. He nods miserably.
“Well, you've seen him now. He's okay. I'm keeping a close eye on him. Why don't you go get some sleep, all right?”
That's a negative from Eric. Well, a girl can always try.
“Listen, Eric, I'm going to have to call Respiratory and have them come get you if you won't leave.” She brandishes her pager like a phaser, set on Gently Tear Apart.
“It's my fault,” Eric informs her.
His fault that his father's chest is crushed, hands are burnt, side is sliced across by an unidentified animal? Either this kid is one seriously awful hunter, or he's got the worst case of survivor guilt she's ever seen from a venison-related accident. Also, she's pretty sure he's getting both snot and tears on the sheets, and that needs to stop now.
“First rule of hunting,” he's mumbling between coughs, “y'stay on the same page as y'r partner. And y'don't go out half-assed. Idiot,” he concludes, wiping his eyes with the heel of his hand (and sure enough, she can see a fresh, angry red mark on the back of his wrist).
Time to take control of this situation, all right. She steels herself for the plunge, gets ready to go all Beatrice-mode on this poor bastard's sorry ass.
But Elisha Walsh beats her to it.
“Dean.”
The voice is so quiet she doesn't realize where it's coming from for a second or two. Then she sees the legs shifting underneath the sheets, and hears the slight increase in heart rate from the monitor behind the bed. Eric, on the other hand, freezes immediately, mid-wipe, closes his mouth on the last shaking cough as if in an effort to shut off any and all sounds except for his father's rough, exhaustion-tinged voice.
“Dad?” he whispers.
The man coughs. Groans, his ribs creaking and clattering together underneath the bandages. He's got a hefty dose of morphine feeding into his IV, but there's some pain that just doesn't get washed out by medication.
“Shut up and go to bed. Can't sleep with you coughing,” he mutters without opening his eyes.
And with that, he's out. She can tell, even from here.
And Eric crumples.
She can feel the heat of the fever radiating off him as he lets her maneuver him into a wheelchair in the corridor. He's silent through the elevator ride up, doesn't react to the frustrated exclamations of the nursing staff on fourth, barely seems to notice the needles going back in as they reconnect him to the trailing threads of machinery he left behind. And then he disappears behind an oxygen mask, and all she can see are his eyes, mute and green and so exhausted they look ringed with bruises.
She takes back what she thought about him looking almost as young as her brother. He looks younger. He looks eight.
So far, it's one hell of a cheerful third night.
- - - - - - - - -
A week goes by, and her shoes finally stop wearing holes in her feet. She's working on Beatrice's Method for Achieving Mastery Over the Stubborn, and she thinks she might actually be getting the hang of it. Angelina seems to think so, because she hasn't called her “sweetie” in at least three days. Things on Trauma are definitely looking up. Who knows - maybe, just maybe, she's cut out to be a nurse after all.
And when the bed by the window in 318 suddenly turns up empty one day, she's got a fairly good idea of where to look for her missing mystery hunter.
Room 427 is glazed with sunlight; there's no sign of the rainstorm that came through the day before and churned the trees around until she was surprised none of them simply snapped into instant kindling (she imagined pines exploding into the angry darkness, branches blowing off like fluff from a dandelion). That was all yesterday, and today it's just washed-out cerulean sky, fresh March wind so clean it's like the world's been brushed with mint toothpaste, and pale, brilliant sunlight that fills the whole room without even trying.
The man slumped in the chair at the foot of the bed looks cobbled together, unshaved and half bandages, face so haggard he looks about ten years older than the 47 that's down on his charts. Unlike his son, though, he's managed to get together enough clothing to look at least like a reasonably respectable hobo. He's even wearing a pair of muddy boots under the dark robe. This, she recognizes, is not a man who wanders through hospitals in complimentary yellow socks.
He looks like he's asleep, but before she can open her mouth he puts up a hand, forestalls the inevitable question.
“Shhh. He's sleeping.”
She looks at the bed, at Eric sprawled against the pillows, cheeks flaming and bruised eyelids shut, a thousand freckles standing out tense and precise in the sparkling daylight. The oxygen mask is off, but there's still a nasal cannula slung around his upper lip. She can see his mouth moving gently, almost forming words but without the air to mumble.
“You should get back in bed,” she tells Mr. Walsh. He nods, but doesn't make any move to get up, just sits watching his son's face as if Bed and Rest and Staying Away from Germs While Recovering can wait for another hour or two. “He's asleep,” she reminds him. “He won't know you're gone.”
“Really?” he asks, a wry smile twisting his mouth. “I'm not so sure.”
But he stands up, wincing a little as the torn muscles work, and follows her out of the room. As they approach the elevator, he turns aside for a minute to lean over the counter.
“My son's in 427,” he tells her. “When he wakes up, you call me. Room 318.” He waits for her to agree (to accept the order, really), then turns back to the elevator door.
“Guess you've got me for another hour or so.”
- - - - - - - - - -
Wednesdays are the worst days of the week. Just far enough in for the stress to have built to breaking point, but not far enough that you can console yourself with the thought of a weekend just around the corner. Besides, she's always had a superstition about Wednesdays (“Wednesday's child is full of woe,” her mother always said, and she was born on a Wednesday - her mother is maternal and caring like that), so finding Mr. Walsh missing for the fourth time in thirty-six hours - well, she could do with a little less of it, is all.
The head nurse in Respiratory actually smirks when he sees her, as if it's her fault his patient's started this floor-to-floor hide-and-seek session. She ignores him and heads for 427 without a word.
Eric's awake this time, slumped back with his head tipped to one side as though it's too much effort to keep it up. His complexion isn't looking a lot better, but he's off the oxygen, and the lines of tension cut deep in his face are softening a little.
He catches sight of her, and grins. She's surprised at how the smile seems to take command of his face, give it a life she hasn't seen in it yet. He looks about five, and incredibly pleased with himself.
“Hey,” he rasps. “I remember you.”
His father looks up. “I'm out past curfew, huh?” he remarks mildly.
“Yeah,” she tells him, “sorry.”
“No, it's good,” he says, and puts his hand on his knees to get up, tensing for the pain that's coming.
While she waits, she turns her attention back to Eric. “You're looking better,” she tells him.
“Got all my uncommon good looks back?” he inquires, all innocent green doe-eyes and wicked lashes.
“Less snot, anyway,” she returns brightly before she realizes she's said it, and he wilts a little.
“Gee, you're a charmer,” he says, blinking wearily.
“Glad you're feeling better,” she amends, hiding a smile at his disappointment.
He grunts.
“Dean, just go to sleep,” Mr. Walsh commands. The purplish eyes close instantly, as though they've been waiting for those words, for permission to step down from attention.
She has to ask it.
“Dean?”
The hazel eyes stare straight into hers, steady and unflinching.
“His middle name. After a great-uncle on his mother's side. She always liked it better.”
There's something lurking here, right under the surface, as though if she really looked she could make out its shape through the glimmering afternoon light. Those claw marks aren't made by anything she's ever heard of, and she knows quite a lot about what an animal can do to a man's body: she spent a whole year in Colorado, working as an EMT with the park service. People don't go out hunting during thunderstorms in March, people don't get burned in forest fires that never happened, and Eric doesn't seem to know his name is Eric Walsh.
But those eyes are still fixed on her face, absolutely impenetrable, and suddenly she feels very much that whatever it is hiding underneath that paper-thin surface, she doesn't want to touch it. It's Wednesday, and her feet hurt, and some things -
Well, she's been in the business long enough to know that some things are better left alone.