A/N: A ficlet from the Surgeon verse. In which one Ami discovers that there are benefits, and drawbacks, to being admitted in the same hospital where one's friends are working. Warning for scenes involving brawls and emergency rooms.
Bed Number 8
One mystery of the universe, or at least one mystery that Combeferre, Joly, and a few other wise friends have given up on ever solving, is Remy Bahorel's predilection for all scenes bloody and chaotic. Every one of his friends has his or her own theory, ranging from an unvoiced death wish, to a love for the sensational, or to a knack for conflict. 'Sometimes it's just simply bad timing,' Bahorel decides one late night as he's sitting on the curb just outside a rough pub, waiting for the now familiar whine of ambulance sirens.
He grits his teeth as he presses a handkerchief to his wounded right hand, glancing now and then at the increasingly large crimson stains on the fabric. Although he's sure that he's twisted his right ankle and acquired a new collection of bruises all over his face, he's most worried about the gash that stretches across the back of his hand. 'At least I'm not really in danger of exsanguination,' he reassures himself. Nevertheless he knows that if he does not seek medical attention, he may be in danger of losing some function of his hand. It is this thought that keeps him rooted to his seat regardless of what he knows will transpire in the next two or three minutes.
It is only a matter of seconds before an ambulance tears up the street and comes to a stop a few feet away. The door pops open and a paramedic leaps out, looking as if he rolled out of the shower instead of the emergency room. "Nice to see you, Bahorel," he greets. "Should have been on a different day of the week though."
"Tell that to the other fellows in there. It might make them think twice about ganging up on someone in the washroom," Bahorel says, jerking the thumb of his uninjured hand towards the doorway. "Can't you bring me elsewhere, Voisin?"
"Uh-uh, doctors' orders," the paramedic replies cheekily. "Now let me check you over. Nothing broken?"
"Probably not," Bahorel answers. He's gone through this questioning so many times before, almost to the point he can make a comedy sketch out of it. Perhaps that will be something to play out this Christmas, when he and his friends can find time to celebrate. All thoughts of this are rapidly abandoned when Voisin prods his injured leg, making him cuss up a storm all the way till he is carefully lifted into the ambulance.
In a few minutes the ambulance nears the all too familiar entrance to the emergency room of the Saint-Michel Hospital. Even in the dark Bahorel notices that there is a strange paucity of other ambulances and vehicles in the driveway and parking lot. "Looks like a slow night," Bahorel quips as Voisin helps him into a wheelchair.
"Yes and you get the doctor's special attention, you lucky jerk," Voisin retorts.
"Hah! That was already monopolized a long time ago by a friend of mine," Bahorel retorts.
Voisin sighs resignedly as he helps push Bahorel's wheelchair up the ramp and into the doorway. "Is Bed Number 8 still free, Doctor Thenardier?" he calls.
The resident on duty takes one look at the newcomers and rolls her eyes. "Get him there," Eponine says as she picks up her green stethoscope and a dark red belt bag. "You broke your longest streak yet. Two weeks and five days," she deadpans as she sets down these things at the bedside.
"It probably wasn't going to last past the weekend anyway," Bahorel says as he makes himself comfortable on the soft foam mattress. "It's a triple birthday over at the office on Friday."
"You're starting to sound like Bossuet," Eponine points out as she shines her penlight into his eyes to check his pupils. She chews on her lip as she finishes examining his head. "At least it doesn't appear as if you've broken anything in your face."
"Lucky me."
"No, you just have a hard head."
Bahorel groans dramatically when he hears the rest of the emergency room staff snicker at the surgeon's retort. "You break my soft heart, Eponine," he says, flinging a hand to his head till he feels the sting from his wound. "Do I have to be brought into the operating room for this?"
Eponine quickly inspects her friend's injured hand. "It's shallow. I'll stitch it up."
"Right here?" Bahorel splutters.
"Yes, like every other time before that," Eponine deadpans. "No jokes about operating room privileges, or I just might decide to forego the anesthesia."
"Isn't that already a cruel and unusual procedure?" Bahorel asks, even if he knows perfectly well that Eponine is just joking. Just as he expects, Eponine doesn't dignify this remark but instead proceeds to grill him about the details of the incident and ask about his other injures. 'Professional to a T,' he thinks, almost regretting that she has shifted so quickly into the role of attending physician instead of long-suffering friend.
She sighs deeply as she finishes her questioning and history-taking. "I'm going to have to call your boss."
"Does he have to know?" Bahorel hisses.
"You're the one who listed Enjolras as your emergency contact, and anyway he asked me, Combeferre, Navet, and even Joly and Musichetta to inform him if this sort of thing happens," Eponine explains seriously. "He has to know too since that ankle of yours will put you out of commission, or at least behind your desk, for a few days."
The idea is enough to make Bahorel cringe such that he almost does not notice when Eponine calls for some materials to clean out and stitch up his injured hand. He swears explosively when he feels a wad of wet gauze against his wound. "I thought you were going to numb it!"
"I can't do it without cleaning it out a little first," Eponine says. "Watch your language by the way; there are children in here."
This time Bahorel wants to hide his face as he hears more of the nurses and even some of the female patients laughing. It does not help that many of them are pretty, though all of them pale beside his friend. He grits his teeth at the familiar sting of anesthesia getting under his skin. "Don't you ever get tired of this, Doc?"
She shakes her head. "I never get bored, especially when I'm on ER duty."
"I never imagined you as a thrill-seeker," Bahorel remarks. Inasmuch as he hates to verbalize it, his friends know that he cannot go for long without feeling that rush of adrenaline in his veins. His only trouble is that he is not good at mopping up the consequences.
"It's not a usual kind of thrill," Eponine replies. She carefully opens a foil packet that he already knows to be a length of nylon suture, already threaded into a curved needle. "It doesn't get your heart pumping all the time."
"Sounds boring, no offense."
"It's enough to make me sleep better at night."
Bahorel nods before looking away as Eponine begins to stitch up the injury. The fact that she's still up to do this is probably an explanation enough.