Safety in Numbers
Yeah, we know how it goes, right? No ownership in psych, not even a grain of sand in the playground. Just having a bit of fun, especially with the finale looming.
"And did you, at any time, lose consciousness, Detective?"
Carlton tried to glare at the officious little resident who'd been poking and prodding and asking the same damned questions as the admissions nurse and the tech and he thought, maybe even the janitor might have stopped by, but he was somewhat foggy on that last one. Glaring was rendered difficult, however, what with Nurse Ratched picking out the shards of glass he'd missed earlier and mercilessly swabbing at the small cuts with something that stung like a mother, not to mention, Karen Vick, sitting quietly in a corner, watchful as a hawk.
And why was she there anyway? Did she think he was going to try to sneak out the back before he could be assessed or something?
Never mind the idea had occurred to him. Moment of weakness in the station aside—admitting out loud that he might need to see a doctor, prompting a startled glance from Henry—it hadn't really been an issue. Not really. He'd had headaches before. And nausea. Admittedly, usually due to a hangover, but that was neither here nor there, really.
And if he swayed a little—okay, a lot—when he walked, well, it wasn't so bad he hadn't been able to finish out the case, side-by-side with O'Hara, weapon steady. If afterward he'd felt maybe a bit worse, taken more than a few deep breaths to keep from losing his lunch, well then, he'd have the weekend to recover, wouldn't he? No need for Vick to be there, nailing him with that dark, inscrutable gaze that kept him firmly planted on the examination table, was there?
No, there wasn't, dammit. But nooooo, they'd just ushered her right on in after him—thankfully, after he'd changed into the stupid gown—without question. Like they recognized her natural authority. Or, God forbid, thought she… cared or something.
Right.
Yeah, natural authority.
"Detective?"
Train of thought. Whistling a mocking tune as it left the station.
Carlton forced himself to focus, struggling to remember what the doctor—Nowitzki, according to the name embroidered on the white coat worn over scrubs—had asked.
"I…"
"Detective, did you, at any time, lose consciousness?"
Judging by the smarmy little bastard's tone, he already knew the answer. Carlton debated not saying anything at all. Even debated lying.
But he couldn't.
Not just because it went against everything in which he believed, but because he couldn't shake the sense that that dark gaze studying him from the corner would be able to see right through any bullshit attempts at subterfuge.
And you know, he simply didn't have the energy.
"I'm not sure," he finally admitted with a frustrated sigh.
He could easily recall the sound of O'Hara's voice as she spoke to Spencer in the moments before the crash informing him they'd apprehended the correct perp. Recalled her obvious pride that she was finally righting a wrong—even if it meant admitting Spencer had been, God help them, right.
Could recall the jarring shock of the impact and sickening screech of metal against metal. Felt searing pain shooting through his side, the glass shards raining across his skin, and the explosive force of the airbag as it slammed into his chest and face. Recalled a brief moment of terror as he tried to move and couldn't before realizing it was the seatbelt holding him hostage. And somewhere in those few seconds of chaos, he could recall… nothing.
Just blackness and a dizzying sense of disorientation as commotion resumed.
"If it was, it was only for a couple seconds."
"That's all it takes," Dr. Nowitzki replied, scribbling on his clipboard.
"For what?"
Both Carlton and Nowitzki turned to Karen who waited, eyebrows raised. Carlton uttered a silent Ha! as he watched the younger man squirm beneath that sharp, assessing stare.
"To upgrade this bad boy from a Grade II concussion to a IIIa." Nowitzki turned back to Carlton.
"Which means what?" And considered it a huge accomplishment that he'd left off "you officious little prick."
"Which means, Detective Lassiter, that you need rest and monitoring for the next forty-eight hours before being reexamined. Depending on the results of that exam, you'll either be prescribed more rest, or in a best case scenario, you'll be restricted to desk duty for at least a week. Or longer," he added with what looked to Carlton like a sadistic smile. It was as if the pathetic little excuse for a medical professional knew what chaining Carlton to a desk would do to him.
"You're not going to admit me," Carlton growled. Dammit, he hated hospitals. Sliding from the exam bed, he silently swore as he swayed and grabbed for bed's rails. Swore again, out loud, this time, as his slippery palms slid alarmingly along cool metal. An instant later cold metal was replaced by a warm grasp on his arms, holding him steady.
"You'll do what they tell you, Detective Lassiter."
He stared down into Karen's dark gaze, able even in his addled state, to read the steely determination and "do not screw with me" intent.
"Relax, Detective—" the doctor interjected. "I have no intention of admitting you. For one thing, I like our nursing staff."
Karen's grip tightened on his arms as he automatically tried to reach for his weapon. Which was currently locked along with her sidearm in her trunk, he recalled with a disgusted snort.
"The rest and monitoring can just as easily take place at home as here, provided you have someone who can keep an eye on you."
"He does."
He did?
Carlton blinked at Karen. If she thought he'd let those creepy twin sisters or those whackaloon Farrows check on him, she was more out of her mind than he currently was. Maybe once upon a time he could have called O'Hara—or at least could have said he could call her with a clear conscience but no actual intent of bothering her—but these days, calling her carried the risk that Spencer could potentially be part of the package, which meant Guster would definitely be part of the package and there were simply things a man with a brain injury shouldn't be subjected to.
Hell, the general public at large shouldn't be subjected to Spencer and Guster, but there was nothing to be done for that other than commitment to a mental facility, which was temporary at best, or euthanasia and he was fairly certain the latter was still frowned upon, no matter how justifiable.
Which left him at, he did?
He suddenly realized that while he entertained thoughts of Spencer and Guster's timely and humane—which was more than they really deserved—demise, Nowitzki and Karen had continued talking. About him. Without him. Like there was something wrong with him. He supposed he'd better pay attention.
"The recommendation of waking a concussed patient every few hours has been called into question the past few years. Personally, I don't find it necessary. The key here is rest—in fact, let me go ahead and write a scrip for a mild sleeping agent, in case he finds it difficult to sleep."
Carlton started to pipe up that he was right there, dammit, not to mention, a grown man, so Nowitzki could talk to him, but the barely out-of-the-playpen pipsqueak was too busy scribbling something as he continued speaking.
"The MRI revealed a pretty deep bone bruise along with the strain in the right shoulder. That should heal on its own with rest and no unnecessary exertion for a couple of weeks. OTC meds will take care of the pain and swelling. Basically, we have no real reason to keep him here so long as someone can keep him from being—"
"Him," Karen finished, a slight smile twitching the corners of her mouth. "Treat a lot of cops, Doctor?"
"Too many," he replied with a slight smile. "Plus, my dad was a cop."
Finally, Carlton found his voice. "Was?"
The doctor glanced up, the expression in his eyes all too familiar. "Line of duty casualty couple years ago."
The urge to smack the little twerp subsided—somewhat. Couldn't be easy to be a good cop's kid. And he knew, without being told, this kid's dad had been a good cop. "Sorry to hear that."
Nowitzki nodded as he ripped a sheet from a pad and handed it to Carlton. "One reason I became an ER doctor. Allows me to be on the front lines in my own way. And you know, at least he got to see me graduate from med school."
"I'm sure he was very proud," Karen said with a sympathetic smile.
"He said he supposed it was the next best thing to becoming a cop." With a grin that clearly indicated it had been a longstanding joke between father and son, Nowitzki extended a hand to Carlton. "I know for a guy like you, Detective, being reined in is a real bitch, but do me a favor—follow those instructions and get back to it sooner rather than later. The city needs the guys like you out on the street."
Carlton's gaze met Nowitzki's as he shook the younger man's hand. Correctly interpreting the silent question, Nowitzki grinned, shedding the doctor persona for the young man who'd grown up with a cop for a dad.
"Dude, you remind me so damned much of him, it's kind of scary. And if you're half the cop he was, then trust me—it's definitely in my best interests to get you back out on the street in top form." As Carlton stood there, stunned into rare silence, Nowitzki released his hand and turned to shake Karen's.
"Ma'am—take care."
"I will, thank you."
Karen squeezed Carlton's arm as she spoke, making him suddenly aware that that she'd never once released him since rescuing him from falling into a graceless heap on the floor. That even once he'd clearly found his balance, she'd kept a hand on him, her touch warm and secure. And something in how she responded to Nowitzki's innocuous statement of departure made him quite certain she wasn't just talking about herself when she'd responded with her equally innocuous, "I will."
Somewhere deep in the foggy recesses of his brain he understood it to be odd.
Somewhere deep in the foggy recesses of his brain he understood the way Karen Vick had been behaving ever since she'd discovered him in the deserted bullpen could be classified as odd.
Somewhere deep in the foggy recesses of his brain he understood he might be imagining it all.
But he'd worry about that later. Because right now, he was exhausted and he ached and no matter how nice the little pipsqueak of a doctor had turned out to be, he wanted to get the hell away from this cold, sterile place.
"I'll step outside while you get dressed and see if I can't hurry along the discharge papers."
"Thanks," he managed to croak out, also suddenly understanding in the not-so-foggy part of his brain that her touch on his arm was really… nice.
Soothing.
And warm. Had he already mentioned warm? He thought maybe he had.
And nice and soothing and warm had a way of combining into something his long-deprived body welcomed in surprising—and embarrassing—fashion.
Thank God she'd slipped past the curtain sectioning off his cubicle before she could notice the effect an innocent touch had had on her forty-three year old Head Detective who really, concussed or not, should have better control.
No matter how nice and soothing and warm and…
And…
He sighed as he sank into a chair and stared blankly at the wall.
How outright arousing he'd suddenly found Karen Vick's touch.