Camouflage
Chapter Two
You detour into a small alcove, secluded at the end of a hallway. Leaning against the wall, you close your eyes and breathe, allowing the cadence to distance your mind from scalpels, saws, and clamps. Willing tense muscles to loosen their tight hold.
You rub a hand down your face, dislodging the surgical mask to hang haphazardly around your neck. Cooler air comes in slow, welcome breaths, and with each inhale the scent of fragile mortality recedes. Flexing your fingers, you roll your neck and focus on the tangible pull of stiff muscles. The return to yourself is always disconcerting—you've come to expect it.
A squeaky wheel heralds the approach of a nurse making her rounds. It jars you from the balm of your private bubble, and your shoulders straighten on instinct.
Camouflage.
You meet her eyes when she appears, conjuring a smile despite your exhaustion. She returns it with a nod of acknowledgement, passing on.
You pull the phone out of the back pocket of your wrinkled scrubs and thumb the screen. Ah. Your mouth twitches, wanting to smile. You thought you sensed the sun's light, faint though it was. A brief glance around orients you and you stride with purpose.
You round a corner and are met with glass windows and a panorama of the morning's birth, splayed messily across the sky in pinks and oranges and yellows. Bracing your forearm against a dividing beam, you force blood and bone and sinew aside and soak the quiet beauty of the day into your soul.
It's one of the many small things you demand of yourself amidst the hectic and sometimes shocking realities of your work. This refusal to become numb, to stop seeing. You swore it to yourself years ago, a private oath alongside the Hippocratic:
When sunrises cease to move you, you must mend what is broken within. Without that, you have no business mending others.
A sigh escapes you. It's been a long twelve hours.
But the satisfying weariness in your bones offsets the strain in your heart. A frown crosses your face, palm gripping your phone tighter. Well, almost… You shake your head and force the thought aside.
Another job done. Another person healed. As best as can be, with modern medicine and human hands.
One more deep breath, and you're prepared to visit your patient in recovery.
ICU is a blend of beeps and shuffling footsteps, coughs and rustling fabric. A low hum of constant activity. Never quiet, the product of pain and vigilant monitoring.
You find the curtained space that holds your patient and smile at his assigned nurse, Kathy, sitting at the nurse's station. She informs you he came out of anesthesia thirty minutes ago and has been complaining of pain. Thirteen on a scale of one to ten. A moan behind the curtain emphasizes her last words, and she gives you a half-shrug, gazing at you above her glasses.
"We were going to page you, Dr. Isles."
She hesitates as though she wants to say more, but settles for a nod. You thank her for the information and try to roll the weight of weariness from your shoulders as you pull the curtain aside.
You're met with brown eyes and a familiar lanky frame. It stops you short—the rush of blood to your ears, the confusing clash of professional with private that leaves you floundering.
Your mouth gets ahead of your brain. "Jane?"
She appears just as surprised as you when she turns, hands on hips, and you notice torn pants and bloodstained sleeves, scrapes and a messy ponytail. "Maura?"
Her voice is exactly as you remember, if not further roughened from use. The sound of your name in that voice pulls a strange sensation along your skin, a mixture of static and goosebumps that leaves you unbalanced. She should not be this intoxicating.
You don't even know her last name.
Her arms fall to her sides as you stare at one another. The meeting of gazes lasts only a moment, but it feels longer in the slight stretch of space between you. After such a brief encounter the previous Saturday, you should not recognize the small twitch of her fingers as a restrained desire to run a hand through messy curls now pulled into a falling ponytail.
Nor should you wonder what it would feel like to—
"Doc?" The word is slurred into more vowels than consonants, but it grabs your attention, and you slip back into the easy rhythm of care. You try not to focus on the voice in your head, telling you that for the first time in your career, the patient was not your first priority.
"Mr. Hughes," you greet, turning to him with a smile.
You go through the motions, effortless with practice. Questions, information. You note his respiration rate and mentally calculate a ten percent increase in his Dilaudid dose. Borrowing the nurse's computer, you enter it into his chart, trying to ignore the scuff of boots on hard linoleum and the heat of curious brown eyes along the side of your face.
Once your duties are taken care of, you turn to her, questions in your eyes, eagerness in the thump of your heart. You try to contain the latter, but your smile refuses to dim.
"To what do I owe the pleasure?"
If you were expecting enthusiasm, the guarded politeness in familiar brown eyes is a gentle rebuff. It makes the swell in your chest falter, causes your spine to straighten.
Jane's gaze rests on the patient as she gathers her thoughts. "We had an…altercation." Her tongue hesitates over the words, indecisive. "While trying to apprehend the suspect, he resisted arrest and fled into oncoming traffic."
Succinct and professional. Worthy of report to a superior officer. You narrow your eyes, tilt your head.
This answers two of your questions, and plants a few more. There are not many things that can shatter a femur. This you knew.
You glance at Mr. Hughes. He is not lucid enough to acknowledge the conversation.
"I didn't realize he was a suspected criminal." You keep your voice low, as though respectful of the dead. Or aware of prying ears.
She must hear the question in your voice, see it in your eyes. How your body leans forward to step closer yet resists the pull because of guarded expressions and closed shoulders.
She blinks at you for a moment, and it occurs to you that she looks tired. Slumped posture, darker circles beneath dark eyes. Stiff motions, indicative of pain and exhaustion as new dance partners. But something is still there, because she glances around before speaking, leaning in, and you know you are privy to confidential information.
"At the least, he's got resisting arrest and assaulting an officer. The most?" Her jaw clenches, a small tell, tightening the muscle along her temple. "Four counts of murder."
The knowledge is a shock to your system. Your hands shake briefly with the memory of slick blood, elastic tendons, and hard metal. Wrenching. It is better you didn't know this beforehand.
"He will recover," you hear yourself saying.
You pride yourself on treating all patients equally, but…
"With physical therapy, of course."
Jane nods, face grim.
You close your eyes. It is better you didn't know.
With a shake of your head, you banish the unease. What's done is done, and right now you have Jane, who is gazing at you across the makeshift room with an expression you can't decipher. Were you one to guess, you would say she can't either.
After several minutes sharing silence and eye contact, you break the ridiculous barrier of tension and approach. She doesn't pull away. Rather, she watches you with a mixture of cautious curiosity and amusement that somehow draws your eyes to the loose strands of dark curls framing her face.
"You're injured." A statement of the obvious, yes, but you mean more than the words themselves. For some reason, you just can't dislodge the coat of formality weighing your tongue.
Jane shrugs, the action shifting rolled-up sleeves and drawing your attention. "It's fine. I can get one of the nurses to—"
You grab her wrist with careful fingers, and she goes silent. A three-inch long laceration spans her forearm, still oozing. It explains the bloodstains. Donning gloves, you prod the margins, note clean borders.
"He may have had a knife." The sarcastic tone draws your eyes up, and you're greeted with her first smile of the day.
The imagery your mind provides—combined with her flippant comment—does not allow you to return it.
"I got my tetanus. Relax." She raises her other hand in a gesture meant to placate.
It doesn't work. You straighten, and it only draws attention to the obvious height difference. Your nose even with her chin. It irks you. Something in her distancing stance, the amusement hiding at the corner of upturned lips, burns along the back of your neck, sharp and uncomfortable. It prods that nerve, so sensitive to teasing ridicule, that you thought long buried. Your next words fall just shy of curt.
"While I specialize in surgery, I did go to medical school."
Her brow wrinkles, eyes flickering between your own, as you release her forearm.
"This needs stitches." It is the tone that earned you the moniker Queen of the Dead during your pathology rotation.
She is either too confused or too intelligent to argue. You pull her out of the curtained room and into an adjacent unoccupied one, ignoring the unexpected flex of muscle beneath your fingers.
"Nurse?" You catch Kathy's eye again. "I need a nylon suture kit, local anesthetic, and saline for irrigation, please."
The illusion of privacy at Kathy's departure makes you aware of Jane's proximity. Dirt smudges much of her outfit and patches of exposed olive skin. You resent the urge to draw closer that wells in your chest. Unrequited is not an emotion you allow, and you avoid her gaze as you gather necessary materials. When she shifts from one foot to another, the scent of perspiration meets your nose, that and an underlying fragrance of… Your movements still.
What is that? You inhale again. Lavender?
"I can just stop by the ER on the way out." Her voice is low, but it still startles you from your distraction. Her attempted nonchalance fails to hide the uncertainty, the question behind her words.
She doesn't want to be a bother. The realization softens the edges of your pique so your words no longer aim to slice.
"You're not waiting three hours to have a laceration closed."
She leans a hip against the empty bed and appears relieved when you finally meet her gaze once more, a white flag across no-man's-land. The connection pulses along your skin, and you glimpse an answering emotion in the subtle shift of facial muscles and the way her hand grips the railing on the bed.
The glow is back, much as you try to suppress it.
You smile despite yourself. "Besides. My sewing skills are superior to any ER physician's."
Her lips twitch, the action warming the dark brown of her eyes. "You're confident." It sounds like a challenge, more playful than serious.
Your eyebrow rises. "Realistic," is your parry. You lower the side railing on the bed and pat the cushion. "Hop up."
Her movements are stiff, though she tries to hide it, and you catalogue potential bumps and bruises for future inquiry as she edges onto the cushion. Her long legs dangle over the side.
Kathy arrives and departs without incident, and the quiet that descends as you work is less hostile and more relaxed. Irrigation, anesthetic, forceps and thread. The familiarity brings with it a return to equilibrium. There is only you, a wound, and Jane. The shared softness of your breathing, the patterned process of healing. As you dip the first pass of the needle into an unflinching arm, a bold confidence settles the unrest twisting in your torso.
You're just sliding the third suture into place when you dare to voice the question that has been teasing the tip of your tongue ever since brown eyes met yours.
"Is there a reason you attempt to rebuff any offer of help?" A quick tug secures the stitch, and you continue the rise, pull, and dip with another loop. "Or is it just an aversion to spending further time with me?"
There is no venom in the words. Only blunt curiosity.
Jane's other hand twitches in your periphery. A slender wrist flexes, and you imagine her gripping the thin sheet of the bed as she lets out a breath.
"I thought…." Her voice is quiet. It catches at something in your chest. She picks at a nail, not meeting your eyes. "You didn't call, and—"
Oh.
Your hands stall.
Oh.
Your words trip over themselves in your haste to correct the misunderstanding. "A colleague's wife went into early labor and had to take maternity leave due to complications. I volunteered to fill in until he returns or a replacement is found."
"Ah." You can discern nothing from the single vowel, or the expression on Jane's face, so you return to your sutures.
"Working nights and doubles is not conducive to having a social life." The comment is more for yourself than Jane, but she chuckles. The sound is open and free. It warms your limbs and the tips of your ears.
"You're telling me." Her tone is emphatic with camaraderie and makes you smile. She pauses, then, "That explains the circles."
You glance up at her in confusion, and she raises her other hand to touch fingertips to your temple, a gentle graze that trails across the curve of your cheek, beneath the dip of your eye, and onto the rise of your nose.
Oh. Periorbital circles.
The touch is light, barely there. You don't shy away, and her hand is slow to withdraw as she rests it in her lap. Swallowing, you try not to assign more meaning to the gesture than there is, even as her eyes seem to convey…more as they hold yours.
You're suddenly aware of your wrinkled scrubs, the tangle of hair beneath your surgery cap, your lack of make-up. But the understanding in Jane's gaze soothes the brief surge of self-consciousness.
Here is a woman who is familiar with sleep deprivation and the harsh demands of a chosen career.
You pull away from the intense connection and return to work. One final knot, and you clip the thread. "All done." You discard the rest and remove your gloves to survey your handiwork. "It may scar," you warn.
Jane rolls her shoulders, the motion easy and light. "One more to add to the rest." It's not a reaction you're accustomed to, and it piques your interest while also planting a seed of concern deep in your stomach. You wonder where else on her body bears the marks of everyday bravery.
Flexing her fingers, she follows you with her eyes as you clean up, and there is something new yet tentative in her gaze that sends heat to your face and a tremor to your hands.
At last you come to a stop before her, because there is nothing else to distract you and delay the inevitable. Still, you try.
"Why do I have the feeling you're familiar with hospitals?"
She gives you a half-smile in answer that reveals dimples. The silent staring continues, unashamed.
"Did you hit your head?" It's a genuine question, even if you also desire to regain some control of your mental faculties.
She pauses in thought, blinking. Her brow furrows. "I…I'm not sure."
Despite your distraction, you're still a professional. Covering your bases. Your thoughts stutter and you silently chastise yourself. Bad metaphor.
You gesture for her to remove her hair tie and she obliges. You start at her hairline and work backwards through dark curls, fingertips probing with careful efficiency along her scalp.
"So, detective. I seem to recall you telling me you were just another uniform."
The badge at Jane's hip had not gone unnoticed. Nor had her lack of uniform. Untruths are not something you appreciate.
Jane has the decency to look contrite. "Sorry. The shield tends to intimidate people. And then I have to explain the department."
Your hands continue their path. The muscles of her shoulders twitch when you hit a particular spot behind her left ear. You backtrack. Another twitch, this one stronger. "Tender?"
She clears her throat carefully. "…No."
Something in her voice makes you flush and you move on.
"What department?" you inquire to get back on track.
"Homicide."
Your eyes meet hers. "Oh."
There's that half-smile again, this time combined with the sight of dark cinnamon beneath darker lashes. "Yeah. Oh."
This should not affect you so. You wrestle the tangle of emotions into order and continue your examination. No swelling or lacerations evident from physical exam. Concussion unlikely. Even after all this time, you still recite HPI and exam findings in your head. The mindset of resident-answering-to-attending never quite fades.
"I'll live?" she asks as you pull away, a mischief in her eyes that you can't help but answer with some of your own.
"It seems that way."
"What made you decide to become a surgeon, Maura?" The question is quick, and it makes you wonder if she is as reluctant as you to end this impromptu meeting.
You chuckle and smooth the hem of your scrub top, unashamed to admit the truth. "My bedside manner lacks certain…elements that allow both patients and myself to be comfortable."
Jane tilts her head, hands wrapping around the edge of the cot as she leans forward. "Seem to be doing fine to me."
The simple honesty in her words and the way her eyes trace your face leave you momentarily speechless. You become aware of how you are standing between her knees, the inviting tilt of her chin as she looks up at you, how easy it would be to lean forward and—
"There are…exceptions," you allow.
"Very many?" Her eyes dip down to your lips, just once, but the jolt it sends through your system is both delicious and frightening in its intensity.
"No."
She smiles, and you resist the urge to reach out and bush a wayward curl behind her ear. There are working professionals and sick patients passing just on the other side of that thin curtain of a wall, and now is neither the time nor place for the thoughts running through your mind.
Yet you remain where you are, wrapped in this small bubble of togetherness, reluctant to leave.
Her eyes dip once more, lingering this time, and before you know it you are leaning in and Jane's eyes are closing—
The loud bleep of your pager startles you both. Stepping back, you yank the device from the waist of your pants and silence the alarm. The number is one you recognize and you sigh in mingled annoyance and defeat.
"I have to go," you announce. Your next surgery is scheduled in an hour and you have pre-op to do.
Jane nods and slides from the bed, hands disappearing into her pockets as she watches the floor, then glances at you.
"Thanks. For stitching me up."
"My pleasure." Belatedly, you think it an odd response to such a statement, but Jane only nods, her next question earnest, as though afraid she'll lose you the moment you cross the threshold of the curtain. "Are you going to the wedding?"
It takes you a moment to orient the question. "Yes," you assure, already backing away. "Yes, I'll be there."
It feels like so much more than a promise, and the ache in your abdomen lessens at the reminder of the coming Saturday. Your last sight is the quirk of Jane's lips and her small parting wave as you round the corner.
Before the maze of the hospital tugs you into its grasp once more, you pull out your phone and type a quick message.
Those stitches need to be removed in a week.
The reply is almost instantaneous:
It's a date.
A/N: I did more research for this chapter than I should have. Coincidentally, I utilized a Boston University SOM website to clear up a few details. I thought it apropos.
To the guest who questioned "what Rose?": this story was inspired (rather unintentionally, I might add) by a wonderful writer whose alias on here is Permanent Rose. I suggest you check out some of her stories.
