In the Middle of the Mess
...
EEEEEE. EEEEEEE. EEEEEEE.
Connor fights against thick black smoke clogging the air, his lungs burning for just a breath of fresh air. The building rubble around him, the screams of the injured, it all heralds back to the Undertaking, when he was impaled by a bit of rebar.
He shoves a block of concrete from his legs and stands slowly, surveying the damage around him. The ceiling of the hospital wing is cracked and crumbling, lights hanging by single wires and flickering. Patients and doctors alike stumble though the halls in search of somewhere more stable.
Connor bursts into motion as an elderly woman stumbles on a bit of concrete. He grabs her arm, ignoring the fresh warm blood that seeps from a cut on his side as he helps her to a more stable, undamaged part of the hospital.
Only after he's ensured her safety does Connor examine the slice in his side. Warm, scarlet blood leaks from jagged edges and it needs to get stitched up before it gets infected, which would be the most disastrous consequence. He's only been here a couple months, but it feels like years. It's scary to say that he's gotten used to a certain level of violence. He knows how to act under pressure.
But this?
He doesn't know if he can handle this.
Everyone is racing around, caring for the severely injured, setting up trauma stations, separating people based on their chances of survival.
"Dr. Rhodes?" He glances up at Shabanu, one of the newer nurses. She points at his side with a shaking hand. "You're hurt."
"Yeah," he mutters like it's not the most obvious thing ever. He grits his teeth. There are people hurt worse, people he can help. He just has to get himself stitched up first. He glances around and his gaze zeroes in on Shabanu. "Can you sew me up?"
Cautiously she opens a suture kit nearby and presses a tentative hand to his side. Taking a deep breath, she lifts the needle to his side. The point presses slightly into his skin, but not hard enough to push through.
"You need some anesthetic," she announces, pulling back swiftly as she turns from his side.
"It's fine," Connor mutters. "I've got it."
He snags the needle from her and takes a deep bracing breath before forcing the needle through his skin. He grits his teeth, but it actually doesn't hurt as much as he thought it would.
"Allah, I'm going to be sick," Shabanu mutters turning away.
Connor agrees. Stitching someone else up is nothing like pushing a needle through his own skin, but he keeps moving, keeps stitching. Ten feet away a girl is screaming for her mother and there are another ten shouts and cries.
They can use every hand on deck.
He affixes the last stitch, and flushes the area with water Shabanu holds out. She presses a bandage to his side, shaking her head at him.
"I can't believe you just did that," she mutters.
"Come on. There are people to save." He pushes off the wall despite her protests that he should probably rest.
He's running on adrenaline and he's going to save as many people as possible.
...
When he finally gets off shift, after they realized he's been on duty for thirty-six hours with only catnaps, the couch seems as good a place to sleep as his bed. Hell, even the floor would feel like a cloud given how exhausted he is.
He stumbles into the bathroom, turning on the shower to wash off all the blood. He learned the hard way it was not a good idea to just collapse into bed after a rough shift. It's much harder to wash blood out of sheets.
Connor yanks off his shirt and checks out the stitches on his side. They're clean, just like his richer patients pay for. There shouldn't even be much of a scar. Not bad for his first time stitching himself up.
He steps under the water, watching red slide down the drain. The warm water seeps into his muscles, relieving the tension of the day slowly before he steps away, making sure to wash the last evidence of today from his skin. He'd seen more trauma and pain today than he had for the past few months.
As he grabs pajamas, he hears his phone ring from across the room. He groans and stares up at the ceiling. It feels like a monumental feat to walk the ten feet to the glowing phone screen. The call ends and he releases a sigh of relief as he drops onto the comfortable mattress.
Then it starts ringing again, the obnoxious, definitely-not-his ringtone letting him know exactly who was on the other side. Although why in the world she would make his ringtone Hannah Montana, he had no idea.
But Felicity's persistent enough that she's not going to stop until he answers the phone, so he forces his legs to carry him to the phone and back to bed as he blindly lifts the phone to his ear.
"Yeah," he mutters, struggling to keep his eyes open.
"Oh, thank God you're okay! I got a news alert. I've been trying to call you for hours! I booked a plane ticket."
"Woah, Felicity, isn't it like 4am there?"
"Oh, no. Actually, we're in Russia right now."
"Russia?"
"Yeah, I just couldn't think of a valid reason to get Oliver to change course to Riaydh, especially not with Isabitch along for the ride."
"I'm fine, Felicity." He cuts her off calmly. "I just got off shift and I would love to sleep right now. You don't have to come. I'm fine."
"That's what I tried to tell her," Digg says from the other end of the line. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to get thrown into a Russian prison."
Connor frowns. "What?" Then he shakes his head. "No. I don't want to know. Good luck with that. I, on the other hand, am going to get some well-deserved sleep. I'll call you when I have the chance."
He doesn't wait for their "goodbye" before dropping the phone on the mattress. He's asleep before his head hits the pillow.
