Chapter Thirty Seven: coming through the dark
apologies for the lack of updates yesterday - busy day and then I was out all evening, sipping champagne, which was lovely! I need more nights like that! Hopefully, this installment will start ot make up for yesterday...
"It could be worse – at least I'm wearing clean underwear." Marty screwed his head around to inspect the damage. "I seem to have sliced my leg open," he remarked casually, wondering why he wasn't feeling any pain.
A passing paramedic touched him lightly on the shoulder. "Are you able to walk over to the ambulance?" She looked at Sam. "You'd better come too; get that smoke inhalation seen to."
"I can't leave my friends," Sam protested, looking around to see if he could spot Hetty and Callen in the crowds.
"The wee wifie with the sore jaw and the guy with the eye? They're being taken care of by another crew. Dinnae fache yourself."
Despite everything, Kensi had to choke back a snigger and she didn't dare look at either man. The idea of Hetty being referred to as "a wee wifie" was just too delicious for words. She'd have to remember that and store it up for future use. Caroline especially would appreciate that description.
Marty started to try to walk over to the ambulance and found that his legs were refusing to obey him once again and appeared to have the consistency of that repulsive jello Kensi was so unaccountably fond of.
"Don't disgrace yourself any more than you have already by falling flat on your face and exposing your butt to half the population of Scotland." Sam grabbed his arm and slung it over his shoulder, easily taking the weight.
"Some people think my butt is cute. It has been referred to as "the wonder butt", on occasion. And anyway, I've been told Scots don't wear any underwear at all underneath their kilts."
"Don't believe everything you hear," the paramedic said with a smile, surrepticiously checking out his rear and mentally agreeing that his butt was indeed particularly fine. That leg laceration though, that was another kettle of fish altogether; a long, ragged tear that looked deep and nasty, possibly needing more than just some external sutures to close it and it had to hurt. Only judging by the fact her patient wasn't complaining of any pain, he was probably in shock, with his blood pressure in his boots, which was always dangerous.
Sam shook his head despairingly. "And don't believe him about his butt. It's not that great. Plus it's still bruised from where he was dropped on his head."
"Were you knocked out?" The paramedic wondered if Sam had also suffered a head injury, because that last statement didn't even begin to make sense.
"He's been knocked out twice in the last three days. Or is that four days?" Kensi tried to work out the timescale. "I'm kind of mixed up, what with still being half on LA time," she confessed.
"Knocked out as in unconscious?" They were at the ambulance now and the paramedic was starting to look concerned. The combination of factors was starting to ring warning bells in her head.
"He was out cold for over half an hour. And he had brain surgery because of internal bleeding a few months ago."
"It was no big deal," Marty assured her, plastering a winning smile over his face. The effect was somewhat lessened by the fact that he was liberally coated in soot and grime and bore a decided resemblance to a racoon. "I'm fine, really I am." It was just that things didn't seem particularly real right now, like all this was happening to someone else.
"How about we let the doctors decide about that?" She started putting an automatic blood-pressure cuff around his arm and placing heart monitor sensors on his chest. . "Put that on, please." She handed Marty an oxygen mask and, as the blood-pressure cuff inflated automatically, slipped a needle into the vein in the crook of his elbow.
"Is all this really necessary?" Marty protested. He'd hoped she might just stick some paper sutures on that leg wound and then they could go back to Edinburgh and crash. After everything that had gone on today, he just wanted to curl up with Kensi and sleep for about twelve hours. Sitting in the back of an ambulance, wired up to various machines and now with an IV in his arms did not figure in his plans at all.
The monitor pinged out a reading. "Oh yes, it's necessary." The paramedic looked up at her partner, who'd been busy checking over Sam. "You want to get us going? Blues and twos, okay?" He leapt out of the doors like a scalded cat and rushed around the vehicle to get into the driver's seat.
Kensi had seen the looks they exchanged and knew something was up. "Blues and twos?" she queried.
"Just to make sure we get a clear run into the city." The paramedic was lowering the head of the bed so that Marty was lying flat on his back.
Through the tinted glass, Kensi could see that the night sky was suddenly illuminated with flashing blue lights and as the ambulance moved off, the sirens kicked in, screeching loudly. They moved along the narrow country lanes at a frighteningly fast speed. Marty was lying perfectly quietly now, his eyes closed and giving the impression of being sound asleep, which seemed particularly unlikely, given the way the vehicle was rocking every time they turned a corner – and this road seemed to be full of hairpin bends – not, to mention the racket made by the sirens.
"Stay awake for us, okay?" The paramedic rubbed Marty's arm gently and was rewarded by a sleepy look. She looked over at Kensi and Sam. "And try not to worry too much, okay?"
Kensi leaned forward and took hold of Marty's hand and held onto it tightly. "Why would I be worried? You're superman, right?"
"Some people will do anything to get attention," Sam said. "It's a character flaw. I just rely on my natural charm, good looks and superior abilities."
"Hot nurses. Bed baths." Marty murmured indistinctly.
"You should be so lucky."
At last, I can hear you cry. Properly maimed-Marty. Such joy. Further installments will be forthcoming. The maim will be developed more fully. As for the lack of pain, low blood-pressure - it's a nasty form of shock that's rather dangerous. I have discovered this from personal experience.
Oh - and "Dinnae fache yourself" is more Scots and means "don't get upset" - from the French "se facher" for those of you who are interested in etymology (which is probably just me, but there you go...)