Danny finds a spot in the corner to park Linda's wheelchair, stands against the wall so he can see the front door out of his peripheral vision, and the door into the rest of the ER straight-on.
She groans, her head deep in the orange bucket, and he rubs her back, feeling helpless.
When she was pregnant with Jack, he was busy climbing the ladder to detective first-grade; with Sean…he'd been overseas for most of her pregnancy, to his disgust, and had missed Sean's birth completely.
She's nursed the boys through their share of childhood illnesses and scrapes, and him through (more than) his share of gunshot wounds and psychological trauma…but she's never sick.
He stifles a yawn, startles when a hand grabs his arm.
Linda pulls him down to her level, lifts her head. "Either sit down or…take me home," she says, gags punctuating her words.
He sits down and rubs her back. "You haven't kept anything down in days, babe. I should have brought you in yesterday. We're staying until they give you something."
Linda shakes her head, tears in her eyes. "Please, Danny. I…I don't feel safe."
He lifts the arm of the wheelchair and pulls her over to rest on his chest. "You're safe, babe. I'm not gonna let anyone get you. I've got eyes on anyone that comes near, and they've got extra security guards roaming around—see them?"
She nods her head against his chest. "Gonna be sick," she groans, and he sits her up, holds the bucket under her chin.
He shouldn't have listened to her yesterday and the day before and the day before, when she said it was something she'd eaten, or it was the flu, or it was the anesthesia. It's been ten days since she was shot, a week since she was released from the hospital…this isn't leftover from anesthesia. No wonder they say doctors and nurses make the worst patients…
Time passes.
A nurse finally brings them a proper puke basin. "I can take that for you," she says, gesturing to the orange bucket in Linda's lap.
Danny hands it to her. "You do realize my wife works here, right? Any idea how long it will be?" he asks the nurse with his best smile.
"Sir, Nurse Reagan would be the first to tell you there's no preferential treatment here. We had an MVA—that's a motor vehicle accident—come in about two hours ago. Multiple cars, and multiple injuries. All our rooms are full. When one is available, and when people with more serious conditions have been seen, then we'll call your wife. For now, sit tight."
It's almost 4 a.m., and he's pacing again while Linda dozes. Every time her head jerks in sleep, though, she gags, and she looks at Danny with tears in her eyes. "I can't…please just shoot me."
He hopes the words don't trigger another panic attack, and he sits down, tries to hold her so her head won't jerk as much when she dozes off. "I can't, babe. Someone will be out soon to help you."
She dry-heaves again. "It hurts. Did you bring my pain pills?"
He doesn't think she'll keep the narcotic down, but gets the bottle out of her purse, hands her one pill and a glass of water.
She swallows gingerly.
Ten minutes later her body is desperately trying to bring the pill back up.
Her head is half-buried in the basin when they call her name.
Danny stands to push her wheelchair back.
The male nurse—his name-badge says "Matt"—holds his hand up. "Sir, hospital policy says you need to wait out here."
"No," Linda groans. "I need Danny."
"I'm sorry," Matt says, sounding genuinely apologetic.
Danny pulls his badge and Linda's badge out of his pocket. "We know hospital policy. Linda works here, and I'm a frequent flyer in the ER 'cause of my job. Never been a problem before. I'm going back with her—or do you want to get your boss?"
Matt holds his hands up. "Honestly, Detective, we're overflowing today. The only room we have—there's hardly room for her chair and the IV pole, much less another person."
"I'm not leaving her," Danny says, moving his jacket aside so Matt sees his gun.
Matt steps aside, and Danny pushes the wheelchair back.
Linda can't answer any of Matt's questions, and Danny takes over. "She was shot—two bullets,
one in her side, which they took out; one lodged next to her spine and they couldn't get it out."
"What pain meds is she taking?"
Danny hands him the bottle from Linda's purse.
"Has she been taking them with food?"
He glares. "Considering she's thrown up everything she's eaten for the past three days—no, she hasn't, Matt."
Matt mutters something about nurses making the worst patients, and tells Linda he's starting an IV.
Apparently, the kid failed medical school, 'cause twenty minutes and two tries later, there's no IV in Linda's hand—just a bandage in the crook of her right elbow, and one on the back of her right hand.
Linda's crying—well, she's sniffling and shaking like she's crying, but her face is dry because she's freaking dehydrated and needs fluids.
She tries to take the IV supplies out of Matt's hands. "I can…do it better," she gags.
Danny holds her arm still. Honestly, he could probably do it better—he'd watched their corpsman start so many IVs in Fallujah.
He shakes his head. This is not the time to go down that rabbit-hole… "Go get somebody who actually knows what the hell they're doing," he snaps.
Twenty minutes later, Faith Turner comes in.
Danny's hand goes to his gun, the other tangled in Linda's short hair. This is the woman whose son shot his Linda. "What are you doing here?"
"They call me 'Hard-Stick Faith 'cause I can get an IV in the toughest patients. I'm not gonna hurt your wife, Detective."
He drops his hand from his gun, holds Linda's arm still.
In less than a minute there's an IV in Linda's arm, and a bag of fluids running; and ten minutes later she's asleep in the wheelchair.
Danny picks her up gently and sits down with her in his arms.
She's gonna be okay.
He isn't gonna lose her.