right so jsyk, i researched this by watching a Castle ep in which a police officer gets shot and I have also never been to an American hospital so i have ~no idea what one does when one checks out.
"I'm fine," Myka sighed. She twisted the old fashioned phone wire around her finger absently as her mother's voice rose another octave on the phone. "No, I am really fine," Myka assured her mother. She shot Pete the hundredth glare from her perch on the edge of the hospital bed as she continued to placate her hysterical mother.
"No, I wasn't shot. No, he was wrong. Yes, I know this is what Pete told you, but Pete was wrong." Another pointed glare in Pete's direction. "It was only some glass from the window. Well, yes there were shots fired, but none of them at me. Yes, yes I know." Myka sighed and frowned at the ceiling. "No mother, I don't need a vacation." She unwound her finger from the wire and watched it bunch, a thin white coil suspended in the air. "No, mother, the stiches don't mar my appearance for life. They're right above my right hip! I would not consider it a usual place for potential suitors to check. No, Mom I'm not talking about this anymore." Myka's voice was stern and final. "How's Dad?" She asked, exasperated. There was a moment of silence. Myka sighed and winced, holding her hip. Pete hovered around her as she listened to her mother, nodding and making murmuring sounds of agreement. "Okay, well then. I think I have to go now," Myka excused herself as her mother's complaining seemed to lessen. "Yes, the doctor is here," she lied. Pete glanced behind him, just in case. She smiled tightly. "Yes, I'll tell him you said 'hi'. Bye!" She put down the phone gently, making sure it was properly hung up, before she turned to narrow her eyes at Pete.
"Did you really have to call my mother?" she demanded.
"I thought you were shot!" he defended himself. Myka narrowed her eyes at him.
"I wasn't!" she snapped, her own voice rising. Pete rolled his eyes.
"I can see that now," he agreed, gesturing at where she was sitting up.
"Why did you have to assume!?" Myka demanded, burying her face in her hands. Pete put his hands in the air in exasperation.
"All I got was the radio informing me about shots fired! Next thing I know, I can't reach you and some British woman picks up your phone because you're being loaded into an ambulance! Sorry if I assumed the worst, but I don't think!"
"Some British woman? It was HG."
"Yes, well I know that know. At the time I didn't think to assume you were driving around with one of our murder suspects."
"Why didn't you let HG explain?" Myka demanded in exasperation, burying her face in her hands.
"She's a suspect! In a homicide case! A murder suspect! Why on earth were you even with her?"
"What do you mean?" Myka asked defensively, crossing her arms across her chest before she winced again and uncrossed them, holding her hip in pain.
"Why were you with a journalist who has been actively bared from both duty and specifically this case was your new partner?" Pete clarified.
"She's an ex-cop and she's not my new partner," Myka corrected, a wave of pain making her double over slightly.
"Then where was I?" Pete demanded, pacing the room and oblivious to his partner's pain.
"Investigating another line of questioning?" Myka's brow furrowed. "Are you trying to imply I did something against the book?" Pete sighed and sat down on the bed next to Myka.
"Not at all," he corrected himself, leaning his forehead against Myka's shoulder. "I'm just saying that I was scared"
"You don't have to be scared, I'm right here Pete," Myka reminded him. Pete swallowed.
"I know, I know," he murmured. Myka patted his back awkwardly. Pete remained there. Myka shoved at his shoulder lightly.
"I, for one, would like to go home," Myka told Pete as he sat up. "I'm going to sign myself out and go to work?" Pete laughed.
"You know I won't let you do that," Pete disagreed. Myka rolled her eyes.
"We can discuss this in a second. Go tell the nurses while I get changed. And ring up Jinksy and Clauds to tell them that I'm fine."
"God!" Pete hit himself on the forehead. "Clauds! I forgot to tell her you were alright!" Pete pulled out his phone and jogged down the hallway to call up Claudia from the waiting area to explain to her that he knew Myka had been fine for the last hour, it was just, you know, he forgot to call.
Myka flicked open her phone and smiled: two texts waited for her, both from Helena. "They made me leave when Pete came: he's down as your emergency contact. I hope you're feeling better?" Myka checked the timestamp: she'd gotten this about two hours ago.
"After the excitement of that shooting, my house is so boring and pedestrian," the next text complained. Myka smirked and quickly wrote a reply.
"I'd take pedestrian over twelve stitches over my hip. My mother is convinced they're going to scare away any potential suitors." Helena's reply was almost immediate.
"Scare them away? I would say quite the opposite. Everyone loves a bit of heroism." Myka laughed quietly.
"Heroism? I was shot at! You're the hero who pushed me out of the way!"
"And yet I have no scars to show for it. My life is so hard."
"Who you texting?" Pete asked, skipping back into the room and throwing Myka's clothes at her. She dropped her phone to catch the clothes and shook her head at Pete.
"No one," she evaded. Pete frowned at her but Myka grinned.
"Close the door and turn around so I can change in peace. I want a status update from Artie on my shooting as soon as we're out here." Pete laughed and turned around to follow Myka's orders.
"Artie ordered bed rest for you!" He complained. Myka rolled her eyes.
"Like that has ever stopped me. Anyway, this shooting means we're getting somewhere and I'm not going to wait 24 hours for this trail to run cold."
"If you're gonna go to the precinct, you know that Artie's going to dress you down, don't you?" Myka grimaced, half in anxiety over the truth of Pete's statement and partly because pulling the t-shirt over her head pulled at her stitches. Pete glanced behind him and then looked back at the door when he realised Myka wasn't done yet. "I mean, Myka. You not only went down there without backup: you went down there with a criminal suspect and let her have privileged information to the case."
"She's not a suspect," Myka sighed, pulling down her white t-shirt with a hiss of pain. Pete glanced back again.
"Technically, she still is," he corrected.
"Well, I have ruled her out and she was helping me Pete. We can't all be everywhere at once and I needed you and Steve to chase down the girlfriend lead."
"Which was a dead end, by the way. Other than that she confirmed your little girlfriend's story that he liked it rough." Myka winced as she stepped into a trouser leg.
"What?" She demanded, distracted by the pain of the movement.
"The girlfriend said the victim enjoyed 'pain play', as she worded it, in the bedroom." Myka carefully buttoned up her trousers and pushed them as low on her hips as the cut would allow, so as little pressure as possible was exerted on her stitching, humming in acknowledgement to Pete's statement. Pete turned around and approached her carefully, resting his hands on her shoulders, his eyes lined in worry.
"We don't have to go in, Myka. Your body just suffered a lot. We can wait until tomorrow," He tried to temper her but Myka rolled her eyes.
"Call up Steve: I want him and Claudia to get me all the surveillance camera footage of the area we can get. You and I are combing through that data tonight and seeing if that brings us anything."
"Myka." Pete held her by the shoulders, but Myka shrugged off his touch brusquely and walked towards the door, subtle limp barely evident.
"Myka," Pete tried again. Myka paused. "Myka, I know you're scared but you need to sleep. I'm happy to let you go in and face Artie, because I know you're anxious about that, but then you're going to leave and let me and Steve and Claudia do that CCTV stuff on our own. We know how to do it and we'll call you the second we have something."
"No, you won't," Myka sighed, exasperated. Pete chuckled.
"You're right. We'll wait until 7am and then we'll call you because, Myka, you need to rest." Myka stared at the top left corner of the hospital room. The tiling was uneven and the exact squares didn't quite fit in the area. You could see a bit of darkness between two panels. Myka swallowed.
She knew Pete was right. Her hip already hurt from the exertion of trying to put on a bra. Pete and Claudia and Steve could survive without her. Her berating from Artie, her paperwork and double checking Pete's work: all those things could wait. She sighed in defeat. "Fine," she muttered. "I'll go home. But I'll be there tomorrow morning."
"Probably before the Station even opens," Pete agreed, bounding to catch up with Myka as she left the room quickly and nudging her shoulder happily. Myka glanced at him and smiled. He looked tired.
"Are you sure you're okay?" She asked, ruffling his hair gently. Pete smiled weakly.
"I was worried about you, Mykes," he admitted as Myka stopped by the counter at the end of the corridor. She acknowledged him with a smile before turning to the nurse, who looked up and grinned impishly at Myka.
"Good to see you up and running, Detective Bering," she said to Myka, offering her a clipboard. Myka glanced over the chart and signed at the bottom with a flourish and handed it back with a smile.
"Thanks, Lenora! Good luck with that MSAT!" The nurse winked at Myka.
"Thank you, I'll need it." Myka laughed lightly, waving and then stepping past the elevator to the stairs. Pete grabbed her arm and dragged her to the elevator. Before she could begin complaining, Pete held up a hand.
"This is a special condition, Myka. For it, you can break the elevator rule." Myka just rolled her eyes and let herself be dragged into the elevator.
Pete was driving her home when Myka checked her texts. "What are you doing tonight?" her latest text from Helena read. Myka considered, for a second, making some crime solving plans with Helena. Helena probably had access to wide networks of information. Myka glanced at Pete. His face was set in worry and Myka realised that it would hurt him. She sighed.
"Sleeping," she replied before she put her phone away.
"Steve made you dinner," Pete started as he unlocked her apartment for her. Myka let him, knowing that it was more for his benefit than her own.
"Lasagna?" Myka guessed.
"Since that is the only thing he can cook, yes." Pete put the ceramic dish on her counter and Myka smiled at the little smiley that Steve had drawn on the aluminum foil. She leaned against the counter and watched Pete shuffle awkwardly in her kitchen.
"I don't know what else to do," he admitted.
"There really isn't anything you can do," Myka sighed, brushing a hand over the immaculate counter. "I'm going to heat up that lasagna and take that and a hot cup of tea to bed and finish Trollope."
"Trollope?"
"Early 20th century British author."
"Oh." Pete shuffled and then suddenly launched himself at Myka, crushing her in a giant bear hug. "I'm so glad you're okay," he whispered into her hair before releasing her. Myka stared at him, amazed at this sudden outburst. He wiped his face and smiled tearfully. "I wouldn't be able to stand it if something happened to you." Myka just shifted uncomfortably.
"Its okay, Pete," She promised. "I'm fine. Now go to the station and make sure everything doesn't go to shit in my absence."
"'Go to shit'?" Pete repeated, usual smirk playing on his lips. "Wow, if Myka's swearing then it must really be serious." Myka chuckled.
"It is!" She chastised him, slapping his arm playfully. "If I don't get those reports then I am starting a vendetta against sleep and it and I shall no longer communicate."
"You communicate with sleep?" Myka shoved Pete. He laughed and joked towards the door.
"You know what I mean. Those pain medications are still prominent in my system, okay?" She leaned against the open door and smiled at him. "See you in the morning," she promised.
"Bright and early," he agreed and danced off. Myka watched his retreating figure until he jumped down the stairs, humming tunelessly to himself. She closed her door and looked around her small apartment, suddenly feeling a twinge of loss.
Her side hurt more than she would have admitted to Pete. The only conventional wisdom Myka had access to was the rule that one should always put ice on aches and pains. Myka's childhood injuries had never earned her attention or special treatment at her house, so this was the only information that Myka remembered as crucial. If it hurts, put some ice on it.
Myka decided she would ice her stitches while she made dinner, before slipping into bed with some hot tea and a book. It was already 7pm: after she had finished with the lasagna it would be past an acceptable time to go to bed, right?
Her phone beeped again. Myka glanced at it. It was probably important. Her hip twinged. This was not the night to be important.
Myka ignored the phone and walked over to the counter, took the aluminum foil off the lasagna and slipped it into the oven. She opened up the freezer and retrieved the much-used ice pack, hiking up her t-shirt and hissing as she cold came into contact with her bear skin. Before she could figure out how to tie the holder for the ice, designed for a leg injury, around her hip, there was a knock on her door.
Myka glanced at her door in confusion. Her doorbell downstairs had not announced any visitors and Pete had left more than five minutes ago. Dropping the ice pack on the counter and rearranging her shirt, ignoring the wet patch that was forming because of the ice, Myka jogged over to the door. She opened it quickly, fully expecting the building's superintendent to inform her of some important change in the building's policy. She was not expecting Helena Wells.
But Helena Wells was smiling at her. Myka just stared at her. "How do you know where I live?" She demanded. Helena laughed.
"I'm a private investigator, darling. I would be ashamed of myself if I couldn't find you." Helena glanced down at Myka's hip and immediately stepped forward when she saw the dark fabric of Myka's t-shirt was damp. "Myka one of your stitches ripped!" She gasped. Myka rolled her eyes.
"No they didn't," she sighed, stepping back and allowing Helena to come into her apartment, face lined with worry. Helena dumped the tote bag by Myka's door and made as if to touch Myka's shoulder before she thought better of it, her hand hovering an inch over the shoulder as she stared down at the wet patch.
"What do you mean?" Helena demanded. "You're bleeding!" Myka walked back to the kitchen.
"No, I was putting some ice on my stitches," Myka corrected, exasperated, as she picked up the ice again and, lifting up her t-shirt, hissed at the cold contact.
"I'm pretty sure you shouldn't do that," Helena disagreed, watching, concerned. Myka shot her an irritable glare.
"Really? And how many times have you had stitches on your midriff?" She snapped, stinging pain intensified by the ice. Helena smiled sadly.
"More than once," she corrected Myka, stepping forward. She gently took the ice out of Myka's hand. Myka gasped quietly, partly at the lack of cold and partly because of the sudden intimacy. Helena picked up the kitchen towel on the counter and carefully, tenderly dabbed at Myka's stitches. Myka didn't make a sound, but her eyes welled with pain at the continued pressure. She closed them and clenched her teeth.
"You need to keep your stitches dry and expose them to air. Ice is not a good idea," Helena murmured. Myka nodded, not trusting herself to speak or to open her eyes. The dabbing stopped and Helena's hand ghosted over the tender skin before she straightened up.
Myka's eyes flew open as Helena's cold hand cupped her face, and Helena carefully inspected the scrape on Myka's right cheek bone. The touch was strangely intimate, even though Helena was concentrated on the injuries presented by her patient.
"I'm fine," Myka muttered, pushing Helena off her. Helena didn't protest and let Myka have her space. Myka stared at the wall for a few seconds, back to Helena, as she tried to get her emotions in check. She turned around slowly. "Why are you here, anyway?" She asked, her voice still unsteady.
"You need someone to take care of you," Helena said simply. Myka gaped at her.
"What?" She demanded, offended. "I do not need anyone to take care of me." She spat out the words, as if they were the most mortal insult she could ever be delivered. Helena raised an eyebrow and leaned against the counter.
"Myka, you were going to put ice on stitches. Would you rather I stopped you from accidentally worsening your condition, or that I leave you on your own to destroy your health?"
"I'm not worsening my condition," Myka snapped. Helena rolled her eyes.
"Anyway, I have some information that might interest you." Myka narrowed her eyes at the private investigator.
"What information?" She asked, suspicious.
"Your victim's sister and I had a chat."
"She lives in Chicago right now," Myka said automatically, every miniscule detail listed on her file immediately springing to mind. Helena grinned.
"You're good," she admitted, going back to the front door to retrieve the tote bag. "She's in town for our victim's funeral and she and I had a bit of a chat."
"An off record chat?" Myka guessed. Helena brushed the comment aside and handed Myka a file.
"Potentially, but I typed out the transcript for you anyway." Myka cracked open the file. Neat rows of black text: a discussion between Helena and Lila, the victim's sister. Myka couldn't help but smile slightly.
"Thank you for this," she said, holding up the file. Helena smirked.
"That isn't even the best of it, Myka."
"What's the best of it?" Myka asked dully.
"Our victim had a mortal enemy!" Helena nearly clapped in excitement. Myka grinned, suddenly relived. See, this case wasn't that convoluted. She'd get through this all. There would be answers.
There were always answers.
NICE OMINOUS LAST SENTENCE THERE EH?
(laughs manically)
(also jsyk this actually breaks my self-made rule that there should be smut around now but bear with me and read all my other smut fic if necessary most of it is on ao3 where you'll find me under the same name)