Chapter Thirteen
'Samantha' set some sort of world record for 'bundling small child and two dogs into the car and finding your way to the ER', heart hammering, with all sorts of disastrous scenarios running through 'her' head. The police officer had said that 'Deanna' had been involved in some sort of incident, but didn't want to discuss it over the phone, and a number of worst cases scrolling past 'her' imagination.
Dee had been hit by a car.
Dee had been hit by a meteorite.
Dee had fallen off those damned heels, and broken her neck.
Dee had slipped whilst touching up her lipstick, and choked on it.
Dee's chest had reached critical mass, formed a highly localised nano-sized black hole, and she'd imploded in a puff of foundation.
She didn't even bother to put the seat back, she just drove to the ER at ten over the limit, skidded to a halt in the lot, grabbed RJ and ran inside.
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Officer Irene Baker had been in the job for nearly twenty years, and, like anybody who lasted that long in police work, was pretty much professionally unflappable in a crisis. It went with the territory – you learned not to flap, or you got out of the job. The police force was no place for somebody who flapped. Flapping was not helpful. Especially when the crisis you'd been called to would quite possibly have at least one person flapping. And whoever was flapping might be flapping so hard that it was a wonder they didn't get airborne.
For example, the woman she spoke to on the phone sounded like she was trying very hard not to flap, but not succeeding entirely. Noises in the background informed her that there was a small child that had to be wrangled, so she filed that bit of intel away.
However, just because she herself didn't flap, that didn't mean that Irene was completely unsympathetic to those who did flap. Especially if they'd been through a traumatic experience.
The woman they'd brought to the ER was definitely flapping. Like an albatross trying to get off the ground after a particularly long lunch of particularly delicious lobster, possibly with a cream sauce, and a bottle and a half of a nice crisp white to wash it down.
People responded differently when awful things happened to them or around them, and you never knew what had gone before in their lives, so she tried not to judge. One person's minor irritation could be another person's major trauma. But in her considerably informed opinion, this woman could flap competitively. She could flap professionally. She could flap for her country at Olympic standard…
She stepped back into the small room – she'd had to leave to get away from the noise to make the call – and the male officer who'd stayed battled valiantly not to roll his eyes. She took pity on him, and suggested that he wait outside for Ms Samantha Plant to arrive. He had kids of his own, and would happily hold the small child, keeping it away from the distressing scene. He shot her a grateful look, and left. No, scratch that, he shot her a grateful look, and fled.
"Ma'am?" she began with an encouraging smile, "Deanna? It's me, Irene, again. I've called your friend, Samantha, and she's on her way right now." She picked up the box of tissues, and held them out.
With a shaking hand, Deanna Page took a handful, and honked into them before bursting into fresh gales of sobs, interrupted only by a shriek.
"Sorry," apologised the young intern who was tending to her other hand. "This is bound to sting, I'm afraid, but we'll have you fixed up in no time…"
"Where's Sam?" wailed Deanna, mascara running down her face, hair in magnificently tousled disarray and chest heaving, "Where's Sam, I want Sa-a-a-a-a-a-a-m…"
"She's on her way," Irene reassured her, "Officer Callam will bring her straight in, as soon as she gets here…"
"OW!" howled the woman, yanking her hand away from the intern, and pausing to glare at him, then shrieking again at the sight of a pink-tinged piece of swab, then the howl turned into a shriek. "OH MY GOD IT'S BLOOD!"
"Just don't look at it, Deanna," Irene said firmly, "Look over here, look over here at me, and talk to me."
"There was so much blood," Deanna wailed, fulsome bottom lip quivering, "There was blood, there was blood, there was blood everywhe-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-re…"
Irene proffered the tissues.
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Officer Callam spotted the worried-looking woman carrying a toddler, and went to meet her, giving her some details as they headed back to the small treatment room. Her friend Deanna had been assaulted at a bar. Yes, physically, she wasn't badly hurt, but she was very distressed, clearly traumatised, and what she really needed was a friend to hold her hand.
After a brief introduction, Samantha handed the little boy, RJ, to him, and headed in to see her friend. Officer Callam didn't mind watching children; his workmates often ribbed him about it, but he considered it a perk of the job. Especially when they were as engaging as this one. RJ was an adorable little guy with a cheeky smile, who seemed happy to be minded by a police officer. Unlike so many kids he'd encountered under such circumstances, he was a joy to deal with: he poked the officer thoughtfully in the chest, looked up and said "Meh", then was content to babble happily and amuse himself waving his knit toy – which was possibly a raccoon, or maybe a skunk, or even a honey badger – at passers-by.
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The moment Samantha stepped into the room, Deanna launched herself at her friend with a fresh wail. Samantha caught her in a ferocious hug.
"I gotcha," she murmured over the noise of her friend's distress, "It's okay, Dee, I gotcha."
Once Dee had finished having a good sob all over her bestie, she managed to calm down somewhat, which let the intern finish the dressing on her hand, and gave them an opportunity to talk.
"Dee, what happened?" pressed Sam.
"You don't have to talk about it right away if you don't want to," Irene reassured her.
"No, no, it's okay," Dee actually managed a small, brave little smile, "I want to tell Sam what happened." She took a deep, shuddering breath, bosom undulating. "I went out for my pedi, and I got my nails done, too, because they weren't very busy, and they had a special on, and I thought, hey, why not, and I haven't had a chance to look after my nails recently, you know how busy I've been, and they had some new shellac colours in, and there was one that I thought would match my jacket perfectly and I couldn't resist it…"
"Perhaps you could, uh, move it along a bit?" Sam prompted.
Dee nodded. "So, I was walkin' back, and I went right past a bar, and I thought, I know, I'll just go play a couple of games of pool, help with the finances a bit," she gave Irene a small smile, "I'm a real good player, so, I went in, and I had a drink, and I found a game, and, and, and…" her face crinkled.
"Just, take your time, er, sis," Sam said.
"So, I found a game, and I won," Dee continued, "And then I had another drink, and then I had another game, and I won that one, too, and there was this guy, and he wanted a game, and he wanted to play for… play for…" she shuddered. "He didn't want to play for money…"
'It's okay, Dee, you're safe now," Samantha reassured her friend, "So, what happened?"
"Well, I told him I wasn't that sort of girl," Dee's face became disdainful, and she tossed her hair over one shoulder, "I'd play for money, or nothing. And I beat him. Only he was a sore loser. So, I saw what the time was, and I left the bar, and he followed me, and, and, he, he…" she started to sob again, "He… as I walked past this alley, he grabbed me!"
Samantha's face hardened. "I hope you get the bastard," she growled in a surprisingly frightening fashion, "Dee, did you give the police a description? Would you recognise him again?"
"She was able to point him out to the attending officers at the scene," Officer Baker assured her.
"Well, I hope you keep the asshole locked up," Samantha growled again.
"He's upstairs right now," Irene informed her. "Under police guard. He was going into surgery right away, because they were worried about the state of his airway. Crushed trachea, a very serious injury."
"Uh, crushed trachea?" echoed Sam.
Irene nodded. "That was the most pressing matter, apparently," she took out a notebook and began to consult it. "Blunt force trauma to the trachea, complicated by the broken nose. Gotta get his airway established, before they can tackle the fractures."
"Fractures?" repeated Sam faintly.
"To his face, his ribs and his arm," Irene frowned at her notes. "Frankly, Ms Plant, it looked like he'd had the shit beaten out of him."
Samantha gawped at Deanna, who just honked into another handful of tissues.
"I don't really remember what happened," she said in a small voice, unshed tears gathering on her long lashes. "All I remember is that he followed me, and grabbed me, and, and, and…"
"He… assaulted you?" said Sam in a quiet tone.
"She has recent bruising on her chest," Irene told Samantha quietly, "Consistent with indecent assault."
"Oh, God, Dee, I'm so sorry…"
"Oh, who cares about that!" snapped Dee, holding up her hand to reveal a bandaged finger, "Be sorry about this!"
Sam stared at the dressing. "Uh, did he have a knife or something?"
"No!" Dee's face broke into fresh sobs, "I broke off a naaaaaaaaaaaaail!"
Sam gave Irene an incredulous look.
"And I'd just had them done! And as if that wasn't bad enough," Dee was working herself into hysterics, "The heel of my boot broke off! My boot! My beautiful boot! And that asshole bled all over me!"
"Trauma affects people in unexpected ways," Officer Baker informed Samantha, seeing the bemused look on her face, "Your friend has been assaulted, and she'll have to process it, deal with it, her way."
"I'll never get the stains out of that shirt!" squeaked Deanna before dissolving into sobs on Sam's shoulder again. "And it was on specia-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-l!"
Sam made soothing noises, and bent her head to whisper to Deanna:
"You lay it on any thicker, you'll need a trowel."
"Shut up bitch," came the barely audible reply, "And send that cop to get coffee."
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After some coffee, Deanna rallied magnificently for the benefit of her son, and was able to give the police a preliminary statement. She further brightened considerably when a candy-striper brought the heel of her boot back, after a physician had just removed if from her attacker's instep.
Samantha took RJ back – the boy offered Officer Callam a final chance to taste the toy, then waved good-bye – and they headed for the car.
"Ugh," humphed Dean, flopping gracelessly into shotgun and looking down at the scrubs top he'd been given to wear in lieu of his blood-stained clothing. "I hate this colour. It doesn't work on me. It makes me look sallow. Nobody looks good in scrubs. Except for Dr Sexy, obviously."
"And the Academy Award for Most Melodramatic Performance Of Total Histrionics goes to Deanna Page!" Sam said in a forced tone. "Dean, what the fuck happened?"
"Exactly what I told the officer," replied Dean calmly, pulling down the visor and inspecting the ruined make-up. "I beat a bad sport, he followed me, he attacked me, I made him sorry."
"Jesus H. Christ," Sam went on, "When that cop called me, I thought something really bad had happened to you!"
"It did!" Dean insisted, "It did! That nail broke off! It started to bleed and everything! Something did happen to me!"
"No, Dean," Sam scowled, "In fact, you happened to someone. What the hell went on in that alley?"
"We fought, and I won," Dean grinned smugly, still inspecting his face. "Damn. I look like Heath Ledger's Joker." He fished around in the bag of Dee's belongings and from somewhere extracted a pack of make-up removal wipes. "I don't suppose it's worth trying to do it all again, this late, I'm not going out again anyway."
"Dean, you beat a guy nearly to death!" Sam snapped.
"Well, he shouldn't have tried to grab my tits," Dean replied nonchalantly, "Any guy who attacks a woman with sexual assault on his mind deserves to be beaten to death." He brandished a bottle. "I did get this, though, so I call first on the bath tonight. And I got you some salon conditioner too."
"Whatever happened to conserving funds?" snarked Sam.
"It's okay," Dean smiled serenely, "That guy who attacked me? I took his wallet as well as his self-respect."
"Oh, God," Sam groaned, "Were the hysterics really necessary?"
"Well, uh, yeah, duh," Dean rolled his eyes, "I had to give them something to deal with, before anybody started to ask questions about how such a sweet and adorable woman," he fluttered his eyelashes at Sam, "Could inflict that sort of damage. Crap, this mascara really is smudge resistant…"
"I think they're probably startin' to wonder by now," Sam said grimly, "And as soon as they ask him, he'll tell 'em."
"Be a while until he can talk, I'd think," Dean chuckled.
"Then he can write it down!" snapped Sam.
"With a busted arm?" Dean's smugness was as impenetrable as Donald Trump's. "Anyway, no guy like that is gonna admit he was beaten to a pulp by a blonde bimbo babe who also beat him at pool." He paused. "And even if he does, 'Deanna Page' will no longer exist by then."
Sam let out a long sigh. "You are impossible," he muttered, "I thought that you were impossible when you were you, but turns out female you is even more impossible."
"That's just how awesome I am," Dean gave his most winning smile. "Now, I don't know about you, but I'm hungry, so let's get food." HE studied his bandaged finger. "I wonder if I could get, you know, an acrylic tip on this one?"
"We're going straight back to the room," Sam instructed, "Where we will make a start on our fanfic stories."
Dean pulled a face. "I never did like writing essays."
"Well, it's for the job," Sam scowled, "So guess how much I care?"
"About as much as you care about my poor, mutilated, broken nail," Dean sighed sadly. "I've been traumatised here, Sam, you might have a bit of sympathy… oh, hey, pull over! Now!"
"What? What? Where?" yapped Sam, hitting the brakes.
"There!" Dean pointed. "A shoe repair shop! I gotta get the heel put back on my boot!"
Oh, fuck, I hate you."
Kudos to cyenthia 30, who saw it coming a mile away. It couldn't have been Ronnie, partly because in human form she couldn't be assured of winning a knock-down, drag-out fight against Dean (mostly, they're like two cats who pointedly ignore each other - 'I could knock you on your arse but I refuse to dirty my paws on you'), and partly because sooner or later she'd have to answer to Bobby for it.
So, now we get to it, they have to write fanfics. Which means, I have to write their fanfics. Or at least, write about their fanfics. How terribly meta. Does anybody have any ideas? Srsly, any suggestions would be useful at this point, Alfie-Con the plot bunny is being distinctly unhelpful on that topic. Feed him reviews, or poke him with your pointy sticks to inspire him!