Okay, part two... It's pretty short but the next part will make up for it.
I hope it lives up to expectations...
And thank you to everyone who's taken the time to read, favourite, follow and review. I appreciate it and you've given me some great feedback. :)
"You'll have him back in about twenty minutes," I tell Danny as I start to nudge Steve towards the cordon at the end of the road. When we get to the rig, I jump up into the back and then point my patient towards the stretcher as I pull the back doors closed behind him. My kit bag gets laid out across the bench seat while the commander gets himself settled and I pull my squeezy bottle of saline out of the side pocket before grabbing gauze, gloves and two square absorbent pads (to catch the run-off when I irrigate the former SEAL's wounds) out of one of the overheard lockers.
Everything gets set down on the bed and then I hold one of the pads out to Steve, telling him, "Put that over your leg so I don't get blood on your pants when I'm cleaning your arm." The beige cargos he's wearing are already spotted with blood but they look like they might be salvageable – assuming I don't get any more on them, that is.
When I've worked my hands into my gloves, I remove the dressing I applied to Steve's arm outside and dump it in a yellow waste bag that will go in the incinerator at whichever hospital we end up at next. I'm pleased to note that the bleeding has slowed to a slow ooze as I hold the second pad against the commander's arm down near his wrist and I joke softly, "I bet you're regretting wearing beige pants to work today, huh?" as I reach for the saline to start flushing the wounds around his elbow.
"Yeah, well, I didn't count on finding our suspect's bit-on-the-side hiding in the closet when I got dressed this morning – next time, I'll be sure to consult my crystal ball," the former SEAL mutters tiredly, scrubbing at his face with the sleeve of his t-shirt as I set my squeezy bottle down and then lay the square pad out on the bed beside it.
"Just think what you'd save on dry cleaning," I say with a small smile as I soak a wad of gauze with the saline and then use it to scrub at the trails of dried blood on the back of Steve's arm. Some are more stubborn than others and I glance up as I go to toss the soiled wad on top of the square pad to check that I'm not pressing down too hard on the tender skin around the wounds. When I ask, I get the headshake I was expecting in return but, while the commander doesn't appear to be in pain, his face is yet to regain any of its color and that, combined with slight flush on his cheeks, makes me wonder if he might be coming down with something.
Not that he'd ever admit to it – I'm pretty sure that Steve would rather jump off a cliff without a parachute than confess to falling foul of a pesky little microbe and I really don't see that changing any time soon so, chewing on my lip, I soak another wad of gauze in saline. Steve watches me in silence as I start wiping down his arm again, waiting until I've finished dressing his wounds to ask quietly, "Why didn't you answer when I called?"
"Because I didn't want to talk to you."
It's blunt and to the point, and I feel a little mean for kicking the man while he's down, so to speak, as I head round to the bank of lockers behind the stretcher to grab the thermometer (I tried - and subsequently failed - to use the loose grip I had on his wrist to gauge his temperature). But then, I suppose we were going to have to hash things out at some point – it's just unfortunate that Steve decided to bring it up now when it's all still a little raw. Setting the gray case down on the counter, I'm naively hoping that the former SEAL will drop the matter as I slip a cover over the thermometer's tip and then go to perch on the edge of the stretcher at his hip.
"Can I check your temperature?"
I'm fully expecting to be told where to go – i.e, to take a long walk off of a short pier – but not the way that Steve seems to almost deflate right where he's sitting, like he's decided it's easier to give up than go round and round in circles arguing with me. There's a sort of incredulous smile tugging at corner of his mouth as he drops his head to the floor and then he rubs a hand across his face before making a 'yeah, whatever' gesture with it and letting it drop to his lap. Sighing, I shuffle forwards on the bed, reaching up to gently pull the tip of Steve's ear back before I press the probe into his ear to take his temperature.
"Look, I'm sorry I snapped at you the other day," I say softly while I wait for the thermometer to beep. "I should have talked to you, instead of barging into your office like that. I didn't return your calls because what you said hurt and, rightly or wrongly, I needed a little bit of space."
"You can't just ignore things and hope they'll go away," Steve tells me quietly. "It doesn't work like that, Chlo."
"Then how does it work?" I ask him, checking the number on the screen when the thermometer beeps. Clucking my tongue, I turn it around the show Steve the reading and announce, "Okay, you have a fever - you should be at home in bed, not running around outside in ninety-degree weather channeling Rambo."
"Rambo was in the army. And don't change the subject," he grumbles as I stand to dispose of the throw-away probe cover; it gets flicked into the general waste bin and I set the thermometer back in its case before sinking down onto the bench seat across from him. "Look," I say, leaning forwards to rest my elbows on my knees. "I don't want to argue with you. I don't. So, could we maybe just… I don't know, try to put this behind us?"
I reach across the aisle but Steve pulls away before I can take his hand and I freeze for a moment, a little hurt by the rejection even though I can understand the reasoning behind it, before curling my fingers into a loose fist as I sit back in my seat. Chewing on my lip, I nod as I drop my gaze to my boots and then push myself upright.
"I'm going to ask my partner to take a look at your shoulder," I mutter, stepping over Steve's foot as I head for the back door. Wrapping a hand around the handrail, I pull the handle below it and then shove the door open with a little more force than necessary; it bounces back off the rubber stopper behind it and I curse under my breath when I stave my finger trying to stop it hitting me in the face as I jump down onto the pavement outside.
I'm not sure Mike really buys my excuse but he's nice enough not to question it as he follows me back to the rig to take over where I left off. I tell him about the commander's elbow-as-a-battering-ram stunt (he was a little surprised when I grudgingly revealed how I knew Steve's Tetanus was up to date) and the low-grade fever as we walk along the road so he's fully aware of what's going on as he climbs up into the back of the rig and tells Steve to remove his t-shirt. I busy myself filling out paperwork as the former SEAL awkwardly tries to pull him arm through his sleeve without jarring his sore shoulder, and I end up taking pity on him when I notice him struggling to pull his t-shirt up without wincing (because it's painful to watch).
Leaving the drugs log on the jump seat, I walk around the head of the stretcher to hold Steve's shirt up while he works his good arm out of his sleeve. Once it's free, I tug the bloodstained blue tee over his head and slide the bunched up material down over his sore arm, and then drape it over the head of the bed before I sit back down to continue with my paperwork.
"Any idea how you hurt yourself?" Mike asks a minute or so later as he pushes his fingers into the top of his patient's shoulder just below their collarbone. The pressure elicits a grunt of pain from Steve and he squirms slightly as Mike moves around over the top of his shoulder, telling him, "I got tackled and fell, landed on my arm."
If he's fallen, he could have injured his rotator cuff (the group of muscles responsible for stabilizing the shoulder joint and allowing it to rotate) or even fractured his clavicle and I glance up as Mike gently runs his hand across the length of Steve's collarbone before asking him to lift his arm as high as he can. From the little lines of pain that appear around the commander's eyes, I'd say the motion is sore but not excruciating, like it would be if there was a fracture or a break and I'd say I'm about 95 percent confident that Steve has a strained rotator cuff or at worst, a minor tear, as Mike slips past me to prod at his patient's shoulder blade.
"I'm sure you already know this but I'll go over it with you again just to be sure," Mike says once he's satisfied Steve's injury is minor enough to be treated at home. "You need to rest your shoulder for the next couple of days. Ice it – twenty minutes on, twenty minutes off – three times daily and take Ibuprofen, or whatever OTC anti-inflammatory meds you've got at home, to help with the pain and the swelling. If it's not better by say, Tuesday, then you need to go see your doctor."
There's a knock on the door as Steve nods and I open the back door to find Kono standing outside, dangling her car key from her finger. "Hey, how's it going in there?" she asks, using his forearm to shield her eyes from the bright mid-morning sun.
"He's nearly done," I tell her, jumping down onto the pavement beside her and then pushing to back door to. Pointing to her keys, I ask, "I'm guessing you drew the short straw?" and Kono laughs when I continue, "Well, good luck. He's being extra stubborn today – trying to reason with him was like having a tooth pulled without anesthetic."
"Yeah, the boss can be a little intense - I sometimes think he forgets he's not on active duty anymore, you know?" Kono concedes with a small smile. "Danny and I tried to talk him into going home earlier but it didn't go down very well - no surprise there, though, right?"
"Not even a little bit," I tell her with a wry grin. I have no doubt that Steve's team are more than capable of keeping whatever they've been working on ticking over and while Danny would no doubt have bitched about being left to deal with Steffi, he would have done it no questions asked to save his partner from having to drag himself out of bed. But then, I suspect that the former SEAL is a closet control freak and the thought of leaving his team to deal with Steffi and a murder investigation was just too much for him to bear.
It's funny, really – funny sad, not funny ha ha – because Steve spends so much time worrying about everyone else yet, when the tables have been turned and he's the one needing a little TLC, he can't push – or should that be shove – everyone away quick enough. I actually feel a little sad for the former SEAL because he should be able to crawl into bed for a couple of days when he's not well instead of feeling like he has to run himself into the ground. It must show on my face because Kono reaches out to squeeze my arm and then says, "I'll talk to him in the car. Is there anything I need to know for when I get him home?"
I give her the Cliff Notes version of the speech I gave to Mike but when I get to the part about trying to get Steve to go to bed (and stay there until he doesn't look like something the stray cats outside my building puked up), Kono holds a hand up to stop me, saying, "That might be a little difficult - it's Grace's party this afternoon."
"I forgot about that," I mutter, rubbing a hand up over my face. I know the former SEAL would rather cut off his own hand than disappoint Grace so I change tact, telling Kono, "I'm not going to waste my breath even suggesting that he should miss it because I know he won't listen. See how he feels once he's gotten some sleep," and then I laugh when she replies, "I'll sit on him if I have to."
"It would be easier for you to just cuff him to the bed," I tell her as I step to the side to avoid being hit by the door when it opens. Steve's standing by the foot of the stretcher, slightly hunched oveer and holding a throw-away icepack in his good hand, and Kono steps forward to meet him as he eases himself down onto the back step and then onto the pavement.
"Hey, Boss. All set?"
He nods and Kono links her arm through his, telling Mike and I, "Thanks, guys," as she steers her C.O. back across the street towards the police cordon.
"Enjoy the party," I call after her. "Tell Grace happy birthday for me."
H50*H50*H50
When I'm done at work, I meet Katie at the Hilton for dinner and then we head home for a Nicholas Sparks movie marathon. Jammies, wine and tissues sorted, we flip a coin to see who gets to pick first – Katie – and then settle in to watch troubled teen Shane West fall in love with terminally ill Mandy Moore. After A Walk to Remember, I choose Dear John and then it's The Notebook. I fall asleep with my feet up on the couch about twenty minutes in and wake approximately half an hour later to Katie gently shaking my leg.
"Your phone's ringing," she says, pointing to where my iPhone is vibrating its way across the top of the coffee table in front of us. "That's the second time in less than five minutes."
Rubbing at my eyes sleepily, I lean forwards to snag it before it works it way over the edge and frown at the caller ID as I use the edge of the coffee table to push myself back up onto the couch; the person looking for me is calling from an unknown number cell phone number so it could be anyone from, say, my dad (my brother bought him an iPhone the other week so my parents can talk to me on 'the Facetime') to Danny and I tuck my legs under my butt as I answer the call and put the phone up to my ear.
"Hello?"
"Hi, is this Chloe?"
The voice belongs to a young-sounding woman and my brow furrows as I struggle to place it.
"Yeah. Who's this?"
"It's Mary." There's a pause and then, when the name doesn't seem to click, she adds, "McGarrett. Steve's sister?"
"Oh, hey," I say, propping my phone between my cheek and my shoulder as I reach for the remote to pause the DVD player. Katie mouths an indignant 'Hey!' at me and I make a 'what?' face back at her before dropping the remote on the couch at my feet while I ask Mary, "What's up?"
"Could you come over?" she starts, and there's an almost frantic undertone in her voice as she continues. "I know I was kind of a bitch to you and I wouldn't normally ask but Steve, he's… something's wrong."
"If it's that bad then you need to call for an ambulance." Untangling my legs, I swivel round and take hold of my phone again, leaning forwards to rest my elbows on the tops of my thighs just as Mary chuckles wryly.
"If it were that easy, do you think I'd be calling?"
Okay, maybe she has a point.
Truth be told, I'm torn between heading straight over there and telling her no, because Steve made it pretty clear earlier that he doesn't want anything to to do with me (whether its work related or not). But on the other hand, I feel kind of obligated to help because of the oath I took when I became a fully-fledged EMT; it's similar to the Hippocratic one taken by doctors in that I swore to 'share my medical knowledge with those who may benefit from what I have learned'.
I read that as doing whatever I can to help even when I don't necessarily want to which, in this case, means changing out of my jammies and going over to Steve's to see why he's got his sister so worried. So, scrubbing a hand over my face, I push myself to my feet as I tell Mary, "Yeah, okay. Just... send me your address so I don't take a wrong turn and end up on the other side of the island."
"Thank you," she says sounding relieved, as though whatever pressure she's been under has been lifted off of her chest and she adds, "I'm going text it to you right now," before she ends the call. Hanging up on my end, I sigh and toss my phone onto my newly vacated seat cushion, and then fix Katie with an apologetic look as I skirt around the edge of the coffee table.
"It's fine. Go," she says, rolling her eyes at me as she reaches for the remote to restart her movie. "You can make it up to me later."
"Dinner and drinks are on me next week," I promise before heading along the hall to my room to swap my Nightmare Before Christmas jammies for boardies and a Henley that I stole from He Who Should Not Be Named. My wet hair gets scraped up into a messy topknot and I slip my bare feet into an old pair of sneakers before heading into the kitchen to grab my car keys and purse.
"Don't wait up. I don't know how long I'll be," I tell Katie as I lean over her to snag my phone off the couch and then head towards the door.