*peeks out from behind fingers* Is it safe to come out?
Sorry it's taken so long to get this up but I got so stuck with it. It sat on my laptop for weeks without being looked at before I decided to start over. But anyways, here it is... I kind of threw this together in a desperate attempt to get this story moving forwards again but at least now I can move onto the getting the next chapter down on paper (I have a pretty nifty little trick up my sleeve for that one *grins wickedly*).
Thanks again to ireadwritesail for spotting the glaring error in the last chapter.
Un-beta'ed, as per usual. Still not a doctor, either.
It takes twenty-five minutes to drive to Kings' Emergency Room from the McGarrett beach house and Mary pulls the Silverado up to the curb right outside the automatic doors when we finally arrive. She hurriedly shifts the truck into park and then slides out onto the road, leaving me to gently nudge Steve awake. He spent the first ten minutes or so shifting uncomfortably in his seat but then stilled as we pass UH at Manoa, his too-hot cheek burning a hole through the shoulder of my Henley, and I feel a little mean disturbing him when he's finally found some respite from whatever this illness is that's been plaguing him.
But then Mary points out the parking attendant making a beeline for us and mumbles something about not being able to afford another ticket (we're stopped in a no parking zone), and poor Steve ends up being manhandled out onto the pavement before he can wake up enough to help. It's like wrestling that over-amorous octopus all over again as we try to keep him upright long enough for me to duck under his arm (limbs everywhere…) but we manage and Mary jogs back around to the driver's seat to move the truck as Steve and I start to inch our way towards the Emergency Room doors.
"Fill that in and take it in with you when you get called," the woman sitting behind the counter instructs, sliding a form on a clipboard and a pen through the little window at the bottom of the glass separating her from the people in the waiting area.
Sighing – because I don't have any of Steve's insurance information or know anything about his family history – I guide a still-woozy Steve towards two empty chairs in the corner beside the toilets. As I expected, trying to extract anything of use from the former SEAL is like trying to draw blood from a stone and ten minutes later all I've managed to fill out are his name, address and date of birth – information that the staff no doubt already have thanks to Super SEAL's tendency to attract trouble. That stills leaves symptoms, allergies and a list of any current medications. Turning my attention back to Steve, whose eyes slid shut just about as soon as he sat down, I huff inwardly and then reach over to give his leg a shake.
"They need to know if you have any allergies."
Steve shakes his head drowsily so I tick the 'No' box and then continue, "Okay, medication. Are you taking anything?"
"Not unless you count Tylenol," he mumbles, wincing slightly as he shifts in his seat and then props his elbow up on the arm of his chair. With a sigh, he rests his head on his hand and his eyes slide shut once more; it's almost comical just how quickly they fly open again when I probe, "So, you're not taking the Zoloft that's in your medicine cabinet?"
Unsurprisingly, Steve's jaw clenches. It's subtle enough that most people wouldn't notice the change in the commander's demeanor, but I do and, honestly, it kind of hurts that Steve feels like he can't trust me. I suppose I can't really blame him – Steve probably thinks that he'll be seen as weak for not being able to deal with his demons without chemical intervention if anyone ever finds out that he's been prescribed antidepressants. It's an unfortunate stigma that's not only archaic but potentially dangerous as well (just last week Heather and I were called out to someone who'd slit their wrists after stopping their medication a few weeks earlier due to an off-handed comment made by a work colleague) and if Steve doesn't want to talk to me about it, then that's his prerogative. Or it will be once he's answered my question.
"Yes or no, Steve?" I press, looking up from where my pen is poised above the form, ready.
"No," he concedes eventually. "I couldn't concentrate. It was interfering with work."
"Okay. Right, moving on."
Now is probably not the time to mention that he shouldn't have stopped his meds without the okay of his doctor so I clamp my mouth shut and let my eyes drift down the form to the section headed 'reason for visit'. Chewing on my lower lip, I scribble high fever and can't keep anything down in the box and then tuck my pen underneath the metal clip.
Crossing one leg over the top of the other, I risk glancing over at Steve, who – surprise, surprise – has angled himself away from me towards the wall and, wearily forcing air out through my nose, I slide further down in my seat and then tilt my head back until the back of my plastic chair is resting just under my messy topknot. Truth be told, I probably would have had the same reaction if the tables were turned. No one – whether that person happens to be me, Katie or Super SEAL over there - wants their weaknesses to become public knowledge.
Bouncing my propped-up leg up and down, I glance around the crowded waiting room before turning my attention to the TV on the wall. Keeping Up With The Kardashians has been replaced by a local news channel report and the reporter on the screen is gesturing towards the beach in the background. I can see from the subtitle reel below him that he's talking about the shark attack that happened just off of Mokuleia on the North Shore this morning. Mike was navigating the rig towards Halawa when the crew in attendance radioed for the Medivac chopper to airlift the surfer to Tripler Army Medical and we later heard that they had, thankfully, managed to save him.
After the shark attack report, it's a fatal collision on the Farrington Freeway and then the discovery of a woman's body in an alley in Chinatown, all doom and gloom with side order of death. Call me cynical, but I get enough misery at work that I've become a little de-sensitized to it outside of the 'office'. If I didn't switch off, so to speak, I'd probably drive myself to distraction thinking about it all.
Huffing quietly, I shift in my seat, switching my legs around, and then glance back over at Steve. He hasn't moved a muscle since I last checked on him a few minutes ago and he doesn't even so much as twitch from where he's dozing in his seat, head propped up on his fist, when I tentatively reach over to slip my hand into his. Giving it a gentle squeeze, I chuckle – because Steve normally has this uncanny ability to be instantly awake at the quietest of sounds or slightest movement – and lean back in my chair, rubbing circles over the back of Steve's hand until I hear the triage nurse call his name. Pulling my hand out of his, I stand and gently wake him, and he squints up at me blearily.
"That's you. C'mon."
The triage nurse is an older, motherly woman, who smiles warmly as she waits for us to make it the twenty or so feet across the crowded room. Steve's moving at the speed of a stoned snail but the smile doesn't leave here face until she's got him seated the small room just off the main waiting area. She takes the clipboard from me and skims through the completed paperwork before setting the clipboard down on the desk at her hip and pointing me towards the single chair along the back wall and wheeling the blood pressure machine over from the corner. Pushing a few buttons on the screen, she slides the pulse ox clip onto Steve's index finger and then pushes his sleeve up to wrap the cuff around his bicep.
It's not a surprise when his blood pressure turns out to be a little on the low side. He's borderline tachycardic, too, and the nurse clucks her tongue softly as she notes the two readings on the triage chart on her desk. His temperature is also up slightly to 103.9 and the nurse – Marie – tuts sympathetically when I describe how Steve nearly collapsed after being violently sick. Patting his shoulder kindly, she tells him, "Just a few more questions, Commander," as she notes the Advil I gave him at the bottom of the chart.
A 'few' turns out to be eight and range from 'How long have you been vomiting?' to the more mundane 'Do you smoke?' and then Marie stands, telling Steve, "Sit tight, I'll be right back," as she heads for the door directly across from Steve and to my right. It leads out into the corridor used to access the various treatment areas by the paramedics, and sometime, the police, and once Marie has disappeared around the corner towards the nurses' station, I slouch down in my seat and pull at a loose thread at the bottom of my boardies.
The material around the loose thread quickly begins to pucker and I smooth it out with a sigh before glancing over at Steve. He looks like he's on the brink of passing out again, his face flushed as he reaches up to tug at the next of his t-shirt, and I end up sending my chair skidding across the gray lino floor as I stand and make my way over to crouch at the former SEAL's side.
"You okay?"
"Think I'm gonna be sick again," he mutters, prompting a semi-frantic search for one of those little cardboard bowls. When I find one in the cupboard under the desk, I shove it under his nose but thankfully it appears to be a false alarm and Steve nods shakily when Marie reappears and asks if he feels up to walking through into the treatment area. He takes the cardboard basin with him when he wearily climbs to his feet and lets me slip my arm through his as Maries steps back to let us through into the corridor outside, where a second nurse is stood waiting. Marie introduces her to us as Anna, one of three nursing students on placement in the ER this week, and it's she who leads us through the maze of corridors towards the first of Kings' three treatment areas.
It's slow going and by the time we get to the first of four coded-access doors, Steve's dragging his heels and starting to sway where he's standing. It's so slight at first that I barely notice it – in fact, it's not until he makes a hasty grab for the wall that I realize what's going on. "You're fine. Just… sit down before you fall, okay?" I murmur, grabbing hold of Steve's arm as he starts to slide down the wall. It's not so much a faint as a slow motion crumple but we still both hit the floor with a muffled ooft and a thud. Before I know it, Anna's on her knees in front of us, doing her best to hold Steve up so I can untangle myself from beneath him. As soon as I'm free, she eases her patient back down and then pushes him forwards until he's sitting with his head between his knees.
"I'm going to get some help," Anna decides once she's checked Steve's pulse. Climbing to her feet, she glances over at me, asking, "Are you okay to stay with him?" I nod but Steve shakes his head vehemently. "I'm fine," he insists, trying to sit up. "I just need a minute."
Clucking disapprovingly, Anna leans across me and gently pushes Steve's head back down, ignoring the muffle protest that follows. Catching my eye, she then hurries off though the gray swinging doors to source a wheelchair, leaving me to watch over Steve and gently card my fingers through the front of his short, dark hair. It doesn't take long for him to groan and turn his face into the side of his knee, and I huff softly as I grudgingly let me hand drop down onto his shoulder.
"You're something else, you know that?" I tell him after a moment of silence, wincing at the heat that I can feel radiating through the thin cotton of his t-shirt. "You're the only person I know who could pretty much collapse with a hundred and four fever and still find the energy to complain about being petted, of all things." Scrubbing at my eyes with the back of my hand, I look up sharply when the doors to my left fly open and Annaliese appears pushing a wheelchair. She brings the chair up behind her and then locks the wheels, and I quickly scramble to my feet so I can help her help Steve up. He buries his face in his hands once he's seated and then I barely have time to brush off the back of my boardies before Anna starts pushing him towards the treatment area.
Once Steve has been wheeled into a cubical and the chair parked at the side of the bed, Anna pulls an ugly diamond-patterned gown from one of the cupboards that run the length of the wall behind me and then sets it down at the foot of the bed. "I'm sorry, but you won't be able to stay," she tells me as she bends down to check the wheelchair is locked in place. Indicating the orderly that wandered into the cubical behind her, she adds, "I'm sure Hanale won't mind showing you the way back to the main waiting room once he's finished in here?"
Hanale looks up from where he's toeing at a scuffmark on the tiled floor at the mention of his name, only to shrug as if to say 'suit yourself,' when I tell him, "I'm okay, thank you." Taking a step towards Steve, I crouch down at the side of the chair and gently pull his hand away from his face, causing Steve's pale face to crease into a frown. Anna is hovering non-too-subtly behind me and I tell Steve quickly, "They're not letting me stay. I'll find Mary and let her know what's going on, okay? And if I don't see you later, I hope you feel better soon."
Pushing myself back to my feet, I follow Anna out in the corridor, where she tells me that someone will come and tell me what's going on in a little bit before pointing me in the direction of the waiting room. Turning smartly on her heel, she pulls the privacy curtain across the doorway to Steve's cubical with a brisk flick of her wrist, leaving to wander back through to reception by myself.
The crowd in the waiting room has thinned out a bit in the twenty or so minutes I was back there with Steve and I spot Mary almost immediately. When I step away from the doors to the treatment area, it takes a few seconds for her to notice me but when she does, she springs to her feet and forces herself to wait until I'm sliding along the row of plastic chairs just down from her to demand, "Where have you been? And where's Steve… what's going on, is he okay?"
"In there and then in the treatment area. They took him straight through to see the doctor," I mutter, pointing to the triage rooms as I let myself flop down into one of the seats. Crossing one leg over the top of the other, I slouch down a little and let my head fall back onto the top of my chair, and then turn to glance up at Mary, who's still standing, looking at me expectantly. "You might want to sit down. We're probably going to be here for a while."
She hesitates and then folds herself back into her chair with an aggrieved-sounding sigh, folding her arms across her chest as she turns her attention to the TV on the wall ahead. Two-and-a-half hours, and a few position changes later, we're still waiting and I catch myself just as my head starts to drop towards my chest. Rubbing my gritty eyes, I push myself up in my seat and squint blearily at my watch until the numbers come into focus. It's well after midnight now, which means that I've been awake for a little over 21 hours.
In four hours time, my alarm will go off, signaling the start of another work day and, between you and me, I'm seriously considering making my excuses so I can try to get a couple of hours sleep before I start my shift. You won't be any good to anyone if you're too tired to think straight. Mary will understand, I argue with the little guilt-inducing voice inside my head as I do my best to stifle a jaw-cracking yawn; part of me feels a little bad for even considering leaving Steve's sister her by herself but at the same time, I'm way past being able to rely on drinking an almost obscene amount of coffee to keep me awake.
Rolling my head across the back of my chair, I glance over at Mary, who's distractedly scraping the dark blue polish from her left pinky finger with her thumbnail and, leaning my palms on my thighs as I go to stand, I mutter, "I'm going to go get coffee. Want anything?" Mary shakes her head so I start to work my way to the end of the row - mumbling an undeserved apology to the woman whose bag I nearly fall over in the process - and then grind to a halt mere steps from the vending machine when someone calls out Steve's name behind me.
I'm reduced to whimpering like a scolded puppy as I turn on my heel and go to join Mary and yet another nurse by the gray doors that lead to the treatment area. "You can come through and sit with him if you'd like," the young woman says, swiping her access card and then holding the door open for Mary and I. We follow her along the two-toned corridor through another door and then hover uncertainly outside one of the curtained-off cubicles while our escort checks there's nothing that requires a little privacy going on inside. When she's satisfied, she pulls the curtain back and ushers us inside before introducing us to nurse number four – a larger local woman named Amy.
Amy fishes a wheeled stool out from under the wall unit on my left and then quietly excuses herself to go off in search of another, despite my protests that I'll be perfectly fine standing and, once she's gone, Mary takes a step forwards and wraps her hands around the rail at the side of the bed before taking a moment to study her brother, who appears to be sleeping peacefully. The fine lines of pain around Steve's eyes that were prominent earlier have been smoothed out and his cheeks aren't nearly as flushed. He still looks exhausted, though, and suddenly I'm hyper-aware of the way my sneakers squeak against the tiled floor with every step as I move over to where Steve's lying propped up against the raised headboard.
Someone has thoughtfully placed a pillow under his right arm to support his sore shoulder. That same arm is sporting two IVs – one near his wrist and the other in the crook of his elbow – while the other has a pressure cuff wrapped around it and there's a pulse ox monitor clipped onto Steve's index finger. Joining Mary at the side of the bed, I let my eyes drift over the hospital gown that's been draped over Steve's chest and spot a third port peeking out from under the flimsy blue and white material; the cannula has been placed just below the former SEAL's collarbone and is attached to a length of IV tubing that's been taped down to leave only the green-capped injection port at the end free.
"He looks better."
"Yeah," Mary agrees quietly. Her knuckles are white where she's got a stranglehold the bedrail and she has this look on her face, like she's not sure if that's actually the case.
"You know he's going to be fine, right? In a couple of days, he'll be back to driving everyone crazy and we'll all be wishing he was still laid up at home," I say, turning to look at the older woman, whose eyes are still locked on her brother's face. Her own doesn't even so much a twitch in recognition of my reassurances and I sigh internally as I drop my gaze back down to Steve.
"Not quite so super today, are we, Super SEAL?" I mumble to the sleeping commander and I swear the corner of Mary's mouth twitch into a semblance of a smile as I reach out to tug the ugly patterned gown up from where it's slipped down over Steve's shoulder. Mary chuffs under her breath as I do the same with the blanket over her brother's legs and then drops her head as she fumbles in the pocket of her sweats for what I realize is a packet of cigarettes. She uses the packet to motion towards the curtained-off doorway behind her and asks, "Do you mind?"
The way she's fidgeting reminds me of a cornered animal looking for an escape route and, while the medic in me wants to lecture her about the dangers of smoking, I can kind of understand the attraction right now. Plus, it would be pretty hypocritical of me given how I tend to drown my emotions in a bottle of wine (or vodka. Or Jack Daniels) when I'm feeling stressed. So I nod and then chuckle when Mary nearly trips over her own feet making a dash for the door – or, in this case, curtain. It flutters shut behind her, leaving me alone with only my thoughts and a still-sleeping Steve for company.
Scrubbing tiredly at my eyes, I turn to look for the stool that Nurse Amy had left out for us. Wheeling it closer to the bed, I plonk myself down and glance around the room before turning to look over my shoulder when – speak of the devil - Nurse Amy pushes her way back into the cubical carrying a plastic chair. She's followed by a trim, older man with close-cropped greying hair, whom the nurse introduces as Dr. Lennox as the scrub-clad man skirts around to foot of the bed to grab Steve's chart off of the unit across from me. She sets the chair she's carrying down in the corner and then busies herself organizing supplies, and she offers me a comforting smile as I push myself up off of my seat.
"Should I wake him?" I indicate Steve as the doctor starts to flip through his file and then glance over at Amy self-consciously when Lennox looks up to glance over at his patient.
"Do you think you could?" he asks, sounding genuinely curious. And yeah, okay… Steve appears to be dead to the world, despite it sounding like someone's being exorcised a few cubicles down (we're talking full-blow toddler meltdown, here).
When I concede the doctor's point with a tilt of my head, the doctor grins and then leans over the bedrail to give the former SEAL's arm a shake. Steve's brow furrows, but he doesn't make any effort to move or open his eyes. Even when Lennox pushes down on one Steve's nail beds, he still doesn't wake so, chuckling, Dr. Lennox admits defeat and sets his patient's arm back down on the bed.
"He obviously doesn't feel like joining us. No worries, we can catch him up later. His sister, too."
Taking a step back, the doctor rests his hip on the unit behind him and then folds his arms across his chest. "So, after reviewing the results of the tests that I ordered, I'm pretty confident that we're dealing with an acute kidney infection," he reveals. "I've already started the process to have the commander admitted since I'm not convinced that we've got enough of a handle on the nausea and dehydration to send him home."
In other words, any prescribed antibiotics won't work if Steve pukes them back up before they can make their way into his bloodstream.
"I'm going to get him started on a course of antibiotics while we're waiting on a bed becoming available upstairs," Lennox continues. "In the meantime, the plan is to continue treating the dehydration and fever as we have been. I've left orders for painkillers and an anti-emetic – just let Amy…" He pauses to gesture towards the nurse, who looks up from where she's checking the tubing attached to the port in Steve's wrist. "Know if they're needed and she'll sort them out for you, alright?"
I nod.
"Okay, then. Any questions?" the doctor asks, unfolding his arms as he goes to slide down off of the counter. I start to shake my head, only to think of something just as the doctor goes to step out of the crowded cubical into the main thoroughfare.
"How long?"
The doctor stops in his tracks and turns back. "How long should he expect to be here for?" Lennox tilts his head while he considers the question and then offers, "A couple of days, I would think. There's no point discharging him until he's able to continue with the course of antibiotics at home."
With that, the doctor takes his leave and Amy steps forwards armed with a thermometer. A quick check reveals that Steve's fever has come down slightly, but truth be told, I was kind of expecting there to have been a little bit more of a drop; I pull a face when Amy announces that Steve's temperature is down to 103.1 from 103.9 but she seems happy enough with the result and hums softly to herself as she turns to put the thermometer back in the narrow basket under the blood pressure monitor.
Once she's made a note of the reading in Steve's chart, the nurse skirts around the head of the bed to check the bag of IV fluids and she must catch sight of the dejected look on my face because she reaches out to pat my shoulder before adjusting the plastic clamp on the tubing running from the back into Steve's wrist. "He's doing just fine," she says, offering me a warm smile as she takes a moment to fuss with the blanket over her patient's lower half. "I'm just going to go find out which antibiotic the doctor wants him on and then I'll be back to get that started."
Thanking Amy, I grimace as my lower back protests the many hours spent sitting hunched in God knows how many plastic chairs and push my hips forwards in an attempt to ease the ache. When that doesn't work, I rest my forearms on the bedrail in front of me and lean forwards, only to pause when I think I see Steve's pinky finger twitch. Cocking my head, I watch the former SEAL's face intently for any signs of waking and reach over the rail to take his hand in mine when a fine line appears between his brows.
"Steve? Are you waking up?"
I risk rubbing a small circle over the back of Steve's hand with my thumb, being careful to avoid the IV tubing that's been taped down at his wrist and then huff when the tiny line disappears almost as quickly as it appeared. "No one likes a tease, Steven," I grumble halfheartedly, letting my thumb still but not letting go of the rousing SEAL's hand as he mumbles something under his breath and then turns his head into his pillow.
"Hey," he mutters groggily a few seconds later, bringing the hand sporting the pulse-ox clip up to scrub almost clumsily at his face. The effort of having to lift his arm quickly becomes too much and the former SEAL groans as he lets it drop back to the bed and then lets his eyes slide shut again. For a moment I'm not sure if he's gone back to sleep again and I wait for him to see if he's going to open his eyes again before asking how he's feeling.
"Tired," he croaks, sounding just as exhausted as he looks. His voice is almost non-existent and he clears his throat with a grimace before mumbling, "Feel sick, still." The weary complaint that follows - 'feels like I got hit by a bus' - makes the corners of my mouth turn up into a wry smile as I turn away to grab an emesis basin from the pile on the worktop behind me and set it down on the mattress by Steve's hand. Leaning over the bedrail to gently pull his gown back up from where it's fallen down over his shoulder, I ask softly, "That bad, huh?"
"Hmm…"
With a pained sigh, the former SEAL sinks further into his pillows and I reach over to tug the blanket up higher over his chest when he shivers. The little vee between his brows is back and there's a pink tinge to the tips of Steve's ears that make me suspect his fever could on the up again. With a sigh of my own, I step forwards and press the back of my hand against his forehead, and then frown when Steve shivers under my touch. Reaching for the blanket, I pull it up over his chest and tuck the edges in around his shoulders. Steve stirs as I as I lean over the bedrail to press my lips to his forehead and he blinks up at me owlishly through his lashes.
"What's going on?" he mumbles, the vee between his eyebrows deepening as he fights to keep his eyes open. "Chloe?"
"Yeah, I'm here." I reach up to brush a stray strand of hair from his forehead as I tell him, "I'm going to get the nurse, okay? And then once I've done that, I'm going to go find your sister and get her to come sit with you. I need to go home and sleep for a couple of hours before I start my shift but I'll come by and see you after work, okay?"
Leaning over the bedrail to carefully wrap my arms around Steve in a hug, my smile starts to falter when I feel just how much effort it's taking for him to just to lift him arms up, never mind squeeze me back. His arms are trembling by the time I release him and I hover at his elbow while he gets himself situated in bed and then tug his gown back up over his shoulders.
"Okay?" I check, smoothing out a wrinkle in the blanket over his legs. "Do you need anything before I head out?"
"My cellphone? It's in there somewhere. In one of my pockets," Steve mumbles around a yawn, waving his IV-laden arm towards the unit behind me. Turning, I crouch down and rifle through the lower cupboards until I find the plastic bag filled with the former SEAL's belongings. His cellphone is in the first pocket I try and he mumbles a barely audible 'thank you' when I hand it to him after stuffing his sweatpants back into the bag and putting the bag back in the cupboard.
"Thanks, Chloe," Steve mumbles and I flash him a small smile over my shoulder when I reach the privacy curtain at the bottom of the cubical.
"I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"
With that, I slip through the gap in the curtain and head out into the corridor to look for Nurse Amy or Mary, but preferably both.