Suddenly aware of hard, fast footsteps approaching the open triage door, Meg turned toward the sound, phone still grasped tightly in her hand, Jackson still yammering. Once it registered that the person was a sweat-coated, scowling Randy Orton, she realized her night was about to become extremely complicated.
"Jackson, look. I mean, listen. I have to go. I'm about to have an issue."
"Don't you dare. This is more important than whatev-"
"Nope. I'll call you back."
Meg cut the call off, stuffed the phone into the back of her cargo pants, and took a deep breath. When a major talent didn't bother to shower but did bother to stomp to triage after a match, it was obvious they were very hurt, very worried, or very angry. Dave was nowhere to be found, leaving Meg on her own to figure out what was brewing with Randy. 'Sink or swim, Meg,' she thought, 'Fix this up and earn some brownie points. Randy's not gonna trip at you too bad. Hopefully.'
"Where is he?" Randy's question was more of a snarl, but it did give Meg something to work with.
"Where is who, sir?"
The look on Randy's face read somewhere between wondering if he should speak slowly and use tiny words, and wondering if he should dial 911 instead of deal with the pea-brained medic.
"Are you fucking kidding? What do you mean, who? Didn't you see what happened? You know, in my match? Seriously, you just asked who?"
"No. Slow down. Are you hurt?"
"No. No! Not me! Joe! Where is Joe?"
Meg realized she had missed something major. That phone call with Jackson – she couldn't even blame him entirely, because she could have hung up sooner. Dave always had to be right, and now it was going to cost her. She had to dance through this, and fast.
"Joe hasn't been brought to medical. Are you sure he didn't stop at a locker room? Or maybe Dave met him between gorilla and triage?"
Slowly, the expression on Randy's face changed from one of complete frustration to one that might possibly be considering the available options, which might not include continuing to scream at Meg.
"Okay. Maybe. Maybe he did. I'm gonna go look in locker rooms. You need to go find Dave. Didn't you see what happened?"
"Not entirely." A benign statement, open to interpretation, not a truth or lie on Meg's part. Safe enough.
"I caught Joe on the head. He's split open bad. Blood everywhere, and he was out of it. Real out of it, like he couldn't walk right."
"Okay. You go look in locker rooms, and I'm going to go find Dave. I'm sure Dave has him and is cleaning him up for photos. You know how media is."
On that count, Meg was right. Media would want crisp, sweat-free photos of Joe with a placid look on his face, being tended to by someone authoritative wielding a medical implement. Or in this case, Dave holding his hands strategically over Joe's face so as not to block the photographer, both men displaying a proper mix of serious and serene. Meg played no part in anything that went to publication, and that was fine with her.
Meg's absence from media was really too bad, because years of medical training had given her the acting skills to pull off a display of outward calm over inward panic. Randy and his temper added up to trouble, not knowing where Dave was put Meg at a handicap, and finally, there was the slight problem of losing Joe. To her view, the situation had officially spiraled out of control. Meg had to hope Joe really was in a locker room, trying to pull a tough-guy act and clean himself up without help, or that Dave had managed to find him between gorilla and triage in order to begin first aid, because otherwise – well, Meg didn't want to contemplate 'otherwise.' None of those options involved brownie points.
Dave knew full well it was pure dumb luck that he caught Joe coming down the hall toward the monitors near triage. Literally caught, given that he watched Joe use the wall as a crutch, leaning against it and leaving a bloody, sweaty smear in his wake. When his head lolled back and he began to collapse toward the floor, Dave began as much of a sprint as his extra weight would allow, managing to get underneath Joe just in time to prevent him from slamming into the floor. Being pinned under one of the larger athletes on the roster was problem number one; the distance between the monitors near triage and triage itself was problem number two. Nothing could be helped if Joe couldn't get to where the help was at.
Briefly, Dave considered trying to roll Joe off of him, but experience dictated against it. The motion could exacerbate any injuries, and there was no guarantee that he could heft 265 pounds without help. Starting a slow slide out from underneath was a better idea, and would give Joe time to wake up. Fishing for his phone, Dave used his one free arm to send a quick text to Meg, along with a silent prayer that she was off the phone with her man-idiot and would actually respond.
"You're stuck with me for the time being," he muttered, trying to extricate his legs from under Joe, "So let's both hope we get our girl to show up, because you need more than what I can do alone."
Meg briefly considered not checking her back pocket when she felt her phone vibrate. After a moment's consideration that she still hadn't run in to Dave and Randy was likely running out of locker rooms to check but not out of vitriol to spew, she decided to read the message.
"Triage monitors. Now. Help."
Meg took off at a dead run. It was Dave's number, and somehow she knew he found Joe. She was tall enough and strong enough to help haul him back to triage, and smart enough to be thankful to everything above and below that Joe picked the triage monitors to collapse in front of. He had at least headed in the right direction. As lithe as Dave was portly, Meg made it to the monitors with energy to spare. Writhing, Dave had managed to get out from under Joe. Joe, through a string of slurred profanity and wild attempts at punches, had managed to force Dave into hauling him up to a slumped, seated position. Neither man appeared very happy with the other.
While seated and debating whether vomiting was worth the effort, Joe was also debating his next move. The constant, sharp, squealing static refused to let go, and the floor continued pitching left and right. Nothing about the night had come back to him; Joe briefly considered touching his face to see if it jogged his memory, but discarded the idea as quickly as it came to him. If he couldn't remember what happened, touching his face could make it worse. Besides, his head and neck hurt.
'Staying here can make things worse, too, Joe. Figure shit out. Do something. Move.'
Planting his right palm firmly on the ground, Joe tried to push himself forward toward his knees – he could crawl if he had to – but realized too late he hadn't decided which way to go, and Dave kept trying to pull him backwards. His vision, limited as it was, began to swim from the effort, and it was at that moment that two very cold, rose-scented hands pressed into the sides of his shoulders and steadied him back against the wall. Joe tried tilting his head back to look up, but his neck twinged hard enough to tell him it wasn't a good idea. Meg dropped to her knees in front of him and, alternating hands, started gently lifting strands of hair away from his face. The relief on Dave's face was immediate.
"Thank fuck, Meg. First he falls on me, now he's trying to stand up, crawl away, and generally be a pain in my ass. Fighting with him was gonna hurt him worse than just letting his idiot ass sit up. I'm not sure he knows what planet he's on, but it's not one that involves listening to the friendly medic who wants to sew him back together."
"You can impress him with your sarcasm later, Dave. Let's just get him on a table before Randy gets back to triage and realizes I might have lied to him just...a bit. You wouldn't believe what bullshit I had to string together. No worse than what he's ever done, though."
Dave smiled broadly. "Atta girl, Meg. You survived, right?"
"Right. But we also still have to get to triage." Meg firmly pushed Joe back against the wall and eyed him critically. "Quick check says concussion, sutures, contusion, and needs one hell of a shower. Sweaty. Gross."
"All that blood and it's the sweat that gets you? Meg, you are one fucked up chick."
"I'm gonna take that as a compliment, and hurt you later."
"Okay. You deal with him for a minute, I'm going to run back to triage and get a stretcher and -"
"Oh, bullshit you're running anywhere, and double-bullshit he's getting on a stretcher. You already know we're walking him back to triage. How about you prep for stitches, make sure Randy knows Joe is okay, and get us set up for media? I'll stay here with him til you text me that we're ready."
"Best idea you've ever had. I've had my fill of one angry Samoan man for the night."
"Just come help me carry him when you're set up."
Dave trotted off, and Meg turned her attention back to the sorry-looking man in front of her. His breathing was shallow and rapid, eyes slitted open, and lips dry. Thankful for having stashed a squirrel's nest of supplies in her cargo pants, Meg shifted on her knees and fished out a small pot of neutral lip balm. Uncapping it and rubbing her middle knuckle through it, she tipped Joe's head back, causing his lips to part slightly.
"I'm going to put some balm on your lips. I'll be careful, and this shouldn't hurt. Tell me if you need me to stop, okay?"
Joe didn't respond, but also didn't try to shove her away. He could almost taste the rose scent on her hands when she rolled her knuckle across his lower lip, and her hands were so cold they lifted a shiver from his chest. He started to raise a hand up to her face, to try to get her to help him stand up, help him walk away from here, tell him what happened, but she gently caught his hand in hers and held it.
"Do you need me to stop?"
He sighed, somewhere between frustration at not being able to formulate sentences without making his headache worse, and pleasure at just how cold her skin was.
"Okay. We're going to take everything nice and slow. Instead of moving your head, or talking, squeeze my hand once for yes, twice for no. Do you feel like you can do that?"
One squeeze. 'Okay,' Meg thought, 'So far, so good. And Dave is supposed to be the nice one. Go figure. Let's see how far I can push this.'
"Step one is getting you out of some of this ring gear. Do you remember anything about your match tonight?"
Two squeezes, hard enough to roll some of the bones in her hand over each other. 'Welp, that was too far. Good job, dumbass. Let's try not to make the giant man angry.'
"I'm sorry. You and I are going to figure it out, and I'm going to take care of you. I promise."
One squeeze. Meg smiled.