You're Listed Here
⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ✧ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ*`
Summary: Arthur comes looking for answers, but the deeper he’s pulled into the situation, the clearer it becomes that no one is telling him the whole truth. With every vague explanation and unanswered question, the night becomes harder to make sense of—and even harder to walk away from.
Rating: 16+
Warnings: hospital setting, medical emergency, unconscious reader, emotional distress, unresolved relationship tension, anxiety-inducing uncertainty
Word Count: 3.8K
a/n: this is chapter 2 in my newest Arthur Morgan series "Emergency Contact", hope y'all like this one.
⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ✧ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ*`
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And then he moves again—toward the front desk.
The floor changes beneath his boots—concrete giving way to tile that carries sound differently, each step ringing just enough to remind him where he is. The noise around him settles into something layered and constant—voices intermingling, low and hazy, the occasional sharp tone of a monitor or phone breaking through before disappearing again.
The desk sits ahead, wide and clean in a way that doesn’t match the people moving through the room. Screens glow behind it, casting pale light upon stacks of paper arranged with precise accuracy.
A woman stands behind the counter, focused on her computer screen, fingers moving quickly on the keyboard. She doesn’t look up right away.
He stops at the desk, hand braced against the counter, fingers snagging in just enough to feel the edge bite back. Testing if anything here is real, or if it’ll give way like everything else.
The typing continues for a moment longer than it should before she finally looks up.
“Can I help you?”
Her tone sounds even, practiced, already moving past the question before he answers it.
He nods, but the word won’t come. Your name sticks in his throat, familiar and suddenly unbearable. It’s heftier now, weighted with everything he can’t say.
“I’m here for—” he starts, then says it.
Saying it out loud is worse. On the phone, it was just noise. Here, it’s a sentence.
She doesn’t react to it. Just turns back to the screen, fingers moving again, quick and efficient, the soft clicking filling the space between them. For a few seconds, that’s all there is—the sound of typing, the low hum of the room, his hand still against the counter.
Then her motions slow.
Not much, just enough to notice.
Her eyes move across the screen again, more deliberately this time, and something in her look shifts before she looks back at him.
“And you are?”
His jaw moves slightly before he answers.
“Arthur Morgan.”
She enters it without comment, the tempo of her typing steady again, but it doesn’t last long. There’s another pause—longer this time, he watches it happen, watches the way her attention stays on the screen just a second too long before she speaks.
“You’re… listed here.”
There’s a faint hesitation in it, small enough that most people might miss it.
His fingers dig in, knuckles blanching. The counter doesn’t give. Nothing does.
“What does that mean?” he asks, the words still even, but tighter now.
She glances back at the screen, as if confirming something she’s already seen.
“Emergency contact.”
Simple. Direct. Supposed to be reassuring. It isn’t.
He doesn’t respond right away, and she doesn’t push him to. Instead, her attention turns slightly, her posture changing as if she’s deciding what to do next.
“Let me just pull up the rest of the intake,” she says, turning back to the screen.
Her hand moves across the mouse. Click.
Another click.
Then she pauses again.
This time, even she can’t hide it.
Her eyebrows tighten slightly as she reads, and for a short second, her stare flicks away from the screen—toward the hallway behind her—before returning just as quickly.
“What?” he asks.
It comes out sharper than before, not raised, just… quicker.
She looks back at him, smoothing over whatever was there.
“Nothing,” she says, too quickly to mean it. “Just reviewing their intake.”
A small beat passes before she continues.
“They were brought in not too long ago.”
He watches her, the way she keeps her focus on the screen instead of him now.
“How?”
The question lands without force, but there’s not much room around it.
There’s a pause.
Different this time. Not procedural. Not routine.
She shifts slightly, one hand resting against the desk as if centering herself in something familiar.
“They came in through emergency services,” she says, her manner careful, each word measured.
His eyes narrow just enough to register the gap.
“That ain’t what I asked.”
The hush after is thin, stretched to breaking. Something’s about to snap.
She exhales once, in control, and this time, when she answers, the neutrality is more deliberate.
“I don’t have full details,” she says. “You’ll need to speak with the attending staff.”
It sounds practiced.
Like something she’s already decided to say.
She reaches for a clipboard without looking away from the screen, sets it down in front of him, and turns it so the paper faces his direction.
“We’ll need you to sign in,” she adds, placing a pencil against the page, the tip tapping lightly once against the line where his name belongs.
“Since you’re listed.”
The words sit there as he looks down at the clipboard, the paper already angled toward him, the pen resting exactly where his name is meant to go.
He doesn’t reach for it right away.
The line waits.
Blank.
Expectant.
For a second, it’s not just a form. It’s a verdict.
He picks up the pen anyway.
The plastic is light in his hand, cheap, the tip hovering just above the paper as his eyes move over what’s written there—your name printed cleanly at the top, followed by blocks of text that don’t say much unless you already know what they mean.
Consent. Authorization. Acknowledgment.
His grip tightens. The pen could snap. He almost hopes it does.
“Just confirming,” the receptionist continues, her voice composed as she glances between the screen and the page in front of him, “you’re listed as the emergency contact, so you’ll be the point of communication while they’re here.”
He doesn’t look up.
“That’s what I was told,” he says.
It’s not quite an answer.
She doesn’t treat it like one.
“Alright,” she replies, already moving forward, her demeanor changing into something more procedural, more certain. “If something changes, we’ll come to you first. If the attending physician needs to speak with someone, it’ll be you.”
The pen touches the paper.
He signs his name.
It looks wrong next to yours.
Not unfamiliar. Just out of place, like it’s trespassing.
He sets the pen down, but his hand doesn’t move away immediately.
“And if any decisions need to be made,” she adds, almost as an afterthought.
That makes him look up.
“What kind of decisions?”
The question comes out before he can stop it, sharper than he intends.
She pauses, just slightly, like she’s deciding how much to say.
“Medical,” she answers. “If it comes to that.”
If.
The word doesn’t settle.
His jaw shifts, something tightening there, but he doesn’t push further. Not yet.
She takes the clipboard back, scanning it quickly before setting it aside with the others, filing back into the stack next to her.
“Alright,” she says, her inflection smoothing again. “Someone will come get you shortly.”
A beat passes.
Then—
“You can wait just over there,” she adds, gesturing toward a section of chairs off to the side.
He doesn’t move immediately.
“You said they were brought in,” he says instead, his speech lower now, more controlled. “What happened to them?”
There’s a trace of something in her look again—not surprise, not exactly—but acknowledgment.
Like she knew the question was coming.
“They’re being evaluated,” she says carefully, each word placed with intention. “The team is still working to assess everything.”
“That don’t answer it.”
It’s quieter this time, but it carries more weight.
She holds his gaze for a second longer than before, then looks back to the screen, fingers resting on the keyboard without moving.
“They’re stable,” she says.
A pause.
“We’re monitoring them closely.”
The two statements don’t sit together the way they should.
Something flickers behind his eyes, subtle but there, the earlier confusion starting to sharpen into something else.
“What aren’t you telling me?” he asks.
This time, she doesn’t answer right away.
The pause lingers—not long, but enough to feel deliberate.
When she does speak, her delivery sounds even, but more guarded than before.
“You’ll be able to speak with the attending physician,” she says. “They’ll have more detailed information.”
Not won’t tell you.
Someone else will.
It’s a small difference.
She straightens slightly, indicating the end of the exchange without saying it outright, her attention already beginning to shift back toward the screen.
“Please take a seat,” she says, calmer now, but no less firm. “We’ll call you as soon as we can.”
He stands there a moment longer.
Long enough to feel the space closing back in around him.
Long enough for your name to settle again—on the form, in his head, in the way she said we’ll come to you first, like it was already decided.
Then he steps back from the counter.
Not far. Just enough to break contact, as if distance could loosen the noose constricting around all of this.
He doesn’t make it to the chairs.
“Mr. Morgan?”
The voice comes from his right—closer than he expects.
He turns.
A nurse stands there, a tablet tucked against her side, pen clipped neatly to the collar of her uniform. She looks like she’s been watching the exchange longer than he realized, her attention settling on him with a kind of steady confidence that doesn’t leave much room for confusion.
“That’s you, right?” she asks, already moving closer.
He nods once.
Her stare moves over him briefly—not assessing in any obvious way, just taking him in, like she’s confirming something against what she’s already been told.
“I’m going to need to ask you a few questions,” she says, shifting the tablet into her hand. “Just to make certain we have everything we need on file.”
He doesn’t answer right away.
Just watches her.
She doesn’t wait for it.
“You’re with them?” she asks, tapping the screen once.
The question sounds casual.
It doesn’t feel that way.
There’s a pause, short.
Long enough to matter.
He could correct it.
Say no.
Put distance where it belongs.
He doesn’t.
“…Yeah,” he says instead.
The word comes out low, rough, carrying more weight than he means it to.
She nods once, like that settles something.
“Alright,” she says, already moving on. “How long have they been unconscious?”
His eyes narrow slightly.
“I don’t know.”
That gives her a brief pause.
“You weren’t with her when it happened?”
“No.”
She studies him for a second longer, something subtle shifting behind her expression, before looking back down at the tablet.
“Okay,” she says, quieter now. “That’s alright. We’ll confirm the rest when she’s able to answer.”
When.
Not if.
It doesn’t help.
She scrolls.
“Any known allergies? Pre-existing conditions? Medications?”
Each question comes clean and quick.
He doesn’t have answers.
“Don’t know.”
Again.
“And current prescriptions?”
“Don’t know.”
“Any history we ought to be aware of?”
“Don’t know.”
Each time, her pen stills just a fraction longer.
Still your emergency contact.
Still the person they called.
But not someone who knows the answers he should.
When she looks up again, there’s something softer there.
More human.
“You must’ve been worried,” she says.
The words land hard.
He says nothing.
Her tone shifts back into something steadier.
“We’re keeping her under observation for now,” she says. “There were a few concerns when she was brought in, but her vitals have been stable.”
His focus sharpens immediately.
“What kind of concerns?”
She stills.
“Nothing we can’t manage.”
“That ain’t an answer.”
A beat passes.
Her look flicks briefly toward the hallway before returning.
“The attending physician will go over everything with you.”
Redirected.
Again.
She adjusts the tablet against her side.
“If she wakes up and asks for you, we’ll come get you right away.”
That catches.
Ask for you.
His jaw tightens.
“Right,” he says.
She nods once.
“For now, just stay nearby.”
Then she turns and walks back toward the desk.
He doesn’t follow right away.
Just stands there a second longer, the words still hanging in the space she left behind—we’ll come to you, we’ll need you, you’re listed—stacking on top of each other until they start to feel less like information and more like something being handed to him without asking.
A chair scrapes somewhere to his left.
Voices shift.
The room keeps moving.
He exhales once, slowly, then turns toward the waiting area she pointed out earlier.
It’s not far—just a section of chairs set against the wall, spaced out in a way that’s meant to feel organized but doesn’t quite manage it. A television hangs in the corner, playing something low and forgettable, the volume just high enough to exist without anyone really listening.
A few people sit scattered across the seats.
None of them looks at the others.
He doesn’t sit.
Not at first.
He stops near the end of the row, one hand coming to rest on the back of a chair, fingers bending gently around the edge like he’s deciding whether or not to stay there.
Then he sits.
Finally.
Not all the way back. Just enough to pretend he belongs here.
Across the room, someone glances in his direction.
Only for a second.
Then looks away.
Like they hadn’t meant to.
His gaze lingers there a moment longer than necessary before shifting back toward the hallway the receptionist looked at earlier.
The one she didn’t explain.
The one no one’s said anything about since.
Your name sits there again.
Different now.
Attached to something he doesn’t fully understand.
Something no one’s saying out loud.
He leans forward slightly, elbows resting against his knees, hands coming together loosely in front of him. It’s not comfortable, not settled—just a position that gives him something to do besides sit still with it.
The television in the corner drones on, cycling through something forgettable, the images shifting without meaning. No one’s really watching it.
He isn’t either.
His attention stays on the hallway.
A set of doors at the far end opens briefly, a hint of movement beyond them—staff passing through, quick, purposeful, gone just as fast. The doors swing shut again with a soft, controlled click.
Too controlled.
Everything here is.
His jaw shifts.
Something’s wrong.
Since the way they said it.
Incident.
The word circles back again, slower this time, heavier.
People don’t hesitate for nothing. Not here.
They don’t dodge questions unless there’s something bad.
A voice breaks through his thoughts.
“…Mr. Morgan?”
He looks up.
A man stands a few feet away, different from the others. Not in scrubs this time, but still part of it, still carrying that same feeling of purpose. A badge clipped to his shirt, a folder tucked under one arm.
“Yeah.”
The man steps closer, not rushed but direct.
“I just wanted to follow up on a few details while we wait for the attending physician,” he says, flipping the folder open. “Make sure everything we have is accurate.”
Arthur nods once.
The man glances down at the page, scanning.
“They were brought in by emergency services,” he says, more to himself than anything else, confirming it as he reads. “No immediate identification on arrival…”
Arthur’s attention sharpens instantly.
“What do you mean?”
The man looks up, like he hadn’t realized he said it out loud.
“They didn’t have identification on them when they were brought in,” he clarifies. “We were able to match them through other means.”
Other means.
The phrasing sticks.
“How’d they get them here?” he asks.
The man hesitates—not as clean as the others. Not as practiced.
“Paramedics responded to a call,” he says. “They were already on site when—”
He stops.
Just for a second.
Then corrects:
“When they arrived.”
Arthur’s eyes narrow.
“That ain’t the same thing.”
The man shifts slightly, changing his grip on the folder.
“They were transported here by ambulance,” he says, more carefully now. “That’s the important part.”
Arthur leans back slightly, just enough to look at him differently now.
“What kind of call?” he asks.
There’s a beat.
The man exhales quietly through his nose, glancing down at the folder again like it might give him an easier version of the answer.
“I don’t have the full report in front of me,” he says. “That’ll be something the physician goes over with you.”
Again, passed off.
Moved.
Not answered. Not even close.
Arthur doesn’t look away from him.
“What kind of call?” he repeats.
This time, there’s no softening in it.
The man meets his gaze for a second longer, then looks past him—toward the desk, toward the hallway—anywhere else.
“It was… reported as an accident,” he says.
Reported.
Not confirmed.
The word sits wrong.
“What kind of accident?” Arthur presses.
Another pause.
This one is heavier.
The man’s jaw tightens slightly before he answers.
“There were signs of—” he starts, then stops himself.
His grip on the folder shifts.
“…of possible complications,” he finishes instead.
That’s a replacement.
Arthur leans forward again, slower this time.
“What kind of complications?” he asks.
The man closes the folder.
Not hard.
Just final.
“As I said,” he replies, his tone firming up now, less open than it was a while ago, “the attending physician will go over everything with you.”
There it is again.
That line.
That wall.
Arthur holds his gaze a second longer.
Then:
“Yeah,” he says.
But there’s nothing in it that agrees.
The man nods once, like the conversation has reached its end, whether Arthur accepts it or not.
“They’ll be with you shortly,” he adds, stepping back.
Then he turns, moving away toward the hallway, disappearing through the same set of doors the others have used.
Arthur watches him go.
Doesn’t move.
Doesn’t look away.
Reported as an accident.
Already on site.
No identification.
The pieces don’t sit together.
They don’t line up clean.
And no one here is going to fix it. Not for him.
His hands come together again, tighter this time, fingers pressing into each other just enough to feel it.
Something’s wrong.
Not just with you.
With what happened.
And whatever it is—
They already know more than they’re saying.
He stays there a second longer after the man disappears through the doors, eyes focused on the spot where he disappeared, like something might come back out if he waits long enough.
Nothing does.
The waiting area settles again around him, quiet in the same uneasy way it’s been since he sat down. The television keeps running. Someone shifts in their seat across the room. A phone rings somewhere behind the desk and gets picked up too quickly.
Everything moves.
Nothing changes.
He leans back slightly, just enough to take the pressure off his hands, his fingers flex once, then still again, resting against his knees like he’s holding himself in place.
Reported as an accident.
The words don’t sit any better the second time.
Neither does already on site.
That one sticks.
Paramedics don’t just wait around. Something put them there. Something ugly.
Across the room, someone gets up, their chair sliding softly upon the floor before they move toward the desk. The receptionist greets them the same way she greeted him—identical tone, same tempo, like none of this is different from any other night.
Like this happens all the time.
Maybe it does.
The doors at the end of the hall open again.
This time, a nurse steps through and doesn’t turn away.
She looks directly at him.
“Mr. Morgan?”
It slices through the noise. Finally.
He’s already on his feet before he answers.
“Yeah.”
His speech is rougher now. He doesn’t fix it.
She gives a small nod, already turning back toward the hallway she came from.
“You can come with me,” she says.
No buildup.
No explanation.
Just that.
He moves without hesitation, falling into step behind her as she pushes through the doors. They swing shut behind him with that same controlled sound, cutting off the waiting room in an instant.
The shift is immediate.
Quieter.
Tighter.
The hallway stretches ahead, lined with closed doors and muted lights that feel dimmer after the brightness out front. The air smells sharper here—cleaner, but not in a way that settles anything.
She walks at a steady pace, not looking back to check if he’s keeping up.
He is.
His boots hit the floor in a measured rhythm behind her, each step ringing just enough to remind him how far they’re going.
Too far.
Not far enough.
His eyes move as they walk, catching small details but without holding onto any of them—open doorways with glimpses of movement inside, equipment pushed against walls, a cart left just slightly out of place like someone meant to come back for it.
No one stops them.
No one asks anything.
They turn a corner.
Another hallway.
Quieter still.
“She’s stable,” the nurse says as they walk, her tone calmer now, less formal than it was before. “The doctor will go over everything with you once you’ve had a chance to see her.”
The words register.
So does the shift.
She.
He doesn’t react to it out loud.
Just keeps walking.
“How long’s she been out?” he asks.
“A few hours,” she says. “She hasn’t regained consciousness yet, but her vitals have been steady.”
Steady.
He’s heard that word too many times. It’s lost all meaning.
“What happened?” he asks.
The question comes the same way it has every time—direct, leaving no space around it.
This time, the nurse hesitates.
Not long.
Just enough to sting.
“We’re still working through the details,” she says.
Same answer.
Different voice.
Still not an answer.
He doesn’t push again.
Not yet.
They pass another set of doors. This one is half open.
Inside, he catches a glimpse—just a second—of someone sitting upright in a bed, talking to someone beside them, voices low but present.
Normal.
Contained.
They keep moving.
The nurse slows as they approach the end of the hall, her steps shortening slightly before she comes to a stop in front of a closed door.
She turns to him then.
For the first time since they started walking.
“This is her room,” she says.
Her tone shifts again—quieter, more careful now.
“She’s still unconscious,” she adds. “So she won’t be able to respond yet.”
A small pause.
“But you can sit with her.”
The words pause between them.
He nods once.
Doesn’t trust his voice. Not now.
Her hand moves to the door, but she doesn’t open it right away.
“If you need anything,” she says, “just let us know.”
Then—
She steps aside.
Gives him space.
The door is right there.
Closer than anything has been since the call.
His hand comes up, hovering just short of the handle.
For a second—
He doesn’t move.
Everything that’s been building—the call, the muteness, the questions that didn’t get answered—sits right there with him.
Then his fingers close around the handle.
And he pushes the door open.
