The irony of describing a hospital's emergency room as sterile is especially prudent in one such as Gotham General's ER at two in the morning. Sure, the surfaces had all been wiped down at some point within Helena's 12-hour shift, and messes weren't left alone long enough to be described as lingering. But the smell?
Particularly man-made.
This time of night meant that some variety of patients in the waiting room radiated the stench of some artificially fruit-flavored vodka that wasn't sitting well with the other multitude of shots of alcohol- amongst other things- roiling in the guts of the poor bastards seated with the posture of a question mark. Curled over emesis basins like a dragons over their hoards, some moan or mutter irritated curses, while others let their welling saliva pool from their lips into the plastic container perched on their laps to avoid the risk of upsetting their bellies further by swallowing it down.
Mixed with the consistent undertones of sweat that rose from the racing pulse and heightened blood pressure that came with symptoms of pain or distress, and the faint undertones of cigarette smoke that seemed to adorn the lips of most anyone old and aware enough to know that Gotham was a nightmare to live in, and the air could easily be described as sour. Fermented, even.
The thought makes Helena's stomach turn.
The monotonous lull of a late-night talk show playing on a rickety TV set, the occasional mutters and moans of patients waiting to be assessed, and the humming of the obtrusive overhead lights are interrupted by thunderous approach. A separate hall on the right of the ER, away from the main entrance, leads to the valet drive used by ambulances on duty. Wailing sirens hail its approach, and the inevitable promise of another sick or damaged body to pour onto the pile of yet-to-be-corpses that collect in the beds like childhood trinkets, abandoned and gathering dust, rustled by curious visitors but otherwise untouched.
The two RNs that remain behind the nursing station with Helena perk up, heads turning as they discard their cellphones and idling chatter in favor of trotting down the hall to meet the paramedics and their cargo. They knew Helena would stay back, because the other nurses on-shift tonight were already preoccupied with two other assessments, and no one wanted to tend the miserable folk waiting their turn to be seen, not with their stench and their heat and their intrusion.
The brunette didn't mind too much. She knew she would be less likely to upset the waiting patients, because at least she tried to offer empathy and attentiveness when time permitted. She wasn't perfect by any means, but nobody was. It was a terrible world they lived in, and most anyone just wanted to be heard.
She was good at listening.
When the erratic chattering from paramedic to nursing staff finally dies down, Helena can see that the injured adult strapped to the mobile gurney is wheeled away into one of the assessment rooms. The tired nurse stands from the nursing station and makes a pass through the waiting room. She checks on people who have been sitting or pacing, giving her best estimate as to when they will be seen, refilling cups of water or coffee, and taking notes of PRNs that anyone is asking for their assessing provider to consider for them.
By the time she returns to the nursing station, one of the paramedics has stepped into the open desk setup, looking worse for wear. Helena knows the tell-tale signs of strain, considering she wears them as part of her typical uniform on a daily basis. Eyes sunken into the recesses of dark circles indicating loss of sleep, a grimace so familiar one might call it RPF (Resting Pained Face), and slumped posture that screams I can't remember when I last ate or sat down and didn't have to think.
Wordlessly, Helena moves to the area that served as her station for the evening, fishing around in a faux leather tote bag that served as her survival bag. Less a purse, more a Mary Poppin's bag of whatever might be needed to make it on the streets of Gotham as a ‘lone soldier’, so to speak. Methodically, she shifts certain items aside to find the pocket of snacks, protein bars for hours requiring reason, and smiley face gummies for hours that require escape from the drudgery.
She approaches the paramedic in an attempt to be unobtrusive. Slightly at an angle instead of head-on, so as not to raise hackles unintentionally. She stops just a footstep within arm's reach, tilting her head down slightly toward the shorter man with tousled, shaggy locks and shaved sides. “Here,” Helena murmurs softly, holding out a Cookies ‘n Cream flavored protein bar by the crimped edge of its wrapper. “You look like you’re about to drop.”
Her tone is a feeble attempt at humor, dry and light as a whisper through tree branches. Helena stands at five feet, eight inches, wearing gray scrubs that drape unceremoniously over her figure like straight edges trying to mimic a curve. Her dark hair is braided and wound into a tight bun on the back of her head, pinned into place so that it won't get in her way. Only whisps of her long, curling bangs remain, scattered about her head like baby hairs and frizz. The streaks of natural platinum blonde and the scarring that mars her features are the most noteworthy aspects of her appearance, but other than that, she was just a tired, average-looking doe-eyed woman.
But she had watched. And she had noticed.
