This is the first chapter of a fan fiction I started last year. It is not finished yet but I have made enough progress that like last time, I'm just gonna fuckin send it.
Warning: This fic may include the following: Blood, injuries of all shapes and sizes, descriptions of surgery, death, deceased persons, situations of sexual abuse, physical abuse, psychiatric issues, addiction and all the other horrific and/or hilarious shit you get to see as a healthcare worker. If you thought The Pitt was too graphic, this isn’t for you. This is the only warning you will receive, there will be no chapter by chapter warnings. In the words of Sweet Brown 'Ain't nobody got time for that.' If anything gets spicy, I will tag it *NSFW* but I don't have anything currently in the works as such. Let's be honest, I'm not that good at spicy stuff anyway.
I say again: SEND IT
“Tier 1 Trauma, ETA three minutes.”
Ten minutes after two in the morning, the city of Pittsburgh should be at its quietest, the people of its city asleep, most hours away from their alarms, or others hours away from getting off shift. Traffic is at its lightest, nearly all of SEPTA’s transport vehicles still snuggled away in depots and yards.
At a level one trauma center, none of that ever matters.
“Alright, we’re gonna put that in Trauma 1” Nightshift charge nurse Lena calls out as heads snap towards the desk.
Dr. Jack Abbot along with nurse Kim Tate put on isolation gowns as the residents and medical students scramble into the room.
“Okay, Whitaker, you get the head for primary assessment and airway, Santos, you do the EFAST, Mohan, you’re gonna check the back when we roll them. Javadi, you’re gonna make sure they don’t miss anything. Welcome to your six weeks of nightshift. We’re gonna have a great time.” Abbot says, a smirk crinkling his eyes as Javadi still struggles with her gloves. The sliding door is open, the room buzzing with anticipation. Respiratory and social work mill by the door, but someone walks in, leaning onto one of the cabinets and crossing their arms. Abbot doesn’t recognize them, with their hair in a colorful scrub cap, a surgical mask tied to their face and their scrubs not the emergency departments black or grey. “Hey.” He says, his brow furrowed at them. “Who are you?” He points from the back of the room.
“I’m Cam. I’m from the O.R. Waiting on the trauma, just following the new S.O.P.” She says, tearing her mask off of her face and putting her hands up.
“Why do we need a nurse from the O.R?” Javadi asks, her safety glasses askew and foggy.
“Ooh. Don’t call her a nurse. She hates that.” Garcia says, marching into the room and grabbing a gown. Cam arches an eyebrow in Garcia’s direction, silent.
“What are you then, a medical student?” Abbot asks, crossing his arms.
“Scrub tech. I’m just the messenger. Miller and Underwood’s new grand plan.” Cam sighs. Abbot stares at her confused. “There’s been too many emergency cases with no warning. I was sitting at the desk last month when someone comes rolling by with a guy with an eleven inch chef knife sticking out of his chest. No warning.” Cam says, staring down Garcia as she focuses on putting on a pair of gloves. “So now, I call the desk, make sure we know if any tier 1 or tier 2 traumas are coming up or not.”
“That’s your whole job? Just…calling the desk?” Whitaker asks. Cam turns to him, brow furrowed, her lip beginning to upturn with mild disgust. Whitaker flushes, his eyes wide, and turns back to his intubation supplies.
“Did his mom drop him off? These kids get younger every damn year.” Cam mumbles.
“We’re just getting older.” Abbot says, putting on a mask.
“What’s this ‘we’ shit? Did you just call me old? After asking if I’m a med student? Good, God.” Cam says, shaking her head.
“I’m just trying to figure out who’s rubbernecking in my trauma bay.” Abbot says, crossing his arms.
“And I’m just wondering how a guy your age had the balls to ask for the curly broccoli hair cut all the twenty year olds have.” Cam replies.
“My hair grows this way.” Abbot replies, pointing to his silver and blonde curls.
“Whatever you say, bro.” Cam says, smirking at him. Whitaker, Javadi, Mohan and Santos gape at the two of them, eyes flashing to everyone in the room who’s staring at the two of them.
“Don’t worry, if you rotate through surgery, you’ll get to enjoy her all the time.” Garcia says haughtily, desperate to break the awkward silence in the room. She turns to Santos, who is putting ultrasound gel on the probe. “You get to do the EFAST? Super fun. I’ll help you.” Garcia smiles, sidling up to Santos. Cam raises an eyebrow, her eyes locking briefly with Dr. Abbot’s as they both witness the display. Before any more words can be uttered, Lena calls out.
“Trauma 1, in room now!” The patient rolls by, groaning.
“27 year old male, GSW times two to the abdomen, GCS 15, packed the one in the flank that went through and through, last BP was 97 over 58. Hung a pack of RBCs, access is an 18 in the AC and a 22 in the hand.” The paramedic reports casually. No one in the room is startled by the patients groaning.
“Thanks, guys. Whitaker, on your count.” Abbot says, his eyes flashing again to Cam before they move the patient.
“Right, uh, My count. One, Two, Three.” Whitaker calls softly, moving the patient over onto the ER stretcher. The patient cries out again, despite the soft landing.
“Uh, sir? Sir? Can you tell me your name?” Whitaker asks, the patient still moaning. The patient doesn’t answer, and Whitaker grows nervous as everyone stares at him. “Sir! You need to tell me your name!” Whitaker demands, shocking the trauma room, the patient included.
“John. My name is John.” The patient croaks out, his writhing lessening on the stretcher.
“John, I’m Dr. Whitaker. Do you know where you are?” Whitaker asks. The patient is interrupted by Santos pressing the ultrasound probe to his stomach, making him cry out again.
“Sorry, sir, we just have to check your abdomen.” Garcia says, nodding to encourage Santos to keep looking. Santos and Garcia keep exchanging glances as they scan the quadrants required for an EFAST, Dr. Garcia’s voice taking on a different tone than usual.
The exam continues, but the only thing Cam focuses on is the ultrasound, and how little Garcia seems to be paying attention to the scan. Dr. Mohan checks the patient’s back, the only thing of note was the already known exit wound, fraying the tissues in John’s flank.
“Well, call me if the CT shows anything. Good job, Trinity.” Garcia says, taking her gloves off and slingshotting them into the garbage can. Cam’s brow furrows deeply, her eyes scrutinizing Garcia. She looks at the vitals displayed on the screen, the blood pressure cuff just now deflating and providing a new reading. Her eyes flash to Abbot’s before looking back at the screen.
“You got the look.” Abbot says, coming around past Whitaker toward the side of the bed.
“What look?” Whitaker says, turning to follow Abbot as he grabs the ultrasound.
“Your spider-senses tingling?” Abbot asks, flashing his eyes to Cam, who pushes herself off the wall while still staying feet away, but closer than before, her eyes still glancing between the patient’s vitals and the ultrasound machine. “Blood pressure is soft, we got a bullet running around somewhere in the body...” Abbot says, as if he’s reciting eggs and milk off his grocery list, his eyes glancing at Whitaker, Mohan and Javadi, who stare anxiously at him. Santos is behind him at the door, freezing when Abbot grabs the ultrasound again. The ultrasound picture on the left hand side just below the ribcage shows on the screen, and Abbot flashes a look to Cam.
“Always listen to your instincts.” Abbot says, cracking a small smile. “You see a lot of EFASTs before?”
“A few. I thought I saw a space, but I wasn’t sure. Just felt…off.” Cam says, pulling out her cellphone. “Hey, it’s me. Open up the trauma room, we got a spleen that needs to be taken out. Yeah, it’s usually a couple of prolenes. Just…open the room. I’m oscar mike.” Cam hangs up, jamming her phone in her back pocket. “Well, no rest for the wicked.” She says, heading towards the door.
“Nice meeting you, Cam.” Abbot says, taking off his gown and throwing it away.
“Nice meeting you…uh.” She pauses in the doorway grimacing when she realizes she doesn’t know his name.
“Jack Abbot. You can call me Jack.” He says, putting hand sanitizer on from the wall dispenser before holding out a hand for her to shake.
“I don’t call doctors by their first names, but it’s nice to meet you Dr. Abbot. I guess someone will send Garcia’s dumbass back down to transport this patient.” Cam scoffs, heading down the hallway toward the stairs that lead up to the surgical department.
“And I guess Santos is presenting the clinical indications of an EFAST exam during rounds in the morning.” Abbot calls into the room, much to Trinity’s horror. “Hey!” Jack calls out to her. Cam turns, hands in the air again. “Did you serve?” he asks.
“My brother.” She replies. “I gotta go help these kids get this party started.” Cam shrugs, hustling down the hallway. “Hey, you know I’ve got some really good mousse if you want to add a little volume, by the way.” She calls, turning back once more to him, gesturing like she’s fluffing her hair despite the cap covering it. Cam pops the stairwell door open and charges up before Abbot can reply, leaving him with his hands on his hips, staring down the hallway.
“Tier 1 trauma, ETA 15 minutes”
It’s just after seven in the morning, the sun beginning to crest above the tall buildings in the city. Dr. Robby slides in through the ambulance bay doors, past a patient on a gurney transported by paramedics.
“Good night?” Robby asks Abbot, setting his backpack down under the desk as his eyes lock onto the board.
“Not bad. Santos and Garcia almost missed an EFAST doing…whatever it is they think they’re doing.” Abbot says, leaning onto the desk as they both stare at the screen full of people that probably could be almost anywhere else besides stuck in the hallways of the emergency department.
“You want me to talk to her?” Robby asks, turning to look at him a moment.
“No, she’s sufficiently humiliated I think. Guy went up to the OR around 0230. We got a trauma coming in about…12 minutes.” Abbot says, looking at his watch.
“Why don’t you get out of here, before it comes in?” Robby says, rolling up the sleeves of his hoodie and nodding at Dana as she gets done getting report from Dana. “Which room, Dana?”
“Trauma two sounds good to me.” Dana answers, slamming back some coffee and putting her reading glasses on to check her computer.
“Sounds wonderful. Seriously, Abbot, you should get out of here.” Robby says, heading toward the trauma room.
“What am I going to do? Sleep?” Abbot says with a small chuckle, following him into the trauma room.
“Good morning, everyone. You guys wanna get out of here, or are you taking a page out of Dr. Abbot’s book and stick around?” Robby says, putting on a gown. The younger residents and students don’t answer, grabbing gowns, gloves and putting on safety glasses. “I guess that answers that.” Robby says with a slight smile at Abbot.
Cam rounds the corner into the room, taking her spot from this morning back, sidling between the cabinets on the wall near the door.
“Hey, how’s the patient from tonight?” Whitaker asks.
“Fine. Spleen out, put a G-tube in since there was a hole in the stomach too. Just pursestringed the tube into it, extubated in the OR, didn’t even need to go to the ICU.” Cam shrugs.
“Robby, that’s Cam, she’s a scrub tech from the O.R. She’s the one who had the spider-senses about the EFAST.”
“It’s actually Spidey-senses.” Whitaker mumbles. They all turn to him, surprise plastered across all their faces, but Cam can’t help but crack a smile.
“He’s right. And it wasn’t anything special. Like you said, I’ve seen enough EFASTs. I just had a gut feeling.” Cam shrugs.
“I cannot believe Gloria has the O.R staff doing this.” Robby says, putting on gloves as he shakes his head.
“Well, forewarned is forearmed.” Cam shrugs. “I’m nosy, too.” She faux whispers, winking at Javadi.
“How long have you worked at the Pitt?” Robby asks.
“Eight months. Been a scrub tech for…just about six years.”
“You from Pennsylvania?” Robby asks, untangling the cords from the monitor on the wall.
“Pittsburgh born and raised. I got out of scrub tech school and traveled though. Got a job in Chicago, then Detroit, a year in G-Dub in D.C, methodist in Indy, Shock Trauma in Baltimore.”
“Anywhere but here?” Abbot challenges, turning his eyes to her. She shifts under his scrutiny.
“Yeah. Well, back now.” Cam sighs.
“I take it you’re a trauma junkie like the rest of us?” Robby says with a wry grin. Cam huffs out a small laugh.
“Oh yeah. I live for chaos.” Cam says with a smile. The room, teeming with nurses and ancillary staff all murmur with agreement.
“Doesn’t your shift end in like fifteen minutes?” Abbot asks, eyeing the clock.
“What am I going to do? Go home and sleep?” Cam scoffs. Robby raises an eyebrow at Abbot, who looks away from all of them, focusing on a cabinet full of I.V supplies.
“Trauma two, in room!” Dana calls out, the patient slack on the gurney.
“Twenty one year old male, long extrication from single-car MVC, GCS of 5, but that was after 8mg of Narcan. The long extrication was because he was halfway out the sunroof, but too high to get all the way out. 18 in the right wrist, 20 in the left AC.”
“Oh, boy.” Cam mumbles, getting a pair of gloves off the wall dispenser as they move the unconscious adult over.
“Alright, what’s the move, Whitaker?” Robby asks, standing over Dennis’ shoulder.
“Probably eight more of Narcan?” Dennis says, his words dripping with uncertainty.
“Whitaker, is that an order or a question?” Abbot says, checking the patient’s abdomen with the ultrasound, Santos standing shoulder to shoulder with him.
“Mateo, can I get 8 more of Narcan?” Dennis requests with a smattering of authority. The syringe of Narcan goes into the I.V line, and Cam sidles up to the patient's side. Robby’s brow furrows as he sees her close to the patient, until all hell breaks loose. The young man bolts upright, screaming and trying to get out of the stretcher. Cam throws her body across the young man’s knees and hips, her hand locking onto the patient’s to prevent him from tearing out his I.V’s.
“Let’s get some precedex and haldol, see if we can stop this rodeo ride.” Robby says, chuckling at Cam wrestling the patient and Dennis’ stunned expression. “You saw that coming, too?” Robby asks.
“You know how many twenty-somethings and redheads I’ve helped keep on the table?” Cam laughs, still pinning the patient down.
“She really does like the chaos.” Robby smiles, shaking his head at Abbot, who is staring at her. “Go home, you’re tired. I’m tired, and I just got here.” Robby says, putting his hand on Jack’s shoulder to break his trance. “Cam, nice meeting you. Thanks for the extra hands.” Robby says, taking off his gown and throwing it in the garbage.
“Well, let me give you report at least, before you throw me out. Bed one is a THC user with hyperemesis, I think Perlah just got him out of the shower. Probably give him a liter of crystalloid and get him out. Bed two is waiting on ortho to come down and do a surgical consult, hopefully they can find a bed.”
“Have a good day!!” Cam calls, waving to the trauma bay as she heads out. She gives a weak salute to Robby and Abbot, and Abbot cracks a smile at her as she spins around, marching down the hallway toward the surgical department.
“Good God, that's a big girl.” Myrna states, shuffling her wheelchair towards Robby as Cam struts toward the stairwell.
“Hey.” Abbot snaps. Robby turns her wheelchair to face him, taking off his glasses to stare her down.
“Myrna, you don’t comment on staff’s bodies. You want to get banned from here? Where else is going to take you?” Robby asks, raising his eyebrows.
“If I had known the brooding one was into big girls, I would have started working him over years ago.” Myrna mumbles to Robby. He shakes his head with a sigh, pushing her wheelchair further from the desk and locking the brakes when he pushes her into the corner. Robby shakes his head as he walks back towards Abbot, who’s glaring at Myrna, but his ears are flush.
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This fanfic is on my Wattpad (link in my bio 😊).
This is an OC fic, and a Grayson one so yea, this is for my Gray girls :)))
Warnings: sensitive topics such as depression
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March 13
I find it hard to believe that a single pill can keep someone sane. A cheery yellow pill is expected to raise everyone's mood, and magically make everything okay. That's a lot of pressure for a small capsule. I guess people can trust these pills. Even if it means they have to magically make these people happy.
I'm not sure if I trust this pill, but so far its my only option.
The doctors call it clinical depression, but I like to pull it off as writers-block. It makes it easier to talk to people, because people rather hear about me not being able to write than me being depressed. I guess people don't like to hear about that stuff. Its almost like everyone tries to avoid taking about things like that. Almost like that admitting that they're depressed will hinder their image.
I've had my writers-block for a year now. After my writing peaked last year, I was starting to face changes, and now I have to take a pill a day. My yellow pill.
The magical tablet that is supposed to fix me.
I brush my hair behind my ear, and sit down on my sofa. My apartment wasn't very shabby. managed to make some money, and I was able to get myself a nice place in Manhattan. I have a room, a decent kitchen, and a studio filled with nothing.
I always wanted to fill up the room with things that inspire me, but the white walls have nothing on them, and only a single chair sits in the room with a desk. When I first got the apartment, I did a good job of filling up the rooms accordingly, and making everything functional, but that room became neglected after my writers-block.
I looked at the bumblebee book on the coffee table in front of me. I urged to take a look at the number and call him, but I was scared it was some sort of hoax.
The curiosity got to me, and I grabbed my phone and opened up the book to where the number was. It dialed for a bit, but then a hollow voice spoke. "Hello?"
I panicked and didn't know what to say. One word came to mind and that's all I said, "Inspiration."
"I knew you would call," he responded. "Anyways, do you think you can meet up?"
"Now?"
"Yes,"
"Its 8 pm,"
"It'll be worth it, I promise,"
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if you want to read more of Soulful, head over to my Wattpad, where you’ll find my other fan fics (they’re all OC) and yea, I hope you like it :)
This fic may include the following: Blood, injuries of all shapes and sizes, descriptions of surgery, death, deceased persons, situations of sexual abuse, physical abuse, psychiatric issues and all the other horrific and/or hilarious shit you get to see as a healthcare worker. If you thought The Pitt was too graphic, this isn’t for you. This is the only warning you will receive, there will be no chapter by chapter warnings. In the words of Sweet Brown 'Ain't nobody got time for that.'
Also I'm not putting GIFs each time because unlike when I wrote Heart of Rock and Roll, there isn't 50k GIFs running around. I made a shitty clip art cover. It's as good as it's gonna get.
“Tier 2 Trauma, ETA 5 minutes”
Cam slides into the doorway, sliding into the nook where the cabinet and the door meet. It’s been a long night, and it’s six in the morning on Wednesday, the shift nearly finished. Her body aches, her bed calling her name after three twelve hour shifts in a row.
“Cam. Welcome back.” Abbot says, looking mildly pleased to see her.
“Abbot. Good to see you.” Cam says dryly.
“You weren’t kidding. Dana said teenage boys get perms now.” Abbot says, putting gloves on from the dispenser on the wall.
“I know, now we know your secret to trying to look youthful and hip.” Cam replies.
“See? You said ‘hip’, and I know that’s not cool anymore.” Abbot replies, pointing a finger at her from across the room.
“You wouldn’t know what was hip if I threw a femur stem directly at your forehead.” Cam snorts, taking her hair out of her scrub cap. The dark waves cascade down past her shoulders as she fluffs it, a few strands still wet. There’s heavy highlights in her hair, shades of bold purple, pink, deep blue and turquoise shining through her dark locks.
“Oh my God, your hair!” Dr. King exclaims, smiling.
“Yes, I do have hair. It’s still wet, it never dries with my cap on.” Cam says, hand de-tangling as she shoves her scrub cap in her cargo pocket.
“It looks like Rainbow Fish!” Dr. King exclaims excitedly, her hands shaking in front of her face.
“Oh yeah!” Santos says, Javadi nods, as does Whitaker. Abbot and Cam flash glances at one another.
“I got nothing.” Cam says, shrugging at Abbot.
“What’s a rainbow fish?” Abbot asks.
“It’s a children's book. It was my sister's favorite for years.” Dr. King says, composing herself now that she realizes she’s overly excited.
“I was more of a Little Critter fan myself.” Cam shrugs.
“I liked Dr. Suess.” Abbot answers.
“Everyone likes Dr. Suess.” Cam huffs.
“I liked ‘Don’t Let the Pigeon Drive the Bus’.” Javadi interjects, receiving glances.
“What the fuck is that? Is that a book?” Cam asks. “Jesus, I’m getting old. Do you guys even know who Little Critter is?” Cam asks, sliding out from her assumed corner. Whitaker nods, but Santos, Mel and Javadi stare at her with blank expressions.
“It’s hell getting old, Cam.” Abbot shrugs.
“I thought war was hell.” Cam replies.
“We are each our own devil, and we make this world our hell.” Whitaker says, stunning everyone milling in the trauma bay. Santos just rolls her eyes.
The patient flies in the room, their shirt already in tatters on the gurney, their chest and abdomen slick with blood, Cam jumps out of the way, slamming her back into the cabinet again.
“I thought this was a tier 2 trauma.” Santos says.
“They crumped. The last blood pressure was 100/60, they were satting 100 on room air, they got tachypneic and brady-ed down, we were about to intubate.”
“Don’t intubate!” Cam and Abbot yell at the same time, making the whole room jump. Cam turns, digging through the cabinet she’s been leaning on. She slams a blue wrapped tray onto a mayo stand, shoving her hair into her cap and putting her safety glasses on.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to step on your toes.” Cam says as she rips the tape off the wrap, opening it like a giant blue and white present.
“It’s fine. Great minds think alike.” Abbot shrugs, shoving a central line kit into a nurse’s hand.
“Should we place a chest tube?” Dr. King asks.
“We need to get some big lines in them, now and hang 2 units.” Abbot calls.
“What happens when we push paralytics?” Abbot asks, digging through the cabinet for a pair of sterile gloves. He glances at Cam as she produces her own from her back pocket.
“Succinynlcholine, rocuronium or–” Javadi begins.
“Any of them.” Abbot says. The monitors begin flashing, the EKG line starting to stray from sinus rhythm.
“I got a 14 in the left arm!” Someone calls.
“Whoop! There it is.” Cam says, grabbing the top of the mayo stand and shoving it closer to the patient.
“Now you can intubate.” Abbot calls.
“I need a splash of paint on the chest here!” Abbot calls, and Jesse obliges, opening a bottle of betadine and pouring it onto the chest. “Keep going Javadi.” Abbot calls, as Cam hands him a disposable #10 blade scalpel. He presses it into the patient’s skin, making a cut that goes all the way across the patient’s chest. It looks as if the man has a wide grin on his chest, if it wasn’t for all the betadine and blood.
“Well, paralytics block the action of acetylcholine.” Javadi states, gobsmacked by the incision.
“Simpler than that.” Cam states, taking the knife from Abbot’s hand and handing him a pair of curved scissors with a smack.
“It paralyzes people?” Javadi says, looking at Santos and Whitaker.
“And everything relaxes. Everything that was maybe even when someone is unconscious, holding back a hemorrhage. Fuck.” Cam says, jumping out of the way as blood from the chest cavity flows toward her shoes. “It’s why we don’t put ruptured AAA patients to sleep until we get the balloon in from the groin.” Cam states, pushing a chest retractor into his hands.
“I got an art line in the right wrist! Getting the waveform up in a moment.” Someone calls. Dr. Ellis swings into the doorway, eyes wide.
“This was a tier 2 trauma.” Ellis says, staring at Cam and Abbot, splashed with blood and betadine.
“You know that doesn't mean shit to the hole in the heart I’m staring at.” Abbot says, putting his finger into the hole.
“Is it just me or does the diaphragm—” Cam starts.
“Yeah.” Abbot nods.
“You want to—” Cam says, holding up a big clamp. Abbot snatches it from her hand, putting it underneath the heart, closing it with a series of clicks.
“Cross clamp time, 0619.” Cam calls. Ellis is still standing in the doorway, mouth hanging open.
“Ellis, can you call the O.R desk for me please?” Cam says. Ellis lifts the phone off the wall, dialing and putting it to Cam’s ear. She presses it into her shoulder, holding her gloved hands away from her body as they drip blood onto the floor.
“Nikki? It’s Cam. We’re clamshelled and cross-clamped. Well, I was passing the damn scalpel Nikki, what the fuck am I supposed to do? I’m not fucking telepathic. Is Gopal still in the OR? Don’t let him leave yet, this guy has a hole in his heart. We’re clamshelled and cross-clamped, Nikki. I just said that. I don’t give a fuck about Garcia and her lap chole, trust me she sees this guy she’s gonna drop that gallbladder like a hot rock. I gotta go, get the trauma room open.” Cam says, rolling her eyes. Ellis pulls the phone from her ear. “Day shift is gonna have fun with this one.” Cam says smirking. Abbot is grinning underneath his mask, but everyone else looks mildly horrified as she turns. “How much blood is on my face?” Cam asks.
“Not as much as is on my pants.” Abbot remarks, his black scrubs wet and clinging to his leg. He’s still leaning over the patient, hand covering the hole in the heart. Cam lets out a hearty laugh as Garcia charges through the door, Walsh following behind her closely.
“Jesus.” Garcia says.
“Abbot knows how to bring the party.” Walsh says admiringly.
“Cross clamped at 0619. There’s a hole in the heart, I’ve got my finger on it.” Abbot says. Walsh puts on an isolation gown and mask, her hair already pulled back in a black scrub cap with PTMC’s logo on the band.
“I can take over and walk him up to the O.R.” Walsh says, putting on a pair of sterile gloves.
“Yeah. Ready?” Abbot asks.
“I got it.” Walsh says, her arm resting on the patient’s open ribcage. “I love when you bring me gifts, Abbot.” Dr. Walsh says with a smile. “You guy’s ready to transport?” Walsh asks everyone. Garcia takes the head of the bed, squeezing the Ambu bag for the patient to breathe.
“Anything for you, Emery.” Abbot says, as they unlock the cart and begin the trek to the O.R
“Stop stealing my good scrub!” Emery calls, shimmying out the door and taking the turn for the elevator.
“I don’t think I will.” Abbot says, as Cam heads toward the O.R.
“Cam!” Abbot calls.
“Yeah?” she answers, turning around.
“Thanks.” Abbot says.
“Pleasure’s all mine on that one. Love a clamshell!” She cries, heading toward the stairs.
“She’s unhinged.” Ellis says, hands on his hips.
“Takes one to know one.” Jesse says, ditching his gloves and isolation gown.
“We’re all mad down here.” Lena says with a snicker, peering into the disaster zone of the trauma room. The floor splashed with brown and red, trash littering the floor.
“Anyone have any questions about our crash thoracotomy?” Abbot asks. All the residents are standing on the cleaner outskirts of the room, they shake their heads.
“You guys can do the next one. I gotta get new scrubs.” Abbot says, walking toward the scrub machine.
“Sweet.” Santos whispers, tip toeing out of the trauma bay around the debris.
Cam is heading out the door of the hospital as she hears her name called again. She turns and Abbot is hurrying to catch her before she goes through the exit.
“I saw the hair and figured it was you.” Abbot says, catching up as she heads out the door.
“Not all of us are blessed with your youthful look. Some of us just want to have the hair they were never allowed to have at seventeen. You get all cleaned up?” Cam asks him, putting her lunchbox across her shoulder.
“You get the blood off of your face?” Abbot asks.
“Nothing a whore bath in rubbing alcohol can’t fix.” Cam says, yawning.
“Hey, so Friday night we’re all meeting in the park. Just to celebrate the med students and new residents surviving their first weeks on nights. You should come.” Abbot says, holding the door for her as they exit into the chill of early winter.
“I think I traumatized those kids.” Cam says, shaking her head but smiling wide.
“Dr. King likes your hair.” Abbot says, shrugging. “It’s brief, if that helps make up your mind.”
“I’ll think about it.” Cam says. They begin to part ways and he turns to her, watching her go.
“It’s at 2000 hours!” Abbot calls, Cam gives him a thumbs up as she heads to the parking garage.
This fic may include the following: Blood, injuries of all shapes and sizes, descriptions of surgery, death, deceased persons, situations of sexual abuse, physical abuse, psychiatric issues and all the other horrific and/or hilarious shit you get to see as a healthcare worker. If you thought The Pitt was too graphic, this isn’t for you. This is the only warning you will receive, there will be no chapter by chapter warnings. In the words of Sweet Brown 'Ain't nobody got time for that.'
Jack pulls up on the street, his bumper as close to the mini cooper as it can get without trading paint. He steps out onto the pavement, already warming beneath his feet. He pulls his old army bag out of the back, hauling the olive beast onto his other shoulder from his work bag before heading up the stairs. He goes to knock, before a smile pulls at his lips, putting his hand back in his pocket. Cam had given him a key ten days before, making his keys suddenly foreign to him; the weight and the sound of his keys changed, but he was grateful that he could get into the house without looking like a crazy man, ringing the doorbell and calling her name.
“Cam?” Jack calls softly. He drops his black work backpack by the door, joining the heap that is Cam’s work bag, purse, lunchbox and shoes. He opens the door upstairs, calling her name again. He doesn’t hear anything in response, no shifting mattress, no creak from the upstairs hardwood floor. He closes the door, now heading into the kitchen, beginning to feel like he’s playing detective. The coffee pot is off, half full, and only slightly warm. His brow furrows now. He looks out the back door from the kitchen, onto the back porch, and his mystery is solved. He drops his olive bag onto one of the dinette chairs, heading out the back door and stepping down the old steep stairs carefully. Cam is on a vintage metal chaise lounge with a throw blanket. Her sunglasses are on her face, barely, and her mouth is open, snoring softly. He chuckles softly before bending down and touching her shoulder.
“Good morning.” Jack announces, making Cam jump. The book that she had squirreled away in her blankets leaps from her arms as she sits more upright. She squints at him before correcting the position of her sunglasses and stretching.
“What time is it?” Cam asks, yawning.
“Almost 9. How long have you been out here?” Jack asks, picking her thrown book off the cracked patio.
“I don’t know. Dusk? What time was dusk today?” Cam asks, swinging her legs over to maneuver her way out of the chair.
“I have no idea. You’re going to get sunburned sleeping out here. Actually, with your complexion, you might just burst into flames.” Abbot simpers. Cam rolls her eyes in response as she gathers everything and heads towards the door.
“I couldn’t sleep. Thought I would come out here and enjoy the sunrise at least.” Cam explains, shuffling up the stairs with her blanket around her neck.
“How was it?” Jack asks.
“I fell asleep.” Cam mumbles, making Jack chuckle. “You hungry?” She offers, entering the house and throwing the blanket and book on the loveseat.
“No, I had a protein bar in the car. Ready to hit the sack.” Jack sighs. Cam opens the door to the upstairs bedroom, giving Jack a flourishing bow for him to go first. Half way up the stairs, she makes a noise of disgust from behind him on the stairs.
“That bag smells terrible.” Cam coughs out.
“It’s the waterproofing. It’s got a unique smell.” Abbot explains.
“You know, I emptied out some of my dresser drawers, so you don’t have to keep hauling that thing over.” Cam explains. Jack turns to look at her in the doorway of the bedroom, eyebrows raised. “You just always pack out and pack back in, like it’s some kind of military mission. You can leave stuff here. You don’t have to ‘leave no trace’, or whatever. It’s my home, not a campground.”
“You don’t have to throw out your clothes. I can leave this here, if that’s better.” Abbot sighs, dropping the bag next to Cam’s dresser.
“It was old stuff. None of it fits anymore. No point in keeping jeans that I can’t get in without breaking a fingernail.” Cam scoffs.
“You were trying on jeans that took a lot of effort, and I wasn’t here?” Jack asks softly, smirking. He sees Cam’s neck and chest flush red in his peripheral vision, making his smile wider.
“I’m serious, Jack. I mean if you don’t want to…cohabitate in a more efficient manner…” Cam stumbles, now crossing her arms. “I get that. I won’t push about it again. You’re allowed to leave stuff here. I like…feeling your presence in the house when you’re not here.” She finishes softly, looking at the floor. Jack’s pulse slams in his neck, and he swallows hard before turning to her.
“I spend more time here than at my place. I have a key, which I actually used this morning. If you really don’t like my old sea bag, I’ll put my stuff in the dresser. It’s a good bag, Cam. It’s been around the world.” Jack says, gesturing to it on the floor. The attachment to that bag is palpable and foolish, he knows. The black spray painted lettering with his name on it is faded, but not invisible. His unit had been blacked out with his DoD number since he got out, but he kept his name, remembering the stench of spray paint lingered on it for months, soaked into the canvas.
“I know it’s been around the world.” Cam sighs. She has a small battery operated vacuum she keeps up in the upstairs closet, and she pulls it from its cradle. She hefts Jack’s bag up off the floor and turns the vacuum on, the crackling sound of dirt, sand and rocks being sucked into the small canister as she runs it around the space where the olive cylinder always lands. She turns the vacuum off, eyebrow raised at Jack. “It’s leaving half of the world on my hardwood floors.” She growls. Jack locks his eyes onto hers, taking the canvas strap from her hands.
“It’s a little dusty.” Jack shrugs.
“Like you?” Cam snorts.
“Better than burnt to a crisp, like you almost were.” Jack ripostes.
“Oh, please, you just want to put aloe all over my body.” Cam says, rolling her eyes, getting her side of the bed ready.
“I’m just mad about not watching you try on tight jeans.” Abbot explains, taking his shirt off and putting it on top of the olive sack.
“Jack!” Cam cries, turning on her bedside lamp and closing the black out curtains.
“If I get a dresser drawer, does that mean I can get a lamp on my side of the bed? I almost ended up needing a hemicraniectomy trying to go downstairs to pee last week.” Jack asks.
“I can get you one of those little kid night lights, the ones that come apart, so you can carry it downstairs with you, since you’re so afraid of the dark.” Cam snorts.
“I’m not scared of the dark, I only have one fucking leg, Cam.” Jack retorts. “You’re the one who covers the house in complete darkness, it’s like sleeping over at Doctor Frankenstein’s house.”
“It’s good for nightshifters, to create a false circadian rhythm.” Cam argues, shimmying under her quilt.
“You barely sleep three hours at a time.” Jack huffs, adjusting his pillows under his neck.
“Can you imagine how little I would sleep without being shrouded in darkness?” Cam asks.
“You slept just fine, out on the patio.” Jack remarks, grabbing Cam by the waist and pulling her closer to him in the bed.
“Well, maybe, it’s because I don’t sleep as well, without you in the bed.” Cam mutters. Jack pushes her hair out of her face and kisses her deeply.
“I understand. I sleep better with you next to me, too.” Jack murmurs. Cam shifts, putting her head closer to his chest, and Jack wraps his arms around her, pulling her close. “Are you going to dinner with McKay tonight?” Jack asks softly. Cam grumbles an affirmative, pressing herself further into him.
People often talk about physiological synchrony in relationships; people's heart rates matching up, beating together. Jack has had more than enough training to know it’s bunk science, that it’s just a matter of statistics and physiology that pulses match one another on occasion, but as Cam is pressed against him, he can feel his pulse slow as her breathing deepens as she falls asleep in his arms quickly, and he is sure he can feel her pulse thrum in time with his own.
Jack’s eyes open, his mind groggy and his body aching from the last few shifts. He realizes he’s alone in the bed, as he often is with Cam’s insomnia. He moseys downstairs, finding Cam at the dinette table, tools splayed across the table.
“What’s burning?” Jack mumbles, squinting as the low sun shines through the windows at the back of the house, illuminating dust motes, and the small tendril of smoke coming off the table. Cam jumps, looking up from her work.
“Soldering. Almost done. Coffee in the pot if you want some.” Cam says, furrowing her brow and leaning back over her project. She’s dressed for her dinner with McKay, a navy dress hugging her chest, giving him a chasm of cleavage to view.
“You look nice.” Jack remarks, pouring himself a cup of coffee before leaning against the counter, admiring her lost in her work. Cam never sleeps, it seemed, as if she was the old energizer bunny from battery commercials, she was constantly doing projects or fixing something. Often it seemed, they weren’t even for her or her house. Jack had come by one evening to realize despite assuring him she would be home, she wasn’t in the house. After two phone calls, she finally picked up, explaining she was down the road, having walked to help the elderly neighbor with her dryer that wouldn’t heat up anymore. She kept her hands busy constantly, and it amazed him everytime he saw her deep in focus. Her hair was pulled back as she hunched over the table, soldering a few more pieces before sitting up. It looks like she’s heading headfirst into a bowl, she’s so lost in her project.
“What was that? I’m sorry.” Cam asks, blinking as she leans back in the chair, stretching her previously hunched form.
“What are you soldering?” Jack asks, pulling out the chair across from her. He’s grateful he looks down at the chair, because it’s covered in parts, he recognizes some of them, at least, now guessing at what she’s doing.
“Are you making a lamp?” Jack asks, pulling out the next chair and sitting down next to her.
“Fixing a lamp.” Cam explains, unplugging the soldering gun and standing to grab the pieces off the chair. She takes the base, sitting it upright. “It’s been broken in the basement for a while, but I figured if I secure that one loose piece of stained glass and re-wire it, it would be perfect.” Cam explains, now flipping over the lamp shade and securing it to the socket, before screwing a bulb into the base.
“Perfect for McKay? Are you taking a lamp to dinner with you?” Jack asks, watching her intently as she untangles the cord and plugs it into one of the outlets above the counter tops. She flicks it on, smiling as it makes her face glow, flecks of color shining on her skin.
“No. For you.” Cam says, holding it out. Jack freezes for a moment, as she offers him the lamp. “You said you wanted a lamp for your bedside table.”
“You already got me a lamp?” Jack asks, incredulous. It’s an old Tiffany style lamp, blue with flecks of orange, dragonflies surrounding the edge. It definitely still needs some TLC with a toothbrush and some glass cleaner, probably from her father’s habit of two packs of cigarettes a day for forty something years. The man had a pack history that looked like two milennia before he died, and Jack understood why Cam had to paint every inch of the house when she had told him that information in passing.
“I didn’t buy it. I fixed it. I had the repair parts, it was in the basement, I had been meaning to finish it, I just hadn’t had the time. Did you want something different? I can order you the nightlight if you want inst—” Cam remarks, but Jack stops her, giving her a kiss, his hand wrapping around her own around the base of the lamp.
“You’re incredible.” Jack murmurs.
“I wouldn’t say that, it’s just a dusty old lamp. I think it was in the living room.” Cam says, switching off the light running her other palm across the base. She swipes her hand on her dress, leaving a dark grey streak across the skirt.
“Honey, your dress.” Jack says, now taking the lamp from her and setting it gently on the counter. Jack takes the towel off the oven bar, running it under the faucet for a moment.
“It’s fine.” Cam scoffs, rubbing her hand over the grime, but it doesn’t budge. Jack bends down, putting one hand under her dress and the other blotting the dust covered spot with damp water. “Did you call me ‘honey’?” Cam asks, her brow furrowed.
“Is that bad? You look nice.” Jack says, sandwiching the streaks with his hand and the tea towel.
“Is that why your hand is under my dress?” Cam asks, snorting.
“I’m getting the spot out. You know, I was always asked to help get stains out of uniforms back when I was in the military.” Jack explains softly, now lifting the towel, the sign of any grime gone from the hip of her dress. “Is it okay? That I called you ‘honey’?” Jack asks, focusing on ensuring the fabric is clean, rather than looking in her eyes. He had said it without noticing, the affection escaping his lips before his brain could catch up.
“Is it okay that I fixed a lamp so you stop feeling like you sleep in a crypt?” Cam asks softly. Jack stands, nodding at her. “It was really sweet, honestly. I think I liked it? I expected you to say something more old-timey, though. Maybe ‘sweet cheeks’, ‘doll’, ‘sugar’. Can I call you something old-timey?” Cam asks, smiling wide.
“Aren’t you gonna be late to dinner?” Jack asks.
“What’s that, dear?” Cam asks, chuckling as she washes her hands at the sink.
“I can clean up, you should get to dinner.” Jack explains, unplugging the lamp and picking it up off the counter.
“I was going to clean that first.” Cam explains, drying her hands.
“Don’t dirty your dress, go enjoy your time with Cassie.” Jack says, shooing her away as he begins to gather tools.
“Okay, honey bunch, you’re in charge!” Cam calls, seemingly trying to imitate a trans-Atlantic accent, but sounding like a warbling Julia Childs.
“Drive safe!” Jack calls, a wide smile on his face as he begins to sort through the mess on the table in front of him.
“Of course, turtle dove!” Cam calls before the front door closes.
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You don't stitch up jagged holes/cuts in people. It will end up with dead space under the suture and/or infected. Also ragged the skin edges will die, the suture will tear through the dead tissue, and the wound will reopen. If you want a character to sew anything closed, they can suture ligate a blood vessel, which cannot be done by a 1.5 inch needle by hand. You can look up "suture ligation" on youtube if you want to write out the process.
You pack a roll of saline soaked gauze into the wound and cover it with a dry gauze, telfa or ABD dressing and tape. You can close it later, but that also means washing it out with more saline, cutting the dead tissue edges.
I've worked in surgery for 5 years, and have rarely completely closed a hole/knife wound/cut the first time. Everytime I read a story/watch a movie with someone fumbling a giant needle through a jagged ass hole/cut I yell "WHY?!"
This fic may include the following: Blood, injuries of all shapes and sizes, descriptions of surgery, death, deceased persons, situations of sexual abuse, physical abuse, psychiatric issues and all the other horrific and/or hilarious shit you get to see as a healthcare worker. If you thought The Pitt was too graphic, this isn’t for you. This is the only warning you will receive, there will be no chapter by chapter warnings. In the words of Sweet Brown 'Ain't nobody got time for that.'
Cam's stomach flips as she parks her car at the park. Working in the operating room means she doesn’t have a lot of nicer clothes; Cam usually shows up in sweat pants, shorts and t-shirts, shuffling in the same pair of sandals every day until there’s snow on the ground. She’s tempted to dress nicely, but is stopped short by the idea that she may be the only one in street clothes and not scrubs.
Cam feels like a high schooler, digging through boxes she should have unpacked months ago, trying to find something casual that still looks good. She chose yoga pants and a hoodie, but is wishing she chose something nicer, more flattering, although she despises the word. Flattering was just the way her mother used to tell her she was too fat to wear something. The flattering clothing was always baggy, as if her body should be hidden under canvas until her mother found it acceptable to reveal. Worse was the business clothes of her youth, settling for adult business woman’s clothing as a teen; Cam flinches at the memories of shopping at Catherine’s, searching for anything that didn’t make her look like her great aunt Órla.
The yoga pants look fine on her broad hips and thighs, but she wishes she would have picked a better shirt, or a nicer jacket. She pulls her hoodie over the broadest part of her stomach as she slides out of the car, carrying her bag. Cam isn’t typically self-conscious about her body, but tonight her mouth is dry as she walks through the park, hoping to see anyone she may know. She contemplates if it’s better if she doesn’t see anyone and she can leave, but Cam hears laughter, and turns, seeing people gathered on the park benches, the glow of the lights showing her just enough to see Robby in his hoodie. Cam walks toward them slowly, wondering if she should even bother, or just turn around.
“Cam!” Someone calls, and Cam sees people waving at her, bringing her great relief. She adjusts her hoodie once more as she approaches.
“Thanks for coming. You want a beer?” Robby asks, as Mateo opens a cooler, flashing a lot of cans.
“No, I’m good, thank you.” Cam says, nervously. There’s a woman with brownish-red hair, curtain bangs swinging off of her forehead, she slides over on a bench and gestures for Cam to take a seat. Cam slides in next to her, giving her a slight smile and a nod. “Oh, I wasn’t sure if anyone was hungry. I brought burgers.” Cam says, producing a large paper bag from the tote she’s brought, passing the bag down to Robby and the rest, everyone excitedly reaching into the bag for a large paper wrapped sandwich.
“Tessaro’s?” Mateo asks, unwrapping the burger.
“Can’t get burgers in Pittsburgh anywhere else.” Cam scoffs as the bag ends up passed back toward her and her bench partner.
“You’re practically famous.” The woman laughs, sipping seltzer water.
“Oh boy.” Cam says, shaking her head.
“I’m Cassie McKay. An R3 on days.” Cassie explains. “You’ve got those kids enamored. I thought you’d have a cape.” Cassie chuckles, making Cam sigh.
“No cape. Just a scrub tech.” Cam shrugs, uncomfortable with any semblance of limelight.
“Well, rumor has it you’re incredible, so happy to learn from you anytime.” Cassie shrugs, sipping her seltzer, as she unwraps a burger for herself.
“All I’ve done for six years is work at trauma centers. Learned a lot of ways to skin a cat.” Cam shrugs, focusing on securing the wrapper for her burger around its exterior, desperate for a change in subject to something other than herself.
“Have you ever thought about medical school?” Robby asks as the group gets quiet and stares at Cam. She wants to shrink into herself.
“In this economy?” Cam laughs, making the group chuckle.
“You started without me?” Cam hears Abbot ask, making her freeze. Cam’s head snaps to the left as Abbot comes sauntering down a sidewalk, backpack loose on his shoulder. Donnie hurls a beer at him, which he catches to much applause.
“Cam brought Tessaro’s.” Donnie says through a bite of burger. Cam holds the bag up to him as he walks toward her, only a couple left in a bag that recently held a dozen, fighting the urge to adjust her hoodie more.
“Cheeseburgers and beer, this is my kind of night.” Abbot says, nodding thanks at her as he takes a seat near Robby. “What were you guys talking about? Did I miss anything good?” Abbot asks, cracking open his beer.
“We were talking about how Cam should go to Medical school.” Robby smirks, sipping his beer as he stares at her, making her examine the pavement.
“You know, we need good scrub techs.” Abbot says, clearly trying to get the crowd off of her back, which gives Cam a huge wave of relief, but embarrassment still lingers in the pit of her stomach.
“You know what my favorite part of my job is?” Cam asks, holding her head up finally. “I don’t even have access to EPIC; no charting, no orders, no dealing with pharmacy.” Cam says with a smile.
“Is it too late for me to become a scrub tech?” Robby says, laughing so hard he’s nearly doubled over.
“It does have some downsides. Standing all day, seeing victims of terrible acts and circumstances…” Cam trails off.
“You mean, working at a hospital?” Mateo says, and the whole group laughs.
“True. We also don’t get any continuity though. We don’t get to see the people that get discharged most of the time. Most of the time we just assume they don’t make it. We’re always begging surgical residents for how certain patients are doing, because we rarely ever get to see happy surgery.” Cam explains.
“What about C-Sections? Those are kind of happy.” Whitaker asks, having already finished a nearly half pound burger in minutes, wiping his hands on his scrub pants. Cam hangs her head, shaking it slightly before replying.
“The only C-Sections we only see are fetal demise and HELLP syndrome, sometimes crash ones where the mother is too sick for L&D.” Cam says, picking at her sandwich.
“I used to work in L&D.” Kim says, slugging back some of her beer, manhandling a burger in the other hand. “Babies suck. Baby daddies suck more.” She says with a laugh, making Cam crack a smile. The conversation continues on, but Cam is lost in thought for a moment, slipping out of the lively banter.
“Do you have any kids?” Cassie asks as Cam finally digs into her burger.
“No. After the bullshit I was raised in, I knew it probably wasn’t a good idea. Not that I’ve had men begging me for my hand in marriage. My sister has four, and they’re all I need to remind myself my barren womb was a good life choice for me.” Cam says, taking a bite.
“I have an eleven year old. I probably could’ve made better choices, but I’m glad I have him.” Cassie says.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I don’t mean I hate kids or anything.” Cam says, covering her mouth as she chews.
“No, I didn’t think you meant it like that. I just sometimes wonder what not having him would’ve been like for me sometimes. Would I already be an attending? Would I have even bothered with medicine?” Cassie muses, folding over herself slightly, her voice low. Cam swallows her bite, looking at Cassie.
“I find there’s no point in contemplating, really. Until 2018 I was working at Pittsburgh Glass Works as an administrative assistant. I had a shitty boyfriend and a shitty apartment, but I thought it was okay. I got laid off when they shut down and I went into a spiral. Barely holding it together, trying to make ends meet that were miles apart. My boyfriend got fired for like the sixth time for being a piece of shit, and I snapped. Packed up my important shit, dropped the junk off at Salvation Army, moved to Chicago into a shadier apartment than I had here and applied to Malcom X College surgical tech program. Tended bar down the street from my apartment and school, lived two years probably never leaving the area between Homan Square and UIC until I graduated, got a job at Northwestern. It was really hard, but I don’t know what I would have done if I hadn’t gotten laid off. Probably had six kids with that fucking loser. The important part is that I did the hard thing, and made the changes I wanted to make.” Cam says, going in for another bite.
“You’ve worked at a lot of trauma centers, right?” Robby asks Cam, interrupting her and McKay’s heart-to-heart. Cam nods around a bite of cheeseburger. “Are you sticking around here for a while? I think we’ve all come to appreciate you at The Pitt.” Robby says, scanning the group.
“It’s only been like, two weeks since you guys even met me. Abbot thought I was some straggler just lingering in the trauma bay recently.” Cam laughs, the small crowd chuckling.
“Well, now I don’t think I want to crack a chest without you. You’ve spoiled us already.” Abbot smirks at her, making Cam smile before averting her gaze.
“I haven’t decided yet. I’ll let you guys know.” Cam says, a small grin on her face.
“She won’t, she’ll Irish exit.” Abbot says, balling up his burger wrapper and crossing his arms.
“I am Irish, it is my thing, culturally.” Cam retorts.
“How Irish?” Abbot asks.
“If my family was anymore filled with Irish inbreds we’d be a fucking sandwich.” Cam finishes with a laugh. “My father was a third generation metal worker who built bridges through Pittsburgh. I remember the stories of my great grandfather running through the streets of the hill district in his underwear when the St. Patrick’s Day flood happened. He had just finished the 16th street bridge and they said it collapsed, and he needed to know it was okay.” Cam says, a warm smile on her face, pride rushing in her veins for her familial roots inside the city. She catches Abbot’s eyes, and his eyes flash back to his beer.
“Damn. That’s a lot of potatoes.” Donnie jokes, laughing.
“And Guiness.” Princess snickers.
“Don’t forget the most important part. Whiskey.” Robby answers, smiling at Cam, who's averting her eyes.
“Aren’t we supposed to be celebrating the young guns? Not talking about my dysfunctional extended family? Should we toast to surviving the first weeks of nights?” Cam asks, desperate to change the subject. She doesn’t have anything to toast with, but she’s trying anything to change the subject.
“You need a beer!” Robby calls. Cam hesitates, but Cassie passes her a seltzer can with a wink. Relief washes over her, grateful that someone can silently cover her.
“Uh, does anyone have anything? I organized this and now I have no idea!” Kim laughs, the crowd chuckles as everyone comes together.
“I got something. May you have the hindsight to know where you’ve been, the foresight to know where you are going, and the insight to know when you have gone too far.” Cam calls, the crowd crushing together to smash their beer cans into one another. Cheers erupts in the park as they drink, and Cam locks eyes briefly with Abbot as she puts her seltzer to her lips.
“That was good, Cam. Thanks.” Robby calls, nodding at her as the crowd starts to part.
“I was just going to tell them it only gets worse, so she’s doing way better than me.” Abbot remarks, focusing on his beer.
“We can’t tell them that yet. We need them to get to R4 before the light in their eyes goes out.” Cam fake whispers, making Robby chuckle. Abbot doesn’t look at her, still locked in on the rim of his beer can.
“I’m on for a few hours tomorrow for Shen. Well, tonight. I’m heading out.” Abbot says, looking at Robby, and Cam feels like a fool, standing there while they half hug one another.
“See, ya, brother.” Robby calls, as Abbot heads down the sidewalk he came into the park through.
“Cam, thanks for the cheeseburgers. Tessaro’s is always incredible.” Abbot calls, turning back.
“You’re welcome!” Cam calls.
“Hey, we’re going to a bar down the street to tie one off, you coming?” Mateo offers her and Robby. Cam shakes her head.
“I, uh, gotta a ton of work to do on my house tomorrow, but thank you.” Cam replies quietly. She heads back to the bench where she left her bag.
“”How long have you been a friend of Bill?” Cassie asks her quietly.
“Who?” Cam asks.
“How long have you been sober?’ Cassie asks, quieter than before.
“Oh. Never drank really. I grew up Irish, I saw enough as a kid to not bother touching the stuff. Bartending was a good reason to never take it up, either.” Cam replies, shouldering her bag.
“Oh. Well, if you ever want someone to knock Shirley temples back with at the bar, I’m your girl.” Cassie says, smiling.
“Thanks, Cassie, I appreciate it.” Cam says, heading toward her car. She sees Whitaker and Santos heading out with Mateo and some other nurses. “Hey! No Mai Tais, No long island iced teas, unless you want to black out and wake up hugging the toilet!” Cam calls out to them. Dennis gives her a weak nod, but Santos rolls her eyes. “Fine, enjoy sleeping on dirty tile all night. Shithead.” Cam mumbles to herself.
“Even if you tell them, they’re not going to listen.” Robby remarks from behind her, making her jump. “Sorry, didn’t mean to sneak up on you.” Robby remarks. “I just want to say, you’ve made a hell of an impression on them so far, and I know Abbot has appreciated you around.” Robby says, slowing his walk. Cam’s eyes go wide, but she doesn’t dare turn.
“Abbot just wants someone to banter and clamshell patients with.” Cam snorts, fishing her keys from her bag.
“I think maybe Dr. Abbot appreciates you for more than just someone who hands him a retractor.” Robby explains. He slows down behind her, nearly caught up to her on the sidewalk, but Cam refuses to stop to chat about whatever he is implying. She finds her keys and hits the fob, unlocking her mini cooper.
This fic may include the following: Blood, injuries of all shapes and sizes, descriptions of surgery, death, deceased persons, situations of sexual abuse, physical abuse, psychiatric issues and all the other horrific and/or hilarious shit you get to see as a healthcare worker. If you thought The Pitt was too graphic, this isn’t for you. This is the only warning you will receive, there will be no chapter by chapter warnings. In the words of Sweet Brown 'Ain't nobody got time for that.'
Also *new* warning: MDNI, Smut. You're welcome.
Cam has never been a good sleeper. As a young child, her mother would rage at her for getting up out of bed. Cam learned quickly it was better to be silent, mastering the art of sliding out of the bedroom she shared with Maureen to read in the living room, play solitaire by herself or when she was older, stealing her brother’s game boy. It was part of the reason that night shift attracted Cam so much; she never slept much at night, so she might as well make extra money with shift-differential pay.
Cam usually wakes up two or three times before her alarm around four in the evening, but she knows it’s later by the orange light seeping into the room in the gap between the curtains. She rolls over, reeling at her sleeping heavily, when she sees the rumpled side of the bed that contained Jack hours before. Her heart aches slightly, realizing he left, but another part of her awakens when she realizes the scent of him is on her bed. Cam has to pull herself out of the bed, throwing a pair of opaque pants and t-shirt on and heading downstairs. She heads into the kitchen, seeing the coffee pot is on and warm. Cam shuffles into the living room, and sees him. Jack is outside, the hood of her car open, leaning on the fenders. She slides on a pair of sandals, stepping out onto the porch over to the car, which is running.
“You got it fixed?” Cam asks as Jack closes the hood of her car.
“The battery was dead. The light in the trunk was switched on.” Jack explains, taking the keys from his own car, which is pulled up close to her Mini.
“I didn’t know you were so mechanically inclined.” Cam grins at him, unsure if she's more relieved that he hadn’t left or her car is running.
“I’m not. If it wasn’t a battery or a flat tire I’m useless.” Jack says with a smirk.
“Do you need to head to work soon? Or do you want to stay for breakfast?” Cam offers, heart now thundering against her sternum.
“I can stay for breakfast.” Jack says, now cutting the engine of her car and handing her back her keys.
Jack sits at the dinette set, in the kitchen as Cam rummages through the cupboards and refrigerator.
“Uhh, I don’t have any eggs. I can do…no, I’m out of milk. Uh. Shit.” Cam mumbles, leaning down into the open freezer. She turns back to see Jack with that small little smirk on his face, making her blush. “What? She asks, standing.
“Just enjoying the view.” Jack demures, making Cam scoff. She sits beside him at the dinette, slouching.
“I can make fried rice, and spaghetti." Cam says with a chuckle, running a hand through her hair.
“What if we did something else?” Jack asks, stirring his coffee with the spoon sitting in the cup.
“I mean, I can order breakfast. We could go to DeLucas…” Cam lists, but Jack’s expression looks serious, making Cam stop and furrow her brow.
“Do you want to go back upstairs?” Jack asks softly, looking up from fussing with his coffee cup.
“Oh, if you’re tired, you should for sure go back upstairs. You don’t need…Oh.” Cam stops talking, realizing that Jack’s hesitation was not from fatigue.
“We could go out to breakfast, if you want.” Jack says quickly, leaning back in his chair.
“No. It’s not that. I just…Yeah, sure. We should go upstairs.” Cam says, her voice developing a small tremor. She stands quickly, the dinette chairs rubberized feet screeching across the vintage linoleum. Cam’s face feels hot as she heads towards her bedroom, like her grandmother is going to suddenly appear and ask her why she’s taking a boy upstairs. Jack holds the door for her, and she walks up the steps first, her hands starting to shake as she holds onto the bannister.
She reaches her bedroom, the sheets and blankets still a rumpled heap in the middle of the bed. Cam is sweating, so she tosses the blankets off the bed onto the floor before sitting down on the edge of the bed.
“I’m going to take off my prosthesis. It can…get in the way sometimes.” Jack explains haltingly.
“Okay.” Cam says softly. Jack starts to take off his pants, and Cam averts her gaze from him. She shimmies off her own in response, folding them neatly for some foolish reason, despite the fact Cam is more the type to ditch them to her ankles and fling them across the room toward the hamper. She shimmies off her shirt, tossing it on the floor this time. Cam fights the urge to cover herself up, sitting exposed on the edge of her bed.
“What do you want, Cam?” Jack asks softly.
“I thought me taking off my pants was an indicator.” Cam snorts, although she’s breathless from nerves. She turns to look at him as he sits at the foot of the bed.
“What do you like?” Jack asks, taking off his shirt. Cam gawks at him, the freckles and brawn of his shoulders and chest. She’s grateful he doesn’t have visible abs at least, which would make her more nervous than she is now.
“I’ll be honest, it’s been, uh, a long while.” Cam mumbles, sliding onto the bed, no longer resisting the urge and grabbing a sheet to cover her body. Jack’s still in his underwear, so Cam keeps her bra and underwear on. She wishes she had worn something more exciting, something with color, lace or frill, but it’s all cotton and plain, her bra just a worn out bralette with no underwire.
“It’s been over two years for me, I understand.” Jack says nervously, his thumb turning his wedding band.
“I think it’s been 4 years for me. Maybe more.” Cam says softly, pulling the sheet up to her armpits.
“Well, I think we should just…scope things out for now. Does that sound okay?” Abbot asks, sliding onto the bed himself, laying on his side next to her, arm propping up his head. Cam nods, letting out a shaky exhale. “I don’t want you to feel like you should cover yourself up. I like seeing you.” Jack says, nearly a whisper.
Cam nods, and she slides the sheet down, Abbot helping her get the cool cotton to pool onto her knees. His hand trails back up, a chill zipping up her spine as his fingers slide along her thigh. His hand pulls at the excess flesh at the inside of her thighs, callouses scraping at the stretch-marked soft skin.
“Is this okay?” He asks, a handful of her flesh against his hand, fingers probing under the seam of her underwear. Cam nods, too stunned and shy to speak.
Jack slides his fingers under the gusset, and Cam rotates her knee out, trying to give him more space. This feels foolish, a nearly forty year old woman having a man slide his hand in her underwear like they’re teenagers. Cam nearly laughs at their position, but Jack’s fingers begin to explore further, making Cam gasp. His mouth latches onto hers as he delves deeper into her, pushing himself up so he’s nearly on top of her, his fingers penetrating her core, making her pull her mouth off of his to gasp for air. His mouth now navigates her neck, down to her chest. Cam begins rocking her hips, trying to increase the pressure and pleasure from his hand. Her orgasm erupts from her, making Cam let out a low moan despite herself. She’s slightly embarrassed, being so eager for him to pull pleasure from her. Cam looks at Jack, waiting for the other shoe to drop, but he’s smiling, her bralette pulled aside like her underwear, unlatching his mouth from her breast, a devilish look in his eyes.
He plunges his fingers in at a different angle, and Cam writhes at the bliss crashing down, her right hand scrabbling at Jack’s chest as goes back to kissing her decolletage. Her hips begin to rock again, her core building pressure and her body greedy for his touch. The noises in Cam’s bedroom are reprehensible; Cam’s increasing wetness wrapping around his fingers, the panting, almost whimpering noises coming from Cam, Jack’s small hum of appreciation against her chest as the pressure builds inside of her, making her feel as if there’s a lightning strike coming and the pavement is getting hot under her feet. Cam can’t help the moan that comes from her mouth, the build up to her orgasm feeling like nearly too much for her body. She rocks her hips further in rhythm with Jack’s fingers, trying to get herself over the edge, now fearful of her own climax.
“Jack.” Cam tries to speak calmly, but a whine comes out, her voice shaking and high pitched. He unlatches his mouth from her neck and chest, a small sly smile pulling on his lips, his temples slicked with a small amount of sweat, his hazel eyes locking onto hers.
“Come for me, Cam.” Jack asks, like he’s asking for a glass of orange juice, or a dosage of cefazolin. His fingers are unrelenting, Cam’s hips still moving with him. Her climax begins, and Jack kisses her lips again hungrily, pressing his body onto hers
“Oh...” The noises that escape Cam’s throat sound like a prayer, cried out in desperation at the pews of a great cathedral. Her vision blurs as her whole body shudders under his touch. She stops rocking her hips, the pressure now like standing too close to a volcano, her whole body washed in heat, but shaking like she’s hypothermic. Her fingernails dig into his shoulder, her neck straining as she throws her head back, crying out. Jack is beginning to relent, exhaling a satisfied sigh. The world comes back to focus, and Cam can’t help but mirror Jack’s satisfied smile. There’s something pushing slightly against Cam’s thigh, and she looks to see his hardness trying to breach his boxer briefs. Her first instinct is to take hold of it, but she hesitates, unsure if that’s past their “scoping out” boundary.
“Do you…uh I could...” Cam asks, her gaze flashing between Jack’s face and groin.
“Do you want to?” Jack says. Neither of them seem to know what to say, both high off endorphins, sweating, breathing heavy.
“Yeah…you should…feel good too.” Can murmurs haltingly.
“I want you on top. Is that okay?” Abbot asks quietly, pushing himself up off the bed effortlessly. Cam’s eyes widen in shock at the calm request as Jack lies back on the bed.
“If you’re sure.” Cam says, standing up beside the bed. She shimmies her bra over her head, kicking her underwear off her ankles.
“I am.” Jack says, removing his own underwear, revealing himself to Cam, making her mouth fall open. Cam straddles him, his hardness now touching Cam’s apron belly, making her shrink back slightly. Jack doesn’t flinch, pulling Cam closer, kissing her deeply, gathering her breasts and kissing the full flesh. Cam moans, grasping at his member.
“You ready?” Abbot asks softly, looking up at her, and Cam nods, seeing sweat beading on Jack’s forehead, his obliques flexing as he breathes heavily, his rigidity still upright. Cam kneels over him, stomach heading to the floor as she imagines the unflattering angle that Jack sees of her body. She averts her gaze, grasping him without looking and sinking down, putting him inside of her slowly.
Jack lets out a quiet groan as Cam gasps, the feeling not unfamiliar, but long forgotten, possibly better than ever before. It’s as if she’s only seen fire in the form of a candle, and is now witnessing a bonfire set with accelerants. Before Cam can sink down all the way, Jack grabs her, in the crease between her stomach and hips, driving himself into her, making Cam yelp. She tips forward, catching herself on his chest before righting herself, desperate not to feel like she’s performing sexual cardiopulmonary resuscitation. Jack’s hands dig further into her hips, using her love handles as intended, guiding her up and down, his length filling her, making body quiver at the pressure. Cam throws her head back, marveling at how Jack doesn’t seem to notice how much Cam weighs as he lifts her knees off the mattress with the drive of his hips. Jack doesn’t seem to be straining, an infatuated and determined look on his face as he continues to collide his pelvis into hers, Cam merely trying to balance. The electric charge climbs from her pelvis up her spine, and she can’t help but let out a groan as she builds once more.
“Jack.” Cam says, this time a deep moan, drunk off of his touch, his strength, the deep stretch she feels as he fills her with every inch of his cock. She tilts her body forward, another orgasm washing over her, and he slows his thrusts as tears blur her vision. Cam’s knees finally settle back on the bed, Jack is no longer bouncing her up and down, and Cam takes the opportunity to seek her own angle. She hovers just slightly above being filled completely with him, grinding forward and backward, hitting her g-spot, which makes her start to yelp. Jack smirks before grabbing her ass with force, and guiding her along.
“That’s it. Ride for me.” Jack pants. Every forward stroke feels as if he buries his shaft even more than before, her cavity filled so completely it makes Cam feel as if she could explode. Her wetness increases still, making them slide along one another with a sinful noise, Jack using the lack of friction as a way to pound into her more, his brow furrowing as he grips her ass harder, making her rhythm fast as his dick begins to throb increasingly inside of her, giving her walls a new sensation to send her to the abyss. Jack is panting, his eyes closed.
“Cam…” Jack moans softly, as he orgasms, painting her walls. The wash of heat with the pulsing of his shaft brings Cam to the peak once more, making Cam throw her head back, howling like some kind of beast of the night. They stick together like this, his hands still firm on her ass, Cam still perched on his pelvis, until Jack’s brow furrows again and Cam snaps back to reality.
“Oh shit. I’m sorry.” Cam says, clambering off of him. “Did I hurt you?” She asks, laying on the bed beside him.
“You were a knockout up there.” Jack chuckles, making Cam smile. His brow furrows once more.
“What’s wrong?” Cam asks, still breathless.
“I need to shower.” Jack explains, wiping the sweat from his brow. His body is slick with sweat, and Cam knows that the sheets on the bed are forfeit.
“I have a shower.” Cam says with a chuckle.
“Do you have a shower chair?” Jack asks dryly, sitting up on the edge of the bed. Cam stands, her knees buckling for a moment be
“It’s in the basement.” Cam says, grabbing a bathrobe and tying it around her waist.
“Why do you have a shower chair?” Jack asks, his brow furrowing.
“The whole reason I moved back was my dad was dying, remember?” Cam calls, heading toward the stairs. “Give me 5 minutes.”
Cam wobbles down to the basement, two flights on stairs on unsteady legs, a likely reason for some of the patients that arrive at The Pitt. Cam finds the shower chair, and spots an old metal cane. It was her grandfather's, the kind that has four small feet on a metal base. The grey rubber grip is cracking, but she snags it, using the sleeve of her robe to wipe off the most egregious dust bunnies as she carries both up the stairs. Cam jumps when she sees Jack, who is wearing the shorts he slept in and has maneuvered down the second story stairs, now leaning against the hallway wall.
“I’m sorry, this house isn’t exceptionally accessible. Here.” Cam says, handing him the cane. He removes his palm from the wall, now more steady with the metal support.
“It’s fine. I just didn’t bring anything to help me get around. I wasn’t expecting to stay the night.” Jack explains, heading to the bathroom behind Cam. She puts the shower chair in the wide tub, turns out the water to ensure it's warming up.
“Sometimes the water takes a minute to get warm.” Cam explains, stepping toward the hallway. Jack is smirking at her, and Cam can’t help but smile back, eyeing his shirtless form. He’s blocking the entryway to the bathroom.
“Did you pee?” Jack asks her, raising her eyebrows.
“What?” Cam asks, a sneer forming on her face.
“Do you know how many women with UTIs we get a week in the E.D?” Jack asks, as Cam rolls her eyes at him. She shuts the bathroom door in his face, using the bathroom quickly as steam has begun to fill the room.
“Happy?” She asks, opening the door from the bathroom, drying her hands on the hand towel. She feels a cool breeze on her chest, and pulls the tie tighter, closing the gaping front.
“Exceptionally.” Jack says with a smile, letting her slide past him before heading into the steam filled bathroom.
