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 :)
“You guys are getting like, really serious.” Cassie remarks, taking a piece of sushi from the tray. Cam’s head snaps up quickly from her wasabi and soy sauce she’s mixing together with her chopsticks.
“I mean…I don’t know if it's really serious.” Cam scoffs, reaching for a piece of nigiri.
“What would you call it?” Cassie McKay asks, raising her eyebrows at her over their shared sushi plate. Cam goes to argue, but begins reminiscing instead, her heart blooming at all the time they’ve spent together this summer, making dinner, watching movies, and tasks of domesticity that suddenly feel novel when done in a pair. Cam nearly squirms in her chair when she thinks of all of the other carnal activities they’ve gotten into lately. Last week, the preparation for dinner was abandoned halfway through to fly upstairs into the bedroom, Jack taking charge, nearly tearing her shorts in order to breach her petals. Cam looks up, realizing Cassie is staring at her still, making her go back to stir her soy and wasabi.
“We’re…cohabitating on occasion.” Cam shrugs, reaching for another piece of nigiri.
“Occasion? Do you like…switch whose place you stay at?” Cassie asks softly, leaning more forward. Cam shakes her head around her bite of sushi.
“No, he comes over to my house. I told him he didn’t have to stay at my shitty house, but he said there’s a lot of memories at home, so he prefers my place. It works, but I feel bad that he’s staying in my hovel in Duquesne Heights.” Cam stumbles through. What Jack had really said was he felt his house was full of ghosts of his past, that it was easier to move forward outside of that enviroment.
She’s desperate to make it sound more casual than it is, despite the fact that Cam knows Jack has filled a third of her dresser drawers with clothes, that he has a key to her house, and a hook by the door for his work bag. She doesn’t want to say any of it out loud. She fears it will evaporate before her eyes, becoming a memory so distant it is covered in a deep haze, like vaseline on a camera lens. Loneliness has been her baseline for as long as she can remember. It’s second nature, after keeping her family at an arm’s reach for her sanity, leaving home and traveling as a scrub tech. Even when her father was dying, it felt more clinical to care for him than something done out of kindness. She loved him, and tenderly took care of him in his last few months, but she still felt secluded. Jack is the first person she has been close to in possibly decades that she feels she can depend on. Cam has never been good at asking for help; growing up in her family, it was easier to find a way to do something without ever notifying her parents that it would necessitate their attention. At first she felt feeble, having him help her do small things, like carrying groceries from the street, making her coffee, or helping her hang new curtains. Now, it seems so easy, no longer having to work twice as hard, the companionship making her softer and more vulnerable. It scared her at first, but now she realizes how truly serious their relationship is for her to become so trusting of Jack. Her mouth dries, and she reaches for her water glass quickly, hoping the ice water will distract her from her thundering heart.
“That sounds serious.” Cassie smirks, making Cam chuckle nervously.
“I don’t know.” Cam mumbles, ducking her head slightly, feeling her cheeks heat.
“I mean, it’s okay that it’s maybe serious. Your secret is safe with me, if that’s what you’re concerned about.” Cassie nearly whispers, leaning over their small cocktail table at the Penn Ave Fish Co.
“It’s not…not serious?” Cam squeaks, relieved when the waiter comes by to check on their table.
“Are you guys like…not…” Cassie stops, brushing her bangs back for a moment.
“Are you asking about–” Cam asks slowly.
“Nevermind. I don’t need to know about my attending’s sex life.” Cassie says quickly, shaking her head. Cam swallows hard, relief flooding her bloodstream.
“I’ve…never had a successful relationship. His last relationship ended in death. I am perfectly content with what we’re doing. Also, I’m too old to have a ‘boyfriend’.” Cam sighs.
“I would just be content for some good sex.” Cassie murmurs. “Between residency, the street team and Harrison, I don’t have any time for myself, let alone time for someone else.” she scoffs.
“You know, there’s an adult entertainment shop on the way to my house, it’s probably more efficient to just shop there.” Cam chuckles, making Cassie roll her eyes and shake her head. The waiter comes by, bringing by the next plate of sushi, making silence wash over the table, the steamy topic cooling quickly in front of company.
“How’s your brother?” Cassie asks, clearing her throat as the waitstaff refills their water.
“He’s good. The program at the V.A helped him connect with some people. He’s leaving the residential housing on the campus and getting an apartment with some other vets.” Cam explains.
“He doesn’t want to live with you? I know you were offering.” Cassie asks, grabbing another piece of nigiri.
“He said he doesn’t want to ‘cramp my style’, but I think he also maybe doesn’t want to live in my grandparents' old house. Not like we have an excess of good memories with our family. Probably doesn’t need the stress of that place.”
“Maybe it’s because he knows it’s getting serious with Abbot.” Cassie smiles, making Cam roll her eyes.
“You know, you could go to lunch with him and talk about your shared dreams for my relationship.” Cam snorts.
“Someone has to have some luck for romance, and it’s not me. When does your brother have to move from the V.A housing?”
“At the end of the month, since that will be the end of the ninety day time period. Can’t believe it’s been three months since that whole debacle.” Cam sighs, running a hand through her hair, her heart caught in her throat, swept into the memories of that stressful time.
“Can you believe it’s almost July?” Cassie remarks. “I’m nearly a fourth year resident, I’m going to be responsible for so much, and medical students, and other residents.” Cassie groans, sweeping her bangs off of her forehead.
“Oh, my God, I completely forgot about medical students in July.” Cam laments.
“At least you don’t have to worry about them ordering so much heparin that the patients are going to hemorrhage out of every orifice. Last year, a med student ordered thirty thousand units on a woman who weighed 50 kilos. One too many zeros. Thank God Mateo called her out before she gave the dose.” Cassie chuckles, shaking her head.
“Well, now I get to keep medical students from touching every sterile thing in the O.R with their bare fucking hands.” Cam sighs.
“I mean, I guess it’s our opportunity to teach the next generation of doctors. Teach them, do better than the people who taught us, maybe one of them will change the world.” Cassie says with a dreamy tone in her voice. Cam snorts out a laugh, beginning to cackle as Cassie’s shoulders start to shake.
“How about they just don’t contaminate my shit? We can build the next Doctor Debakey when they make it out of intern year.” Cam declares, grabbing another piece of sushi.
“Sounds good.” Cassie sighs, smiling.
—---------------------------------------------
Cam unlocks the front door, ditching her shoes and purse in the entryway.The living room is empty and dark, and she heads down the hallway, toward the glow from the back bedroom. Cam peers around the doorway, seeing Jack finishing up yoga, wiping the sweat from his neck and face with a thin, blue towel from the O.R. He’s shirtless, in a pair of shorts, making Cam gawk at the view.
“How was dinner?” Jack asks softly.
“Not bad. Got sushi. Thinking about making a snack, though. Are you hungry?” Cam asks, Jack walks up to her, pressing himself into her, grabbing her waist, making her recoil. “Jack, you’re sweaty.” She chides, a smile pulling at her lips despite the feeling of his body slick against her and her clothing.
“You look good. Really good.” Jack says, not letting go of her until she allows him to give her a kiss, which she relinquishes. “I made chicken, with those tiny roasted potatoes.”
“Ooh, with the parmesan?” Cam asks, smiling wide. Jack nods, the warmth of his damp body spreading to her, his smile matching her own.
“And brussel sprouts.” Jack recites, making them sound explicit and sexy. Cam laughs, pulling away from him now.
“Okay, now I’m definitely hungry.” Cam says, heading into the hallway. Jack pulls her hand back toward him, making her look at him again. He’s got that small grin on his face that drives every part of her body mad. “What?” She asks, eyeing him as he wraps his hands around her waist again.
“You look so good.” Jack says softly.
“And you are so sweaty.” Cam laughs.
“We could both be sweaty.” Jack replies, his hands sliding toward her hips, his eyebrow raised. Cam exhales, a rush of heat enveloping her, a surge of pressure forming in her pelvis.
“You act like I can resist you when you’re dry.” Cam simpers.
“I just like reminding you that I’m that good.” Jack says, opening the door to the stairs.
“You’re a braggart.” Cam sighs, walking up the stairs.
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.'
There’s sweat beading down Cam’s back as she trods around the ambulance bay towards the E.D entrance. She knew that when she got called, it would be messy, but she didn’t think she would have to take the back stairs of the garage to get close to getting in the hospital. She’s pushed her sunglasses up onto her head, relieved by the shade of the ambulance bay when she hears her name called. She turns, seeing Jack with a patient, loading him into an ambulance.
“I thought you were off today.” Abbot calls.
“Guess what runs on the internet? The sterile processing departments tracking software. I got asked to be a liaison between the OR and SPD. What are you doing here?” Cam asks, shifting her backpack back on her shoulder and pulling up the strap of her maxi dress the strap was pulling.
“Uh. Long story short, I’m taking my friend Howard here to Presby for a CT scan. He might be coming up to you afterwards.”
“Hi, Howard. Respectfully, I don’t really want to see you upstairs.” Cam says with a smile. The man taps on a tablet attached to the gurney.
“Fingers Crossed.” The voice says.
“We gotta get going.” Abbot explains, stepping into the ambulance.
“Hey. You okay?” Cam asks.
“You know me, love a road trip.” Abbot says. Cam turns away from him, heading toward the E.D entrance. “Hey, Cam!” Jack calls.
“Yeah?” Cam yells over the noise of the diesel ambulance engine.
“You should call your brother.” Abbot says. Cam’s face screws up slightly, a hand going to her sweat-dampened face.
“Okay. Bye, Howard!” Cam says, waving. Howard waves back as Jack slams the ambulance door shut behind himself.
“Take it easy, Howard, that’s my girl.” Jack says with a small smile. Howard raises his eyebrows before giving Abbot a thumbs up, making Abbot chuckle before shaking his head. Howard types furiously for a moment before the voice speaks again.
“You don’t want me to go to surgery because you’re afraid I’ll take her from you.” Howard says, his eyes crinkling as he smiles despite his nasal intubation.
“That’s it, man. You caught me.” Abbot says, checking the vitals on the portable monitor.
“Does she have a sister?” The voice asks, making Abbot huff.
“She does. Her entire family besides her is a pretty wild cast of characters though.” Abbot explains quietly.
“If she’s as much of a babe as her, I think I will risk it.” Howard’s tablet explains. Howard leans back, grimacing slightly.
“Alright, Howard, enough about my love life, let’s make you comfortable for the road trip.”
Cam feels like a rat on a wheel. Upstairs, downstairs, pulling trays from assembly, upstairs, helping people open the trays, going back downstairs, repeat ad nauseum. They’ve lost track of all the clean carts, so Cam is taking a tray by hand from the elevator to sterile processing to O.R three, when she passes Garcia wheeling a patient towards the surgical department.
“Uh, which room for her?” Cam asks as she slides out of the way.
“What’s open?” Garcia asks.
“What’s open?” Cam asks incredulously. The charge nurse sticks her head out of the desk.
“Uh, did I miss a phone call?” The charge nurse asks far more calmly than Cam could ever manage.
“No, she crashed, she has a sigmoid volvulus, she’s an ex lap.” Garcia snaps.
“What the fuck, Garcia?!” Cam exclaims.
“She has to go now!” Garcia snaps.
“We don’t have any goddamn instruments up here, Yolanda! Fuck!” Cam says, slamming down the tray was holding onto the desk and making a run for the sterile processing department’s elevator.
“How many Bookwalters do we have left?” Cam yells, as the elevator opens on the ground floor.
“Uhh, three?”
“That’s it?! Okay, okay. Uhhh, how about Thompson’s?”
“Uhhh…” A voice answers.
“Do we have any Omnis?” Cam yells from down an aisle, kneeling on the floor to read the exceptionally small labels on the trays. Cam leans down, squinting, wondering if it’s time for her to get reading glasses.
“What the fuck is an Omni?” the person in SPD asks. Cam is nearly face down on the cool tile in the sterile processing department, wishing to just stay there.
“It’s gonna be on the vascular shelves. We use them for AAAs. We don’t need it, but I want to keep track.” Cam calls, trying not to be disrespectful to the poor new hire roped into working the fourth. Cam huffs, standing up.
“Okay, so first, we need another emergency exploratory laparotomy cart, ASAP. Then, we need to build an ex lap cart with bariatric instrumentation. Long instruments, bariatric bookwalter blades, GI tray, all the things. There’s a case upstairs that we don’t have anything to start, and we are probably going to have a bariatric patient here soon. Maybe. God, I hope poor Howard doesn’t need to come to the O.R.” Cam chatters away, staring at the status board.
“Alright, let’s get to it. Grab an empty case cart, let’s throw some trays on there and get that shit upstairs.” Cam explains as she snaps back into action, heading back down the aisle toward abdominal instruments.
Cam barrels upstairs with the case cart, swinging past the control desk.
“What room?” Cam calls out to the charge nurse at the desk.
“Uhhh, 7? No, 6.” The dayshift charge calls out. Cam flies through the door, metal cart clanging like a bell as she hits the doorway. She all but tosses the trays at the nurse as her cellphone starts to ring in her back pocket.
“This is Cam.” She answers tersely through the phone as she steps into the core where all the supplies are stored.
“Hey.” Jack says softly through the phone.
“Hi. What’s up?” Cam says, her voice suddenly softer, lighter.
“I’m on my way back with Howard from Presby. He’s a riot. Told me he was going to steal you during surgery. Looks like a perfed diverticulum.” Jack sighs.
“Oh, no. Seriously?” Cam asks.
“His exact words were ‘holy sundress’.” Jack replies.
“No, the diverticulum.” Cam huffs, rolling her eyes.
“Yeah, he’s definitely perfed.” Jack sighs.
“Fuck.” Cam says, leaning on the wall. A shred of fear for Howard pries at her heart. She knows this is dangerous for him to have surgery, and the thought of him rotting in the ICU loaded on pressors makes her heart ache.
“Can you–” Jack begins, but Cam stops him, pushing herself off the wall and walking purposefully back down towards S.P.D.
“I already pulled bariatric trays, I think Lisa will be the one to scrub it. Hang on.” Cam says, pulling her phone from her ear.
“Little birdie is telling me we are getting a bariatric patient with perfed small bowel. I’m bringing the cart up now. We’re gonna need extensions on the bed, the one in OR 9 will work.” She quickly puts her phone back to her ear, grabbing a pencil from the charge nurse. “Can I have the MRN?” Cam barks on the phone, the softness of her voice evaporated.
“It’s sexy when you’re in the zone like this.” Jack murmurs on the phone. Cam’s face flushes red. She grips the pencil so hard she can feel the wood fiber creak under her fingers.
“Yeah, whenever you have that MRN I can give it to my charge nurse.” Cam says, clearing her throat.
“Three three zero, two three, three three niner.” Jack states. Cam repeats the number back, passes the paper to the charge. There’s a long pause at the other end of the line.
“I’m going to call Shamsi. Garcia will probably book the case in a few.” Jack explains. Cam starts heading back down to sterile processing.
“Sounds good. How was the SWAT thing?” Cam asks.
“I’ll tell you later. We’re on the bridge, Howard wants to try to talk to his sister before surgery.”
“Okay.” Cam says, stopping at the elevator.
“Love you.” Jack says quickly. Cam’s eyes fly wide open, but before she can respond, the phone call ends. The elevator arrives, and she steps in, leaning heavily against the railing. As the door closes and begins her descent into the belly of the hospital, she exhales hard.
“Jesus, Jack.” Cam says, chuckling nervously as the doors open back into the department.
“Okay, let's get that cart with the bariatric instruments on it upstairs. Should be going to O.R nine, but someone please check with the desk” Cam announces. One of the employees grabs the cart and starts wheeling it to the elevator.
Things settle into a hectic but reliable pace, trauma cart refilled after the spleen injury, Howard in surgery, the woman that Garcia flew up to the O.R with no warning getting closed and taken to the I.C.U. Jack sent a text to Cam that he was heading home for a nap before his shift, but he chose to ignore the fact he said that he loved her before promptly hanging up. Cam doesn’t pry, telling herself it was likely an accident. They’re both tired, out of their routines, running on adrenaline and not much else. She just replied with a thumbs up emoji and stashed her phone in her pocket. Cam is wedged in a corner, having taken the barcode labels off of the trays, trying to tape them to paper and write down where they were all sent. They were told the system should be up within the next few hours and she’s trying to leave the staff able to get back on track.
Cam’s cell phone rings in front of her, and she answers it quickly.
“This is Cam.”
“I need you upstairs now.” The charge nurse says, panicking.
“For what? I’m supposed to be a liaison." Cam says calmly.
“There’s a ruptured AAA downstairs in the E.D and apparently ICE is here, so we just had 2 people leave. I need you to scrub this AAA, Cam. Please. No one up here can do it.” The charge nurse pleads.
“On my way.” Cam replies, standing up. “Fuck my life. Okay. I have to go scrub, so, I am taking the backup AAA cart to OR 5, and there's that paper with the tray tags to scan. Here.” Cam says, ripping the barcodes off of the trays. “Scan that to 5, wish me luck.” She says with a sigh.
She charges up the elevator, the cart like a heavy stone, her legs burning. She flies through the core, depositing the heavy cart in the gap where the emergency cart is supposed to sit. She grabs a gown and gloves off the wall, flying through the door into the O.R.
“Oh, thank God.” The nurse opening the trays exhales.
“They’re coming up now. Shamsi says she’s just going to open, not even attempt a balloon up, he’s intubated already.” Another nurse explains, sitting at the computer charting.
“Well, at least I don’t need lead, I guess.” Cam sighs as she puts on her safety glasses and goes to scrub her hands.
She’s barely had time to pull both trays off the bed when they come thundering down the hallway with the patient. “Here we fucking go.” Cam sighs.
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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.
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?!"
