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Generally speaking, Bahorel loved his job. Ok, so there were days when he went through several pairs of scrubs because of getting various bodily fluids all over him. And yeah, not all his patients were nice, but he understood that being ill changed people - made them angry and frightened - and while some patients were grateful for help, others lashed out at the feeling of helplessness. Medication didn’t help either, and some of the side effects could be quite messy. Some people came round from anaesthetic a bit dozy and disorientated, but Bahorel had been punched on more than one occasion by a seriously freaked out and combative patient.
But mostly, Bahorel loved being a nurse. It was fast-paced and hard work. For a while he had seriously considered Military Nursing, but after his first week experiencing nursing in A&E, he knew working in hospitals as a RN was where he wanted to be.
And that’s exactly what he was telling himself ten hours into his first twelve hour shift on the General Surgery Ward. He loved his job, he was good at his job, he was definitely not going to lose his shit at the patient in Bay Six who kept ringing her buzzer for a drink when she was on nil by mouth.
“Oh, hey, ‘scuse me,” Bahorel looked up to find someone leaning on his Nurses Station counter. Leaning was, in general, actively discouraged. The receptionists in A&E had a particularly passive-aggressive sign telling people to not even think of leaning on their check-in desk.
However, Bahorel’s well-practised “please don’t lean on the counter, Sir,” got lost on the way to his mouth as he looked over the guy in question. Deep brown eyes peered out from a mess of curls, eyes that raked up and down over Bahorel in the most blatant check-out he’d ever been subjected to.
“I’m looking for my friend,” leaning guy smiled. “Bald guy – I understand Bomb Disposal are taking an active interest in his appendix.”
Bahorel returned the easy smile, preening a little under the attention. “Bay six,” he replied, familiar enough with the four beds in there due to the shenanigans of Bed Two. “I’ll show you.”
Technically, he could have just gestured the ten feet or so, but then he would have missed out on giving the guy a show as he walked in front of him, ostensibly to show him the way. But Bahorel knew what kind of figure he cut, almost strutting as he made his way to the infamous Bay Six.
“Boss man!” leaning guy threw his arms up in friendly greeting. “I understand you’re about ready to level a city.”
Bahorel glanced at the chart as he paused at the end of the bed, just to waste a bit of time before trudging back to the Nurses Station. Sure enough, Bed One had been admitted from A&E that morning with a nasty case of appendicitis. He was scheduled for surgery the following day and had been admitted to be kept under observation. He certainly looked rather pale, hooked up to a drip, but at sight of his friend he broke into a wide smile.
“If you need anything,” Bahorel nodded back to the station. He left them to it, especially as he did actually have rounds to do.
A few minutes later, leaning guy was back and leaning against the counter again. Bahorel raised his eyebrows at him in query.
“So, do you like coffee?”
Bahorel snorted. “I’m a nurse ten hours into a shift, what do you think?!”
Leaning guy nodded. “Ok, well I’ll be back in a sec. Got pulled out of bed because somebody’s boyfriend is in Birmingham on a course. Now that I’ve ascertained that death is not as imminent as it was first presented, I’m going to grab some much-needed caffeine.”
Now, when people visiting his ward mention coffee, they were usually referring to the machine in the small day room further down the corridor. Bahorel wasn’t sure it could legally be called coffee as it was mostly hot brown water with a distinctly unpalatable sludge in the bottom of the plastic cup.
What he definitely hadn’t expected was the large cup of actual coffee from the Starbucks across the street. The scent alone set his mouth watering.
“It’s a triple shot,” the guy smiled crookedly, looking slightly nervous, as though Bahorel was seriously going to tell him no and send the damn thing back. “That ok?”
“Oh, my god!” Bahorel didn’t care he was making obscene noises in the middle of the general surgery ward, taking a deep pull from the cup and ignoring how it burnt the roof of his mouth. This was just… perfect. “You can definitely come again.”
He glanced down at the cup, hoping for a subtle clue to the guy’s name, and was rewarded with the single letter R.
+
Grantaire’s morning so far had been something of a rollercoaster. Nothing quite like being woken up to one of your best friends in hysterics because your other best friend was apparently at death’s door. Joly had been gone for… sixteen hours, by Grantaire’s estimation, and already Bossuet was in hospital. Situation normal, then.
Appendicitis, as Grantaire remembered all too well from his own experience, was no laughing matter. Even if Joly was predisposed to thinking the worst, Grantaire would still have hauled ass down to the hospital, both to put Joly’s mind at rest and provide some company for Bossuet. The fact that Bossuet had been admitted to the General Surgery ward spoke volumes about his condition.
It was a relief, then, to find his friend sitting up in bed, looking bloody awful of course, but otherwise his usual self. And it definitely didn’t hurt that the nurse on duty was hot as hell. Ok, so it was probably a little bit bad to be checking out a guy whilst rushing to your best mate’s hospital bedside, but he hadn’t even had coffee or a smoke at that point. Of course, the coffee situation was easily remedied, and hell it looked like he’d be delaying coffee tomorrow morning as well, if those were the noises he could look forward to from Mr Hot Nurse.
Grantaire stuck out his hand. “I’m Grantaire.”
“Bahorel,” Mr Hot Nurse replied, shaking it in a deliciously firm grip. Grantaire nearly melted.
+
If Bahorel could be glib for just a moment, the owner of Bed Two Bay Six was being a demanding pain the arse. Bahorel was the absolute consummate professional and he prided himself on not letting his personal prejudices towards entitled baby boomers with infected bunions skew his judgement. Every request for a cup of tea - for a copy of the Daily Mail, for an additional pillow, a sandwich, no a different sandwich - was met with a smile and a polite “yes Ma’am”. Bahorel deserved a freaking medal.
But right at that moment he was trying, with limited success it had to be said, to change the cannula for Bed Three. It didn’t matter that the guy had been told at least twice to keep his arm raised to stop blood flowing back along the tube, he still needed it changing regularly throughout the day.
“Young man! YOUNG MAN!” She was squawking as he tried to find a viable vein. Behind him she sighed, scornfully. “Ugh, do you even speak English?”
The needle finally slid home, and Bahorel was able to form a reply.
“Yes Ma’am, I’m fluent in English, Arabic, Spanish, a little French and British Sign Language. I also know a little Russian, some Urdu, and I’m learning Japanese.”
Bahorel could feel the eyes burning into his back. Bed One had been visited by the anaesthetist first thing that morning and was expected to be wheeled off to surgery in about half an hour, and Bahorel’s most favourite visitor ever had pitched up not that long ago with more coffee in hand. It could have been coincidence – it wasn’t as though Grantaire knew Bahorel would be on shift. Except that he’d ducked his head, smirking a little as he admitted to texting his bedridden buddy to check.
The coffee had definitely helped, but that didn’t change the fact that some people needed more than surgery on their feet to solve their problems.
The woman in Bed Two sat gaping as Bahorel calmly finished changing the cannula, smiling reassuringly at Bed One, and very aware of being watched by everyone else in the bay.
“Japanese,” the woman’s expression was flat, eyes narrowed in the suspicion that Bahorel was disrespecting her somehow.
“Yes, Ma’am, it’s the ninth most spoken language in the world.”
“Well, I’m interested in the first most spoken language,” Bed Two was beginning to recover, “and I’d like you to get me an English cup of tea.”
Before Bahorel could reply with his customary “yes, Ma’am,” there was the sound of someone clearing their throat.
“Chinese,” all heads turned, including Bahorel, to where Grantaire was sitting in his visitor’s chair next to Bossuet’s bed, and staring deliberately at the sketch book on his lap. “Tea originated from China.”
“Also,” he looked up, eyes sharp and deliberate, staring across at Bed Two, “Mandarin is the most spoken language. English makes a pitiful third place.”
If looks could kill, not even being in a hospital could have saved Grantaire from the force of Bed Two’s glare. But Bahorel could have kissed him.
+
Bahorel was completing some paperwork for the Registrar when Grantaire came up to lean on his counter, Bossuet of Bed One fame having finally gone off to have his “mildly explosive” appendix seen to. And really, Grantaire should stop calling it that, because Bahorel was sure the absent boyfriend of Bed One was going to have heart failure if he carried on like that.
Bed Two's buzzer went off. Again. Bahorel sighed, setting down his pen and going to see what she needed. Luckily it was nothing more serious than having her curtain drawn round her bed, and he was soon back at his post.
“Bet you wish you could turn that buzzer off,” Grantaire winked, conspiratorially. Bahorel sighed, feeling uncommonly tired. He was almost certain the old bat was going to complain about him, though fuck only knew under what grounds. And he certainly wasn’t stupid enough to get caught talking badly about a patient with a visitor.
“Well, not really. Because then her tube really would get blocked and she’d die and we’d get sued and I’d get fired and that would seriously suck.”
Grantaire shrugged, nodding his head in concession, and biting his lip like he wondered whether he’d just overstepped the mark so Bahorel decided to let him off the hook. Checking over his shoulder to make sure no one was eavesdropping, he whispered, “but that assured, you’re damn right.”
The smile returned, and Bahorel realised he might possibly be in trouble.
+
“I’m not kidding, the guy could bench press me with one arm,” Grantaire enthused, wedging the phone against his shoulder so he could talk and hold his bowl of noodles at the same time. “And I swear he likes me too, otherwise why does he keep bending over in those scrubs?”
Fucking hell, scrubs. Grantaire had never imagined that practical blue workwear would do it for him. What a bloody cliché, but he was just as intrigued about the body beneath the uniform. Because if the forearms were anything to go by…
“That’s all very well and good,” Joly’s voice echoed patiently down the line. “But could you perhaps tell me how Bossuet’s surgery went? I mean… if it isn’t too much trouble?”
+
Muffins. There were three boxes of muffins sitting on the counter, preventing Grantaire from leaning as had become his habit of the past few days.
“Wasn’t sure what you liked so there’s chocolate chip and raspberry with white chocolate,” Grantaire was talking fast, eyes fixed firmly on the boxes. “And the last box is blueberry. Those ones are gluten free.”
“Did you make these?” Bahorel gaped, because the scents rolling off them were amazing. Grantaire offered him a sheepish smile in reply.
“Couldn’t sleep so thought I’d make myself useful for once.”
Bahorel took them to the staff room, setting them out on the coffee table. One of the Registrars, Musichetta, glanced up from her book, sniffing the air. Curiosity kindled, she ambled over to inspect the goods on offer.
“Your boy made you muffins?”
“He’s not my boy,” Bahorel replied, somewhat sullenly.
“Well more fool you,” Chetta took a mouthful, groaning obscenely. And Bahorel determined to ask for the guy’s number when he next saw him.
+
When Bahorel started his shift just after midday, he was disappointed but not necessarily surprised to find Bossuet of Bed One discharged. His condition had continued to be stable so he would have been sent home at the start of the day. The bed had already been stripped down and no doubt there would be someone else there in due course, with probably far less interesting (less hot, his brain unhelpfully supplied) visitors.
Mercifully Bed Two had also, finally, gone home – delivered into the capable care of one very bored-looking son. It looked as though the remainder of his rotation was going to be rather mundane. Even the horrible patients gave a certain amount of entertainment.
But about twenty minutes into his shift, the doors to the ward swung open, and a familiar face was wheeled in. Bossuet’s right leg was set into a rough cast, stuck straight out in front of him.
“Oh my god,” Bahorel exclaimed, striding over to them. “What happened?” Bossuet smiled up at him blearily.
“Ambulance,” he replied, somewhat sluggishly, eyes unfocused. Bahorel looked him over, from the obvious cast on his leg to the bruising on the side of his face.
“You stepped out in front of an ambulance?” Bahorel guessed.
“Well,” The porter broke in, “He more fell off a curb into the path of the ambulance.” Yeah that would do it. Even at low speed, an ambulance would pack quite a wallop.
“Compound fracture,” the porter continued cheerfully. “Needs surgery either tonight or tomorrow to get it pinned.” Bahorel shook his head, waving them through towards Bay Six. He went over to the station to grab the admission paperwork.
“Hi,” Bahorel jumped, looking up at the familiar voice. Sure enough, Grantaire was leaning on the Nurses Station counter, grinning over at him. “I’m looking for my friend? Bald guy, smacked face first into a bright yellow vehicle with flashing blue lights?”
Bahorel grinned back. For a moment they just stood there, staring at each other
“Just ask him already!” Bossuet’s voice filtered over from Bay Six, breaking the moment. “Or I’ll tell Joly you pushed me in front of that ambulance because you’re an idiot who didn’t get his number the first time!”
Grantaire rolled his eyes. “So, do you like coffee?”