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"Oh crap, it's Ray."
Ray hears himself groan, not quite able to open his eyes. He recognizes that voice, although it takes a moment for his brain to provide a name – Chuny, it's Chuny who'll always be happily bribed with candy. Fuck, he thinks, brain muddled. Fuck, I'm at County. The gurney rumbles when it's wheeled down the floor, and he wonders if they salvaged his guitar.
His wrists feel strangely naked. Why would they take away his bracelets? He should know that.
His brain isn’t working properly.
"What happened?"
"27-year-old male, hypothermia, head injury. Car against river – lost a tire, looks like, no telling how long he was in there. He's tachy, zoning in and out, we put him out of his clothes and into heating blankets. He was unconscious at the scene." His heart flips as if his chest is too loose when the gurney clatters over something; a part of his brain remembers that's a bad sign, and it scares him. "Said something about Mercy, but tough luck, they're renovating."
"What's that, Ray, no faith in us? We're wounded."
Ray opens his eyes. It's a weird change of perspective – disorienting – because he knows that he knows that hallway pretty well but he's still never looked at the ceiling before. There are people all around him and he knows he should be focusing on the orders Kovac is giving, but instead – obscurely – the schedule of tonight comes to mind, crystal clear: Lockhart's on duty and Kovac. Lewis had the night shift with him, new roomie better be asleep at home.
"...head CT, ECG, chest x-ray... full labs and blood alcohol…"
Above him, Abby – to his left – gives Kovac a hesitant look.
"His alcohol level would affect how fast he loses body heat," Kovac says.
Ray closes his eyes.
"Hey, hey there, Ray! Stay with us!"
Fuck off.
His attitude provokes rejection, is the thing. Guys who dress in black and wear the metal bracelets and show off the tattoos, they make people wary. He knows that; it’s part of the fun, definitely part of the point. Sure it was annoying when Lockhart implied someone should check his blood for drugs during his first couple of weeks at this gig, but it didn’t exactly hit him out of left field, either. Go away, I don’t belong to you. That’s what the hair and the eyeliner and the music say. It’s what they’re supposed to say. It’s safe.
Doesn’t mean he’ll feel all warm and fuzzy if those other people need to treat him, though. He’s worked here for eight months, and he doesn’t trust any of them one little bit.
There's just about no item further down on his list of places to be.
Ray doesn't do drugs, and he doesn't drive drunk. Sobriety and medicine are a package deal, as far as he’s concerned, it's just one of those things; he would have gone to law school if he'd thought he couldn't do without pot. He lost a tire. He's not sure how that happened. He remembers the railing coming closer, and reeling, and cold – god, so cold – water running into the car. Dizzy. He hadn't been able to move. It’s all bits and pieces after that.
When he next opens his eyes, he’s in a trauma room, but there’s no buzz of activity. A blur of lights and shapes above him transforms into the silhouette of a head, then into Abby’s face, wearing a tight, worried smile. Her hair is in disarray in the same way it was when he finished his shift; she stayed on for a double. Can’t have been longer than an hour since he’s seen her last.
"Hey there," she says in a gentle tone like he's a patient or something; she reaches out to rearrange something on his chest. "You're waiting for a bed upstairs, but they're still backed up. Don't move," she adds when he struggles to get up, firm hand pressing him back down, with ease, as if he’s a child. He's wrapped in something really heavy, too. "We're a little worried about the hypothermia; there's a chance you'll arrest if you move too much, so don't, okay? CT confirmed a bad concussion, though, and you've got bruised ribs and sprains. No internal injuries. You were incredible lucky."
These things should mean something to him. He's an intern now; his mind should get busy at those words, list the signs of hypothermia – he’s had that quiz question at rounds. His brain won't get into gear, though; he's just dizzy and numb and he can’t feel his limbs right.
"Let's try and drink something," Abby says. "You're getting warm fluids, but this should help, too."
She carefully holds his head still as he sips at a straw, coughing when the stuff burns in his throat – room temperature, he thinks, they wouldn’t give him anything warmer, but that’s not how it feels.
"Core temperature?" he mutters. Somehow nights of studying provide the question, and he asks it without even consciously engaging his brain.
"Up to 31.5°C and rising," Abby supplies. "We were worried about your heartrate, but so far you're coming through a lot better than some other patients we've had. It's going to be fine."
She hesitates for a moment. "Is there anybody you want us to call?" she asks. "There's the number of your mom in your file but it's from Louisiana, and I wasn't sure you'd want her to worry about this when she's too far away to do anything."
That, Ray thinks hazily, was smart of her. That's the thing with Lockhart, of course, that she's always good at what she does no matter what she does, even if it sometimes takes her a long time to remember that she's supposed to be in charge. She had time to think this one through, though. And, yeah, he thinks his mom is still off on Hawaii or something with whatshisname, the realtor. She wouldn't answer any calls.
Neela is sleeping off a double and she'll probably complain that her new roommate is already causing so much trouble even if she isn’t woken up. The band... he can't remember what they would be up to. It's... Tuesday? Possibly Wednesday.
So he shakes his head, heating blankets preventing him from moving much. He feels strangely not cold.
"Alright," Abby says and hesitates. "Alright. We'll take good care of you," she adds and pats the blanket covering his shoulder awkwardly. It occurs to him belatedly that they took off his wet clothes at the scene, and he's stalkers underneath. Great. "I'll be in and out. Tell Chuny if you need anything."
He wonders if they all gathered at Admit when his blood works came back, crowding and quipping about what they showed and what they didn’t and what each of them had expected. Looking up in guilt when an attending walked by.
Maybe Weaver’ll use the opportunity and sneak a peek, too.
He doesn't drive while drunk. He isn't an idiot.
But he'd still really like to be somewhere else.
The conversation must be taking place outside the room, which tells Ray that he's in Trauma 2 where the doors always stand ajar. Lewis is having that repaired. They had a pregnant woman in just days ago who threatened to sue for some privacy thing. Pratt's patient, he thinks.
Pratt shouldn't be on shift today.
"I don't care about how many beds they have, we don't have any either," Kovac is saying, a trace of anger accenting his voice a little more prominently than is usual. "He's been down here for an hour and he needs to go upstairs. We aren't equipped to do a cardiopulmonary bypass, and his core temperature isn't rising as fast as it could. Did you tell them it's for a doctor from this hospital?"
"They say they don't have beds for doctors or for patients," Chuny’s voice says.
"Call them again, and tell them he needs a bed now or I'll come up myself and make room." He raises his voice, as if calling after her as she walks off. "Tell them the last time I did that a helicopter crashed in the ICU!"
So not only is he brought to County after crashing his car into a river, but he also ends up stuck in the ER when ICU is still backed up from – what was it? Food poisoning at a wedding reception or something. Sixty rich fuckers puking their guts out. It was kind of awesome.
Ray still is dazed and so numb – from hypothermia or head injury, he has no clue – and he wonders if he could look at his CT. He doesn't want the others to look at his CT. It's his CT. He's never wanted to be anywhere less than here, and he has never felt so helpless and lost. It sucks.
The last thing he hears is his ECG starting to stutter when he fades.
"Whoa," Morris says. "That was a tense moment, man."
Ray opens his eyes to harsh trauma lights and beeping sounds, but steady ones that don't herald heroic action anymore. His throat, mouth is filled up with something. All the room feels packed, nondescript people moving around at the edge of his vision but none of them in much of a hurry.
"You stopped breathing on your own for a minute when your heart rate made a little flip," Morris says in that breathless way of his that doesn't have anything to do with real drama. It would be calming, Ray thinks tiredly, if Morris wasn't a fraud to begin with. He’s looming above Ray, and his hair looks very red against the white LEDs. "But lucky you, Dr. Archie was there to save your life." He looks at someone outside of Ray’s frame. "Another round of warm fluids, and keep up the warm oxygen. It'll heat him up internally. Did you page that bitch from ICU again?"
"They won't take him as long as he's not stable for transport, anyway," someone – Inez? – replies.
Morris snorts. "We're a hospital here and not a nursing home!" he announces. "If you'll just give me a minute, I will go and have a serious conversation with whoever is in charge of that dump!"
Inez's face comes into view just after Morris exits it, scrutinizing Ray. "You okay there?"
It's sort of impossible to reply to questions if you're intubated, and Ray feels too out of it to come up with a meaningful facial expression. Besides, he doesn't even know an answer this one. Is he okay? What does that even mean when you’re on a gurney and you were just resuscitated?
He's still wrapped in blankets – or wrapped back up more likely.
Now they know all my tattoos, he thinks inanely.
A shirt and some jeans would really be nice.
As long as Morris gets him upstairs before Lewis or Carter go on duty, he promises himself, he'll follow whatever superfluous orders Morris comes up with for a month. The humiliation of coding in front of these people during one shift is enough.
"Is that Barnett?" a far away voice says quietly outside of the door.
Still Trauma 2, then. Don't they need that room for anyone else? If he'd known Wednesday mornings are that quiet, he'd have taken this shift instead of floating in the Chicago River.
"He's been here for hours." That’s Kovac. "We have three patients now who're waiting for a bed in ICU. We're trying to page cardiology as an alternative, but they're backed up as well."
It takes Ray a moment to identify the second voice as Carter's. "As long as he's stable, there's no urgent need for him to go upstairs. It'll be hard to convince cardiology that he's for them."
"The ER is not the ideal place to be for him. He needs to recover at a place that can monitor his vitals while he rests in quiet. Any department would do as much as I care."
Want to get rid of me that much?
Could be that they’re trying to do him a favor.
…nah.
"I'll try and call Stevens. He owes me one."
Their voices drift off.
Ray is shivering like the world has come loose. A part of his brain knows this is a good sign, but the rest of him is focusing on his rattling teeth. He has a desperate desire to curl up, but the blankets are too heavy while he’s too weak, and it’s pretty much impossible. At least Kovac extubated him at some point. It’s… what? Six in the morning, thereabout. His shift is about to start.
He’s been deposited in Sutures.
"Easy there," somebody mutters, catching his shoulder when he rolls onto his side, firm but careful not to rub his skin and cause lacerations. He’s rarely ever been so miserable. “I know it sucks down here, but on the upside you’re warming up just fine. Another day to observe your concussion, and we could even release you without ever sending you upstairs.”
It's Sam. He should have figured, because he's pretty sure Abby must have gone off shift at some point, and barely anybody else bothers talking to the patients much.
"I could do without another day in the E.R." he manages, teeth clattering almost too hard to allow the words. "But thanks."
Sam chuckles. "I'll see if I can get you something warm to drink," she promises, and she's off.
He's still faintly waiting for somebody to start making jokes.
About three minutes after he finally gets settled in a real bed upstairs, Neela scurries into the room, carrying a bag, filled to the tilt.
"I brought you something to wear," she declares, apparently thinking it’s obvious how come she's here. Abby has to have called her after all, Ray thinks dizzily. It was impossible to sleep properly in the E.R. and exhaustion keeps creeping up on him every other moment. The blankets burn his skin with warmth; of all the places he’s hurting, one of his wrists, wrapped up in bandages he didn’t even notice before, is starting to win the contest. "I wasn't sure which of these are for wearing in bed, so I brought a selection of all you have that's warm. Toiletries, obviously, and I couldn't find your toothbrush so I got you a new one at the Jumbo Mart. Please tell me you have a toothbrush."
She buzzes through the room, tiny person that she is – one, two, three motions and the clothes are stowed in the locker, the tooth brush is deposited in the bathroom. After that, Neela appears at his bedside, looking him over from top to bottom with a mix of sharp professional scrutiny and wide-eyed concern.
For the first time since he lost control over his van, Ray feels like laughing, even when the thought of moving makes him shiver again.
Wrapped in coat and scarf, Neela looks like a really chubby butterfly.
"Thanks, roomie." He’s hoarse from the intubation and the exhaustion, and a developing cold – or hell, pneumonia – wouldn’t be unlikely, either, considering the circumstances, but his voice sounds more or less steady. "Appreciate the help."
She gives him a look. "You should have just told someone to call me," she says reproachfully. "I could have kept you company while you were waiting for a bed. Frank of all people had to do it. You're such an idiot sometimes."
"Yeah, well, sorry you have to put up with me."
"Just tell me you do have a toothbrush and I just didn't find it."
"I have a toothbrush."
"Good."
As if that settles it, Neela reaches for the chart at the foot of his bed and starts studying it with a purposeful look on her face. If she notices him watching her, it doesn't show, except for a faint blush starting to cover her cheeks when he keeps at it.
Crooking his head on the pillow, Ray's tired brain decides that it's a strangely gratifying reaction to witness, after all is said and done.
"Ray."
It's three weeks later, because recovering from hypothermia is pretty straightforward but a sprained wrist just doesn't fly in an E.R. Ray turns around, waiting for Carter to catch up. Two hours into his pretty packed shift, he has only seen the attending once, when he ran them through the board. "Dr. Carter?"
"Everything alright so far?" Carter is filling out a chart as he speaks, falling into step. "I know your injuries weren't dramatic compared to some things we see in here, but you were still trapped in a car in ice water for over an hour. That must have been scary." He gives Ray a short glance. "Let me know if things should get too overwhelming. If you aren't ready, you can just go home and try again next shift."
"Uhm, I'm ready. I mean, thanks." Nothing to make Ray more uncomfortable. "I'm fine."
"Good," Carter says simply. Another short glance. "Not to encourage you, but we weren't moving half as many patients without you here. Glad to have you back."
Ray looks after him for a moment, noticing that he's grabbed his wrist and started rubbing it without noticing. Proper doctor that he's working on being, he's kept an eye on any signs of post-traumatic stress that might start surfacing but none have come forth as of yet.
Walking down the corridor towards the tonsillitis in Curtain 2, Malik tells him he looks good, and Dr. Coburn pauses on the way to her consult to say people upstairs are asking how he's doing. Morris makes a really unfunny joke about snuggling with the ladies in the cold, and later during trauma, Pratt remembers to check in with him to make sure his wrist is up to prolonged CPR – which, turns out, it isn't.
Nobody quips about driving too fast on the way to a gig, no jokes about how they had him at their mercy, about how that’s what you get if you always rush out of your shifts. No lascivious inquiries by any of the nurses on when he'll next be brought in in the buff. Ray reciprocates by not using the accident as an excuse to get out of his shift.
He's strangely looking forward to the two hours between coming home and Neela leaving for work.
But honestly, he also won't mind coming back to work.