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.
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 don't stitch up jagged holes/cuts in people. It will end up with dead space under the suture and/or infected. Also ragged the skin edges will die, the suture will tear through the dead tissue, and the wound will reopen. If you want a character to sew anything closed, they can suture ligate a blood vessel, which cannot be done by a 1.5 inch needle by hand. You can look up "suture ligation" on youtube if you want to write out the process.
You pack a roll of saline soaked gauze into the wound and cover it with a dry gauze, telfa or ABD dressing and tape. You can close it later, but that also means washing it out with more saline, cutting the dead tissue edges.
I've worked in surgery for 5 years, and have rarely completely closed a hole/knife wound/cut the first time. Everytime I read a story/watch a movie with someone fumbling a giant needle through a jagged ass hole/cut I yell "WHY?!"
This fic may include the following: Blood, injuries of all shapes and sizes, descriptions of surgery, death, deceased persons, situations of sexual abuse, physical abuse, psychiatric issues and all the other horrific and/or hilarious shit you get to see as a healthcare worker. If you thought The Pitt was too graphic, this isn’t for you. This is the only warning you will receive, there will be no chapter by chapter warnings. In the words of Sweet Brown 'Ain't nobody got time for that.'
Cam's stomach flips as she parks her car at the park. Working in the operating room means she doesn’t have a lot of nicer clothes; Cam usually shows up in sweat pants, shorts and t-shirts, shuffling in the same pair of sandals every day until there’s snow on the ground. She’s tempted to dress nicely, but is stopped short by the idea that she may be the only one in street clothes and not scrubs.
Cam feels like a high schooler, digging through boxes she should have unpacked months ago, trying to find something casual that still looks good. She chose yoga pants and a hoodie, but is wishing she chose something nicer, more flattering, although she despises the word. Flattering was just the way her mother used to tell her she was too fat to wear something. The flattering clothing was always baggy, as if her body should be hidden under canvas until her mother found it acceptable to reveal. Worse was the business clothes of her youth, settling for adult business woman’s clothing as a teen; Cam flinches at the memories of shopping at Catherine’s, searching for anything that didn’t make her look like her great aunt Órla.
The yoga pants look fine on her broad hips and thighs, but she wishes she would have picked a better shirt, or a nicer jacket. She pulls her hoodie over the broadest part of her stomach as she slides out of the car, carrying her bag. Cam isn’t typically self-conscious about her body, but tonight her mouth is dry as she walks through the park, hoping to see anyone she may know. She contemplates if it’s better if she doesn’t see anyone and she can leave, but Cam hears laughter, and turns, seeing people gathered on the park benches, the glow of the lights showing her just enough to see Robby in his hoodie. Cam walks toward them slowly, wondering if she should even bother, or just turn around.
“Cam!” Someone calls, and Cam sees people waving at her, bringing her great relief. She adjusts her hoodie once more as she approaches.
“Thanks for coming. You want a beer?” Robby asks, as Mateo opens a cooler, flashing a lot of cans.
“No, I’m good, thank you.” Cam says, nervously. There’s a woman with brownish-red hair, curtain bangs swinging off of her forehead, she slides over on a bench and gestures for Cam to take a seat. Cam slides in next to her, giving her a slight smile and a nod. “Oh, I wasn’t sure if anyone was hungry. I brought burgers.” Cam says, producing a large paper bag from the tote she’s brought, passing the bag down to Robby and the rest, everyone excitedly reaching into the bag for a large paper wrapped sandwich.
“Tessaro’s?” Mateo asks, unwrapping the burger.
“Can’t get burgers in Pittsburgh anywhere else.” Cam scoffs as the bag ends up passed back toward her and her bench partner.
“You’re practically famous.” The woman laughs, sipping seltzer water.
“Oh boy.” Cam says, shaking her head.
“I’m Cassie McKay. An R3 on days.” Cassie explains. “You’ve got those kids enamored. I thought you’d have a cape.” Cassie chuckles, making Cam sigh.
“No cape. Just a scrub tech.” Cam shrugs, uncomfortable with any semblance of limelight.
“Well, rumor has it you’re incredible, so happy to learn from you anytime.” Cassie shrugs, sipping her seltzer, as she unwraps a burger for herself.
“All I’ve done for six years is work at trauma centers. Learned a lot of ways to skin a cat.” Cam shrugs, focusing on securing the wrapper for her burger around its exterior, desperate for a change in subject to something other than herself.
“Have you ever thought about medical school?” Robby asks as the group gets quiet and stares at Cam. She wants to shrink into herself.
“In this economy?” Cam laughs, making the group chuckle.
“You started without me?” Cam hears Abbot ask, making her freeze. Cam’s head snaps to the left as Abbot comes sauntering down a sidewalk, backpack loose on his shoulder. Donnie hurls a beer at him, which he catches to much applause.
“Cam brought Tessaro’s.” Donnie says through a bite of burger. Cam holds the bag up to him as he walks toward her, only a couple left in a bag that recently held a dozen, fighting the urge to adjust her hoodie more.
“Cheeseburgers and beer, this is my kind of night.” Abbot says, nodding thanks at her as he takes a seat near Robby. “What were you guys talking about? Did I miss anything good?” Abbot asks, cracking open his beer.
“We were talking about how Cam should go to Medical school.” Robby smirks, sipping his beer as he stares at her, making her examine the pavement.
“You know, we need good scrub techs.” Abbot says, clearly trying to get the crowd off of her back, which gives Cam a huge wave of relief, but embarrassment still lingers in the pit of her stomach.
“You know what my favorite part of my job is?” Cam asks, holding her head up finally. “I don’t even have access to EPIC; no charting, no orders, no dealing with pharmacy.” Cam says with a smile.
“Is it too late for me to become a scrub tech?” Robby says, laughing so hard he’s nearly doubled over.
“It does have some downsides. Standing all day, seeing victims of terrible acts and circumstances…” Cam trails off.
“You mean, working at a hospital?” Mateo says, and the whole group laughs.
“True. We also don’t get any continuity though. We don’t get to see the people that get discharged most of the time. Most of the time we just assume they don’t make it. We’re always begging surgical residents for how certain patients are doing, because we rarely ever get to see happy surgery.” Cam explains.
“What about C-Sections? Those are kind of happy.” Whitaker asks, having already finished a nearly half pound burger in minutes, wiping his hands on his scrub pants. Cam hangs her head, shaking it slightly before replying.
“The only C-Sections we only see are fetal demise and HELLP syndrome, sometimes crash ones where the mother is too sick for L&D.” Cam says, picking at her sandwich.
“I used to work in L&D.” Kim says, slugging back some of her beer, manhandling a burger in the other hand. “Babies suck. Baby daddies suck more.” She says with a laugh, making Cam crack a smile. The conversation continues on, but Cam is lost in thought for a moment, slipping out of the lively banter.
“Do you have any kids?” Cassie asks as Cam finally digs into her burger.
“No. After the bullshit I was raised in, I knew it probably wasn’t a good idea. Not that I’ve had men begging me for my hand in marriage. My sister has four, and they’re all I need to remind myself my barren womb was a good life choice for me.” Cam says, taking a bite.
“I have an eleven year old. I probably could’ve made better choices, but I’m glad I have him.” Cassie says.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I don’t mean I hate kids or anything.” Cam says, covering her mouth as she chews.
“No, I didn’t think you meant it like that. I just sometimes wonder what not having him would’ve been like for me sometimes. Would I already be an attending? Would I have even bothered with medicine?” Cassie muses, folding over herself slightly, her voice low. Cam swallows her bite, looking at Cassie.
“I find there’s no point in contemplating, really. Until 2018 I was working at Pittsburgh Glass Works as an administrative assistant. I had a shitty boyfriend and a shitty apartment, but I thought it was okay. I got laid off when they shut down and I went into a spiral. Barely holding it together, trying to make ends meet that were miles apart. My boyfriend got fired for like the sixth time for being a piece of shit, and I snapped. Packed up my important shit, dropped the junk off at Salvation Army, moved to Chicago into a shadier apartment than I had here and applied to Malcom X College surgical tech program. Tended bar down the street from my apartment and school, lived two years probably never leaving the area between Homan Square and UIC until I graduated, got a job at Northwestern. It was really hard, but I don’t know what I would have done if I hadn’t gotten laid off. Probably had six kids with that fucking loser. The important part is that I did the hard thing, and made the changes I wanted to make.” Cam says, going in for another bite.
“You’ve worked at a lot of trauma centers, right?” Robby asks Cam, interrupting her and McKay’s heart-to-heart. Cam nods around a bite of cheeseburger. “Are you sticking around here for a while? I think we’ve all come to appreciate you at The Pitt.” Robby says, scanning the group.
“It’s only been like, two weeks since you guys even met me. Abbot thought I was some straggler just lingering in the trauma bay recently.” Cam laughs, the small crowd chuckling.
“Well, now I don’t think I want to crack a chest without you. You’ve spoiled us already.” Abbot smirks at her, making Cam smile before averting her gaze.
“I haven’t decided yet. I’ll let you guys know.” Cam says, a small grin on her face.
“She won’t, she’ll Irish exit.” Abbot says, balling up his burger wrapper and crossing his arms.
“I am Irish, it is my thing, culturally.” Cam retorts.
“How Irish?” Abbot asks.
“If my family was anymore filled with Irish inbreds we’d be a fucking sandwich.” Cam finishes with a laugh. “My father was a third generation metal worker who built bridges through Pittsburgh. I remember the stories of my great grandfather running through the streets of the hill district in his underwear when the St. Patrick’s Day flood happened. He had just finished the 16th street bridge and they said it collapsed, and he needed to know it was okay.” Cam says, a warm smile on her face, pride rushing in her veins for her familial roots inside the city. She catches Abbot’s eyes, and his eyes flash back to his beer.
“Damn. That’s a lot of potatoes.” Donnie jokes, laughing.
“And Guiness.” Princess snickers.
“Don’t forget the most important part. Whiskey.” Robby answers, smiling at Cam, who's averting her eyes.
“Aren’t we supposed to be celebrating the young guns? Not talking about my dysfunctional extended family? Should we toast to surviving the first weeks of nights?” Cam asks, desperate to change the subject. She doesn’t have anything to toast with, but she’s trying anything to change the subject.
“You need a beer!” Robby calls. Cam hesitates, but Cassie passes her a seltzer can with a wink. Relief washes over her, grateful that someone can silently cover her.
“Uh, does anyone have anything? I organized this and now I have no idea!” Kim laughs, the crowd chuckles as everyone comes together.
“I got something. May you have the hindsight to know where you’ve been, the foresight to know where you are going, and the insight to know when you have gone too far.” Cam calls, the crowd crushing together to smash their beer cans into one another. Cheers erupts in the park as they drink, and Cam locks eyes briefly with Abbot as she puts her seltzer to her lips.
“That was good, Cam. Thanks.” Robby calls, nodding at her as the crowd starts to part.
“I was just going to tell them it only gets worse, so she’s doing way better than me.” Abbot remarks, focusing on his beer.
“We can’t tell them that yet. We need them to get to R4 before the light in their eyes goes out.” Cam fake whispers, making Robby chuckle. Abbot doesn’t look at her, still locked in on the rim of his beer can.
“I’m on for a few hours tomorrow for Shen. Well, tonight. I’m heading out.” Abbot says, looking at Robby, and Cam feels like a fool, standing there while they half hug one another.
“See, ya, brother.” Robby calls, as Abbot heads down the sidewalk he came into the park through.
“Cam, thanks for the cheeseburgers. Tessaro’s is always incredible.” Abbot calls, turning back.
“You’re welcome!” Cam calls.
“Hey, we’re going to a bar down the street to tie one off, you coming?” Mateo offers her and Robby. Cam shakes her head.
“I, uh, gotta a ton of work to do on my house tomorrow, but thank you.” Cam replies quietly. She heads back to the bench where she left her bag.
“”How long have you been a friend of Bill?” Cassie asks her quietly.
“Who?” Cam asks.
“How long have you been sober?’ Cassie asks, quieter than before.
“Oh. Never drank really. I grew up Irish, I saw enough as a kid to not bother touching the stuff. Bartending was a good reason to never take it up, either.” Cam replies, shouldering her bag.
“Oh. Well, if you ever want someone to knock Shirley temples back with at the bar, I’m your girl.” Cassie says, smiling.
“Thanks, Cassie, I appreciate it.” Cam says, heading toward her car. She sees Whitaker and Santos heading out with Mateo and some other nurses. “Hey! No Mai Tais, No long island iced teas, unless you want to black out and wake up hugging the toilet!” Cam calls out to them. Dennis gives her a weak nod, but Santos rolls her eyes. “Fine, enjoy sleeping on dirty tile all night. Shithead.” Cam mumbles to herself.
“Even if you tell them, they’re not going to listen.” Robby remarks from behind her, making her jump. “Sorry, didn’t mean to sneak up on you.” Robby remarks. “I just want to say, you’ve made a hell of an impression on them so far, and I know Abbot has appreciated you around.” Robby says, slowing his walk. Cam’s eyes go wide, but she doesn’t dare turn.
“Abbot just wants someone to banter and clamshell patients with.” Cam snorts, fishing her keys from her bag.
“I think maybe Dr. Abbot appreciates you for more than just someone who hands him a retractor.” Robby explains. He slows down behind her, nearly caught up to her on the sidewalk, but Cam refuses to stop to chat about whatever he is implying. She finds her keys and hits the fob, unlocking her mini cooper.
This fic may include the following: Blood, injuries of all shapes and sizes, descriptions of surgery, death, deceased persons, situations of sexual abuse, physical abuse, psychiatric issues and all the other horrific and/or hilarious shit you get to see as a healthcare worker. If you thought The Pitt was too graphic, this isn’t for you. This is the only warning you will receive, there will be no chapter by chapter warnings. In the words of Sweet Brown 'Ain't nobody got time for that.'
“Tier 1 trauma, ETA 10 minutes.”
“Hey, I haven’t seen Cam in a while, we scare her off?” Abbot asks Madison, getting a gown on from the cabinet.
“She’s been sick. Like, death's door. She tried to show up to work last week, but left after an hour with a fever of 103. She’s called off the last few days. I went over to check on her yesterday before work, but no answer.” Madison shrugs.
“She lives close to here?” Abbot asks, putting on gloves.
“Yeah, she’s on Hallock, like 3 blocks from the Fort Pitt tunnel. I got really trashed at Altius and she let me sleep on her couch a few weeks back.” Madidon says with a chuckle.
Abbot nods quietly, putting gloves on.
“Cam?” Abbot yells, pounding on the front door of an old row house. The concrete steps are crumbling, the railing loose. The house needs new siding, new porch railing, new front door, and definitely windows. Paint peels further off the door as he slams the side of his fist repeatedly into the door. “Cam! Hello?” he calls. “Cameron?”
There’s noise on the other side of the door, before the lock clicks and the door flies open.
“Abbot? What the—” Cam starts, but is stopped by her hacking cough.
“Doing a wellness check.” Abbot says, adjusting his backpack on his shoulder.
“Well, I’m alive. Mostly.” Cam says, another wheezing cough rattling her chest. “Consider me well.” She says hoarsely, retying her bathrobe to cover her chest better.
“Convincing.” Abbot says. “Can I come in?”
“You want a mask? A PAPR? Biohazard suit?” Cam smirks, opening the door further to allow him over the threshold. The house is old, the furniture sparse, a mix of old stuff with new, with boxes and totes coated in dust shoved into the corners. It’s crowded, only a manageable passageway down the entryway into the hall to slide through. “Sorry, the place is a mess. I’m still sorting through stuff. You want coffee?” She asks, her voice cracking.
“You still have a fever?” Abbot asks, following her into the kitchen, which is the color of 1960s signature buttery yellow, stained deeply with decades of burnt oil and tobacco.
“I’m not sure. You came this far after work to check on me?” She asks with a cough, cleaning out the basket of old coffee grounds.
“It’s ten minutes from the hospital. You fixed my leg, figured making sure you’re alive was important. Your coworker said you were on death's door.” Abbot says, placing his backpack on the formica and aluminum dinette table.
“Fuckin’ Madison. Seriously?” She turns, looking at him as he holds out the thermometer that was lying on the table. He looks at her, and she goes to turn away, focusing back on the coffee pot she’s just put in the sink.
“You want me to put it in your mouth for you? Like you’re a child?” He asks, raising an eyebrow at her as he holds it up. She rolls her eyes before taking it, jamming it under her tongue.
“Ta-da.” She mumbles around the thermometer, turning back to the coffee pot. “Awlso, my name ithn’t Camewon.”
“Not Cameron? What is it then? Cami?” Abbot asks, focusing on sorting things out of his backpack.
“Camiwwa.” She says, rolling her eyes as she pours water into the coffee machine.
“Camilla?” Abbot asks, and she nods, putting fresh grounds into the basket. The thermometer in her mouth beeps, and she takes it out. “What’s the verdict?”
“98.3, my fever must have broken last night.” Cam says, sitting down at the dinette next to Abbott.
“That would explain why you’re so dehydrated.” Abbot says, pulling her hand close to his and pinching the skin at the top of her hand.
“Hey!” Cam says, before another hacking cough takes over. She notices how her skin tents, shaking her head.
“You can see it in your face.” Abbot explains, digging through his backpack and putting something on the table.
“That’s so kind of you to say. Oh, seriously?” she groans.
“That kind of sounds like pneumonia, Camilla. C’mon.” Abbot coaxes, staring her down across the table, his stethoscope between them.
“You always do housecalls on scrub techs at The Pitt?” She asks.
“Cam. Seriously, you might need a round of erythromycin.” Abbot says sternly.
“I, uh, need to go change then.” Cam says, closing her bathrobe further to her neck. “There’s not much under this robe.” She says nervously.
“Here, just put it on your upper left chest, by your clavicle, I’ll close my eyes.” Abbot says, holding out the bell of the stethoscope as he puts the ear pieces into his ears. The cold metal bites into Cam’s skin, making her wince, pulling it back.
“You know they make covers for stethoscopes now, so they’re not so fucking cold.” Cam remarks, holding the bell of the stethoscope.
“I like it cold, I think a cold stethoscope reaction should be added to the GCS.” Abbot retorts. Cam glares at him, but he continues on. “Just take deep breaths, I’ll tell you when to move it.” Abbot says, closing his eyes. Cam presses the bell into her skin, taking deep breaths.
“Right side.” Abbott says softly, the only thing breaking the silence in the house is the coffee pot burbling. “Down about 2 inches. Left. Down another 3. Right. Down another 2. Left. Low part of your ribcage. Right.” he instructs and Cam focuses on breathing and not coughing. She takes the bell, now warm from her skin, and puts it into his hand before she tightens her bathrobe again. He opens his eyes, and Cam can’t help but look away.
“Let me check your back. I should be able to hear outside the robe.” He says softly as he stands and slides behind her, putting a hand on her shoulder. Cam does her best not to flutter under his touch as he presses the bell into her back. “Deep breaths.”
“Well, doc?” Cam asks, getting out of her chair to grab a fresh cup of coffee for them both, and to not look at him anymore.
“No pneumonia, Camilla.” Abbot says with a small grin. “Probably bronchitis. If you want an inhaler or prednisone…”
“Prednisone makes me feel like absolute shit. Fuck that noise.” She scoffs. “Also, don’t call me Camilla. You sound like my grandmother.”
“Only if you call me Jack.” Abbot says, crossing his arms.
“Not at work.” She retorts.
“Where else?” Jack asks, and Cam freezes, a rush of heat climbing her neck.
“You need fluids, like ASAP.” Abbot says, sipping his coffee.
“You got any bags of saline in your Mary Poppins medical bag?” Cam asks with a snort as she takes a sip of her own coffee.
“You and I both know that oral fluids work just as well as I.V fluids in most cases.” Abbot says, leaning back into his chair. “You got any sugar?”
“I thought all army guys just drank black coffee, no matter how bad it was.” Cam smirks, reaching in the cabinet near the stove, pulling an old school glass shaker out and placing it on the table.
“This is good coffee, though, and good coffee should be enjoyed with a little sugar.” Abbot explains,
“Good coffee with highly contagious company?” Cam says, her chuckle cut off by another cough. Natalie passes him a spoon, smacking it into his hand.
“You and I also both know you shed your viral load before the fever broke. Now you just sound awful.”
“Gee, thanks.” Cam croaks.
“What service was your brother in?” Abbot asks, as Cam settles into a dining room chair across from him.
“Army. 87th infantry regiment out of Fort Drum, New York.”
“When did he go in?”
“The moment he turned eighteen, in 2002. Dumped straight into operation anaconda.”
“No. Seriously? He wasn’t in Shoh-i-khot, was he?” Abbot says, leaning over the table.
“Hell’s fucking halfpipe.” Cam says, shaking her head.
“Did he?” Abbot says, not daring to finish the sentence.
“Oh, he came back just fine. Ten months of operation enduring freedom, fifteen months of operation Iraqi Freedom, just for him to get blown up in Kirkuk, and end up in Landstuhl for six months in the ICU. After that, he never was the same. Never got diagnosed, but probably has a traumatic brain injury. He’s come around a few times. I haven’t seen him in…two years? Sometimes he calls from random numbers, rarely shows his face. Didn’t even show up to our damn father’s funeral.” Cam says, standing up from the table and topping off her coffee. There’s no background noise in the house now to cover the silence, just the floorboards creaking as Cam shifts in the kitchen.
“I’m sorry. About your brother, and your dad.” Abbot says, stirring his coffee nervously.
“It’s okay. At least I knew my dad was sick. That’s why I came back. The moment he called me and said ‘Hey Kid,’ and I knew something was wrong. Spidey-senses, I guess. Lung cancer, by the way; Stage four so bad it might as well have been stage seven. Surprised he lasted as long as he did. Now, I’ve got the flu from hell and a younger sister who’s too busy trying to take every piece of decent furniture out of this place to make her home aesthetically pleasing for family vlogging while I’m trying to figure out where the hell the title for the house is hidden.” Cam laughs bitterly. “I’m sorry. Do you want your coffee to go? I probably have some disposable cups from the funeral.” Cam says, standing and looking through the cabinets.
“You know, if you want help with any of this stuff, I can–” Abbot starts.
“It’s fine. I’ll get it figured out as soon as I get over the plague.” Cam says, pouring a fresh cup into a foam coated paper cup, snagging the sugar shaker up and pouring a helping of the granules into the coffee.
“Cam, seriously–” Abbot starts, but is interrupted again.
“Thanks for coming by, it’s nice to know someone wanted to make sure I was still alive. You have a lot on your plate in the E.D. So, you don’t need to worry about me.” Cam says, putting a lid on the cup.
“You need to drink water.” Abbot sighs, putting his backpack on his shoulder. “Thanks for the coffee.”
“Thanks for the wellness check.” Cam smiles stiffly, heading toward the door. “Have a good night, Jack.Well, morning. Whatever.” She says softly as he heads out the front door.
“Coffee isn’t water, Cam.” he calls to her as the door closes, another piece of paint flaking off as the door latches, fluttering to the concrete that is stained with the previous identity of a welcome mat.
“It’s made with water!” Cam croaks through the door.
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.'
“Tier 1 Trauma, ETA 8 minutes.”
Cam is hauling down the stairs, sweat beading on her temples as she walks quickly into the emergency department, sliding between patients stranded in the halls, waiting for labs, medication or discharge. She shimmies into the doorway of the trauma bay, trying to catch her breath.
“You okay?” Jack asks softly, grabbing a gown and putting it next to her, not actually glancing her way as he puts on his gloves.
“My car wouldn’t start. I don’t know why. I ordered an Uber, the first one canceled halfway to my house, and the second one was basically downtown when he accepted the ride. So, I just got here, and I’m sweating, and short of breath, and I think I feel as much of a mess as I look.” Cam says, her voice wavering.
“I’ll take you home in the morning.” Jack dictates, before lowering his voice again. “ If that’s okay.” Jack finishes, looking at her now, as he puts on his safety glasses. A smile pulls on Cam’s mouth despite the stress coursing through her veins.
“We can talk about it later.” Cam murmurs, hearing EMS gurney wheels rolling rapidly.
“17 year old male, motor vehicle versus tree, going at a high rate of speed, GCS of 12, T-Pod up for likely pelvic fracture, last BP was 109 over 67, access is a 16 in the right forearm.”
“This one is all Dr. Henderson, Crus, you call it for the move.” Abbot explains, standing back against the wall as Crus takes control of the head of the stretcher. Cam keeps an eye on the exam, but looks at Abbot, who is yawning in the middle of a trauma evaluation. Cam slides over toward Jack, sidestepping along the wall as she keeps an eye on the chaos in the middle of the room.
“Are you okay?” Cam asks him. Looking at him more closely, Cam realizes how tired he looks.
“Pulling a double. Robby needed some coverage. Chief residents out on leave, and honestly, Mike probably just needs a second attending.” Jack explains, not breaking eye contact from the evaluation.
“Jesus, what’s a double for you? 18?” Cam asks, her face screwing up with shock.
“Proably 19 by the time I get out of here.” Jack sighs.
“Yikes.” Cam sighs.
“Cam?” Crus calls, making Cam stand up straighter. “You’re good. I think Ortho will want to stabilize his pelvis tomorrow, but we will pan scan him and call you if something changes.” Dr. Henderson explains, taking off his gown.
“Sounds good. Thanks, Henderson.” Cam nods, sliding out the door, locking eyes with Jack for a brief moment before heading toward the stairs.
Time sails by, Cam focused on organizing the operating rooms, which have been left in increasing disarray each night as it grows warmer. Trauma season begins to creep upon them; more motorcycles out on the road, people outside, the high of sunshine and warm air washing all sense of logic and self-preservation out of every yinzer. The O.Rs are running later, more cases straining the barely appropriately staffed department. The coming summer means that Cam comes in to work to find equipment and supplies strewn across all the rooms, the load actively breaking the camel’s back. Night shift is supposed to set up rooms for the next morning, but Cam spends half of her shift clearing out the rooms before she can even contemplate putting equipment into the rooms. By the time Cam gets suture and trays laid out in all of her rooms, O.R beds made up sharply, she sees the sun glaring through the back windows, making her flinch.
“Jesus, what time is it?” Cam asks, seeing Madison pushing a suction machine into a room.
“It’s already ten past seven!” Madison calls, struggling to push all her equipment in line. Cam follows behind her, grabbing the piece of equipment Madison was pushing on and rolling it out of her way.
“Do you need a ride? I know your car wouldn’t start.” Madison asks, making Cam’s eyes go wide. She has, until now, only thought of her mile long to-do list that only just got cleared. Now, she remembers her car is at home, and Abbot’s offer of giving her a ride home is ricocheting around in her head.
“Uh, I scheduled an Uber.” Cam says, heading out to wash her hands and avoiding Madison’s scrutiny.
“You sure?” she offers once more. Cam can feel the heat of her shame flush her face, avoiding eye contact as she dries her hands.
“I’m sure. Thanks.” Cam says, checking her phone as they head toward the locker room.
“Robby wants me out of his hair. It wasn't just you, I guess I look like shit. I’ll be ready to take you home in 15. Meet me in the ambulance bay?”
Cam replies with a quick thumbs up, shoving her phone back in her pocket as she heads downstairs to change out of her scrubs. She barely listens to Madison chat about her last date from Tinder, or whatever online dating site she’s been using as she gets dressed. Madison has been trying to get Cam to download the apps for weeks, and she had been close to doing it for a while, but now she’s completely unsure of everything.
“You sure you don’t need a ride?” Madison offers as Cam opens the door to the stairwell to the E.D and Madison heads towards the staff garage.
“I’m good. Thanks. See you next week?” Cam asks, suddenly nervously looking at her phone, trying to pretend she’s checking on her rideshare.
“It’s my weekend, so I’ll be here Friday, Saturday and Sunday. Ugh.” Madison says, a disgusted look covering her face.
“Jesus. Good luck with that.” Cam says, heading down the stairs. Cam can’t help but avert her gaze from everyone in the E.D as she tries to slink out to the ambulance bay without attracting attention. Cam clings to the wall outside of the covered bay, the brick starting to warm already. The door slides open, and Jack swings around the corner, backpack slung across one shoulder. Cam puts her own bag on her back, her heart thundering in her chest.
“ Let’s blow this popsicle stand.” Jack says, putting his sunglasses on, Cam following behind, putting her own aviators on to block the glare of the spring sun. They climb into the cab of the car and Jack sighs, rubbing his eyes.
“Are you good to drive?” Cam asks, brow furrowed.
“Yeah. I’m good.” Jack says, starting the car. They cruise down the street toward the Pitt tunnel, chatting quietly about work and the weather.
“God, am I going to have to mow the lawn soon? Good Lord.” Cam remarks, looking at the grass and trees flush with greenery by the river. The car drifts slowly, leaning further to the left. “Jack?” Cam says softly. The bridge’s blocked lane is coming up, and the car drifts into it, the small thudding rhythm of the diagonal paint jostling the car. The car is now sharply turning into oncoming traffic, a pickup two hundred yards away. “Jack? Jack!” Cam now yells, reaching for the wheel. Jack jolts, his arm twitching as he rights the car, slowing them down as they reach the red light at the end of the bridge. Cam’s chest is heaving, a cold sweat coating her back. Jack turns on the radio, rock music playing loudly.
“Are you okay?” Jack asks, over the raucous guitar. Cam nods, trying to slow her breathing down from her current state, catching her breath like she just sprinted across the hospital. The rest of the drive is quiet, Jack’s jaw set, his ears flushed. He pulls up next to her house, putting the car in park.
“I’m sorry.” Jack says softly. “I didn’t realize how tired I was. I haven’t pulled a double like that in a while, I should’ve…I’m sorry.”
“C’mon in, at least get a cup of coffee.” Cam mutters, getting her bag and heading up the stairs. She holds the door as Jack follows her into the house. Jack slouches into the armchair by the fireplace as Cam heads into the kitchen. “Coffee’s brewing, I’m gonna grab a shower.” Cam explains, Jack nodding, arms crossed on his chest.
Cam brings her most guest-appropriate sleepwear into the bathroom with her, scrubbing quickly and shimmying her pajamas over her wet and freshly lotioned skin. She pads into the kitchen, pulling the stray wet hairs stuck under the collar of her worn out t-shirt out from underneath her collar. She swings around to the living room, two cups in hand, to find Jack slouched in the chair, snoring softly.
“I don’t know if coffee is going to cut it.” Cam says, sitting on the loveseat near his armchair. His eyes open slowly, brow furrowed.
“I don’t know if coffee is going to cut it.” Jack says, with a yawn. Cam snorts out a laugh as he stretches.
“It definitely isn’t, especially since you almost drove us off the bridge.” Cam sighs, putting down the second cup and focusing on her own.
“Can I crash on your couch?” Jack asks.
“What about just sleeping in my bed instead?” Cam asks, eyebrows raised. Jack’s eyes fully open now, blinking hard. “I don’t mean, to like, fool around. Or get frisky, to borrow a phrase. This old loveseat is…old. And a loveseat. Unless your other leg comes off, you’re not going to have a good time.”
“Are you sure?” Jack asks, sitting upright now, putting a hand through his silver curls. “I don’t want to impose.”
“I feel like crashing your car on the way home is more imposing than sharing a bed in a slumber party-like fashion. C’mon.” Cam says, grabbing both coffee mugs and heading through the kitchen to deposit them in the sink.
“I think I’ve got a pair of shorts in my backpack, I’m gonna use the bathroom and, uh, meet you upstairs.” Jack says, and Cam opens the door to the upstairs loft bedroom, her footfalls fading up the carpeted stairs, and Jack closes the bathroom door. He puts his backpack on the top of the toilet seat lid, laying out all his everyday carry items he is incapable of leaving the house without, although it makes him feel like a paranoid maniac, putting his trauma kits out onto the sink in Cam’s master bathroom. Jack finally fishes out a worn out pair of polyester basketball shorts that he keeps as backup, in case his scrubs become too disgusting to wear home. He slides them on, folds up his scrub pants, and packs up his backpack. He glances at himself in the mirror, the steam of the shower still making the edges of the mirror fuzzy with droplets of water, realizing he should have shaved last night, the grey and copper stubble becoming increasingly obvious, and his eyes look sunken, from fatigue and definitely not enough water. He sighs, putting his backpack on his shoulder.
“Courage under fire.” He mumbles, closing the downstairs door behind him as he climbs up the stairs. He’s a bit shocked when he sees the bedroom, soft floral wallpaper covering a wall with powdery periwinkle blue wainscotting at the bottom. There’s floor length double hung curtains, a soft pink gauzy fabric billowing in the fan in the corner. Cam is too busy digging through a chest at the foot of the bed.
“Sorry, are you a warm sleeper? I have a few things, I just wasn’t sure. It gets kind of warm up here sometimes, but I thought you should have…options.” Cam explains, holding up a two different blankets.
“I sleep warm.” Jack says, nodding at the woven cotton blanket in Cam’s hand. She unfolds it on the bed, and then folds it in half, grabbing her own brightly colored weathered quilt and folding it on her side.
“I have extra pillows, too. They’re just in that closet.” Cam says, pointing to the tall closet next to the bedroom door.
“Cam, I used to sleep in the dirt. In the desert.” Jack says, sitting on the edge of the bed.
“So I guess that means you don’t want a satin pillowcase? Don’t want to muss up the curls.” Cam smirks, closing the blackout curtains, shadowing them in near darkness. Cam quickly flips on her bedside table lamp. “Sorry.”
“I have to take off my leg.” Jack explains, suddenly embarrassed.
“Okay. Do you…need something for that?” Cam offers haltingly.
“I just…thought I’d warn you, I guess. It’s why I sleep warm. All amputees tend to have warmer body temperatures. Same blood volume in a smaller body. Harder to remove heat from the body.” Jack rambles as he slides off his socket and puts his prosthesis beside the bed. He shimmies the sleeve off the stump, laying it over the top of the socket, like he always does every night, just not usually against such colorful walls.
“So I should cuddle with you in winter for maximum benefit?” Cam says, sliding into the bed. Silence invades the bedroom. “We don’t have to cuddle. I said it was like a slumber party. You’re too tired to drive, and I just want you to be safe and I–” Cam rambles quickly, sitting back upright, suddenly silent. “Oh my God, why did I say that?” Cam whispers. Jack chuckles, nervousness running down his spine.
“Cam?” Jack interrupts softly. There’s a long pause before she replies.
“Yeah?” She says, almost a whisper.
“I think I do want a second pillow.” Jack hisses.
“I got it.” Cam says, throwing herself out of her bed to head to her closet. Jack turns, appreciating the view as her shorts ride up while she reaches the top of the closet.
“You know those shorts are see-through, right?” Jack asks, making Cam cover her butt with the pillow she just managed to snag from the closet.
“Maybe I should sleep on my own loveseat…” Cam mumbles, turning toward him to get a pillowcase for the pillow. She shimmies the pillow violently until it slides into the case, handing it to him. Jack touches her hand, which is white knuckling the pillow as she passes it to him.
“Cam, I am in no way opposed to cuddling. Also, I am so tired, I feel drunk. Get in the bed.” Abbot says, adjusting his position with the second pillow, laying on his side facing Cam. She slides into the bed gingerly, as if making the bed bounce will set off an explosive. She turns off the bedside lamp, covering them in darkness once more, turning over and nearly gasping when she sees the shadow of Jack’s face. Jack can’t even breathe, as he puts his hand on Cam’s waist. Her abdominal muscles tighten for a moment, before beginning to relax. “Is this okay?” Jack asks softly.
“Yeah.” Cam says softly. This all feels so strange, laying in this bed, holding on to a woman for the first time in years, nervousness coursing in his veins. Jack leans in, giving her a tender kiss on her cheek.
“Good night.” Jack whispers, settling his head back down on his plush pillows, and sleep overtaking him like an anesthetic.
This fic may include the following: Blood, injuries of all shapes and sizes, descriptions of surgery, death, deceased persons, situations of sexual abuse, physical abuse, psychiatric issues and all the other horrific and/or hilarious shit you get to see as a healthcare worker. If you thought The Pitt was too graphic, this isn’t for you. This is the only warning you will receive, there will be no chapter by chapter warnings. In the words of Sweet Brown 'Ain't nobody got time for that.'
Cam is sitting in the courtyard, the daffodils beginning to push themselves through the earth. The sun is getting low, the stone bench she’s sitting on rapidly cooling as the sun no longer heats the surface. Owen sits next to her, baseball cap on backwards. He’s been at the veterans recovery center for more than thirty days, and Cam can finally see her brother as more the man she knew before, although he was barely a man before the Army took him to faraway lands to fight for oil and so-called freedom.
“Meds working out okay?” Cam asks, enjoying her cup of coffee her brother brought to her from the small cafe in the residents library. They’ve got their routine down, ever since he settled in, Cam always sees him before dinner the day after her last twelve hour shift of the week and they always enjoy coffee outside if the weather allows.
“Good. They think I’m leveling out. I stopped getting so nauseous. Here’s a better question. How’s things with Jack?” Owen teases over the rim of his paper cup. Cam rolls her eyes.
“Come on, I am working the steps, taking my medication, exercising, going to church service. I’m analyzed, baptized, and therapized. Now, I want to hear about my little sister’s doctor boyfriend.” Owen says, crossing his legs like he’s a day time talk show host.
“Ew, Owen, I’m too old to have a boyfriend.” Cam says, shoving his shoulder lightly. Owen sits next to her, a sardonic smile on his face as he stares down his sister and the spring wind blows the sparse grass into movement.
“Where’s your date tonight?” Owen teases, grinning at Cam.
“Argentinian place. Gaucho Parilla.” Cam sighs, a smile pulling at her lips despite her irritation at her brother’s ribbing. “Jesus, I don’t know who’s worse, you, Maggie or my coworker Madison.” Cam laughs as her brother pulls a face.
“Look, we don’t get that much T.V time, and someone else keeps getting all the sci-fi books I want from the resident library before me. I need something to entertain me.” Owen sighs, squinting into the sun.
“Do you want me to get you some books? There’s a book store on the way here.” Cam offers softly, as she takes her brother’s ball cap off of his still buzzed head and flips it around so the brim is actually useful.
“No, I want to pull juicy gossip from my sister about her boyfriend.” Owen taunts, chuckling as he goes in for a sip of his coffee. There’s a chime, and they both look back at the door to the facility, which a staff member has opened and is now waiting expectantly at the door. “That’s the dinner bell.” Owen sighs, standing up. “I’d hang out more, but it’s Italian night and I really want to cajole Sherry for extra meatballs.”
“Cajole? You have been reading a lot.” Cam chuckles, getting up off the cold bench and walking toward the door with her brother. He puts his hat backwards again, and begins to softly sing the Four Seasons tune to the woman at the doorway.
“Sheerrrryyyyy, Sherry Baby, Sheeeeerrrrrrrryyyyyyy…” Owen croons at her, making the woman crack a smile as she rolls her eyes. Owen heads towards the dining area, but Cam goes to head toward the exit.
“Is he always this happy with other visitors?” Cam asks, a warm grin on her face as her brother continues his tune down the hallway.
“Cam, honey, you’re the only that’s been to visit him since he got visitor privileges." Sherry explains calmly as she shuts the door to the courtyard. Cam’s smile fades, it’s as if someone threw her in a tank of cold water.
“What? I thought surely my mom or my sister would have…” Cam trails off, realizing how stupid of a statement she’s trying to utter. “I don’t know why I’m fucking surprised.” Cam sighs, running a hand through her hair. Cam is digging her keys from her pocket, as she’s not allowed to bring her purse, only bringing her keys and her phone inside. She’s heading toward the exit when Sherry speaks again.
“You take care of yourself, Cam. You’re not responsible for other people.” Sherry instructs. Cam turns back, a bitter smile on her face.
“Most of my job is literally being responsible for other people’s needs, but thank you Sherry, have a good night.” Cam sighs, buzzing the door to exit.
The drive home her mood is dour. She knows that Sherry is right, but she is so angry ay her sister and mother for not giving a damn that Owen is doing everything he can to get back on track. She keeps opening her phone, increasingly tempted to call her sister and scream and rage at her for being so self-absorbed. She’s marinating in her anger on the couch when her phone rings, she answers it quickly, without paying attention to the name on the screen, half hoping its her sister so she can give her a piece of her mind.
“Hello?” Cam nearly barks through the receiver.
“Hey, I’m on my way to pick you up, I’ll be there in like 10 minutes.” Jack explains, his voice echoing through his car.
“Fuck.” Cam hisses, jumping off the couch. “Sounds good, go ahead and come in when you get here.” Cam says, jumping off the couch and heading to her bedroom.
“Everything okay? Should we do a raincheck?” Jack asks.
“No. I mean, I’m okay. Just got…thrown for the day. I’m just running behind. I still would like dinner. With you.” Cam huffs, now searching frantically through her meager closet for decent clothes. She has no need for dressy clothes, so her wardrobe is mostly joggers, shorts and leggings, but she knows that Jack is making effort, and so she is trying to reciprocate. “I’m sorry, I’m gonna let you go, I gotta get dressed. The front door is unlocked.” Cam says, hanging up before he can say goodbye. “Jesus suffering fuck.” Cam sighs, running a hand through her hair as she slides her hangers back to further examine her clothes.
Cam hears Jack open the door and call her name when she’s finishing up fixing her hair in the bathroom, having finished brushing it and now putting product in it. Her palms began to snag her hair as a sheen of sweat begins to take over her body. She plucks and adjusts her clothes, walking around the corner to the hallway to the living room where Jack is standing.
“Hi.” Cam says softly, still adjusting her clothing. She looks at Jack, his eyebrows raised nearly to his curls, as he eyes her body.
“Madison talked me into ordering this outfit at four in the morning one night. It’s a bodysuit.” Cam chuckles, still tugging at the fabric, pulled taut across her torso. It’s a deep red, baby soft ribbed long sleeve body suit. It clings to her, showing the rolls and creases in her flesh, but the jeans are loose, almost baggy, and keep falling lower on her hips, and Cam’s unsure how to hold still without trying to hide her belly and hike up her pants.
“Bodysuit…” Jack mumbles confused, now raising one eyebrow instead of two. Cam grabs one of the hip seams pulling it slightly out of her jeans and snapping it, making the fullness of her hip quiver at the impact. She looks up to see Jack swallow hard.
“It’s a big too gen Z, isn’t it?” Cam asks, averting her gaze.
“No, it’s…it’s nice. You look really nice.” Jack murmurs quietly, putting his hands behind his back.
“Thanks. Let me grab my purse, we can get going, sorry I’m running behind, I went to see Owen, and…”
“Is he okay?” Jack asks, clearly jumping at an opportunity of normal conversation topics. She’s tempted to ask him what his favorite suture is, just to break the shimmering wall of tension between them.
“He’s doing great. My sister and mom, they haven’t seen him at all.” Cam sighs, rooting through her purse to make sure she has everything.
“You can’t hold yourself responsible for other people.” Jack said dryly. Cam swings her purse over her shoulder hard, huffing, sudden thickness entering her throat, her eyes stinging.
“You and Sherry from the V.A must read the same books.” Cam huffs.
“Probably the same therapist.” Jack murmurs, putting his eyes on the floor and his hands in his pockets.
“I’m sorry, we have dinner reservations, don’t we?” Cam says, opening the front door.
“You know you’re still not scaring me off.” Jack remarks, following closely behind her as she locks her front door.
“Even in this skin tight getup?” Cam laughs, stepping carefully down the stairs.
“You know my childhood crush was Catwoman right?” Jack retorts, opening the door for her and giving his head that small tilt that makes heat rush up to her chest.
How Cam managed not to spill chimichurri sauce on her bodysuit was a miracle beyond her imagination. Jack insisted they get paella, steak and shrimp, although Cam is much less nervous than their last date, so it’s easier to eat, no longer feeling like she has a rock in her stomach.
“I’m standing there, just, gobsmacked, wondering how the hell this gets so damn out of hand, and Ellis is looking at me, horrified, and I ask her ‘why didn’t you go get Shen?’ because John was R3 at the time, about to be chief, and she just shrugs at me and goes ‘would you trust him with this if it was you?” Jack laughs, nearly wheezing “And I just stood there, the patient right in front of us, and I totally panicked, grabbed Ellis by the sleeve of her scrubs and then pulled her to the nurses station to put orders in for the poor bastard.” He chuckles, wiping tears from his eyes. “Shortly after that is when I started working for SWAT, because my therapist said I needed a hobby and I needed to be with adults.” Jack sighs, leaning back in his chair as Cam picks at the crispy rice stuck in the bottom of the paella dish.
“You could’ve just taken up tennis, Jack.” Cam snorts.
“Does Tennis pique your interest?” Jack asks.
“Fuck no.” Cam says around a bite of crispy rice, making Jack simper.
“What does pique your interest? You type A? Quilting?” Jack asks, raising his eyebrow at her.
“Quilting? C’mon Jack, I know I’ve got some greys but I’m not Martha fucking Washington. Also if you had ever seen my back table set up, you’d know I’m not type A.” Cam sighs, leaning back in her chair.
“That’s good, because I am definitely not Type A either. This entire time I’ve been scared to see if you’re one of those people with a perfectly organized linen closet.” Jack remarks.
“Rest assured, my linen is in a chest my grandfather built, unfolded and exceptionally wrinkled.” Cam says, grinning.
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.
