The first clue Aryn has that he isn't home, and hasn't been since he was called in a couple hours early the previous afternoon, is that she's still on the couch and the TV's still on. The second is the phone that's ringing off the hook and waking her up. She spends a few moments trying to shake the blood back into the hand she fell asleep on and fumbles for her cell on the coffee table before she realizes it's the house line that's ringing.
Early dawn light's streaming through the curtains as Aryn stumbles through the living room to the phone and answers it with a groggy, 'I was not waiting up -- you still at work?', expecting to hear a familiar Australian drawl on the other end. Instead, she gets a woman's voice she doesn't recognize and frowns as her sleep-addled brain finally starts parsing what she's saying: Dr. Chase said to call-- there was an 'incident'-- surgery-- admitted to ICU--
That's where her brain shuts down and switches to auto-pilot. She mumbles a 'thank you' and hangs up the phone. She grabs the spare house key off the kitchen counter, her phone, her purse, shrugs into her hoodie and jams her feet into the low-top Converse by the front door -- then she's gone.
The drive is a blur. She has no memory of anything between leaving the house and stepping off the elevator at the floor for ICU. She doesn't even realize she's still in her pajamas as she explains to the person at the desk who she is and asks where she can find Dr. Chase.
By the time she's shown in (and that's about all the nurse at the nursing station is going to do, regardless) Chase is more awake and alert, though that's a long way from actually being entirely either. He is still flat on his back, with an oxygen cannula, IV and pulse ox monitor on one arm, blood pressure cuff wrapped around the other. The rest of any monitors and tubes are, thankfully, hidden under blankets.
He is just slightly confused to see her, pajamas or not. Not because he doesn't think she'd be concerned, but because hospital policy shouldn't really allow random friends in ICU cubicles. He blinks a couple of times at her.
"You're going to freeze in here." It's a hospital. It's never warm. Never mind North Dakota in October.
He doesn't look as bad as she expected for ICU -- not that she has much experience with it or even knows why he's here -- but there are still more machines and tubes than she wants to see him hooked up to.
And no, it shouldn't; pesky things like hospital policy and HIPAA probably would've occurred to her if she'd had the time to play 'should I, shouldn't I', think it to death and second-guess forever like usual. But there hadn't been time to do anything but react. And hey, it's not her fault they've apparently assumed from her 'visiting for a few days' explanation that she's someone other than a 'random friend'.
Aryn waves him off, because really. She's not the one in ICU. Well, she is -- but not as a patient. "I'm fine, that's what the hoodie's for." She pauses. "You know, if you wanted me to come down and hang out, all you had to do was ask." It's a lame attempt at humor. And no, she still hasn't noticed the pajamas.
Chase snorts with amusement, then winces. He's still drugged up, but major abdominal surgery? Movement hurts. Breathing hurts. Anything that changes the pressure in his gut really hurts, and snorting was just plain stupid.
He lets the remark about the hoodie go, though he's pretty sure that's not going to help her legs. She'll notice soon enough, because it is cold in the hospital. "I know, but then you'd want to leave before you ate. Now you can't escape." Well, she could and can, but he sure as hell can't. Neither, actually, is he going to be eating any time soon.
All trace of humor disappears when she catches him wincing, replaced by worry lines etching themselves around her eyes.
The cold hasn't really hit Aryn yet; that'll come when she allows herself to focus on something other than the fact that she's standing next to his bed in ICU. It's probably also when she'll realize she's doing it in her pajamas. "Escape, my ass -- you're not getting rid of me that easily. I spent all summer living on airport food, the hospital cafeteria can't be all that much worse."
She glances around the small cubicle and scoots the chair in the corner closer to the bed, folding herself into it so she's not towering over him. Aryn's quiet for a moment, teeth worrying at her bottom lip as the worry lines creasing her eyes deepen. "...What happened?"
He frowns, just a little. "The idea of calling was to stop you worrying, not make you worry more." He clearly hadn't thought that through. He goes silent for a moment after that, trying to sort through what had happened and to find a way to tell her that's... reasonably concise. "I lost the patient I was called in to treat. Her father didn't take it well. He was also carrying a knife."
It's probably overly abrupt, but Chase is - not actually in fantastic shape. He looks okay, he's reasonably coherent for the moment, but the energy, will and ability to make ridiculous jokes right now just isn't there. Neither, really, is the oxygenated blood required for brain power.
The corner of her mouth turns up in a faint smile. "And you thought I'd what," she says gently, sounding slightly amused, "hear 'admitted', go 'oh, okay', and watch Netflix? Yeah, not gonna happen."
Aryn waits patiently for an answer to 'what happened?' and mutters a barely audible 'Jesus christ' when she gets one. It wasn't what she was expecting, clearly.
"And here you wanted a boring year..." She pauses for a beat or two. "I'm sorry." She's mostly talking about him losing his patient, because she won't apologize for worrying. But she won't make it the focus, either; she's not the one in the hospital and this isn't about her. She doesn't expect him to reciprocate with ridiculous jokes, but Aryn's going to make them if it means keeping things light and pretending she's not as worried as she is. Because worrying about her being worried is the last thing he needs right now. "How bad is it?"
Chase ignores the light conversation and the expression of sympathy. Not because he isn't grateful, but because right now he's not sure how to handle either. Especially the sympathy.
"No idea," he admits, answering the question because questions are easier and provide some direction. "I haven't seen the surgeon or doctor on duty, yet." Small hospital. He is one of the people who covers ICU. The other one is off with other patients. The surgeon is likely in surgery again. "I'll let you know when I find something out." He pauses, and feels slightly stupid. "Or, you can hand me the chart from the foot of my bed."
He's also drugged up and seems kind of groggy (drugs, duh), which is what she's going to chalk the ignoring up to.
Aryn glances toward the foot of the bed and stands up, reaching over to snag the metal file from where it's hanging, and hands it to him as she settles back in the chair. "Here," she says, crossing one leg over the other and brushing imaginary lint off her pants -- which she finally notices aren't jeans like they should've been. "And I... probably should've gotten dressed in actual clothes before I drove over here." Oh well. Nothing she can do about it now.
Chase opens the file once he has it, though he does not try to sit up to read it. Even holding it above his head is a bit of a pain. Literally. Fortunately, reading patient files is second nature by now, and he doesn't have to really engage his brain to be able to get the information from the file and into his head.
"You can go home and change," he points out. "And probably should." He's interested in the information -mostly the fact that he no longer has a spleen, and is missing a substantial amount of blood, as well as the drugs he's being given - but he's not concerned by it. "I'll live." He closes the folder and passes it back to her.
"Probably," Aryn says, glancing briefly down at her pajamas then back up with a rueful look, "before I get mistaken for a patient on the loose, or something."
She watches casually while he looks his chart over, reaching out to take it and return it to its spot at the end of his bed when he hands it back. His answer is less specific than she was hoping for, and Aryn frowns faintly, trying to figure out if she should chalk that up to the drugs, too... or if she's unintentionally skating a line she can't see and just hit a wall. Either way, she doesn't press for details.
"I'd feel a lot better if someone who isn't flat on their back in ICU co-signed that." She pauses. "...Is there anything you want me to bring you?"
Chase catches the frown, but isn't quite sure what to make of it. There are a few ways to interpret it, that would make sense. And while drugs are wearing off enough, a bit, pain control is wearing off with them. End result? Less groggy, more distracted. So, he mirrors the frown, with slight confusion and answers her question.
"I should be out of ICU in a day or two. I don't think there's more point trying to amuse myself until then. Too many interruptions and drugs."
That she was looking for more information hasn't even occurred to him. Probably because he's got some sort of weird mental block about talking shop with people who aren't doctors. And he's got no idea how much is enough and how much is too technical.
She looks confused at his confusion for a moment, until she finally shakes her head as if to clear it and lets it go. He's not sure, she's playing it safe and won't ask. One day they'll figure out this whole 'communication' thing. Maybe.
"A day or two. That's good, right?" Aryn has no idea what an average ICU stay is for injuries like his, or what those injuries even are -- or what 'I'll live' means, aside from the obvious. "Then what? How long until they let you go home?" Because she doesn't assume 'out of ICU' means 'out of the hospital'.
She's not looking for shop talk, necessarily; something more than 'I'll live', but less than 'there might be a pop quiz on this' -- where the stitches are, and what she might have to side-eye him into not doing too soon (or at least not without assistance). Because he's already told her doctors make some of the worst patients, and she has yet to meet a man who wasn't stubborn as hell about this kind of thing.
"I don't know, yet," he says, torn between amused by her desire for information and slightly confused. "There are too many variables and I've been awake for..." He realizes he has no idea what time it is; ICU is always lit, and he's not exactly been with it. "As long as it took the nurse to call you and you to drive to the hospital. Give me another couple of days."
He isn't chiding, he's really not, but he's got no idea. Yes, he has best case scenarios in lose kind of ways and could make a guess, but even his patient he'd be shrugging and saying 'might be a week, might be six' this early on, with a side of 'how about you be glad you're not dead and probably will stay that way?'.
She feels better knowing things -- more prepared. And having an idea what to tell work when she gets back to his house and calls them would be a good thing, because she's not leaving today. But she accepts his answer as the best he can give her right now.
"Okay." Aryn thinks for a moment. "I have no idea how long it took. I... didn't actually hear anything past 'ICU'," she admits sheepishly. "I don't even remember actually driving here." Or where she parked; finding her car's going to be... fun.
"It's probably been less than an hour," he says, because yes - translating that information to some sort of time scale is what's important, here.
Actually, it kind of is, to him. He's missing time, thanks to surgery and just plain old trauma. Figuring out how to get things back in order is likely to help him finish orienting. Where he is, how he is, and what's going on is still filtering through. Nothing about this feels real, yet. Feeling something besides numb and nauseated is also helping, though in less benign ways than simply figuring out time, but still unreal.
"I don't know," he says, going backwards. Yes, he did just say to give him a couple of days, but given that she's supposed to be leaving -or have already left, who knows- and the more he orients, the more he's putting information together in a real way. "My spleen is gone, and my blood count is in the toilet. My stomach was between the outside of my body and my spleen. Spleen is part of the immune system. Stomach contents aren't exactly sterile. They'll mostly be watching to make sure blood is being replaced, they don't have to go back to surgery and to head off infection." There was also things like gastric stasis, nutrition and hydration while he wasn't actually eating, pain management, but those were more detailed than he felt like trying to explain and kind of went along with the 'my stomach got cut open'- and I don't mean my abdomen. "Assuming I get out of ICU within three days, I could be out of the hospital within a week. Two is more likely." Because really, odds of him not getting a massive infection under those circumstances were... minute, even with immediate antibiotics.
Early dawn light's streaming through the curtains as Aryn stumbles through the living room to the phone and answers it with a groggy, 'I was not waiting up -- you still at work?', expecting to hear a familiar Australian drawl on the other end. Instead, she gets a woman's voice she doesn't recognize and frowns as her sleep-addled brain finally starts parsing what she's saying: Dr. Chase said to call-- there was an 'incident'-- surgery-- admitted to ICU--
That's where her brain shuts down and switches to auto-pilot. She mumbles a 'thank you' and hangs up the phone. She grabs the spare house key off the kitchen counter, her phone, her purse, shrugs into her hoodie and jams her feet into the low-top Converse by the front door -- then she's gone.
The drive is a blur. She has no memory of anything between leaving the house and stepping off the elevator at the floor for ICU. She doesn't even realize she's still in her pajamas as she explains to the person at the desk who she is and asks where she can find Dr. Chase.
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He is just slightly confused to see her, pajamas or not. Not because he doesn't think she'd be concerned, but because hospital policy shouldn't really allow random friends in ICU cubicles. He blinks a couple of times at her.
"You're going to freeze in here." It's a hospital. It's never warm. Never mind North Dakota in October.
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And no, it shouldn't; pesky things like hospital policy and HIPAA probably would've occurred to her if she'd had the time to play 'should I, shouldn't I', think it to death and second-guess forever like usual. But there hadn't been time to do anything but react. And hey, it's not her fault they've apparently assumed from her 'visiting for a few days' explanation that she's someone other than a 'random friend'.
Aryn waves him off, because really. She's not the one in ICU. Well, she is -- but not as a patient. "I'm fine, that's what the hoodie's for." She pauses. "You know, if you wanted me to come down and hang out, all you had to do was ask." It's a lame attempt at humor. And no, she still hasn't noticed the pajamas.
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He lets the remark about the hoodie go, though he's pretty sure that's not going to help her legs. She'll notice soon enough, because it is cold in the hospital. "I know, but then you'd want to leave before you ate. Now you can't escape." Well, she could and can, but he sure as hell can't. Neither, actually, is he going to be eating any time soon.
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The cold hasn't really hit Aryn yet; that'll come when she allows herself to focus on something other than the fact that she's standing next to his bed in ICU. It's probably also when she'll realize she's doing it in her pajamas. "Escape, my ass -- you're not getting rid of me that easily. I spent all summer living on airport food, the hospital cafeteria can't be all that much worse."
She glances around the small cubicle and scoots the chair in the corner closer to the bed, folding herself into it so she's not towering over him. Aryn's quiet for a moment, teeth worrying at her bottom lip as the worry lines creasing her eyes deepen. "...What happened?"
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It's probably overly abrupt, but Chase is - not actually in fantastic shape. He looks okay, he's reasonably coherent for the moment, but the energy, will and ability to make ridiculous jokes right now just isn't there. Neither, really, is the oxygenated blood required for brain power.
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Aryn waits patiently for an answer to 'what happened?' and mutters a barely audible 'Jesus christ' when she gets one. It wasn't what she was expecting, clearly.
"And here you wanted a boring year..." She pauses for a beat or two. "I'm sorry." She's mostly talking about him losing his patient, because she won't apologize for worrying. But she won't make it the focus, either; she's not the one in the hospital and this isn't about her. She doesn't expect him to reciprocate with ridiculous jokes, but Aryn's going to make them if it means keeping things light and pretending she's not as worried as she is. Because worrying about her being worried is the last thing he needs right now. "How bad is it?"
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"No idea," he admits, answering the question because questions are easier and provide some direction. "I haven't seen the surgeon or doctor on duty, yet." Small hospital. He is one of the people who covers ICU. The other one is off with other patients. The surgeon is likely in surgery again. "I'll let you know when I find something out." He pauses, and feels slightly stupid. "Or, you can hand me the chart from the foot of my bed."
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Aryn glances toward the foot of the bed and stands up, reaching over to snag the metal file from where it's hanging, and hands it to him as she settles back in the chair. "Here," she says, crossing one leg over the other and brushing imaginary lint off her pants -- which she finally notices aren't jeans like they should've been. "And I... probably should've gotten dressed in actual clothes before I drove over here." Oh well. Nothing she can do about it now.
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"You can go home and change," he points out. "And probably should." He's interested in the information -mostly the fact that he no longer has a spleen, and is missing a substantial amount of blood, as well as the drugs he's being given - but he's not concerned by it. "I'll live." He closes the folder and passes it back to her.
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She watches casually while he looks his chart over, reaching out to take it and return it to its spot at the end of his bed when he hands it back. His answer is less specific than she was hoping for, and Aryn frowns faintly, trying to figure out if she should chalk that up to the drugs, too... or if she's unintentionally skating a line she can't see and just hit a wall. Either way, she doesn't press for details.
"I'd feel a lot better if someone who isn't flat on their back in ICU co-signed that." She pauses. "...Is there anything you want me to bring you?"
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"I should be out of ICU in a day or two. I don't think there's more point trying to amuse myself until then. Too many interruptions and drugs."
That she was looking for more information hasn't even occurred to him. Probably because he's got some sort of weird mental block about talking shop with people who aren't doctors. And he's got no idea how much is enough and how much is too technical.
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"A day or two. That's good, right?" Aryn has no idea what an average ICU stay is for injuries like his, or what those injuries even are -- or what 'I'll live' means, aside from the obvious. "Then what? How long until they let you go home?" Because she doesn't assume 'out of ICU' means 'out of the hospital'.
She's not looking for shop talk, necessarily; something more than 'I'll live', but less than 'there might be a pop quiz on this' -- where the stitches are, and what she might have to side-eye him into not doing too soon (or at least not without assistance). Because he's already told her doctors make some of the worst patients, and she has yet to meet a man who wasn't stubborn as hell about this kind of thing.
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He isn't chiding, he's really not, but he's got no idea. Yes, he has best case scenarios in lose kind of ways and could make a guess, but even his patient he'd be shrugging and saying 'might be a week, might be six' this early on, with a side of 'how about you be glad you're not dead and probably will stay that way?'.
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"Okay." Aryn thinks for a moment. "I have no idea how long it took. I... didn't actually hear anything past 'ICU'," she admits sheepishly. "I don't even remember actually driving here." Or where she parked; finding her car's going to be... fun.
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Actually, it kind of is, to him. He's missing time, thanks to surgery and just plain old trauma. Figuring out how to get things back in order is likely to help him finish orienting. Where he is, how he is, and what's going on is still filtering through. Nothing about this feels real, yet. Feeling something besides numb and nauseated is also helping, though in less benign ways than simply figuring out time, but still unreal.
"I don't know," he says, going backwards. Yes, he did just say to give him a couple of days, but given that she's supposed to be leaving -or have already left, who knows- and the more he orients, the more he's putting information together in a real way. "My spleen is gone, and my blood count is in the toilet. My stomach was between the outside of my body and my spleen. Spleen is part of the immune system. Stomach contents aren't exactly sterile. They'll mostly be watching to make sure blood is being replaced, they don't have to go back to surgery and to head off infection." There was also things like gastric stasis, nutrition and hydration while he wasn't actually eating, pain management, but those were more detailed than he felt like trying to explain and kind of went along with the 'my stomach got cut open'- and I don't mean my abdomen. "Assuming I get out of ICU within three days, I could be out of the hospital within a week. Two is more likely." Because really, odds of him not getting a massive infection under those circumstances were... minute, even with immediate antibiotics.
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