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(Warning: All of the medical info in here is most likely completely wrong, since I did no research at all other than watching ER. Sorry about that. Also, Dr. Cara cusses like a sailor. I don't apologize for that.)
She's going to fucking kill Garcia. It's like the guy's a psychic. Like he knows it's gonna get weird. Every time she agrees to cover his ER shift - every single goddamn time - some kind of bizarre shit goes down. People chopping each other up with axes? Really?
I didn't even want to be an ER doctor, she mutters, as she washes her hands. But she is right now, and she's waiting for white male, late 20s, multiple ax wounds, unresponsive, pupils equal and reactive. He's a bloody mess when he shows up, his shirt already cut off, and she appraises him quickly. The arm - defensive wound, most likely - is the worst, and he'll need surgery for that one. His fingers are sliced to hell, but none of them seem to be in danger of falling off. Guy must have fought like a son of a bitch. He's not only cut up, but also bruised and scraped. His BP is low but not scary low, but he looks like he's lost a lot of blood; there's probably a pint on his face and chest alone, and God knows how much the missing shirt soaked up. She tells David to hang a bag of O neg and some saline and sends Destiny (dear God, what a stupid name for a nurse, especially in the ER; who wants to think about their destiny in the ER?) to alert the surgical team. The wounds on his chest are comparatively minor, which in this case means they look like someone just wanted to hurt him really really bad instead of turn him into steaks, and she can stitch them up while he stabilizes enough for surgery. If she's fast enough, she can get it done before he comes around.
She flushes a chest wound on his left side with saline while David cleans off the right side of his chest and then wipes his face. Looks familiar, David says, and "that's because you hang out with a bad fucking crowd, Dave, and we might want to have a talk about that later," she laughs. She stitches that one up and feels kind of bad that it's on the sloppy side until she notices another one on his shoulder that looks like some moron used dental floss and a crochet needle, so clearly she's not the worst doc he's ever seen. If that one was even done by a doctor. (Seriously. Axes and back-room dental floss stitches. Bad fucking crowd.)
She stretches her back, works the crick out of her neck, and gets ready to work on the other side. David's got him completely cleaned up now, and she looks across a wide expanse of tanned muscle and suddenly stops cold. That tattoo. She knows that tattoo. She looks at his face (and Jesus, how has she not even looked at his face until now?) and there's the long silky brown hair her hands were buried in, the distracting lips, and the pretty hazel eyes, closed now but still unmistakeable.
"Agent Stiles?" she says. "Sam?"
"Oh, crap, that's why he looks familiar!" Dave says. "He's one of those FBI guys from yesterday!"
One of those FBI guys. And she really, really shouldn't be working on him. She just (reluctantly) showered the scent of him off her skin a couple of hours ago. But it's not like she can say Hey, I just banged this guy, so it's really not appropriate for me to be treating him. And also, she kinda doesn't want to hand him over to anyone else. She kinda wants to wrap him up in something soft and warm and take care of him right now.
"Agent Stiles?" she repeats. His brow furrows and his eyes flutter a little bit. "Agent Stiles, you're in the hospital. You're going to be okay, but you've been cut up pretty badly."
He opens his eyes all the way and takes in his surroundings, then squints at her in confusion. "Care..."
"Yes, it's Dr. Roberts. You remember we met yesterday?"
Maybe he gets the hint and knows to keep it professional, or maybe he doesn't even remember. "Dr. Roberts. I'm..." He frowns and looks around some more. "I'm in the hospital? What happened?"
"A lunatic with an ax, apparently." She gives him what she hopes is a reassuring smile. "You're going to need surgery on your left arm, but I'm pretty sure you'll be okay. I'm just stitching up the smaller wounds right now." Now that he's awake, she injects lidocaine around the wound, and she can't help noticing he doesn't wince at all. "I'll finish this one as soon as you're a little numb." And with the blood cleaned off, she can see he has a small cut on his throat, but that one can be closed up with a butterfly bandage. (His throat is really distracting too, come to think of it.) "You need me to notify anyone?" she ask. "Call your partner?"
"My partner." He huffs a dry little laugh. "No, I remember what happened now. He knows. He was there. He'll be here as soon as he, ah, cleans up the scene."
"M'kay." Cara pokes around his wound (it's not just an excuse to touch him; it's not) and, convinced he's good and numb, begins her stitches. "So, what does the other guy look like? The guy who did this to you?"
"He's fine." He sighs and looks desperately sad for a second. "No. I mean. The perp's dead."
He's silent as she continues stitching him up. She sneaks glances between stitches, but all he does is stare sadly at the ceiling. "You doing okay?" she asks, as she ties off the last stitch.
He puts on a weak, fake little smile. "I'm good. Arm hurts, but I'm good."
"I bet it does," she says remorsefully. He's actually been weirdly stoic about the arm. Guy must have a pretty high pain threshold, or lots of experience with fairly gruesome injuries. She stays seated on the stool next to him and puts a hand on his chest... not as an excuse to touch him (no, not really) but because it helps patients feel calm sometimes. And so she can monitor his respirations. Not just to touch him. "So, I think you're stable enough to go into surgery. They'll be down to pick you up soon. Are you sure there's no one you want notified?"
Suddenly Dave pokes his head in the door. "This is Stiles, right? His partner's here. Want me to send him back?"
She looks at Sam, who sighs and closes his eyes and looks even more miserable, if that's possible. "I don't think my patient's ready for a visitor. I'll talk to his partner." He opens those pretty hazel eyes and briefly smiles gratefully at her and, well, that was worth it.
The partner is agitated, pacing back and forth, and he practically pounces on her as soon as she opens the waiting room door. "How's he doing? I need to see him."
He starts to walk around her, but she plants a hand against his chest. "I'm Dr. Roberts. Your partner is stable and resting comfortably. He's heading into surgery soon to repair a pretty nasty wound to his arm, but none of his injuries are life-threatening."
He looks at her like he's noticing her for the first time. "Dr. Roberts. We met yesterday." He gives her a slow smile that probably has most people he meets dropping their guard - or their pants - in a heartbeat. "All I need is one minute with him."
But she's not most people. Just the thought of him made Sam pretty uncomfortable, and she's not letting him pass. "I'm afraid that's not possible. He's probably on his way to surgery right now. Someone really did a number on him. He's lucky to be alive. Any one of those chest wounds could have killed him if they'd been a little deeper."
The smile disappears, replaced by a look of... regret? Guilt? "Yeah," he says, not meeting her eyes. "It was, ah, it was bad. Shouldn't have happened. But he's gonna be okay? You're sure?"
"He'll be fine," she says, putting a hand on his back and steering him back to the seating area. "I'll make sure someone comes for you when he's out of surgery." He sits back down next to an older man wearing a trucker hat, and soon their heads are bent together in quiet conversation, and that's interesting, but at least he's not alone. Not that Agent Murdock's support system is her biggest priority right now.
She spins on her heel and steps quickly back into the ER, just to see Sam's gurney disappear into the elevator. "Wait!" she cries, running to catch him. He looks drawn and pale. (And maybe, just maybe, she has to restrain herself from giving him an affectionate kiss on the forehead.) "I'll come see you after surgery," she says, "if that's okay."
He smiles weakly again, but this one doesn't look fake. "That would be nice. Thanks."
(Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, he walks into mine.) But she's not complaining. She's still thinking about wrapping him up in something warm and soft.