| Scenes From An Italian Restaurant: It's Just A Flesh Wound | |||||
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| What: One stops in for something to eat and ends up having to stitch Fern up. | |||||
One looks tired. This isn't a new phenomenon. He doesn't sleep in a literal sense, so he often looks a bit fatigued. Today he just seems worn down. Like a man who has tackled too much work in too short a time and has come out feeling a bit worse for wear.
Ever since he first visited this restaurant, he's always sat at the same table. Most of the time he only stays to eat if there's a particular waitress working. Otherwise, he's liable to take his meal back to his office where he can dine while he works and remain unfettered by interruptions or distractions. Not today, though. He slipped in, quietly as usual, made a beeline for his corner booth, and slumped into it. If it weren't for the relative lack of clientele at the moment, he might have gone entirely unnoticed.
The comfortable grey coat that he wears so often has been left behind in favor of a simple, slate-colored suit, white shirt, and a dark tie. He's already shucked the jacket to reveal sleeves that were rolled back hours ago and a loosened knot in his tie. Most notable are the spotless strips of gauze wrapped around both of his palms.
It's become something of an unspoken pact between Fern and Jerry, the waiter she most usually finds herself paired with for the odd hours they work, that whenever the tall man comes in for the corner booth, it's her table if she's working. So, while Jerry notes the man's arrival, and gives him a nod of acknowledgement, the waiter doesn't move toward the table, instead turning his attention back to his own customers. The 'rush' is clearly over for now, clearly told by the empty tables.
With no customers of her own, Fern emerges from the kitchen with a plastic bin, holding the salt and pepper shakers that she had collected to refill during the lull. Oddly, the little cheery waitress looks a little weary herself, but an absent frown blooms into a smile as she spies her favorite customer at his table. She sets the bin down, job left temporarily unfinished, and lightly squeaks her way over to him. The smile on her face tempers a measure as she notes his face looking a bit more run down than usual.
"What's up, Doc?" she greets as she nears, exaggerating the once over she gives him. "You're looking quite dapper today." She herself wears her ever so fetching, muted mustard yellow uniform with the misspelled nametag. They've promised her a new one, really!
"Thanks," One replies dryly. "I call this look 'eighteen hours of research.'" He spreads his arms as if to display himself. At close range, creases created by spending too long seated in a desk chair wearing the same outfit are visible, if not prominent.
He carries a few small, fading injuries that weren't apparent at a distance, either. A bruise across one cheekbone that's nearly healed. A small cut above his eye that's held shut with a flesh-toned butterfly closure. A square of adhesive bandage that's pasted high on his brow, near his hairline.
"You, as usual, manage to make a prison cafeteria outfit look very fetching," he continues. "And on such a busy day, too. How *do* you do it?"
Fern wrinkles her nose at One, and sketches a dramatic curtsey at his comment. "You are too, too kind, suh," she says, with a southern belle lilt. Not one to stand on formalities, or worry too much about the personal space of someone she's comfortable with, she raises one hand to lightly touch his chin, in an attempt to gently turn his head so she can see his face better. The smile is gone from her lips, turned to a concerned purse as she studies each little wound in turn. "What have you been researching? And why did it hit you back?"
One doesn't close his eyes, or even avert them as most people might. He does let out a low, self-deprecating chuckle as he turns to accommodate Fern's inspection. "I don't want to lie, so I'll take the Fifth on this one. Trust me, you wouldn't believe me if I told you."
He glances up to meet Fern's eyes, then shrugs. He hasn't pulled away, but he does angle his more battered side so it's less visible. "Don't worry, I'm a fast healer. Good genes. So. How're you?"
Fern's eyes hold his steadily, brows quirked at his response. "Alright, I won't make you lie. But I believe more and more things around this town." Sometimes more than she wants to believe, but one must be adaptable. His attempt at admonishing her not to worry falls flat with her soft laugh. "Of course I'm going to worry, Doc. It's what friends do." She leans in, bringing the scent of soap and shampoo, and plants a quick, soft kiss on the butterfly bandage by his eye before she straightens again. "There. A kiss makes everything better." Her tone is matter of fact and invites no argument.
Thin shoulders shrug at his question. "I'm alright. Had another audition. Didn't get the part." Likely explaining her slightly less peppy demeanor today. "One of these days, though. You just wait." She brings her smile back for him, without much effort, and asks, "What would you like today? Anita made more tiramisu today, but you can't have that until you eat something real first."
The chaste kiss and clean, feminine scents are pleasant. One turns toward them and now his eyes do close, if only briefly. "I believe in you," he says solemnly. "You can do it. And I think I'll start with something light. Simple. Minestrone and coffee? And a slice from one of Anita's rosemary loaves, too. Please."
He opens his eyes again. Slowly, he reaches out to touch the back of Fern's hand with two fingers. "And thank you."
Fern melts visibly, that 'awwwww' look unmistakable. "Thank you, One. That makes me feel better," she says, the words soft and grateful. Even through their relatively short acquaintance, some things are clear; he gets called Doc when she's playful and One when she's not. Her voice is back up to normal volume, a bit more pep in it as she parrots, "Minestrone and coffee, with a slice on the side. Anything for you, Doc." Since she can't wink (it's a skill she's never mastered, alas) she wrinkles her nose again, still managing to be expressive with the simple gesture, and turns to get his order in.
*squeak*squeak*squeak*
With a flap of the door, she disappears into the kitchen, calling out before the door shuts, "Manny! Soup and.... where are you?" Behind the closed door, Manny, the daytime cook, is nowhere to be seen, likely taking the lull in business for a smoke break. No matter, it's a simple order. She dishes up the soup herself, from a pot simmering on the stove, setting the bowl onto a tray as she turns to the rosemary bread. She takes up the large knife and is just about to start slicing when Manny appears, startling her. As she jumps, the knife slips, slicing her instead of the bread, as a gash appears in the meat of her left hand and she cries out, "Crap!" Ever diligent, she makes sure not to bleed on the fresh bread, and gets her hand over the sink.
Fast and silent, One is standing behind Fern within seconds of her outcry. His brow is furrowed and his eyes narrowed, having already entered full diagnostic mode. "Tch..." he clucks. He's got his jacket in one hand, which he tosses carelessly across a prep table. From the pockets within, he extracts sealed packets containing exam gloves, bandages, and finally a cellophane envelope with a large, wicked-bladed scalpel inside. "In case we have to amputate," he explains. "Kidding, of course. Here, let me see."
The scalpel disappears back inside his jacket, but he does pull out a slim leather case and unzips it to reveal a modest array of exam and surgical tools. He slips on the gloves and holds both hands out. "C'mon."
First thought? Grab one of the kitchen towels and try to stop the bleeding. But almost before she can get her fingers on it, One is there, startling her again. "Oh jeezus!" comes with her jump about two inches off the floor. "You really need to learn to make some noise, Doc." The tone is wry, tinged with pain and she doesn't exactly look comforted by the amputation joke.
Manny, being absolutely no help, has passed out on the floor at the first sight of crimson. Thanks, Manny.
Fern ignores him, she'll make sure he's breathing after she stops dripping blood all over. "I don't want to get blood on your suit," she protests, even as she obediently holds her hands out to One. The sharp knife sliced neatly from one side of her hand to the other at the base of her palm. Feebly, she adds, "I've had worse papercuts." Not likely.
Keeping Fern's hand over the sink, One inspects the cut thoroughly. Then he snags up an envelope of gauze pads and rips it open with one hand and his teeth. It's a casual action, one he's obviously performed many, many times before.
"Not likely," he says, echoing her thoughts as he staunches the flow of blood. "But try and relax. This'll need a few stitches, but I'll have you fixed up in a tick. In the meantime, I'll try to remember to wear a bell around my neck when I come to visit."
She tries to be a brave little soldier, but that hurts something wicked! Fern looks near tears, and it's very possible the only thing stopping them from falling is that her friend is there. "I'm gonna make everyone wear bells," she promises, then takes a deep breath as she's instructed to relax. "Stitches?" The question is meek, and full of fear, her body tensing again as she reflexively tries to pull her hand away. "Are you sure? You can't just... you know... wrap it up?"
"I could, but you'd bleed all day and end up with a nasty scar. I'm the doctor, remember. Trust me." One's voice is held to a low, soothing rumble and his touch is as gentle as possible. Carefully, he snags a chair with his foot and pulls it close, then sits and situates Fern on his lap.
"Hold this for a second," he says, pressing her uninjured hand up to the gauze. "I'll get you something for the pain."
The timbre of his voice is reassuring and calming, and Fern nods, saying softly, "I trust you, One." There is no protest to being settled in his lap, and she leans against him lightly, frowning as she holds the gauze as instructed.
Manny stirs, taking care to avert his eyes from the dots of red that managed to hit the floor, starting with apologies almost immediately. "Manny, it's ok," Fern says, trying to soothe him in his guilt at her injury. "Go upstairs and tell Anita, but make sure you tell her I'm fine, and Doc is here taking care of me. Alright?" He doesn't need to be offered an escape from the scene twice, and hurries out to deliver the message.
With a shuddery sigh, Fern turns her eyes again to One, her erstwhile knight in shining armor.
One has already prepped a syringe in this short time. It's a small one, filled from a tiny brown bottle labeled 'MORPHIUM'. "Okay. This is going to feel... pretty great, actually." He smiles as he locates a vein in Fern's wrist, then administers the injection.
While it takes effect, he pulls a pre-threaded needle and suture set from within his little kit. "Shouldn't take more than a few stitches to get the job done," he explains. "Don't worry if you get a little dizzy. I've got you." A little bounce of his knee and a squeeze from the arm supporting the small of her back emphasize this.
Fern winces at the sting of the needle, her face remaining pinched and worried for a few seconds. Until the medication begins to take effect. Then it's like a melting, as her face relaxes, as does the tense carriage of her body. The lean against One becomes heavier, more of her weight settling against him. "Wazzat?" she questions of the needle, briefly frowning. But it's too much trouble to frown, and it fades, replaced by an almost beatific calm. Surely he doesn't need her active participation, she decides, and shifts slightly, letting her head tilt to rest against his shoulder. "I trust you," she repeats softly.
"Good," One whispers. He strokes Fern's hair and tucks an errant lock behind her ear. "Just relax."
Then he gets to work. He's like a machine. There isn't a single wasted motion. Not a moment passes that isn't dedicated to some vital task. Faster and more efficient than any ER doctor, he puts five stitches in the wound and wraps it with fresh bandages.
"And we're done. I'd give you a lollipop, but I'm fresh out." Once the end of the bandge is secure, he gives Fern a quick smile. "You'll be sore for a few days, but you didn't cut into anything too important. Try to take it easy until I come back and pull the stitches for you."
There is quiet while One goes about his task of caring for Fern's wound; she offers no further protests and puts herself, literally, entirely into his capable hands. When he announces he's finished, she raises her head from his shoulder, looking at the wrapping around her hand, then up at him. She looks a little foggy, but not totally whacked, and she smiles back at him. "You didn't kiss it. Won't get better without a kiss."
"You're right. It won't." One's voice is low and husky as he leans around Fern to kiss her cheek. There's a long, weighted pause, then he bends down to brush his lips against her palm as well.
When he straightens, he clears his throat and gently boosts his patient from his lap. Still holding her uninjured hand, he guides her into the chair and presses her into it. "There. All better, right?"
Fern tilts her head automatically to accept the kiss to her cheek, the press of his lips soft against her warm skin. In the pause, she sighs softly, a sound of contentment despite the accident. As he kisses her palm as well, she looks thoughtfully at the top of his head, her eyes holding as he straightens. There's a small measure of resistance as he moves her, and a soft groan of displeasure at having to leave her warm, comfy perch for the lonely seat of the chair, but she resettles, tilting her head to look up at him again. Wide blue eyes regard him and she nods. "All better," she murmurs.
"Good," One replies. He snaps off his gloves and tidies away the various bits of mess into a garbage bin. "That's good."
Despite the relative normalcy of these activities, he seems a bit unsettled. He clears his throat and smiles again, but he isn't looking directly at Fern. "Hem. Well. I'm not supposed to be back here. I should probably..." he trails off and chucks a thumb in the direction of the dining room.
Either she doesn't notice his mild discomfort, or Fern just ignores it, both possible considering she's a little bit 'under the influence'. Her eyes hold on him steadily, watching as he clears up after tending her, her regard almost owlish in it's oddly soft intensity. When he mentions that he shouldn't be here, and motions toward the dining room, her eyes widen as she remembers, "Your soup!" An attempt to stand quickly results in something more of a half rising, and a plop back down suddenly.
"Relax. It's not going anywhere." One holds a hand out wardingly as he approaches Fern and crouches beside her. As tall as he is, the two are nearly of a height in their respective positions. "Tell you what. Why don't I stay until your shift is up? Somehow, I doubt you'll listen if I tell you to go home. This way I can walk you when you're ready to go."
Almost eye to eye, it's less dizzying for Fern to keep watching One, and his offer and concern sees her smile surface again. "Why are you so nice to me?" she asks softly, her uninjured hand lifting, fingers lightly drifting along the line of his jaw.
Before he has a chance to answer, the door from upstairs bursts open and hurricane Anita is on the scene! She's a motherly, warm woman, who cares for her employees as if they were family, and she's not only concerned about Fern but grateful to One for his help. If she's interrupted anything it's completely lost on her as she immediately sets to bustling about, fussing over the girl and saying thank you to One a million times. It seems she's already made the decisions, telling Manny to get Fern up to the apartment above the restaurant, insisting she will //personally// see to One, and his meal (and likely the next few at least) will be on the house.
Without much of a chance to protest, Fern looks back over her shoulder at One as Manny tries to hustle her up the stairs as ordered. "Thank you," she says, so softly that the sound is likely lost under Anita's good intentions, but the words her lips form can be clearly seen by One.
One meets Fern's eyes and inclines his head briefly. For a moment, a small smile is visible on his face. It looks like he's about to respond with a whisper of his own, but he's whisked away by the matronly proprietor and bustled out of sight.