Marcus Caravahlo (caravahlo) wrote in immune_ic, @ 2012-08-24 17:05:00 |
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Entry tags: | # 2012 [08] august |
WHO: Marcus and O'Brien
WHERE: Infirmary, O'Brien's room.
WHEN: A late night after O'Brien's injury while he's in the infirmary. August 23rd?
WHAT: Holy shit, Marcus is doing his job!
RATING: M for Marcus's Mouth (language, as ever, medium)
STATUS: Done!
By the end of August, Marcus was going stir crazy enough to want to go back to the infirmary. His right hand was still wrapped, but he was mobile enough to do his job. So long as he didn't get into any fistfights, he'd be fine. In general, patient transfers and first aid didn't require throwing fives, so he figured he'd be good. He'd been keeping a low profile during the murders, having formed mixed feelings about the way that everything had been handled, or might be handled in the future. Marcus hadn't known any of the people killed, and had only registered vague surprise at the fact that it had been a woman doing the killing.
That he hadn't expected, for some reason, though he wouldn't admit to it out loud. Technically, he knew women were just as capable as men of violence. Hell, the most violent people he knew personally were all women, so at the end of the day it made a twisted sort of sense. Another thing he knew better than to say out loud was that he'd been a little disappointed that the woman had been killed. Taisce had been the one to put her down, and he didn't doubt the necessity, but it was something of a pity.
Marcus didn't believe in evil people. He'd spent too much of his time around others. Part of his stint in the group home circuit had involved working with the mentally disabled, as well as people who just had bad fucking wiring. Chemical imbalances and shit. It didn't take the devil to drive someone off the edge, and he would've been interested in hearing what had pushed her to make the decisions that she had. Maybe some of them wouldn't have sounded so unlikely to him. Though that was a scary thought in and of itself. Maybe it was for the best that she'd been taken out quickly. He didn't exactly need to be exposed to more anger in his life.
The fact that O'Brien was in the infirmary was something that he'd been prepared for, since he'd been following the journals, but it was still going to be odd to see the older man laid up. Marcus was of the opinion that O'Brien was one of the few who hadn't been fucking up the investigation due to some misguided power tripping, navel-gazing, and general incompetence. Maybe if they'd had one or two other real fucking cops, the guy wouldn't have landed in the infirmary at all.
O'Brien had spent the majority of the last few days dozing in and out of a painkiller-induced sleep. He'd talked a little bit to Taisce -- and a little bit to Luke. He was awake when Ellie visited maybe once. He vaguely remembered Rae giving him a hug. At least he was pretty sure that was Rae. He was pretty sure that was all who would have visited him anyway. Aside from the Doc. He'd been awake for her a time or two. But that was it.
Not being able to see was not fun or easy in any way. In fact, it was actually pretty fucking scary. He didn't like to admit that, though. He'd told Taisce, and that was it. Somehow that had gotten back to Wren.. but she was his doctor and had the right to know. But still. He didn't like being scared. He had no idea what was going on around him, and that was what bothered him.
Especially hearing someone come in that obviously wasn't Taisce. No, this person's steps were a little bit heavier, and the chair was being moved. Definitely not Taisce. Where was Taisce?
He tried to stay as still as possible. Maybe if he pretended to be asleep, whoever it was would go away. He was pretty certain it wasn't Luke either. He'd already learned to pick up on his nephew's squeaky soles on the linoleum. Funny how quickly his other senses were making up for his lack of sight.
Alas, Marcus wasn't a visitor, and didn't go away. The footsteps were measured, casual, and they slowed considerably as they reached O'Brien's bed. Part of his shift-work involved rounds. Marcus was no doctor, and had never aspired to be one, but he'd been a dedicated CNA. Even though the pay had been crappy, and even though it involved all the things the doctors - Hell, even the real nurses - were above doing. It wasn't that he didn't buy that O'Brien was asleep. It made a lot of sense, in fact, that O'Brien might be. The guy was probably on some heavy meds, and he looked seriously messed up. It was just that he had to do his job, anyway. O'Brien being asleep just made it easier to do, since it wouldn't involve any conversation. Bed checks were nothing.
Still, it would probably behoove him to say something first, just in case. It was really difficult to tell if someone was actually asleep when he couldn't see their eyelids. So Marcus did speak, just quietly, so as not to wake the other man if he were out. "Hey, man. You awake? Heh. I'm the fucking nurse."
Why were they stopping? He wasn't in the mood. Go away, go away, go away. Please. He was still trying not to move. Trying to pretend to be asleep. Though his brow was probably all furrowed, which could probably be seen even above the bandages.
When he heard the other man's voice, it sounded vaguely familiar. Who? Cheech? or Chong? Maybe Cheech. Or wait. No, it was that guy that he interviewed... he'd watched the tape a billion times. Suspect number one. Why he'd ever thought it was Marcus, he had no idea. Marcus Carabou or something.
Exhaling through his nose with a bit of a huff, he finally muttered, "not until you stopped over here..." No, he didn't want company. No, he didn't really want to talk. And no, he didn't need anything. If he needed anything, he would have quietly asked the Doc.
While he was at it, and since Marcus now knew that he wasn't asleep, O'Brien moved enough to pull the pillow under his head and neck better. And yeah. That was all the reply that the other man was getting. For now.
"Heh. Yeah, that fucking sucks," Marcus acknowledged, though he hadn't been stomping in the least. It wasn't worth arguing however. Injuries often made people bitchy. Hell, if he were laid up in a hospital bed, he'd be bitchy as well. So Marcus let that roll off him. "Sorry, hombre. You can ignore me if you want, we don’t have to play nice or nothing, but I still got to come over and check your bandages and shit every few hours. Make sure you're not staining the sheets or bleeding out, you know? If Paja--" he catches himself before he says the nickname. He'd been growing too fond of the scarred doctor lately. That shit needed to stop. "If one of those doctor ladies finds you bled out when they come on shift tomorrow, my ass is in a sling."
This was spoken lightly, in a tone indicating that Marcus didn't believe there was a sling capable of truly containing his ass. “You also got more pain meds coming to you in...” he leaned over to check the schedule left next to O’Brien’s bed. “Shit, not too long from now. You can skip those if you don’t want me coming right back. Might help you sleep through bedchecks, though.”
O'Brien made a face. Rolling his eyes at Marcus wouldn't do any good. Nevermind that his back was to the other man. "Who died and left you in charge of checking up on me? Where's the Doc?" Wren. He meant Wren. Okay. Nevermind that the poor woman had a right to sleep too. He was just on edge. Marcus would have to forgive him.
"And if you're suggesting I'm pissing my pants-- You better check yourself, hombre." Huffing, obviously annoyed by Marcus's presence, O'Brien moved to turn over, settling back against the pillow and motioned toward the blankets-- or.. his lower half.. or.. whatever the fuck. "Go ahead. Do what you have to do." O'Brien could only assume that Marcus meant the bandage on his thigh. That was the only injury that would likely bleed out.. right? His wrists were bandaged pretty good, and his eyes-- they weren't bleeding, as far as he knew.
Biting at his bottom lip, listening to Marcus ramble on about pain meds, O'Brien crossed his arms over his middle, nodding some as he faced up toward the ceiling, "Good. My leg's starting to hurt again." He hesitated before adding, "Thank you."
"Heh. Nobody died, hombre. Doctors are off shift. And there's a thing about doctors... they're not really used to doing the basic shit, you know? They will, but it's kind of beneath them. If you do piss your fucking pants, won't bother me. I'll just fucking change the sheets under you. Won't say nothing about it. Or you can not piss yourself and just tell me to lead you over. Either way." He didn't add that it was actually a waste of a doctor's time to call one for every little thing, especially when there were other people in and out of the infirmary who needed care. There was a hierarchy to treatment, even in a place like this. Doctors shouldn't have to fetch water or change sheets, not when there was someone else to do it.
"De nada," Marcus responded, when he was thanked, and he shifted the sheet to check the bandage on the thigh. Wren's work was solid, but things like leakage couldn't be helped or predicted sometimes. Everything seemed all right, so he repositioned the sheet around the older man's leg, glancing at the bandage on his face. That did bother Marcus. He didn't think he could even feign calm in the face of blindness. That shit was fucked up. His only comment on the matter, however, was, "Be back in a few, cabrón," before leaving O'Brien in peace.
For a while, anyway. He was back before too long with the pain pills and a cup of cold water, which he set down on the tray next to the bed. “Still want your meds?”
"Hm." He wished that Taisce would hurry back. Or Luke. Whoever was coming back. He didn't like having to rely on them to be by his side 24/7... but it was bad enough that he didn't trust anyone to begin with, let alone now that he was fucking blind. O'brien made another face at Marcus's explanation, "I'm not going to fuckin piss my pants, okay?? I'm fine. Leave me alone."
He was lucky in the fact that Taisce, or Luke, or Eloise were usually around to get him some water or something if he wanted it. Sometimes Rae was around, but that was usually during the day or around breakfast or something. But really. He was just fine waiting for Taisce to get back. He didn't need the guy that called him a Cabron! That's what it was.. Not Cabrito. He liked Cabrito better. Anyway, he didn't need this guy's help.
So yeah. Could Marcus blame O'Brien for being so touchy? He couldn't see a damn thing. It was fucking terrifying, and he hated to admit that. When Marcus tucked the blankets back around his legs, he jumped a little when Marcus got a liittttle too close to where his stupid leg hurt, but really. He was alright. He nodded when the other man stated that he'd be back.
Moving to sit up, O'Brien reached down to carefully re-adjust the blankets how he wanted them, and took a moment to rub at his leg-- well, hold at it was more like it. It would hurt to rub it, really. And it was a good thing he could hear Marcus's footsteps returning, otherwise Marcus's voice would have made him jump.
O'Brien nodded, "yeah, sure." He paused, and once again added the "thank you." He nodded over in the direction toward the table by the bed, "just leave 'em there. I'll take them in a bit." More like he'd take them when someone he trusted was around to make sure the meds were what Marcus said they were.
After another beat, "please?" Really. He didn't have anything personal against this guy. It wasn't Marcus. It was the whole fucking situation. He didn't like not being able to see. It was, hands down, the worst thing that had ever happened to him. He would have even taken another stay in Quarantine over this.
"Water's to the right of the pills," Marcus told him, since O'Brien couldn't see that on his own. He'd figured the guy would be able to find the tray table, since his hands seemed all right, and he'd be able to differentiate between the little paper pill cup and the plastic one that held the water, but sometimes even groggy people who could see would knock shit over. He didn't pity O'Brien. Marcus thought the man had been really lucky. However, he knew that if he were in O’Brien’s position, Marcus would be acting far worse. He'd also seen patients acting worse, over far less, and the thank yous and please weren’t unappreciated. Politeness wasn't generally something he was used to, at least not from men like O'Brien. Even forced politeness.
He sighed, and his voice turned sympathetic. "Sorry, man. I don't know you, and this is my job. Was my job for over ten years before shit went bad, and it's important to me to do it right. I got to see you take 'em so I can check off when you took 'em. That bitch fucked you up hard and that fucking sucks. It's a sick thing to blind a guy. And this shit is why hospitals suck. Never getting left alone. Fuckers like me bugging you, telling you what to do and shit. You don't want them now, they're going back. I'll bring 'em later. You want someone else to bring them, fine, but when it's my shift, it's gonna me, and I do this shit by the book."
By the end, his tone had slipped into an apologetic one, but Marcus wasn't budging on policy. This job in the infirmary was literally all he had at Sing Sing. He didn't have any family here, or friends, really. A few people he barely knew that he was flirty with, a few people he didn’t know at all that he wanted to punch in the face, and this job. The details were important to him. The med chart was to avoid accidental double dosing, missed doses, and missing medications. In a world where meds were only becoming more scarce, he took that shit very seriously. He had nothing against O'Brien personally, but he didn't know the guy either, and didn't trust him to self-report accurately, especially when he couldn't see a clock, or that he wouldn’t refrain from pill-hoarding for later.
"Yeah, thanks." To the right of the pills. Check. He may or may not forget that in 5 minutes. And yes, he was groggy and he couldn't see. He'd probably knock shit over. He hadn't yet, though? So that was good.
Also? The last thing he wanted in the whole world was for anyone to pity him. Take care of him, sure. Worry about him, sure. Make sure he didn't run into things when he went to the bathroom, okay. But he didn't want people to feel sorry for him. He was alive, damnit. That was more than some people could say. But that still didn't make him any less angry. He was angry-- and secretly terrified and sad about not being able to see. But so long as he pretended not to let too much bother him, maybe people wouldn't pity him.
One thing he could respect about this Marcus guy was that he was trying to do his job-- and he was trying to do it right. O'Brien wouldn't argue with that. He, himself, took his job very seriously. For years before the outbreak, and then now. Sure, he got hell for it, these days-- what with the whole application thing and shit, but if they were going to have a security team around here, they were going to do it right.
"I don't think she knew what she was doing. She was psychologically disturbed," and he'd leave it at that. Shaking his head with a sigh, he reached up to rub at his scruffy jaw, considering Marcus's words, and eventually nodded, though he may have been making a bit of a face. He shrugged and nodded toward the direction of Marcus's voice, "So bring them back later." Because he wasn't taking them from someone he'd never met before and didn't know. "Sorry."
He didn't really mean to be so much trouble.
“Hey. Has the Doc mentioned anything about when I can leave this place?” It was said as an afterthought.
"Yeah, bitch had bad wiring," the bigger man replied. He had empathy for psych patients. "Needed help. Not a lot of that around no more. Shit, mental healthcare was in the toilet before there was dead people eating us. Surprised we're not all fucking psycho by now."
Marcus nodded, and took the paper cup back, leaving the water. He didn't mind writing refused on the chart. Like he'd said, it didn't bother him. What he wasn't willing to do was leave pain meds with people who weren't authorized to administer them, or write that he'd seen someone take a pill when he hadn't. That shit was worth far more than gold. "Heh, don't gotta apologize for not taking a pill, hombre. You didn't spit 'em at me or throw 'em, so you're alright in my book."
He considered the question for a moment before answering. "You leave when they're sure you won't fuck yourself up worse being out of here. That's the same for everybody. The way it goes down usually with this kind of thing, that bleeding has to stop. So the leg heals up some, with you staying off it mostly. Then you have to show you can move around on your own. That's the hard shit, especially when you can't see. They'll give you a list of PT exercises. You're gonna hate me even more then, hombre, because sometimes - a lot of times - it'll be me standing here watching you do it and not a hot lady doctor. You start to fall or do something wrong, your ass gets caught or corrected by me, because that's all I'm fucking there to do. Then we keep doing that until you’re doing it all right. When you're not bleeding, and you're not falling down, they let you promise to do all that shit on your own in your own place and free up the bed for some other fucker. Maybe you do all that in a few days. Maybe it takes a week, or a month. Everyone's different, you know?"
O'Brien kept quiet, thinking a moment as he listened to Marcus; He nodded gently, "sometimes I feel like it... like I've lost my fucking mind. Then I wonder why I'm here. Why I put up with it. Why bother. You know?" He worried his bottom lip with his teeth, "Hm." He shook his head. For the longest time, he was the hopeful sort. The last year or so, not so much... He was beginning to lose hope, no matter how many times people told him not to. The only reason he felt like going on was for Luke. That was the main reason he went on, these days. Fought as hard as he did, and tried as hard as he did.
He made another face, probably one that would regularly go with him rolling his eyes, but Marcus couldn't see that, and it wasn't exactly something he could do at the moment. "Just be sure you bring them back later, huh?" His leg was being a bitch. But he'd deal with it until he could have Taisce make sure the pills were alright.
"Look, Cabrito, nothing's broken. So I limp a little," he shrugged, "I don't think I'm going to be here that long. I can still get around, it just hurts to put weight on it. To strain it, you know? I'm not going to be falling over, okay?"
Although O'Brien couldn't see it, he could probably hear Marcus snort in amusement. The large man's smiles could often be quite audible. "Not up to me, hombre. Not my call. That's all you. You don't need to have shit broken to be messed up. Shit, I seen people hurt less than you go down all the time. Nothing wrong with that. But maybe you're fucking magic. Superhuman, yeah? You can hear your way to the fucking toilet, and don't stumble once on that messed up leg. You think that'd piss me off? Shit, that'd make my job easy as fuck. I'll fucking applaud. Wake up tomorrow with your eyes all fixed, even better. Then they let you go home real fucking fast. I'm just telling you what it's gonna take. What you gotta do to get out. How long you're here just depends on how fast you do it. I can sign you off on shit, so if you show me, it's as good as showing Dr. Spengler. That's all."
Marcus actually had a difficult time remembering Wren's surname. He so rarely used it. Even with the formal use of her name, the soft note of affection was there in his tone. However, he wasn't about to start self-analyzing. That could wait for his break. Personally, he wouldn't want to risk falling on a woman, or have a woman help him find the bathroom, nor would he want a hot girl to see him in any kind of weakened state, but he knew that some guys were wired oppositely. They didn't want other men to see them weak, but they were all about being babied by pretty lady nurses and doctors. Marcus didn't baby anyone, which was part of why he was good at his job. Sometimes it was because they accepted his help, other times it was because they balked at it and thought they were somehow spiting him, but either way it got results. People got better, which was all he cared about at the end of the day. "Yeah, I come back in two hours. I'll bring 'em, then. You want 'em sooner than that, let me know. My shift ends in seven hours, if you want to count ‘em down."
O'Brien was frowning again. This guy was making him feel bad real fast. And it was making him mad. He didn't like being here. Not one bit. "I'm not fucking superhuman, you got it? I already told you I limp. I stumble too. And believe me, I'd give just about fucking anything to wake up tomorrow morning and be able to see again. So don't give me that shit."
He shook his head, "Just as soon as my leg gets well enough, I want out of here, alright? It'd be easier to learn my way around my own room than it would be to have someone take me to the fucking toilet."
For the record, O'Brien didn't like anyone seeing him in a weakened state. But everyone in all of Sing Sing had heard about what happened. He couldn't exactly hide it. And he tried to act like it was no big deal to most people. But he felt comfortable around Taisce and Eloise. They were the only women he let help him to the bathroom. And he could do everything on his own. Really. They just waited outside the door. It wasn't like they held it for him or anything.
So yeah, maybe he let Taisce baby him a little. But he really hadn't spent a whole lot of time with her, since being in the infirmary. He slept a lot. The painkillers usually knocked him out.
But it wasn't that he didn't want a dude helping him out, he just didn't want anyone but Luke, Ellie, and Taisce to. They were the three he trusted with all of his heart. The three he trusted the most.
O'Brien nodded, "My friend should be back, by then. I just.. you know.. want to wait and spend some time with her before I take anything and fall asleep again." That. But mostly a lie. He didn't want to tell the guy he didn't trust him much.
"Yeah, I bet," Marcus said, evenly. "But you do what we say, you don't limp as much, as long. Up to you, though. I'm not trying to give you shit, hombre. You asked me a question, I answered it. I get that you're pissed, man. I'd be pissed, too. And if you want to get pissed at me, that's cool. I can take the attitude. Won't stop me from doing my job, though. Make all the declarations at me you want, but when you get out is up to you. Simple as that. Shit, if you could do it without popping your stitches, I'd let you walk out right now. Even stumbling. Even blind. But the shit thing of it is, they would pop, and then we'd both be getting shit for that. So, that's all there is. Just where we're at. Not teasing you, not insulting you, just telling you a fucking fact."
Marcus generally didn't hold a patient's dick unless he had to insert a catheter. Even if O'Brien had lost both arms, the man would still be able to sit down on a toilet. There were a lot worse things to be than blind... though Marcus would have to give a lot of thought to that one, if he were given the choice. Between a loss of his eyes and his arms, it was just possible he'd choose arms. He'd seen some people do amazing things with their feet, after all. In general, the human being was an adaptable creature.
The bit about wanting to stay up was believable, as the meds did have a soporific effect, so Marcus didn't even question that as a lie. In fact, he was a little impressed that O'Brien would rather wait up for his friend in pain than just take the meds and doze. It would have been a lot easier for him if O'Brien were sleeping, but... well, he wasn't in the habit of pushing drugs that he'd rather were used sparingly anyway. He shrugged, although O'Brien couldn't see it, and agreed to that easy enough, even going so far as softening his language to be more professional. Well, sort of. "All right. Shit, I'll bring 'em back after your friend gets here, if you want. She can watch me watch you take 'em. You got the buzzer thing, right? Just push it when you're done visiting with her."
O'Brien huffed; He was never one to be told what to do. Not really. He'd always hated it. He shook his head. That's why his knee still didn't like him all that much. That time he'd twisted it and then limped all the way back to Madison Square Garden on it. And then didn't give it enough time to heal after that, even.
"I'm not pissed at you. And fine." Dropping his head down, and reaching up to rub at his brow, he thought quietly a moment. "Thank you. For giving me the fucking facts." It was said with more of a sincerity than anything. He wasn't being douchey. He was just glad someone was putting their foot down. O'Brien was one of the most stubborn people around. If someone didn't give it to him straight, he was liable to fuck things up.
And thank heaven above that Marcus didn't have to hold his dick when he went for a piss. That would have been beyond awful and embarrassing.
O'Brien gave another nod, "Yeah," he started to feel around on the bed behind him for the buzzer, "it's somewhere around here. I'll get it. Or have my friend help. If um.. If I need it sooner, I'll let you know. Leg's been giving me a bit of trouble."
"I bet." Marcus did know how many stitches had gone into the cut. Bitch hadn't been playing around. He also knew firsthand how ugly that stab wounds could be when they were healing. The hot, throbbing pain... and later, the itching on top of the tenderness. It was hard to say which was worse, sometimes, and none of it was fun. "Yeah, not a fucking problem. Just between us, hombre, if it was me in that bed... I don't think I'd handle it real well. Met some crazy motherfuckers in my life, but nothing like that shit. I know it don't do you no good where you're at, but you got my fucking respect."
So did Taisce, for that matter. Marcus hadn't spoken to her about taking down the murderer, and didn't really intend to mention it unless she brought it up first, since it seemed like the kind of shit someone might not want to chat about. At least now all that bullshit was resolved... and they were mostly just lucky there hadn't been more bodies to bury. There was no denying that.
Marcus also wouldn't deny that he hadn't been exactly helpful during the interrogation. He didn't think he'd really impeded anything, since he hadn't had any information to give, but he'd been belligerent and been unhelpful for no other reason than the fact that he'd been pissed off at the idea that they could start throwing people out of the prison - passing death sentences - for not submitting to the interview. At that time, though, he'd thought they were all being accused of a single murder. That in the interest of fairness, everyone had been painted with the same brush and threatened with the same death sentence to keep them in line, and that shit bothered him. Then again, he'd been on edge since coming to Sing Sing, waiting for signs that their self-appointed leadership was just as fucked up, self-serving, and ass-backwards as the government leadership had been. The one person he'd known on the security team who'd offered reassurance that it wasn't had split, which didn't exactly say a lot for the system. Now, though, he sort of felt like he could have been just a bit more helpful... especially since it had turned out to be a fucking psycho, after all. He wouldn't apologize for being a dick exactly, and he wasn't going to go easy on O'Brien when it came to recovery, but he did hang back in the door of O'Brien's room for a moment to say, "So next time you ask me about some dead motherfucker, I won't flip you so much shit. Anyway, I gotta go do the rest of my rounds. Later, cabrón."
O'Brien shook his head, straightening back up some to bring his hand down to set over his thigh, where the bandage was, holding at it a bit protectively, "yeah, I don't think anyone would.. Me included." If there was one thing he was constantly complaining to Doctor Spengler about, it was his leg. His eyes didn't really hurt so much when he took the painkillers, but the leg still gave him troubles. Without the painkillers, it kind of got to a point where he was in agony.. so he had stopped refusing them pretty early on. Having his eyes hurt and his leg trying to kill him? Yeah. That didn't fly.
O'Brien gave a bit of a scoffing chuckle, "thanks." He gave another shake of his head, "wish I'd earned it some other way. This is fucking hell."
Reaching up to push his messy hair back away from his forehead, Marcus's comment actually got an amused smile from him as he dropped his head down with a nod, "Noted." He gave a bit of an awkward wave, "I'll let you know when my friend's back."
“Cool.” Marcus would probably notice visitors entering the infirmary before O’Brien did, but there was no need to mention that. He could afford to give the man the illusion of privacy, if not the actuality. So he left the room, shutting the door behind him quietly, but not quietly enough that O’Brien wouldn’t hear him doing it, so that the older man would know he was alone. For the rest of that night, he kept his checks brief.