Clint Zéphyr Chevalier (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
privateinvestigations) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
dreamlikenewyork2016-01-09 02:53 am
privateinvestigations) wrote in dreamlikenewyork2016-01-09 02:53 am
"Even when you fall apart, I'll pick up your bloodstained heart."
Who: Clint Chevalier and Lincoln Cole
What: "Hit me like a subway train."
Where: ICU, Mount Sinai
When: Friday afternoon
Clint wasn't actually being the stupid dickhead everyone probably assumed he would be. When Lincoln regained consciousness and began to communicate a little, one of the first things he said to Clint was to make sure he takes care of himself. It had been the last thing on Clint's mind, he would admit that. It had been impossible to manage not knowing if Lincoln would be okay too. At least with him waking up, there was hope. The least Clint could do for Lincoln was listen to him.
Not that he was a completely perfect angel. He was living on takeout or shitty vending machine sandwiches just to eat something, but his diet was mostly coffee and cigarettes. Coffee to keep himself going, smokes to cockblock a little of the stress. Even if he was conscious of taking care of himself because Lincoln requested it (which meant he had to leave sometimes to sleep), it didn't make Lincoln being this badly hurt any easier. He refused to leave the hospital if someone else couldn't be there with Lincoln.
Clint had gone home earlier that morning, and Lewis was fine with taking the reigns. Clint really hoped Lincoln might be a little more lucid with Lewis' visit, and that maybe they could talk. Lewis had this very deep awareness to the world, not just at a superficial level. He had been through horrific trauma of his own, he had nearly been murdered. Clint hoped he might be a little bit of support for Lincoln through this hardest time.
When Clint arrived back at the hospital, Lewis was sitting there reading on his iPad. He got up and shrugged at Clint apologetically. "Sorry, buddy, he's barely been awake. Even when he was, he was very drowsy. It's just best to wait until he's ready," he offered, giving Clint's shoulder a comforting pat. With a small sigh, Clint nodded and gave Lewis a brief hug of thanks for sitting with Lincoln why he tried to get some sleep back at the apartment. Emphasis on tried.
He had lost count of how many times he had pulled a chair up to Lincoln's hospital bedside now, but he was doing it again. The other visitors didn't tend to sit as close. Clint had asked Jesse on one of his rounds if he was even allowed to sit this close, or was he going to fuck something up. Jesse said it was fine, so long as he didn't disrupt any of the equipment and was prepared to be shoved out of the way by whatever means necessary if there was an emergency. Clint had responded by telling them to chuck him out the window head-first if they needed. He had only been half-joking.
Lincoln really was drowsy, and pale. Was he more pale than he had been earlier that morning? It was impossible to know. The lighting in this place could feel so harsh on your eyes sometimes, you couldn't really deduce how a patient was just by looking at them. Clint brushed his hand softly over Lincoln's hair, stroking his fingers through the strands. Lincoln's eyes opened a little at the touch and Clint gave him a faint smile. "How are you feeling, babe?" he asked. It was probably a stupid question, with no possible good answer. That didn't stop Clint asking it. He asked because he wanted to know, even if Lincoln said he felt awful every single time.
"Tired," Lincoln mumbled, and even that word came out sounding like it only had one syllable. "Did you sleep?"
"Not a whole lot," Clint admitted, because he wasn't going to lie. He could. Any other situation, and he might just do that. This wasn't any other situation. This was the worst situation he had ever been in his whole life. Considering the problems he and Lincoln had with miscommunication, crossed wires, not being on the same page, he wasn't going to lie to Lincoln ever again. This was one of those times he heard Lorenzo talk about, that if you couldn't talk to anyone else in the entire fucking universe, you should still be able to talk to the person you loved. One of those things Clint used to think was complete bullshit. "Are you in pain, babe? You're looking worse for wear to what you were this morning..."
"Hurts all the time. Can't tell anymore," Lincoln admitted. He paused for a moment, letting himself breathe slowly and focusing on that before he continued. "Can you stay? I know what I said. I just... I need you to stay."
Clint nodded and didn't miss a beat in stroking Lincoln's hair. "It's okay, babe. I'm not fucking going anywhere, promise you. Just rest. You don't need to keep trying to talk for my sake." He took Lincoln's hand with his other one and fell quiet. Lincoln's eyes closed, but Clint knew he was still awake. His fingers were threading in loosely with Clint's, accepting the extra connection. "Linc, there's something I want to ask you. When you feel up to it."
Lincoln opened his eyes about half way and they shifted over to Clint's face. "I'm not in the mood, I've got a headache," he mumbled, the best attempt at a joke he could muster. He couldn't quite manage a smile, though. Not even a hint of one.
Clint gave a small snort of amusement accompanied by a smirk. It was maybe the first ever-slight hint of Lincoln's old self coming back. That had to be a little more hope. "No, I... oh, who the fuck am I kidding? If you were in the mood, I'd be all over that like a fucking rash," he had to joke back. He fell serious again soon, however. He looked down at Lincoln's fingers laced loosely with his. "No, that's not it. Believe it or not. You wanna get hitched? You and me, I mean."
"You and me...?" Lincoln eventually murmured, though it was after a long stretch of silence from him, broken only by the beeps and hums of the medical equipment surrounding him. "What about..."
Clint shook his head, sighing. "We're getting divorced. I'd say none of it is because of what happened, because it is. You won't buy any bullshit I try to feed you anyway. What happened has made me see a hell of a fucking lot I couldn't see before. I wish I was a better fucking person and could see all this shit without this happening, but I fucking couldn't. I can now, though. Just want you to think about it, if it's something you'd ever want with a cunt like me."
"Mm. S'not as horrifying to think of as most'd think it was," Lincoln offered, and his eyes were slipping closed again. He was focusing completely on Clint's touch and his voice. The soft stroking of his hair, the weight of Clint's fingers around his. Everything was feeling a bit harder than it was even a few minutes ago. "Yeah... we can do that."
Clint blinked, because he hadn't expected that at all. Maybe it was Lincoln's pain talking, or the fact he wasn't really completely all there. He was of sound mind, he was listening and comprehending, but he was still in a bad way. Did that really just happen? One of the monitors above was making an abnormal beeping sound that Clint hadn't heard before. He glanced up at it, not sure if it was some sort of warning. It didn't sound urgent, just persistent. "I didn't mean you needed to give me an answer now or anything, babe. I just meant that--"
"Fuck, get the nurse," Lincoln cut him off, struggling to get his eyes open again. He was trying to grab Clint's hand harder, but the strength wasn't there. A small sob escaped him when that frustration was coming over him again. "Please... just get the nurse, I think I just shit myself," he had to admit tearfully, mortified.
Not knowing what was happening at first, Clint was trying to listen to what Lincoln was trying to tell him. Lincoln was struggling. His words were coming out slurred, though he was visibly upset. It had been calm one minute, discussing that of all things, and now he was wondering if he had to panic or not. Lincoln was telling him what happened just as that persistent beeping amped up to what mostly definitely sounded like a warning. Clint pushed the nurse call button hard, maybe even more than once by that point. "Okay. It's okay, babe. I'll get them. It's okay." But was it?
Jesse came running in then, eyes up on the monitor. As soon as he saw the readings, he was reaching over and hitting the emergency button above Lincoln's head. "Clint, you need to just step back here. Lincoln, can you hear me?" he asked Lincoln, talking loudly and giving his shoulder a small shake. "Lincoln, it's Jesse. Can you open your eyes for me?"
"What the fuck's going on? He just said he thought he shit himself..." Clint tried to explain helpless, taking a stumbling few steps back to up against the glass wall out of Jesse's way.
Getting no response from Lincoln's, whose eyes were closed and his head lolled to the side against the pillow, Jesse peeled the sheets down off him and revealed the bottom of Lincoln's gown and the sheets beneath him soaked in blood. The rest of his team had come running at the resus alarm sounding out in the rest of the ward. "He's hemorrhaging. Page Dr Casey and the surgical on-call. We need to get him back to theatre," Jesse commanded, lowering Lincoln's bed so he was lying flat. "Clint, you need to wait outside, please."
In shock, Clint was all-but shoved out into the hallway when Lincoln's room seemed to fill with medical staff coming running in from all over the place. The sirens sounding were deafening and felt like they were drilling into his brain. All that blood again. Lincoln had already cheated this a first time. Would he even have a second chance?
COMPLETE
What: "Hit me like a subway train."
Where: ICU, Mount Sinai
When: Friday afternoon
Clint wasn't actually being the stupid dickhead everyone probably assumed he would be. When Lincoln regained consciousness and began to communicate a little, one of the first things he said to Clint was to make sure he takes care of himself. It had been the last thing on Clint's mind, he would admit that. It had been impossible to manage not knowing if Lincoln would be okay too. At least with him waking up, there was hope. The least Clint could do for Lincoln was listen to him.
Not that he was a completely perfect angel. He was living on takeout or shitty vending machine sandwiches just to eat something, but his diet was mostly coffee and cigarettes. Coffee to keep himself going, smokes to cockblock a little of the stress. Even if he was conscious of taking care of himself because Lincoln requested it (which meant he had to leave sometimes to sleep), it didn't make Lincoln being this badly hurt any easier. He refused to leave the hospital if someone else couldn't be there with Lincoln.
Clint had gone home earlier that morning, and Lewis was fine with taking the reigns. Clint really hoped Lincoln might be a little more lucid with Lewis' visit, and that maybe they could talk. Lewis had this very deep awareness to the world, not just at a superficial level. He had been through horrific trauma of his own, he had nearly been murdered. Clint hoped he might be a little bit of support for Lincoln through this hardest time.
When Clint arrived back at the hospital, Lewis was sitting there reading on his iPad. He got up and shrugged at Clint apologetically. "Sorry, buddy, he's barely been awake. Even when he was, he was very drowsy. It's just best to wait until he's ready," he offered, giving Clint's shoulder a comforting pat. With a small sigh, Clint nodded and gave Lewis a brief hug of thanks for sitting with Lincoln why he tried to get some sleep back at the apartment. Emphasis on tried.
He had lost count of how many times he had pulled a chair up to Lincoln's hospital bedside now, but he was doing it again. The other visitors didn't tend to sit as close. Clint had asked Jesse on one of his rounds if he was even allowed to sit this close, or was he going to fuck something up. Jesse said it was fine, so long as he didn't disrupt any of the equipment and was prepared to be shoved out of the way by whatever means necessary if there was an emergency. Clint had responded by telling them to chuck him out the window head-first if they needed. He had only been half-joking.
Lincoln really was drowsy, and pale. Was he more pale than he had been earlier that morning? It was impossible to know. The lighting in this place could feel so harsh on your eyes sometimes, you couldn't really deduce how a patient was just by looking at them. Clint brushed his hand softly over Lincoln's hair, stroking his fingers through the strands. Lincoln's eyes opened a little at the touch and Clint gave him a faint smile. "How are you feeling, babe?" he asked. It was probably a stupid question, with no possible good answer. That didn't stop Clint asking it. He asked because he wanted to know, even if Lincoln said he felt awful every single time.
"Tired," Lincoln mumbled, and even that word came out sounding like it only had one syllable. "Did you sleep?"
"Not a whole lot," Clint admitted, because he wasn't going to lie. He could. Any other situation, and he might just do that. This wasn't any other situation. This was the worst situation he had ever been in his whole life. Considering the problems he and Lincoln had with miscommunication, crossed wires, not being on the same page, he wasn't going to lie to Lincoln ever again. This was one of those times he heard Lorenzo talk about, that if you couldn't talk to anyone else in the entire fucking universe, you should still be able to talk to the person you loved. One of those things Clint used to think was complete bullshit. "Are you in pain, babe? You're looking worse for wear to what you were this morning..."
"Hurts all the time. Can't tell anymore," Lincoln admitted. He paused for a moment, letting himself breathe slowly and focusing on that before he continued. "Can you stay? I know what I said. I just... I need you to stay."
Clint nodded and didn't miss a beat in stroking Lincoln's hair. "It's okay, babe. I'm not fucking going anywhere, promise you. Just rest. You don't need to keep trying to talk for my sake." He took Lincoln's hand with his other one and fell quiet. Lincoln's eyes closed, but Clint knew he was still awake. His fingers were threading in loosely with Clint's, accepting the extra connection. "Linc, there's something I want to ask you. When you feel up to it."
Lincoln opened his eyes about half way and they shifted over to Clint's face. "I'm not in the mood, I've got a headache," he mumbled, the best attempt at a joke he could muster. He couldn't quite manage a smile, though. Not even a hint of one.
Clint gave a small snort of amusement accompanied by a smirk. It was maybe the first ever-slight hint of Lincoln's old self coming back. That had to be a little more hope. "No, I... oh, who the fuck am I kidding? If you were in the mood, I'd be all over that like a fucking rash," he had to joke back. He fell serious again soon, however. He looked down at Lincoln's fingers laced loosely with his. "No, that's not it. Believe it or not. You wanna get hitched? You and me, I mean."
"You and me...?" Lincoln eventually murmured, though it was after a long stretch of silence from him, broken only by the beeps and hums of the medical equipment surrounding him. "What about..."
Clint shook his head, sighing. "We're getting divorced. I'd say none of it is because of what happened, because it is. You won't buy any bullshit I try to feed you anyway. What happened has made me see a hell of a fucking lot I couldn't see before. I wish I was a better fucking person and could see all this shit without this happening, but I fucking couldn't. I can now, though. Just want you to think about it, if it's something you'd ever want with a cunt like me."
"Mm. S'not as horrifying to think of as most'd think it was," Lincoln offered, and his eyes were slipping closed again. He was focusing completely on Clint's touch and his voice. The soft stroking of his hair, the weight of Clint's fingers around his. Everything was feeling a bit harder than it was even a few minutes ago. "Yeah... we can do that."
Clint blinked, because he hadn't expected that at all. Maybe it was Lincoln's pain talking, or the fact he wasn't really completely all there. He was of sound mind, he was listening and comprehending, but he was still in a bad way. Did that really just happen? One of the monitors above was making an abnormal beeping sound that Clint hadn't heard before. He glanced up at it, not sure if it was some sort of warning. It didn't sound urgent, just persistent. "I didn't mean you needed to give me an answer now or anything, babe. I just meant that--"
"Fuck, get the nurse," Lincoln cut him off, struggling to get his eyes open again. He was trying to grab Clint's hand harder, but the strength wasn't there. A small sob escaped him when that frustration was coming over him again. "Please... just get the nurse, I think I just shit myself," he had to admit tearfully, mortified.
Not knowing what was happening at first, Clint was trying to listen to what Lincoln was trying to tell him. Lincoln was struggling. His words were coming out slurred, though he was visibly upset. It had been calm one minute, discussing that of all things, and now he was wondering if he had to panic or not. Lincoln was telling him what happened just as that persistent beeping amped up to what mostly definitely sounded like a warning. Clint pushed the nurse call button hard, maybe even more than once by that point. "Okay. It's okay, babe. I'll get them. It's okay." But was it?
Jesse came running in then, eyes up on the monitor. As soon as he saw the readings, he was reaching over and hitting the emergency button above Lincoln's head. "Clint, you need to just step back here. Lincoln, can you hear me?" he asked Lincoln, talking loudly and giving his shoulder a small shake. "Lincoln, it's Jesse. Can you open your eyes for me?"
"What the fuck's going on? He just said he thought he shit himself..." Clint tried to explain helpless, taking a stumbling few steps back to up against the glass wall out of Jesse's way.
Getting no response from Lincoln's, whose eyes were closed and his head lolled to the side against the pillow, Jesse peeled the sheets down off him and revealed the bottom of Lincoln's gown and the sheets beneath him soaked in blood. The rest of his team had come running at the resus alarm sounding out in the rest of the ward. "He's hemorrhaging. Page Dr Casey and the surgical on-call. We need to get him back to theatre," Jesse commanded, lowering Lincoln's bed so he was lying flat. "Clint, you need to wait outside, please."
In shock, Clint was all-but shoved out into the hallway when Lincoln's room seemed to fill with medical staff coming running in from all over the place. The sirens sounding were deafening and felt like they were drilling into his brain. All that blood again. Lincoln had already cheated this a first time. Would he even have a second chance?
COMPLETE