2019-05-20 - 911 What's Your Emergency

The dream state of a few minutes ago still rings in his head as Easton lies on the floor. He has managed to wrap his tee-shirt around his leg to staunch the bleeding and he's currently pulling his belt off cinch it around his upper thigh. He knows a limited amount of emergency medicine from the corps, but he's really banking on some medical help.

He tries to focus on what he's doing, and not the blood dripping from the coffee table that shouldn't be there, or the bottle of whiskey he never took out. He grunts in pain as he gets the belt tight enough. He manages to scoot close enough to the coffee table to raise his leg up. And then all he can do is wait.

And try to figure out what the hell just happened.

There is the wail of an ambulance outside Easton's apartment building moments after the call that's silenced as the rig pulls up and parks in the red zone. Calling 911 is an automatic invitation for first responders to enter by force if necessary, but there is a curtesy knock to Easton's door as Bennie identifies herself.

"Mister Marshall? Bennie Oakes, Gray Harbor Paramedics. I'm entering the premises." The words sound professional, but there is a cheery note that likely doesn't befit the situation as she tries the door knob and shoulders in with her kit slung over one shoulder.

There is a smile affixed to her face that lights up her face and makes her blue eyes crinkle into slits. "Wanna tell me what happened?" Asked as she crosses over to where he's laid out.

"Yup! In here!" The response is likewise not frantic or ever terribly distressed. Friendly even.

The apartment is modern and sparse to say the least. The place looks like he just moved in, or maybe hasn't even finished. There's a couch, a black leather modern piece and a glass and steel coffee table and that's about it for furniture, unless you count the TV on the wall.

Easton is still lying flat on his back, his shirt off and tied around his right leg which is elevated on the coffee table, blood soaking his jeans. His left leg is missing! But that's normal, he lost that a year ago. His prosthetic, a mean looking black contraption with a custom KA-BAR knife holder strapped to it lies across the room.

He looks up at her upside down and says "I.. would rather not? But the injury is a deep clean laceration across my right lower leg. Pretty sure I cut it on the coffee table?" Or you know a surgical saw in a dream state? "But I don't remember."

Bennie tilts her head slightly, as if trying to turn his upside down to right side up. It's not prudent to make light of someone's injury, but there is no masking the laughter in her voice. Of course, that could just be her disposition. "I can see that. Is it alright if I take a look?" She's already moving towards the coffee table and dropping the heavy bag with a shrug of her shoulder. A pair of blue latex gloves are pulled out of her pocket and snapped on.

"Can you tell me your name and the date?"

His smile matches hers as she leans and tilts her head. Okay, maybe nearly cutting off his leg wasn't so bad, extraordinarily hot EMT is at least starting to make up for it. He nods and says, "Yea, please do. I'm hoping I stemmed some of the bleeding. It's an extremely clean cut and bleeding like a bastard."

Looking past her for a moment to the door he asks, "I'm hoping you brought help cause I'm all out of legs and I don't think you want to try and fireman carry me out the building.."

Of course he might be up for that another time, but right now he's in a good amount of pain, though he's doing an admirable job of not showing that.

"My partner is in the rig, waiting to bring up the gurney once I assess the situation." Bennie is dressed in dark blue dickies with matching short sleeve shirt with a name tag above her pocket and patches of identification. Blonde hair has been swept up in a messy bun, so at least it's kept out of her face as she kneels in front of him.

"I think we can call these pants a loss, huh?" Rhetorical, as she's moving his leg gingerly across her lap and cutting open the material with a pair of heavy duty scissors they affectionately call Rippers. "Can you tell me your name and the date, sir?" She asks again.

"Right. Easton Charles Marshall, ma'am. It's May 20th. And I'm pretty sure I've had this exact dream where a gorgeous blond storms into my apartment and rips my pants off.. There was was less pain and bleeding tho." He drops his head back though, either not wanting to see the wound again or just trained to look away.

"And that's good about the partner. I was worried I'd have to talk you through proper protocol for dragging an injured man to safety and I'm not sure my pride could really take another hit like that right now."

"You mean I can't just toss you out the window and hope my partner can catch?" Bennie lifts her gaze briefly to his face as he drops his head back, smile lingering. Carefully she unwinds the t-shirt and snips the material of his jeans further up so he can expose his shin properly, "This is going to sting." She warns before she plucks aside blood soaked fabric that's crusting to the wound. "You did a good job of stopping the bleeding but you're definitely going to need stitches. That's the problem with an injury to this area. So you don't remember how this happened? Are you prone to sleep walking? Black out episodes?"

"I'm pretty sure a lot of amputee jokes start that way actually. And if you got enough oxy or maybe some just straight morphine to dope me up first, I'm game. Assuming your partner is less stunning hot girl and more massive body builder." He doesn't seem in anyway put off by the thought of being tossed about.

He manages to not react as she starts pulling fabric and whatnot away from the wound.

When she asks again after how it happened he props himself up on his bare elbows and looks at her again. She may not be pinging his radar as strongly as others, but he can sense at least something. He narrows his eyes and says, "I ... it was like sleep walking. Except..."

Later he'll get more words from some other locals on how to describe what happened to him. Currently in the harbor a boatload of people are being attacked by the Harlem Globetrotters, acid shitting penguins and exploding Gingers. But for tonight he knows nothing about that, or the dangerous 'slips' that others in this town have experienced.

"I don't remember drinking. I'm pretty sure I'm stone cold sober, but maybe I blacked out..?" His face doesn't look convinced, and instead rather hopeful that she knows what he's obliquely referring to.

"You seem cognizant now, so it's possible you just had a dissociative episode after it happened. Cracked your leg and your mind couldn't deal with the pain." Bennie explains before she falls quiet for a moment as if she's concentrating on his wound and deciding the best course of action.

"Alright, so we have two options. You don't have a fracture," Though how she could possibly sound so confident with just a slight visual examination, is hard to say. "So I can call up the gurney, we take you to the hospital and they stitch you up and you get an expensive bill from both of us. Or, I give you a shot of morphine now, stitch you up myself, and you follow up with your primary care physician in seven days to have them removed."

Easton tries not to furrow his brow as she brings up a disassociative event. He just gives a half-nod and grunt saying, "Sure. That might be it." And why does he get the sense that something wants to convince him of that. How did the bottle get out? How did the blood get on the table? Things don't add up as much as they seem to on the surface.

Her concentration raises the hairs on the back of his neck and suddenly he just knows. He knows that she's using something to determine the extent of his injuries! And further, it's something that he can't do. Like at all.

"Hoooly fuck."

He looks at her for a moment longer, still propped up on his elbows and shirtless. He doesn't explain or elaborate on the exclamation, instead just nods at her. He's still not sure on the rules here in town and it seems like people don't like to talk about these things for ... reasons?

But at her options, he gives a half laugh and says, "Well, what can I say? I trust you. And is there an option where I have you over for a drink and follow up with you instead?"

Yes, he's bleeding on her while flirting, and he can't imagine he's the first guy to do so.

It's not something she seems to advertise, it's not even something that she seems to even recognize she can even do or if she does, it's just 'one of those things' that she can do, like walk and chew bubble gum at the same time.

Bennie lifts her hands away from his leg, fingers splayed out as he exclaims. There is a flicker of concern across her features, like she's half expecting him to hurl because of pain. When no cookies get tossed in her direction, her smile reforms like a cloud has passed out of her ray of sunshine. "Why don't you ask me for that drink some time when I'm not in uniform." Maybe it's because without the patches and name tag she thinks she's less attractive or more likely she's trying to remain professional.

Bennie turns her face to the side, lifting her hand to depress the button the radio mic attached to her shoulder. "Easton Marshall, white male, late twenties. GCS of fifteen. Approximately a ten centimeter lac to the lower right leg. Refusing transport. Will treat on scene."

Easton doesn't say anything more about her glimmer usage, not the least of which because he has no idea how to talk about such things. Magic? Psychic powers? No clue.

"I would love to." He doesn't seem put out by being put off, not the least of which because she is here to do a job and he'd rather she did that well than go out with him. He also doesn't try to hide it when he leans up on his left arm and reaches out with his right and the whiskey bottle just comes to his hand. He raises his eyebrows slightly at her as he takes a sip. Because while people seem to be pretty hush-hush about speaking about things, there's a good chance they're just used to this kind of thing. And he really wanted a drink.

"Sorry, Bennie, was it? Short for.. Benjamina?"

The bottle is set back down on the floor as he comes back down to one elbow, trying not to move his leg much in the process.

"Hey!" Bennie admonishes, though that smile doesn't disappear. "If you want the good stuff, you're going to have to lay off the booze. When they say alcohol intensifies the effects of pain killers, it's not as fun as advertised."

But before she can do that, she shuffles around to take his vitals, skimming a thermostat over his forehead and taking his blood pressure and pulse while she explains everything she's doing by each step. "Sure, let's go with Benjamina. Once you get a few drinks in me, maybe that story will change." Bennie takes a sharpie out of her shirt pocket and writes his stats down on the back of her gloved hand. "Ready for the main event?"

Appropriately chastised Easton agrees, "Alright, I'll gladly trade the booze for the morphine." The warning about mixing booze and pain killers does cause his eyes to go just a bit off to the side. Like, noooo, I'd never do that, or how fun it is might be debatable.

He laughs as she talks about her story changing. "I like a little bit of mystery." He sees the slight change in demeanor and slowly lowers himself back down on the ground. He may be tough but doesn't really need to see if she needs to inject anything in the wound site.

"Yup. Do it up."

Oh, he doesn't need to see, Bennie's going to narrate. "Alright, first an alcohol swab to your thigh, where I'll inject the morphine. Then I'm going to inject a local around the area, flush it and suture." Well, at least the high points.

As she works she carries on the casual side of the conversation, "Speaking of mystery, where did you learn the proper protocol for dragging an injured man to safety? Please tell me it was something entirely geeky like from your regimen in the National Paintball and Pokemon League?"

Nodding as she explains what she plans to do he leans back and lets his eyes go unfocused just a little bit as gets read for the fun. Again, he's suffered through much worse so it's not like he's going to scream and thrash about but he doesn't expect to love it either. "Yes ma'am" He lets another ma'am slip, falling into marine mode without meaning to.

The casual conversation though brings him back a little bit. A smile crosses his lips as she asks about the source being Paintball or Pokemon League. He hehs and says, "Ballroom dancing class. You can never leave a wounded dancer on the floor. It's a lot of gliding hunched over. Very difficult. Came in handy in the Marines." So yes, she does at least get an honest answer in there. Eventually.

There is a growing pile of medical waste on the floor next to her knee, but Bennie works carefully and efficiently without skimping on the 'care' portion. He should be good and numb by the time she pulls out the suture kit. "Now I'm imagining you yelling 'Dancer Down!' and dragging your partner off the floor by her sequined scrunchie." But the words are slightly mellowed from her cheery tone by the truth tacked onto the end of his sass.

"I'd say thank you for your service, but that always seems too petty considering the sacrifices you boys - and girls - make." Case in point, the fact that he's missing half a leg that she hasn't even batted an eye about. "The ma'am though is cute."

The needle sticks obviously cause him to tense up, try as he might to keep still and not react. Not that he's particularly worried about looking tough, he more just doesn't want to move big and screw her up. The mental image of dragging a dance partner off by her scrunchie though has him laughing, even as he tries to keep it clamped down.

"I'm ashamed to say they haven't all made it. It's tough out there for a dancer."

At the part about thanking him for his service, he's glad that she's looking at his leg and not his face. His smile fades and he says a little flat, "I don't wear the uniform anymore, but I appreciate that." A line that he trots out a lot, especially as an amputee. He knows people mean well, but he's trying to put a lot of shit behind him and it still feels like he's being thanked for failing. He does tack on another "Ma'am" though, obviously if she thinks it's cute he can oblige.

The extra ma'am makes Bennie give a quiet little laugh, and she shakes her head with a little bobble of her bun that leaves it dangerously close to coming undone. "My brother didn't make it through his last cha-cha." Are they still talking about dance competitions? But by Bennie's suddenly somber tone, it's likely the mixed metaphors are getting a little muddled here. "Lucky for you, I took up sewing instead of knitting. You'll have a scar, but the margins are clean so it should be pretty straight. You'll want to keep it covered for the next twenty four hours, but after that let it get a lot of air and apply antibiotic cream. Keep it dry, so wrap it in cellophane when you shower. No baths. And if it gets warm to the touch or there is an area of growing redness and swelling around it, come in immediately. I'll drop off a pair of crutches on my way off shift."

She holds up the needle to let him know she's about to start suturing.

"I'm sorry to hear that. What branch did .. dance in?" Are we still doing the dance thing? Is that insensitive? Easton sounds a little concerned but also far more engaged in this conversation than he had been a moment ago.

"Got it. And uh, you can skip the crutches. I have... many actually." He lets out a small laugh at that weird fact and tries to push the depressing thought of just how much it's going to crush his soul to go back to not being able to just fucking walk. He swallows that thought down with a literal gulp.

"But do feel free to stop by after yer shift anyway. Or .. you know, any time."

"Army, 172nd Infantry Brigade. Najaf, Operation Iraqi Freedom." Bennie recites, as if she has those facts seared into her memory with a red hot brand, not even bothering to slap a guise of Ballroom on top of it now.

"If it's not bothering you, you shouldn't need them. It's up to you whether or not it causes too much discomfort to be ambulatory." She pauses right before she starts drawing together the edges of his wound, "You know I could just stitch my number in here, if you prefer?" Her grin renews. "Or you can always find me at the Grizzly if you don't want to dial 911 to get my attention."

He nods at the unit and service information. Another habit he's had to break, identifying his rank and unit whenever asked anything about his identity. He doesn't comment about it, doesn't want to add words when he feels like too many people back here rush to do that.

"Good to know." He wonders if she just read his mind, though he didn't feel anything? And he's not sure people can do that? Weird. "I don't think I'd even feel it at this point." He laughs at the thought of her taking the time to stitch in his number. "Did you do embroidery too? Maybe a little self portrait there on the leg?"

"Oh. You work at Gina's place? Good. I plan on being a regular there. And doubley-so if yer there. And if you don't feel like just letting yourself into my place whenever you feel like it, I bartend down the street at the Two if by Sea place on the beach."

Sometimes people can just read a room without the need for glimmer.

Bennie starts working the needle in and out of his skin, tying off little neat knots. By the time she's done, there's going to twelve tidy sutures in a row. "You're right, it looks just like me." Bennie says, admiring her work before she goes to wrap it. "Well then good, it looks like we'll be seeing a lot of each other, because I plan on abusing this new bartender I met for free shots. Now, normally I'd wait until after you buy me a drink to say this, but let's get you out of the rest of these clothes and poured into bed. If I get your prosthetic, do you think you can manage with my help or should I call for back up?"

"I very much consent to any and all abuse you'd like to put me through ma'am."

He nods and says, "I agree, I'm far too overdressed as it is." Despite the fact that he's in nothing but his jeans which are cut to shreds. He unbuttons the fly and explains "Sorry, it's just gonna be hell to get that on with these on. I'm actually not doing this for your benefit. I mean, I'm also not, not doing it for you." He smirks and arches his back and does his best to slide the jeans down, but will need a little help.

"And yea.." He reaches out and pulls the artificial limb to his hand. "I think we can manage without anyone else."