2019-08-10 - No Peeking Allowed

Abby's next name in her rounds for today is a woman called Isabella Reede.

According to her medical chart, the young woman had just been operated on by Dr. Allen Hayworth for multiple gunshot wounds to the chest of multiple severity, though strangely enough despite a relatively poor prognosis when she was admitted in the emergency OR, she has managed to survive the procedure. The first responders on the scene were H.E. Sutton and B. Oakes, and there is another incident report that states that she was brought in around the same time as Captain Javier Ruiz de la Vega of the Gray Harbor Police Department. It seems they were entered into surgery at the same time.

Though in spite of the grim sounding file, by the time Abby makes it to Isabella's room, there is no sign of a woman clinging to life, but rather the opposite. She is in her late twenties, or younger, with dark brown hair swept back from her face and secured to the back of her head with a pencil - the kind of feminine witchcraft that tends to baffle those who don't have lengthy tresses of their own to master the trick. Clad in a hospital gown that's sleeveless to give doctors and nurses easy access to the healing sutures and bandages criss-crossing her chest, for a recovering patient, she is not at all idle, or even sleeping. There's a laptop braced between her blanket covered knees, and she's rapidly typing away at it. Her nearest bedside table is piled high with books, the topmost of which is the Liber Sacer, bound in leather and with a neon-pink bookmark sticking out of it. It is not like the others - the tomes below it ascribe to subjects of a more historical nature, and mostly to do with naval battles and oceanic exploration.

The unmistakable signs of visitors are apparent already, even at this hour - mylar balloons carrying her name in big, bold and clashing colors dot the ceiling, with one of them tied to the other side of her bed, and two vases full of flowers next to her books. There's a empty bag from a relatively good gastropub in town, indicative of a Good Samaritan or Knight in Shining Armor who had decided to rescue the archaeologist from a morning of hospital food. There's also a bright orange octopus plush toy, on a comfortable perch on the young woman's shoulder as she types, big, dark glass eyes staring at Abby as she walks in.

Isabella looks up from her work, green eyes shot with gold falling on the woman's face. She looks exhausted, given her ordeal, but galvanized by some all-consuming purpose. Not enough, at least, to prevent her from smiling at the nurse. "Is it time?" she asks. "Do I have to get naked?" She assumes it's time for the bandages to get changed again.

Abby's arrival is heralded by a light tap of warning before she leans in to peek. "Hello," she offers the greeting with warm, sunny smile and steps fully into view. The blonde woman is likely in her own late twenties, hair held back by a headband, wearing light blue scrubs with little puffy white clouds on them, and comfortable clogs. She looks a little curious about the patient's condition, because she double-checks her chart, and double-checks her location and hums a few musical notes to herself before jotting something down.

"Naked? Oh! Not very. A little, maybe? We'll see! How are you feeling?" The nurse asks in that same bright and pleasant tone, then abruptly stops to point a finger at herself. "I'm nurse Reed. No E. Well, two Es, actually." Her fingers signal the appropriate numbers. "Just not three. Es."

"Okay!" She moves on with a hint of a small apologetic smile, cringing at herself. "You seem to be doing really well, going by your chart. But how are you feeling?"

She doesn't exhibit any outward signs that she is hurt until she has to move. Isabella slowly picks up her laptop and shifts it to the bedside table before easing herself in a straighter sitting position. There's a faint wince, a slight ticking of her facial expression that dovetails almost immediately into annoyance - not at the nurse presently assigned to her care, but her present situation. Judging by the stubborn set of her jaw and the quiet grousing she makes as she eases her blanket off her legs, doing everything that she can by herself, her fellow Reed(e) demonstrates all the signs of being a particularly difficult patient. She clearly does not do well in hospitals, if not just because medical attention tends to get in the way of her work.

Not that she isn't grateful. There's something about Abby's winning smile that draws her own, sharp eyes falling on her clogs and blue-and-cloud scrubs. "Can I get a set of those as a souvenir, they're cute," she tells her in a conversational fashion. "Plus I can pretend to be a medical doctor instead of a staid academic. It's nice to meet you, Nurse Reed. My name's Isabella."

How are you feeling?

"Physically, extremely sore," she confesses. "The stitches tug and they feel uncomfortable, though honestly this is the first time in a long while that I've been injured this badly." She speaks of her current situation as if she'd just fallen off a tree, or had been run over by a truck, not involved in Gray Harbor's own Gunfight at the OK Corral.

"It's very nice to meet you too, Isabella. And some pain is to be expected. Well, to tell you the truth, a lot of pain is to be expected." Abby says that last part as if she's confiding in Isabela, her brow knitting slightly as her eyes bounce back from the chart to the patient it refers to. "I have to say your recovery seems to be going really well, though. I'm not your doctor, but you're doing a lot better than I would've expected according to everything I'm reading here, so that's good news." She raises her eyes, and looks genuinely happy at this, but immediately takes a couple of seconds to coolly jot something down on the chart.

"But I know just being stuck here is bad enough, right?" The nurse sympathizes stepping out to drag in a cart with assorted supplies. She stops to look down at herself, and turns slightly from side to side as if to model the scrubs. "Aren't they? I kind of need these, but I can tell you where I got them," the comfortably curvy woman's scrubs would probably be a little too large on Isabella, anyhow.

"Okay, so I'm just going to check your vitals and then I'm going to see what those bandages look like, okay? I'm probably going to have to change them, but let me look first." And she proceeds to go about taking Isabella's vitals, largely assisted by the assorted machinery already present in the room. "Does that little guy on your shoulder have a name?"

I have to say your recovery seems to be going really well, though.

There are certain suspicions as to why that is, but Isabella only smiles; it's difficult not to, considering the fact that Abby's demeanor is so infectious - the quiet confiding and all of her smiles, the fact that the way she radiates happiness feels as warm as the summer sun. "Considering all the accidents and whatnot that happens around here, I'm pretty sure staff members are miracle workers by this point," she replies lightly. "I wouldn't be surprised if a few medical geniuses are working here."

Green-gold eyes slant to the pile of books on her side-table, the laptop open for research. "I just want to go back to work," she tells her ruefully. "I have a few articles to edit, and my own thesis to work on, and a consult that I haven't had much traction on since I arrived. The quicker I get back out there, the better off I'll be. I don't suppose the hospital's developed any secret regeneration technology yet? I mean, since I'm doing so well, I'm holding out hope." She makes a big show of crossing her fingers together.

The modeling of the scrubs earns her a grin and a thumbs-up. "I'll be in good shape if they have one with clouds shaped like sheep," she says, and once told she's here to check on vitals, she holds out her arm. Her heartbeat is strong, steady, and her blood pressure is surprisingly good - but that is evident enough by the look of her, a woman who clearly enjoys an active lifestyle; she swims in the ocean every day, if she can, runs or goes to yoga whenever she can't get to the water. What manages to cling to her aura, however, is the overall heaviness that comes with something other than physical toils; she is worn out in other ways.

"Are you from around here, Nurse Reed?" she asks.

It doesn't take too long for Easton to get a nurse who can direct him to Captain De La Vega's room. Standing at the nurses station, his own scraps and bruises much more minor than anyone he's visiting, Easton apparently come prepared. He has a large canvas tote bag, one that probably doesn't belong to him based on the girly patterns and patches sewn expertly into it. He doesn't seem bothered to be toting the floral bag even though it doesn't really go with his dark jeans, light gray tee-shirt and motorcycle boots.

Entering the room that he was direct to he's very confused to find it empty. He call out a soft "Helloo?" wondering if he somehow caught Ruiz on a bathroom break (which Easton doubts he could even manage right now). He then wanders back out into the hall and just starts walking into open rooms. He doesn't seem embarrassed to get it wrong, multiple times, just apologizes and heads to the next one. Finally he comes into Isabella's room and stops short. "Oh, sorry ma'am I was ..." He then stops and realizes that he found the 'other girl' from the bar. "Isabella?" He has no last name for her still and as such couldn't really find her directly. But then he sees that there's a nurse in there trying to take care of things and he says, "Sorry, I'll come back."

Something about the patient on the other side of the curtain causes Easton to hesitate awkwardly like he wants to go into the room farther and see if it's the Captain but instead just ends up kind of standing there.

Smooth.

The conversation between Abby and Isabella is pretty easily overheard by the older fellow rooming with Isabella, currently making his way through a book without a prominent title, but with the author, Octavio Paz, listed prominently on the cover. Dark hair, muscular build under that hospital gown, extensive ink. Looks like the Captain, with a bit more mountain man going on as the days progress. He glimpses Easton between the curtains briefly, and furrows his brows a little.

"We have some pretty smart people. I don't know about secret regeneration technology, but maybe my clearance just isn't high enough." Abby plays along, occasionally looking up from her work to share a smile with Isabella. For the most part, however, she's very focused and methodical about the work at hand. "There /are/ some very suspicious closets no one ever seems to have the key to. If there's a secret lab, I'll bet that's where the entrance is." Her voice drops to a whisper. "You didn't hear it from me, though." She winks.

She takes some notes, sets the chart down, and pulls the cart closer. "Oh, I'm from over in Elma." About twenty minutes inland from Gray Harbor along the Olympic highway, Elma is one of the small towns dotted along the road that make Gray Harbor look like the big city in comparison.

Hearing someone behind her, Abby turns to look in Easton's direction, greeting him with a curious look and a friendly smile. "Hello there!" But before anything else, the nurse turns a quizzical look in Isabella's direction, lifting an eyebrow as her eyes dart back to point in Easton's direction, as if to silently ask if the patient knows the man and if everything is okay.

A familiar voice calls her by name, but not one that's too familiar. Isabella's attention gravitates away from Nurse Reed to fall on... "....Easton?" she says, in a tone that makes her uncertainty relatively clear, but the fact that she knows what his name is suggests, at least, that someone has been talking to her. She flashes him a quick smile, inclining her head slightly to the side as she takes the time to actually get a good look at the bartender of Two If By Sea. The description she was given is brief, but apt: Short, handsome.

But before she can say anything else, he moves off, though gold-flecked eyes follow his wake, strafing down the room and the divider that he walks towards and recognizes the entryway to Captain de la Vega's side of the room. Her smile fades slightly in the corners, studying it; she can't see the man himself from where she is, but knowing she is his roommate is a reminder enough of their post-op conversation before exhaustion had sunk them back in the dark. Lips purse, scenarios fill her skull, her head turning to regard the intravenous drip attached to her body and the monitors spitting out periodic assessments on her wellness and vitals - and wonders just how far she could get away before she's put back in bed again.

Maybe it'll give her time enough.

It isn't a complete jailbreak, but in her mind, it's an effort worth pursuing.

Suspicious closets with no keys has her eyes lifting towards Abby again, and the archaeologist laughs appreciatively at the conspiratorial whisper. She leans forward. "Heard what?" she asks, with a tone so innocent that everyone in the room ought to expect the FBI flying through the windows at any moment clad in tactical gear, to spirit her off in handcuffs. "I don't think I've ever been to Elma," she confesses. "Though my geographical knowledge of the area could stand to use a refresher anyway, I haven't lived here in over ten years."

Relieved that she knows who he is, or at least isn't acting confused and telling him to get the hell out of her room Easton relaxes. "Yea. Glad, I found you. I wanted to make sure you were doing okay and drop off some things." He reaches into the bag and pulls out a small bottle of Glenlevit 18 and then a small bakery box. He sets them on the table and explains, half to Isabella and half to Abby "I don't think you actually got your drink the other night." Before being shot multiple times by murderous ghost cops from the past, is not added. He says, "You look great." and then adds "Considering" which he then regrets adding as it sounds like more of a backhanded compliment then a being genuinely happy to find her well.

He shuffles on his feet as if nervous and then holds up a finger, "Excuse me.." Having caught a glimpse through the curtain of someone that could definitely be Ruiz he walks over to the other side of the room and peaks his head in. "Oh! Good." He then walks right in to explain, "I came to drop off things." Even though he likely just heard him say this. Curtains offer sadly very, very little in the way of sound dampening. He get to pulling out a small bottle of Patrón and another bakery box.

"How are you feeling Captain?"

Easton lingers there in case the Isabella needs some privacy for her strip show, er, examination. Focus Marshall.

Ruiz wasn't eavesdropping, precisely. That would require intent, and really, his intent is to read his book and take his mind off the fact that he's still trapped in this godforsaken place and forced to wear this ridiculous hospital gown. He looks up as Easton appears, with a bottle of Patrón, no less. And the man suddenly becomes his favourite person of the day; the sight of the tequila draws a small, dimpled smile from the captain. "Better," he offers in a gamely fashion. The book is marked and set aside, and he tries to shuffle himself slightly more upright with his good hand. "What's the occasion?"

Abby watches Easton take out more things to add to the clutter of the room, and there's just a tiny crease on her brow, but she doesn't let it otherwise mar her pleasant disposition. She eyes the items, but for the most part studies Isabella's reaction before getting back to work. Once Easton's gone over to the other side, she follows, just to draw the curtains further closed, ensuring privacy. Visual, at least.

"You didn't miss much." Apparently, Abby's not imbued with a lot of hometown pride. "If you ever have to drive to Olympia, you'll probably go right by it and not even notice." She waves it away with a smile, then gives Isabella an apologetic smile. "I do need to look at your bandages now. Sorry." And clearly, the cart has all the supplies needed to change them as well.

She doesn't hurry Isabella, helping to get the gown out of the way so she can inspect the bandages, but once she does she's very quiet and methodical about them. Her touch is light and sure. "Okay. So, I'm going to have to change these and these and... wow these look great, actually. These can hold until the doctor sees you tomorrow. I'm not even seeing any spotting. Are you sure you're not Wolverine? The one with the... grrr and he heals really fast? Logan, I think?" The grrr is accompanied by her gloved hands shaped into claws.

The light banter is clearly meant to keep Isabella at ease once Abby starts the delicate procedure of removing and changing the actual bandages.

Easton's concern - and one from a relative stranger - evokes a profound softening of Isabella's half-harried expression, her visible impatience of being confined in a hospital room fading when the purpose of his visit is revealed. "You didn't have to do that, but thank you very much, I appreciate it," she tells him quietly, lifting a hand to rub against the bridge of her nose. That sunkissed mien brightens especially when he produces the bottle of Glenlevit 18 and the small pastry box. "...no, no I changed my mind. You definitely had to do this and you're officially my favorite bartender in the city," she tells him gamely, lips curling up in a visible grin that bares hints of brilliant white teeth from between parted, somewhat bloodless lips. She looks like a fright, or at least she would claim it easily enough, with her hair a tangle of wild waves that haven't seen a straightening iron in a few days, revealing its natural and uncontrollable state, and half her torso covered in bandages visible by the cut of her gown.

But better a mess and alive, than composed and dead.

You look great, considering.

Backhanded or no, it seems to make her day because the words generate the full force of a growing, incandescent expression directed in Easton's way, enlivening the color of her eyes and likely to blind the unwary. "Most definitely my favorite bartender now," she tells him; too proud of a creature, in the end, to express any insecurities about her present appearance and state. But that sharp levity eases off in favor of a smile filled with rue, and a flash of a roiling, deep-seated rage within those turbulent eyes; that, she can't help, considering who was involved. "I'm sorry about your bar," she tells him. "I've not been there before, but I love the location and name."

She'd say more, but friendly, yet professional Abby draws the curtains shut, sealing away her view of the rest of the room. Dutifully, and very slowly, she extricates herself from the top of her gown, pale fabric slipping down bare swaths of smooth, suntouched skin - evidence of a young woman who takes waxing and a specific skin care regimen very seriously; the easier to get into scuba gear without friction, after all, though now that she's partially undressed, the nurse would gain glimpses of older injuries. Activity would do that to a young body, though an even tan keeps them camouflaged save for a thin white line of a surgical scar on her left shoulder, running down along the ball joint.

"I wish I was Wolverine," Isabella tells the nurse with a laugh. "Bones that don't break, heals quick, almost literally unable to die? I could use that all in my line of work. Though between you and me?" She winks. "Only saw those movies because of Hugh Jackman. He's getting up there in the years, but still hot, if you ask me."

Isabella's reaction to the gift of booze and chocolate croissants is brushed off with a "It's the least I c'd do." His guilt over the incident driving him to almost obsessively track down the people who were hurt and check in on them has been incessant but now that he's actually here it feels a little strange to him. He says, "Well good, I'd hate to think you get shot up in just anyone's bar. I mean, I would like to think it meant something to you." His sense of humor is dark to say the least. He's far more used to joking with Marines about combat situations and terrible circumstances than civilians.

But now on the other side of the curtain looking at the Ruiz Easton has to mentally adjust to the fact that he definitely saw him take at least 4 rounds the other night, and he's pretty sure there were more shots that he missed. He agrees, "Yea, you didn't look so great the other night." He sets the bag down and takes a seat in a visitors chair to get off his leg for a bit. "The occasion is 'congratulations for not dying in my bar despite being shot repeatedly.'" It's taken some getting used to but Easton's starting to get more comfortable referring to it as 'his' bar. It probably has something to do with the fact that it was just so brutally attacked that he suddenly feels far more possessive of it than before. "I do this for everyone who survives getting shot in my bar." He deadpans before continuing, "Which is just the three of you so far."

The explanation from Easton garners a chortle from Ruiz, fingertips nudging the book aside so there's room on the table for the box of baked goods. Which, of course, he's compelled to sneak a glance at by lifting the lid briefly. "I've survived worse," he tells the other man, eyes flicking to his leg as he settles in.

After a pause to consider his next words, the captain ventures in the same low, rough murmur, "You served, I'm guessing. Which branch?" He's trying not to pay attention to the dressing change going on nearby, though it would probably be a lie to say his mind isn't wandering to notions of what Isabella looks like naked. Because he's a man. And it's like something out of a porn routine. Not that he's going to say this out loud, drugs or no.

"I think we could all use that in our lines of work! Maybe not so much for accountaints, but I know it would come in handy sometimes." Abby jokes as she works, glancing up at Isabella for a split second. Otherwise, her eyes stay on what she's doing, carefully assessing the wounds and the stitching under the bandages as she removes them. She cleans away the blood, disinfects the area, and fetches fresh bandages to reapply over the area laid bare. She's careful, but at times the removal tugs ever so slightly at the edges of the stitches, enough for a very faint pang and an automatic wince from the nurse whether or not Isabella reacts.

"He is pretty hot, isn't he?" Her tone is quietly observational, more a statement of fact than anything else. "And he's really talented, he can dance, sing. There should have been musical X-Men numbers." The corners of her mouth crook into a smile as she steps back, fingers smoothing down over the newly applied bandages, then the section, lower along Isabella's torso, that she's left alone. "Okay, how are you feeling? Anything pinching or too tight?"

"Well, I mean, mobsters still need accountants, and who hasn't seen the Untouchables?" Isabella seems to like movies. "I'm not discounting the idea that there's a few out there who need to run to the Canadian border to keep some mafia don's books secret while being chased by U.S. Marshals."

There are multiple sutures holding her together, angry and red though her attending surgeon appears to be in the cutting edge of surgical technology; her 'stitches' are less stitches and more like tape, relatively new from the likes of companies like 3M that adhere a wound shut. They won't do much about the irritation, but they do guarantee that the wounds will heal clean and even fade over time - a relief, probably, for young women like Isabella, who manages to cling to some degree of vanity no matter the profession.

She helps when she can. In this, at least, she is cooperative; slender arms lift when the bandages are unwound and the lacerations are disinfected, and any accidental tugging has those fine-boned features mirroring a wince or two. But she doesn't yelp, or even make a sound, determinedly grinding her teeth together to prevent herself from doing so.

"There should," the archaeologist agrees with a quiet laugh. "They can make Professor X do wheelies across the mansion during one of the numbers or something." She straightens her spine once Abby slips lower, elongating the narrow taper of her waist as she stretches her arms up - this time, she can't help but groan, because doing so hurts. So much for doing yoga for a while.

"No, you're perfect," she tells her simply. "I'm sore everywhere but that's something that can't be helped. So why did you move to Gray Harbor?" There's a slight look over her shoulder, through the curtain at where Easton and Ruiz can be heard conversing, though she's trying her best not to eavesdrop - it's difficult to stem the urge, though. A few days in a hospital room with nothing but her books and far from the ocean, just the sound of conversation is relieving to her.

The glance to his leg and talking about surviving worse gets Easton to admit easily, "I'm not sure I have." Not that Ruiz was asking per say, but seriously getting blown up versus shot 5-6 times without body armor is a pretty close comparison.

Easton is sitting, a little too upright, having not really rid himself of military posture yet. He confirms Ruiz's suspicion with a very crisp, "Yes sir." A combination of both habit and the fact that he already thinks of Ruiz in terms of rank, an officer, even if it's on the police force not military. "Marines, Captain Easton Marshall of the 3/8... Formerly of." Identifying his rank, battalion and company also comes naturally still and it's only after he realizes he needs to clarify that he's no longer that, maybe still in title but not in the real practical sense. It's not how civilians talk and he's slowly trying to break some of these habits, but he's only been out for a year. "And you?" There's a large enough overlap between police and military that it's always work asking, but the 'survived worse' comment begs the question.

Easton's rigid posture and focus on Ruiz help him ignore the scene one very thin curtain over. Over course hearing ..pretty hot.. come through isn't helping him not imagining scenarios from adult films the world over.

Ruiz is stalwartly keeping his focus on Easton at the moment. Because the alternative is trying to sneak a peek through the gap in the curtains that just might afford a sliver of skin if he's lucky. And even he seems to be above such juvenile things. Seems being the operative word.

As the other man's rank is rattled off, it seems to bring back memories, ever so briefly. A flickerflash of remembrance; the smell of gunsmoke, the dust of travel. The sound of helicopter blades and oppressive heat of the jungle mingled with smoking jet fuel. He draws a breath, and offers a wan smile. "You don't need to 'sir' me. Gunnery Sergeant Javier Ruiz de la Vega, third division, twelfth battalion, Marines." Seems, then, that they have something in common.

"What'd you do to your leg? IED?" His own posture is significantly less straight-backed and proper, but then he's probably also been out longer than the younger man.

"I guess they do have their own specialties, so maybe I can see that for mob accountants," Abby admits, but she does so with a mildly doubtful look for Isabella's benefit. Then she listens as she starts tidying up her cart. "Okay, then! Well, everything is looking really good from where I'm standing, so maybe you won't have to see me again too many times!"

Pausing this, she starts to help Isabella with getting the gown back into place. "Well, there aren't any hospitals in Elma! And I wanted to leave, anyway. There was an opening here in the hospital, and I'd been in town for a lot of my classes anyway, so..." She shrugs, fingers smoothing the hospital gown down lightly, then pausing to adjust the wires and tubes and get them out of Isabella's way. "I thought about looking for work further away, actually. There was something in Seattle, but it's just too big, you know? Too much of everything. I couldn't live there."

She takes a couple of steps back and picks up the chart to fill it in with some more notes. "And there you are."

Easton's composure stat is far, far too high for him to be tempted by the breeze of the air conditioning that causes the curtain to flap, just visible on the edge of his vision. Of course that means that Ruiz is the focus of a rather intense straight forward stare that might be mistaken for military attention. Thankfully Ruiz is rattling off his own rank and that causes Easton to break out into a grin. "Well shit. So what I do call you? Gunny or Captain?" It's probably the first genuine smile he's had since the other night. Also noticeably absent from those options were any of the pieces of Ruiz's actual name. What even are actual names? Useless.

"Got it in one." His grin subsides to more of a wry smile as he admits, "And so did they." Not that he really wanted to be hit by more than one IED but still he would have liked to come out unscathed if given the choice. "Marjah."

"What about you? You mentioned surviving worse, was that in the Corps or on the force? Or are you just horribly unlucky and got shot more than seven times as a civilian?" Easton almost laughs at the last option, there's something very darkly funny to him about Ruiz surviving combat and police work unscathed only to be riddled by bullets picking up milk at the store. Again, his sense of humor is a bit askew.

In the hospital corridor, just down from the nurse's station, a slightly sibilant British accented voice utters one word, "Charts." This is shortly after the clipped approach of heels, the pace fast prior to an abrupt stop for that demand, quite unusual in the procession of sneakers, Crocs, and Danskos so popular with the rest of the staff, mainly because those footfalls are then quiet and unobtrusive.

There's a pause from the corridor, and the woman in question (Dr. Tillie Harlow) asks of someone else, also just out of sight, "What are you eating?"

With the bandages wound around her torso, and metallic clips latched into place, the faint drag of the cold pin into her waist has the young woman jerking to the side slightly, jarring the curtains followed by a small peal of laughter. "Hey, that tickles," she teases the nurse. "At least buy me dinner, first."

But with the re-dressing done, she accepts the help gladly, holding her arms out dutifully when the hospital gown is returned to her person. "I don't mind if I saw you often," Isabella tells Abby with a smile. "I mean, it sounds like you and I watch the same things and there's only so many hours my books can keep me out of trouble for. Thank you so much, Nurse Reed, I appreciate this. Sure I can't tempt you with whatever's in the box Easton brought me before you go back and continue your rotation?"

She listens with the rapt attentiveness of a young woman who takes a genuine interest in how other people live their lives, though whether it is a consequence of her personality or her profession, it is difficult to say. There's a flash of curiosity at the aborted attempt to live in Seattle, but the explanation is rational enough. "Big cities aren't for everyone, and there's a reason people tend to leave them if they want to relax. I hope you're finding what you're looking for in Gray Harbor, though." But she absolutely doesn't say that it's a great place to live, doesn't wax poetic about how beautiful its summers are, or how great its people can be. Anyone who cares about anyone wouldn't actually encourage people to stay here, especially when they're in the know.

And yet, here they are.

"Muffin."

Dr. Bowman's mouth is filled with muffin, so the word actually comes out as "Mffm." His steps are most certainly not accompanied by the click of heels, although the pace of his scuffing feet is absolutely dictated by the woman who just asked him a question out in the corridor.

"Don't look at me like that."

Ruiz doesn't seem bothered by the intent manner in which his fellow marine is watching him. Personal boundaries are stripped away pretty quickly in the military, and talking to an ex-serviceman is like taking a little trip back in time; the body, the mind remember. A little too well, sometimes.

"Captain's fine," he murmurs, with the air of a dyed-in-the-wool enlisted man who's secretly loathe to have others refer to him as an officer. He blows a breath out his nose when his guess is confirmed. And starts to say something more, before seeming to change his mind on it.

"They did really seem to want me dead, didn't they." He was shot at more than seven times, mind. Many of those rounds missed, and a few of them miraculously managed to do very little damage. Maybe they just knew to take down the big guy first. "The Corps, mostly," he tells Easton after a pause, but leaves out the details. He's definitely not trying to sneak a peek at the sound of laughter and at least buy me dinner.

Abby shakes her head, peeling her gloves off as she laughs just above her breath, stealing a quick glance at the box of baked goods. "You can try, but I'm afraid I'll have to resist temptation this time around." She sounds almost regretful, but punctuates the refusal with a wink, before gesturing at herself. "I really, really shouldn't. And I strongly advise against drinking the whisky while you're here, too." That last part is delivered in a hushed conspiratorial voice.

Then she starts drawing the curtains back slightly, probably to continue on to the next patient. "I'm sure I'll see you again, so maybe next time? Try to rest."

"Captain it is." Easton easily agrees. Though having him framed as a former Gunnery Seargant is going to certainly increase his respect for the man. He is distracted by the rolling of the curtain which means it's probably safe to let his gaze swing over towards Isabella without being a weird peeping Tom. Like the regular kind, not the ghost kind that lives with him and occasionally watches him getting it on. It's a thing. A weird thing.

He offers Isabella a tight smile and half-wave. And at Abby's instruction to her to rest, he realizes that he probably shouldn't take up too much of their time. He stands and nods to Ruiz saying, "Well, glad you're doing better Captain. I'll swing by again soon."

He stops by Isabella's bed and smiles again, "Hope that didn't scare you off the bar completely. Next night out is on me." The unscrupulous could milk this guilt for a long time if they so cared to. But at least for now, Easton's taking his floral embroidered canvas bag (which is obviously Bennie's) with him and looking to see if he can't find the last of the injured from the other night.

A noncommittal sound answers Dr. Bowman's comment, though Dr. Harlow usually seems to have a comment. She has an I'm thinking many things and I'm not saying resting expression. It manifests as a faint smile and studious, direct dark eyes.

The 5'7" doctor steps in after the 6' ginger. She wears a simple fitted pencil skirt of a charcoal grey silk blend, and a sleeveless top in matching fabric, neckline hitting her collarbones. She's not bothered with the white coat, though an ID is clipped to the hem of her top, resting against her hip. A stethoscope the only visible nod to her status as employee of this fine establishment, and it's probably not hers. It quickly becomes apparent that the five inch heels on her feet are largely responsible for her stature. "Good evening," she makes eye contact first with Isabella, then Ruiz. She looks to Abby. "Nurse Reed."

It seems at least one surgeon in this hospital makes it a point to learn the names of all of the nurses and then uses them.

"So you're essentially going to abandon me with said temptation sitting there, staring at me with those come-hither, sugar-laden eyes. I see how it is." The curve of Isabella's lower lip tilts forward in a half-pout, but regales Abby with a winning smile. "But I'll take the scotch warning under advisement also."

As for the rest, she wrinkles her nose faintly, watching the curtains get drawn back. "I'll...try," she says, finally, unable to answer in the negative at Abby's well-meaning face. "But I'll see you around, Nurse Reed." Easton's goodbye has her turning her head his way, though there's a slight cant of her head there at the tightness on the corners of his mouth. Fingers lift to return his wave. "You bet, I love seaside bars, so you'll see me around for certain," she promises the man, though there's a hint of concern on her features as she watches the ex-Marine leave. A glance down, towards his leg and how he tends to favor one side - she recognizes it for what it is, her father has a similar injury; it's what cost him from going further up the ladder in the Navy.

With the curtains drawn back, able to see Captain de la Vega again, she's about to address him with another ready smile when two new professionals enter the room. Green eyes shot with gold fall on the unfamiliar faces of Nathan and Tillie. "Good evening, doctors," she replies, drawing the blanket back over her legs.

Ruiz watches the younger man take his leave, expression thoughtful and more than a little distant. It's not often that he's hit with a blast from the past like that, and it seems to take him a moment to resurface from wherever his mind went.

His chart claims he's a captain in the local police force, and he's been in and out of this hospital in his official capacity often enough that the doctors may recognise his face from such. He also apparently took at least 7 GSWs to various parts of his body, most notably his chest. Someone out there really isn't fond of cops. He also seems to be going for a bit of mountain man couture, judging by the dark hair left askew, and beard that hasn't been trimmed since he was admitted. The full-sleeve tattoos don't really help him look any less the ne'er do well, either.

Tillie's arrival gets a curt nod, and a lingering glance to her heels. Then a quick smile for Isabella that says I totally wasn't trying to sneak a peek at you naked before he returns his attention to his book. Something by Octavio Paz, according to the cover as he cracks it open.

Even though he lead the way into the room, it wouldn't shame Nathan to say that Dr. Harlow's presence would be the first thing the occupants saw. He's obviously been getting some sun, lately, with the red hair that actually has some semblance of being combed today showing up even lighter than usual, and his skin showing more sign of a tan than it has in a year against the pale white of his coat.

His own ID badge clips to a pocket by his chest, his dark blue button-down shirt showing crumbs of an aforementioned muffin, and a pair of pretty... cheap looking black pants hang a little wide over a pair of red sneakers. He doesn't -mean- to make anyone look less professional by mere proximity, that's just a side effect. At Tillie's greeting to the group, he twitches a little apologetically, eyes moving from one face to the next. "At least it wasn't 'Hello, wounded idiots and Nurse Reed.' You're getting better."

Speaking of Nurse Reed, she gets an immediate thumbs up that hovers by his hip, and only once he's moved behind the surgeon does he silently mouth the offer of "Muffin?"

"I'm not a superhero, there's only so much I can do!" Abby's hands go to her hips in a rather superheroic pose, but she does give the pastry box that sad look again. And sighs. Dramatically.

Then she pivots in place and clears her throat slightly as the doctors walk in, returning her hands to a rather more neutral position at her side. "Dr. Harlow. Oh. Dr. Bowman." She has a friendly smile on for them, but then she always does. "Just changed Ms. Reede's bandages." She stresses that e at the end there a little bit. "Everything is looking great! As far as I can tell." She adds that last bit to qualify her unbridled optimism after thinking about it for a split second.

With her eyes darting past Tillie to Nathan, she replies with a brief shake of her head and a subtle longing look towards the box of pastries over by Isabella's bed. And a hand hovering near her stomach.

When she looks to Ruiz, Dr. Harlow's appraisal lingers on the beard, the visible ink, the bandage placement, his tubing and drains present, the pile of personal belongings, and then she looks to Isabella, her visible bandages, her tubing and potential drains, and sundry. She glances between the two, and then turns her gaze on Dr. I'm almost 50 and I'm eating a muffin for dinner Bowman. At his commentary, she closes her mouth, and there's the little hint of a smile leveling her lips. Wounded idiots. As if she'd ever say such a thing out loud.

The smile softens into something more sincere when Abby gives her full report. "Excellent."

"Prat has left town for... something, so I'll be taking your cases, should you have any further surgical issues. All other complaints are to be forwarded to Dr. Bowman." First, the surgeon on call when the two arrived, not Prat. A name similar beginning with a P, yes. By something, it's possible she means a medical conference. Unlikely, however, by her tone. "I've reviewed your cases, your charts suggest you're both doing well. Nurse Reed concurs, so I believe we can end the evening on a high note." And wouldn't that be nice?

"Do you have any concerns?" Normally one might be more discreet, seeing as there are medical privacy laws, but the fact that these two were brought in more or less together, and now share a room, make the drawing of flimsy curtains for verbal interaction seem largely superfluous.

When Nathan looks to Ruiz, he gives an approving nod that the man isn't dead. He then does the same for Isabella. Shifting weight over to favor one foot a little more, he even gives the same thing to Nurse Reed. Because it's always nice to know one of your building's best nurses hasn't randomly shuffled off the mortal coil mid-shift. And when Dr. Harlow looks at -him-, he very pointedly admires a ceiling tile.

While the surgeon talks, he only continues his professionalism by indicating through hand gesture and mild puppy-dog eyes that 'It's only one muffin, it's fine. You'll live. It's such a small little muffin, Abby. The smallest.'

The quick smile from Ruiz gets a puzzled glance from Isabella - until she actually reads between the lines. Green-gold eyes widen, her lips parting faintly in astonishment, followed by a quick glance at the curtains. The archaeologist is not a blusher by nature, comfortable within her own skin around ninety percent of the time, but tonight she feels the telltale rush of heat start to push up from underneath her cheeks, unable to help but feel flattered if not just because the recovering post-op look does not work for anyone outside of Hollywood movie cameras. With her hair a mess, complexion somewhat wan from exhaustion and her expressive mouth largely devoid of color from everything else she's endured, she's not exactly Photoshop-ready.

Instead, Abby's pose gets another appreciative laugh. "Alright, Super Nurse, thanks again," she teases her, though she's not so cruel as to shake the box that Easton brought her in an effort to tempt the young nurse.

Dr. Bowman's commentary, and subsequent outing of his taller companion, returns a glint of faint amusement; plainly evident, as the scholar-at-large doesn't have much of a poker face. "It's alright, Doctor, that's very much what we are by the end of the day, and I'd rather the medical professionals in the city cling to some degree of razor-sharp accuracy," she quips.

The news that they're both doing well provides some semblance of relief, an unwinding of coils of tension strung across her shoulders, for while she's certain that she would be alright, between she and Ruiz, the latter's injuries were more dangerous and the news that he, too, was going to make a full recovery relieves a weight that she is unconscious of carrying. "That's good news, thank you, Doctor," she replies to Tillie. "And no concerns here, really - not anymore, at least. As it is, I'm glad we're recovering a little faster than what was suggested to us, initially."

Ruiz doesn't look up in time to catch that smile from Tillie, which is probably just as well. Having a doctor sass him is about the last thing he needs right now, after the grinder he's been through. Does he have any concerns? Just one: "When do you think I'll be discharged?" This is leveled at both surgeons, dark eyes finding one and then the other in turn, with a finger placed in his book to hold his spot. He speaks with a bit of an accent, Mexican Spanish. Sometimes more prominent than others, and tonight it's fairly prominent. Surely he knows nothing about why Isabella might be blushing, though.

Abby presses her lips into a tight thin line, chin forward as she steels herself to resist temptation with another subtle shake of her head in refusal. This one is matched by a squinty, wary look, one hand going back to frame her hip. And even a finger wag. Truly, her will is iron.

But at least her gaze doesn't linger on this little silent drama, turning back to show intereste in the conversation, such as it is, between Tillie and the patients. She glances back at Isabella, eyebrows going up above a smile as if to say, 'See?'

"Each body reacts a little differently, and I'm afraid most estimates are based on a national average." Tillie's dark eyes are turned to Isabella when she says that, assuring the woman that it's neither alarming nor out of the ordinary that she should be healing a tiny bit faster than she was at first advised. That's probably the standard line in Gray Harbor.

"You, sir," her gaze turns to Ruiz. "Will be discharged when your attending physician deems it wise. Dr. Bowman is, by all accounts, a find doctor." Yes, he's standing just next to her. She still says that. "Nurse Reed, thank you for your good work."

Tillie reaches up to remove her stethoscope, and proves it's absolutely not hers when she hands it over to Nathan, gripped in one hand, without looking at the ER doctor, like she assumes he'll notice and take it in a timely fashion.

Who'd know that behind that innocent, slightly idiotic facade, Dr. Nathan Bowman was in fact the devil, tempting stalwart nurses with promises of muffins?

Well, Nurse Reed does, of course. As does anyone else who's met the man for longer than 20 minutes. But, alas. Her will is iron, and Nathan's being called to be professional, throwing a glance towards the surgeon with only mildly narrowing eyes. "A fine doctor who is only his attending for fifteen more minutes." He points out, taking the stethoscope and tucking it into the pocket of his coat. "You can leave whenever you like, sir."

And that's the cheeriest tone Dr. Bowman's managed yet. "However, were it to be any time within the next few days, I imagine you'd get to enjoy your newfound freedom for all of thirty minutes before you wished you'd listened to the medical staff who know all too well from experience what officers are like when we let them back out to roam free in the wild. A sizeable amount of your internal tissue is held together by skilled stitches and sheer ignorant luck, and while Dr. Prat (Oh, whoops, the naming is contagious) did fine work, there's not enough triclosan-coated sutures in this entire hospital to stop you from rupturing yourself the first time you walk down a set of stairs."

How is he somehow WORSE?

"It'll be a short while yet."

The bit about estimates being based on a national average gets a mild, curious look from Abby as she works through Tillie's words and her own observations. Her mouth twists slightly to one side, then to the other. Well, what does she know? The surgeon says it's normal, that must mean it's normal. Perfectly normal. Within expected ranges. That must be it, and definitely /not/ mutant healing at work.

Thus reassured, Abby smiles. "Thank you, doctor. Doctors." The second doctor gets a long-suffering look. Then she points outside the room. "I should get back to... not eating muffins." And off she goes, pushing a little cart wholly devoid of muffins. In a pinch, she might nibble on gauze, which is probably keto-friendly. There's just a little wince in passing as she listens in to Dr. Bowman addressing Ruiz, and a small sympathetic glance at the latter over her shoulder. She manages to avoid crashing into anyone, and off she goes.

It is the standard in Gray Harbor, especially considering the skill and certain talents of the first responders who had brought them in the first place, though Isabella would be one of the last to acknowledge that out loud - not at the moment anyway, at least.

The question from Ruiz has her tilting her head in that direction, searching the man's hard profile, the earlier vestiges of her obvious relief stamped on her own features. With Abby complimented by the tall, dark-haired surgeon, however, she flashes her a surreptitious thumbs up from her mattress, eyes brimming with good humor. The stethoscope-passing from female doctor to male doctor does not go unnoticed - in spite of her current aches and pains, she seems sharply alert.

She doesn't comment on the diagnosis, and merely listens, glancing down at her chest bindings in the process and wrinkling her nose faintly. Otherwise she says nothing and is in fact already moving to retrieve her borrowed, leather-bound copy of the Liber Sacer - a fourteenth-century tome about occult practices in the thirteen hundreds, it does not belong with the other texts situated next to her bed, all of which appear to follow a particular theme: ancient naval battles, shipwrecks and current efforts in maritime conservation.

Ruiz doesn't roll his eyes at Tillie's response. He really, really wants to, but he manages to grunt something quietly instead that isn't quite audible. Unless she's got some sort of superhuman hearing. The talk of muffins doesn't really seem to phase him much; he's already downed a milkshake recently, and has a bottle of Patrón burning a hole in his bedside table. So, priorities.

Dr. Bowman's little rant earns a slow slide of dark eyes the doctor's way, and a steady stare that clearly says he's neither amused nor appreciative of the sarcasm flowing freely from the man. "You could have led with that." The it'll be a short while yet, he means. "And not bothered with the rest, doctor. It was a simple question." Abby's departing figure gains a glance, and then it's back to his book with aplomb.

Tillie glances over at Nathan. One glance. "Ask again in two days," is her parting comment for Ruiz, as her colleague tends toward an overabundance of specificity. "We are well aware you have a job to be getting on with, and none of us wants to see you here longer than is necessary."

Definitely not mutant healing at work. Nope. None of that here.

"If you change your mind about the muffins, Nurse Reed, there's a selection of gourmet pan au chocolat in the second floor lounge." Flaky, chocolate croissant are a much better option. Et tu, Dr. Harlow? She steps forward to offer a hand to Ruiz. "Thank you for your service." It seems the female half of the two is about to step out, after a handshake from each, beginning with the male patient, who is closer.

"You're right." Dr. Bowman gives a little drop of the head in Ruiz's direction, seemingly abashed. "I could have led with that." His thin-lipped smile that follows is most definitely the most corpse-like thing in the room.

Maybe not so abashed. Especially when Tillie takes over the doctor-patient courtesy train, which might hit like mild whiplash, considering the difference in how the two seem to carry themselves. While the other is reaching over to Ruiz, his eyes pass behind her back to focus on Isabella, the reach to retrieve a tome, and what little information he can gleam from from how she's carrying herself and how she moves.

With his hands shoved into the pockets of a his coat and his tongue jammed into one side of his cheek. Like a goddamned professional. "Reed! I will make you eggs." That's his way of apologizing. Apparently.

Under Dr. Bowman's expert gaze, she is probably slower than her usual wont, but she emanates a restless energy that belies her every movement, as if powered by too much of it to safely reside in such a fragile human shell. She, too, has suffered gunshot wounds over the chest and that is where most of the difficulty lies in terms of her mobility; it affects her reach, and the way she breathes, but she doesn't appear to be the sort who presses the painkiller button so handily located by her bed, either, demonstrating a certain unwillingness in medicating for more than she has to.

The book returned to her lap, absently running her fingers in an appreciative, and almost tender fashion on the raised details etched into the leather, the clicking of the surgeon's heels approaching her bed has the young woman's eyes lifting to regard her. "Thank you for your care, Doctors," is Isabella's simple but genuine reply, followed by her quick and ready smile. Slender fingers return Tillie's handshake once offered.

Followed by a wry tilt at the corner of her mouth. "I like your shoes."

Ruiz does seem a little rough around the edges; abrasive, perhaps, in the fashion of servicemen of various stripes. Of which he apparently has a few. But even he is able to scrounge up enough manners to fold his book closed and offer his hand. His left hand, after a moment of hesitation, since his right is lightly bandaged currently, and not particularly suitable for shaking. "Gracias, Dr. Harlow," is offered tonelessly from the cop. The ER doctor receives a glance, and a nod in acknowledgement of his acquiescence, but little else. Isabella's comment about the woman's heels prompts a brief twitch at the corners of his mouth, considering it was the first thing he noticed about the doctor on her way in. But he's being good, and thus keeps his mouth shut.

The doctor easily switches hands, so it's not as awkward. Her grip is light, but the contact lingers long enough to say, "De nada." She nods slightly, then turns, posture precise, and makes her way over, on the aforementioned heels, to the other woman's bedside. She smiles at the compliment to her footwear. "Lovely of you to say, thank you so much." Her tone remains polite, though the words are marginally warmer.

Tillie shakes Isabella's hand, grip again light. Small, delicate hands are her literal life's work, after all. "That's quite an intriguing choices." From the direction of her gaze, she seems to be referring to the book the other woman holds. "I hope I don't see you inside the walls of this hospital anytime soon." That's probably her way of wishing the brunette good health and good fortune, and may also be an indication that her discharge ETA is quite a bit closer to hand. Perhaps her bedside manner isn't the total loss her colleague hints it might be.

Her hand is a bit warm, but otherwise the shake is unremarkable. To most eyes.

Nathan doesn't make a comment on the footwear, despite all the attention they suddenly bring. Probably because when he closes his eyes, even just to blink, he can see the cupboard at home.

For no reason at all, he shudders. Just for a second. And most notably does not move to shake either of the Patient's hands. partially because TIllie has that covered, partially because... well, Tillie washes her hands as a matter of course. He, however, just scoffed down a muffin he scooped off of a table somewhere. Really, guys, his lackluster social habit is for your own benefits.

"High praise indeed." Is all he comments on the Surgeon's words, seemingly content with how Isabella moves. It's not -bad-, considering the wounds.

Warm hands, warmer tone. The brunette's smile takes a turn for a more open one, head tilting back so she could look at the doctor right in the eyes - the heels are fabulous but it also necessitates leaning back slightly so she could meet them, ever the sort of personality to address another directly no matter how weakened or diminished from her usual vitality. It must be the pain - she is normally so alert, so perceptive, but the aggravated sutures must be bothering her more than even she anticipates herself. Situated so close to her bed, now, Tillie would be unable to miss the occasional flashes of discomfort shrinking her pupils.

That's quite an intriguing choice.

"Not my own," she supplies conversationally. "I've heard of the Liber Juratus Honorii in my years in Oxford, but it's not exactly required reading in my field. Such esoterica is far removed from the standard and advanced archaeology curriculum offered there. A friend thought I would be interested anyway - it's certainly a different sort of material than I'm accustomed, but fascinating nonetheless." That rueful expression returns. "And so do I, Doctor. I've got a lot of work to do, if I'm to also be a doctor of a different sort by the next year."

Ruiz really doesn't seem much for the small talk. He has half an ear on the conversation going on nearby, but otherwise seems just as content to get back to his reading, since it seems he won't be getting sprung from here any time soon. Does it agitate him, knowing he's trapped in this goddamned bed, being monitored by the constant blip of machinery and nosy nurses at all hours of the night? The stitch of tension through his big shoulders says yes.

"It does one good to step outside the comfortable patterns on occasion," is Tillie's reply to Isabella. "I do hope you enjoy the read." As if it's perfectly normal to read such a title, some light recovery reading for entertainment or edification. "Congratulations on your impending doctoral defense. I wish you well. Remember, there's no shame in I'll have to give it some thought, or could you elaborate when your panel asks you something onerous." They always ask something onerous. Always.

That advice imparted, she offers a slight nod. "Good evening." This is her departing comment, echoing her greeting earlier, to Isabella and Ruiz and Nathan. As she's stepping out, sharp heel-strikes on the linoleum floor, she says, "Chin up, Gunny. You didn't lose your lung or your liver or your rugged good looks." She noticed the tension, and she's just the sort to comment on it. Officers. Retired, of course.

No, it doesn't occur to her that she neglected to actually introduce herself to the patients after Abby mentioned their names. As she goes, she touches Dr. Bowman's hand in passing, just a sweep of her fingertips across his knuckles, and then she's gone. The sound of her towering heels heard long after she's out of sight.

"Which is probably likely," Isabella remarks with a small laugh. "Thank you for the advice, Doctor. I'll most definitely keep that in mind."

With Tillie's heels clicking away to rejoin her red-haired colleague somewhere out in the hallway, the archaeologist tilts her face along her shoulder towards Ruiz, the devil in her making its presence known within the gleam of that single, visible iris. "See?" she remarks, with that same, innocent air that would convince any court on the planet to convict her on the spot. "I told you that you were pretty."

Addled, perhaps, during that post-op conversation, but not so much that she doesn't remember some of the words that she has said to him.

Officers, indeed. Can't live with them, can't shove them down a flight of stairs or people start asking questions. "Thanks again, doctor. Doctors," is all the ex-marine has to say after that little quip from miss four-inch heels. How she manages to pull those off for an entire shift is probably the subject of some deep thinking on his part, right at this moment. Isabella's remark? Ignored. Can't she see he's got a book that isn't going to read itself?

Nathan's scratching where a little undercut layers his hairline, watching Doctor Harlow show a bedside manner she usually reserves for people she actually likes. Which isn't at all the same manner she uses for people she doesn't. Neither of them got a stolen penlight shined in their eyes abruptly, for one. "They always ask something onerous." He agrees when that word comes up, stepping aside as soon as 'Good Evening' sounds across the the room.

"Good evening, folks." He echoes along with the Surgeon, his hand twitching at the unsubtle touch it's given. Heck, there's a moment where he looks as if he's about to say one more thing to the two of them, probably about the names of the duty staff coming on-call overnight when a thought occurs. His mouth closes fully, and he swivels around on his heels to follow the surgeon out of the door.

It takes a few moments before an inquiry sounds through the corridor, quiet, but oddly insistent. "Rugged good looks?!"