2019-09-01 - White Coat Syndrome

There are times when it's nice to be in an air-conditioned hospital rather than out in the hot, sticky morning. But Alexander is being an ungrateful fussypants, so he's been being difficult with the nurses and asking (with varying levels of politeness) when he can be released. The fact that he is ASKING, with his actual voice, rather than any of the workarounds he's been using for the last couple of days, may signal that he's feeling peculiarly better. He's also taken himself off the morphine drip, and just taped it back to make it look like he's still attached. It won't fool anyone for long - or wouldn't, if he wasn't being enough of an asshole to distract people. He has requested to see his doctor, and mulishly refused to cooperate with nurses until someone finds her.

His doctor is reaching the end of her terrible shift. Hailey works just the worst hours, so the morning - the start of everyone else's day! - is when she's dragging through the last bit of her night, so forgive her if she's looking a little wilted by the time she answers the increasingly hyper calls from the nursing staff. Finally, chart-in-hand, she comes into Alexander's room with a plastered-on smile that tinges apologetically at the current nurse, the one standing there with her arms folded and her foot tapping. "Good morning, Mister Clayton. I understand that you're feeling a lot better."

"Good morning, Doctor Stevenson." Alexander frowns at her. He's sitting on the side of his bed in his silly hospital gown, his bare legs showing, his shoulders hunched defensively. "I apologize for the disturbance." He doesn't sound particularly apologetic. "I'll get out of your hair shortly. I'd like to leave today. I am feeling better, yes." He glances at the nurse and her folded arms, grimaces.

"To me?" Hailey shakes her head. "Apologize to the nursing staff, Mister Clayton, they work very hard. Will you give us a minute, please?" To the nurse who is working very hard at scowling, and who surely deserves the apology that she now won't be here to collect, since she turns on her comfy shoes and marches out with a mumble about how Obamacare was the worst thing to happen to this country since [something, she's out of earshot by then, it was probably something to do with Democrats, though]. Anyway, she's gone, and Hailey turns back to Alexander with her hands folding, chart held to her chest. "So. It's awkward when people suddenly get all better."

Alexander huffs out a breath, like he doesn't need to be TOLD to apologize to the NURSE, how dare you. And yet, he does look slightly guilty, and mumbles, "Sorry," at the woman's departing back. And then he glares at the door she went out for a moment, before his eyes flick back to Hailey. "I'm aware. Sorry." That actually sounds more sincere. "But I have work to do, Doctor. Clearly the wound was not quite as bad as it first seemed, and under the excellent care of the local nurses and doctors, I am well on my way to making a full recovery, so I can be allowed to convalesce at home." Not that he plans on doing any sort of convalescence.

Smiling tolerantly - or, y'know, as tolerantly as a person can when she's been up all night and this is how she's going to end her day... let's see how tolerant that smile really is, actually.

Enh. Hailey's not going to win any awards here, but she's trying to be patient with her patient. It's just that the effort is really showing. "Will you at least relax and let me pretend to do my job for a minute? A few pokes and prods, and you can be on your way, promise." She has just discovered that the IV's not hooked up to anything, and pulls on the plastic tubing with a brief yank so it peels the medical tape right off the back of his hand, looking Alexander in the eye during this so he knows that she knows; it makes her sigh with that same unconvincing patience.

Alexander does pick up on the exasperation, and even though he's used to it when interacting with people in the hospital, it still makes him feel like he should be feeling bad, so he makes a face, but allows, "Of course. I'll try." In quieter tones, "I don't like hospitals very much." And as she tugs on the medical tape and the IV comes free, he adds, "Don't like drugs, either. Make my head feel wrong." He does his best not to fidget or resist, but he does meet the look into his eyes. "You look tired. Long night?"

Chart goes over there, gloves go on hands, and Hailey will now begin said poking and prodding. Since it's Alexander's neck at issue, the majority of her examination will be contained to that particular region, with some moderately invasive turning his head this way and that. "No one does," like hospitals very much. "I imagine they do," of the drugs. She probably has this conversation a lot, the responses fall out of her automatically. At least till the one where she's got her thumb poking around where there ought to be a still-healing wound at the hinge of Alexander's jaw. She answers his last question with an enthusiastic, "And how. Does this hurt?"

Not that she's trying to make it hurt, but sometimes it just happens that way. Like when she's sticking her thumb in places that don't want thumbs stuck.

Alexander also doesn't like to be touched, and she can probably feel him flinching under her touch, even the light ones, his heartrate speeding up and body tensing like he has to stop himself from retreating. But he does stop himself, and just grumps as she examines him. "It--OW, yes, damn it, that does hurt. That would hurt even if I were fine!" GRUMP! "Do you have nails or talons, Doctor?" Near-black eyes stare at her accusingly. "Are you doing that on purpose?"

Well, if he hadn't decided he didn't need the morphine, he wouldn't be so twitchy, so whose fault is if he's uncomfortable? Not Hailey's, that's whose. "No, do you?" She withdraws the poking hand to show it's perfectly normal, even goes to all the trouble of taking her perfectly normal thumb out of her latex glove to wiggle it at him. See? All good. "It would be very weird if I was doing that on accident, wouldn't it?" There's a pulse to take, so she puts the glove back on and fingers to his wrist. While she counts, and since she's not asking real questions (just fielding his), she adds, "Did anyone ever tell you what you wanted to know?"

Alexander lifts a hand. "Perfectly normal hands here. Which I don't shove into people's sensitive bits," he adds, with another grump. He hands over his wrist for her examination - his heartrate is elevated, but probably just because he's been a fussypants and not taken his morphine. "About what?" There's something that might almost be a smile. "I have a great many things I want to know, and very few people bother to satiate my curiosity." His eyes narrow thoughtfully at her. "For instance. You never told me where you were that had so many of those who stand out."

Shaking her head, Hailey points out quietly, "You would have been fine. Whoever," she takes the risk of tapping her index finger to the spot where the gash should have been, "went to all that trouble really shouldn't have. They'll probably suffer for it more than you would have, at this point." All she's up to is making sure whoever 'went to all that trouble' was thorough enough that she can sign things with a clean conscience, just prodding at him, not doing anything. With a head-tilt and weary amusement, "Do you think that being an especial chore is the way to open a dialogue, Mister Clayton? Because it isn't." Her tone will have to suffice for the pat-on-the-head that she'd give him except he'd obviously freak the fuck out.

Alexander sighs. "I know that," he says, quietly. "I know that. There is nothing without cost, and I don't particularly want anyone to pay my way, particularly in that coin. But," a grimace as she taps the no-longer-gashed space, "I do need to get out of here, and they want to help." His gaze sharpens at the prodding, but he doesn't object to it. Instead, that faint smile flickers back to life. "You'd be surprised, Dr. Stevenson. People will tell me things just to make me go away. I can be persistent." Then his gaze drops. "Sorry, though. For being a chore."

Simply put, "I'm glad," that he knows that and knows that. Hailey seems to mean that, about being glad, and peels off her gloves to toss them into the trash bin over there, settling herself onto the stool next to the bed so she can write things on his paperwork. Though she doesn't go directly into that, instead looks at him with the threadbare patience she's maintained since walking into the room. "Thank you for the apology, but - again. It really belongs to the nurses."

Now then, "I worked at a hospital upstate, and many of my patients were people who stand out, as you say." Beat. "Were you really attacked by the serial killer?" Is game: She shares, he shares!

Alexander rubs at his face when she's done with prodding at it. He really needs a shave, and there's still an impressive amount of bruising on that side of his neck, but alas, he won't get to keep the neato-keen scar. He watches her. "I'll be sure to make one. On my way out." When she answers, he goes very still. "Upstate. Was it really? Upstate." But hey! He's willing to play that game, because he nods. "Yes. William Gohl. He was also at hospital upstate, once upon a time."

"I think so." That it was really upstate, though - deferring back to the earlier roll - Hailey's glance toward the window and away from Alexander speaks to how carefully she's treading here. "I suppose that depends on your definition of up?" Look, that shit worked for Bill Clinton.

The name of the serial killer is news to her, and her brows climb to share that fact with Alexander. That must be as much as she wanted to know, so says the nod and the new attention to his paperwork here. "You must be very lucky to have survived, then. Count your blessings, I suppose?"

Alexander gives her a skeptical look. "I suppose it does. Did you work with a Dr. Marshall?" Because he is persistent, even when he's not particularly subtle. He leans over a little to study the paperwork she's working on. "I was. Lucky, I mean. And I do. I have good and competent friends." He reaches up to rub at the place that isn't going to scar a little more. There might not be a scar, but that's one memory that will take a long time to fade.

Hailey's happy to let him look over the paperwork. It's just a bunch of stuff that says he's not dying, also some things about his elevated pulse and blood pressure and how he very obviously has white coat syndrome. Genuinely, though there's a little skepticism in her tone while talking of his friends, "I hope your good and competent friends haven't hastened your demise as a byproduct of speeding up your release from the hospital." As for working with Marshall... she flips all the pages on the clipboard back over, so the top page is on top again, and asks dubiously, "Is this really what you want to worry about right now, Mister Clayton? On top of whatever this work of yours is?"

So that'd be a giant YES. She's not good at not telling the truth.

"White coat syndrome." Alexander gives Hailey a suspicious look at that, which probably doesn't do anything to refute that diagnosis. To the idea of speeding his demise, he just rolls his shoulders in a shrug. "Things try to kill you whether you're on your back or on your feet, Doctor. I prefer the latter." And he doesn't miss the reaction at all. He just stares at her, weighing it. Then, eventually, he says, "I have a large capacity for worry, Doctor Stevenson. Many things can fit. Besides. It's not disconnected, entirely." A thoughtful pause. "I'd like to buy you a coffee. Have a talk. Sometime soon."

"Yes," white coat syndrome. Since she can't argue with the things trying to kill a person on his feet or no, Hailey just stares back at Alexander without a further word on the matter; what's she gonna do, talk him into staying in the hospital? No one ever agrees to that. 🙁 "Tea," she corrects gently, like she's sorry to have to set him straight but does it anyway. "And you have my card still, so when you're not being mauled by dead serial killers, you can call me. Assuming you survive it all, of course." Hand-weighing gestures, his odds are 50/50?

Alexander thinks about it. Then gives a shrug; okay, fair cop on the white coat syndrome. "Tea." A flicker of amusement. "I think tea can be arranged." And then an actual laugh, a throaty and somewhat rusty chuckle, but a laugh nonetheless. "No one survives it all, Doctor. But I do my best." He doesn't argue with the odds; by the expression on his face, he may think she's being generous. He does ask, "Are you here to hurt people?" rather abruptly; and his mind reaches out, delicately feeling for the truth to any response she might give.

There is no lie at all, not in her mind, not in her expression, not in her tone. So either this is the most amazing lie she's ever told ever, or this is the truth. "No." This precedes another sigh, a little hurt but not at least Hailey clarifies, "I understand why you might think as much," you meddling chore, "but no. I'm here to help people, or at least try to keep them from dying when they're unwilling or unable to stay out of harm's way." J'accuse!

'Meddling chore' is definitely Alexander's second best descriptor. Hailey and the local PD can compare complaints, bond over him being a nosy asshole. A couple of camper people might even want to get in on that action. He either doesn't notice - or more likely doesn't particularly care - about that flicker of hurt, but his touch on her mind is withdrawn, and he nods, accepting it. "Helping people is good. Keeping them from dying is also good." A long pause. "It's appreciated. Thank you, for the doctoring." It does sound a little like he's reading the thanks off of a cue card. "And tea. When nothing is immediately trying to kill me."

"You're welcome." She nods about the tea, back-stepping toward the door at the same time. "I'm going to send a nurse in here in a moment. If you don't want her help getting dressed, you'd better take care of it before she comes in. And please don't make a big fuss if they ask you to sit in a wheelchair till you're outside? It's just not worth the struggle." Hailey may not sound like she's reading the cue card, but she's still obviously said some variant of these suggestions many times over.

With more authenticity, which also means her tone clouds doubtfully, "I hope I don't see you in here again, Mister Clayton. Please be careful." Smile. Head-shake. Silly man.

"Thank you for the warning," Alexander says - and that, at least, sounds entirely sincere. He will be dressed. Oh yes. The remark about the wheelchair gets a grimace. But, he recognizes that no, he has been a raging butt, so he nods. "I won't be any further trouble on my way out, Doctor. Scout's honor." He was never a Boy Scout. "And believe me, nothing would make me happier. I will do my best, Doctor." He slides down from the bedside, and slithers around her to go grab clothes that presumably someone brought him, and heads into the bathroom to change. Yay, freedom! Inside, he's definitely doing a happy dance.