- Rough Draft
- Work in Progress
- Abuse - Child
- Dark Themes
- Death - Child
- Death - Minor Character
- Discussion - Child Abuse
- Discussion - Murder
- Discussion - Other Trigger Topics
- Discussion - Suicide
- Discussion - Torture
- Disturbing Imagery
- No Beta
- Permanent Injury
- Suicide - Attempted
- Violence - Canon-Level
- Violence - Graphic
- Action Adventure
- Alternate Universe
- Fix It
- Rule 63
- Science Fiction
Author’s Note: Sorry for the long wait. I had already written a chapter one but I totally hated it, so here you go. Toni DiNozzo is played by Jessica Biel. I was finally able to make the cover for the story!!! YAY!!! If you want to check out more of my fanfiction covers, you can find them here: https://watersoter.deviantart.com
Art by WaterSoter
Dr. Scott Summers wrapped another gash. A splint to stem bleeding to save stitches. It was the right mentality he reminded himself as the man under his hands gave a piercing wail, before falling into breathy whimpers.
His wife hovered, fluttering hands wanting to touch. Covered in soot and debris as she was, Scott preferred her as far away from his patient as possible. He had such a limited supply and held didn’t seem to be making its way this near ground zero yet. It could be hours before any of the injured were taking to any sterile medical facility. Maybe even days. Hospital would be saturated with the injured. Triage stations were probably already being set up.
Scott glanced over at the diner where he’d set one up his own station. Uniformed cops putting their first aid training to good use. Civilians helping comfort the wounded. Mostly at the dozens of people in various states scattered around. He’d divided them up based on level of injuries, but the critical section kept getting larger and larger.
He tightened the makeshift splint. Did some calculations in his head. Shock, considerable blood loss. At least two liters. Late forties. History of cardiac problems. He had maybe three hours before infection set in, two hours more then sepsis. He ran his hands carefully over the laceration. Considerable muscle and nerve damage. Shattered tibia.
The man was going to lose his leg.
If he had the time he might try for a field amputation. If he thought his changes of surviving it with limited pain killers and no anesthesia. No. Scott saw the wife wrangle her hands. Dried blood with the gray covered her from head to toe. This woman was going to lose her husband. Scott grabbed her hand, tried not to flinch at the skin on skin contact and placed her hand in his husband’s.
Gripped the hand tight and understood far more than Scott thought she could with that simply gesture. Fat, ugly tears flew from her eyes but she didn’t sob. Instead she just leaned down to a husband who couldn’t possibly hear her through his own delirium. Spoke in gentle tones, running a careful hand over his hair.
Scott stood and took in the tableau. It should make him feel sad or some other obvious emotion, instead he just felt tired. Pulled off bloody surgical gloves. No place to safely dump them. He placed them in one of his bio hazard bag. He’d been at this for three hours straight, and that was after a grueling battle. The only thing keeping him on his feet was the knowledge that he was probably the only qualified surgeon in this area. At the moment. No matter how useless those skills may turn out to be in the long run.
“Is he going to be alright?” He turned to see a young blond waitress staring down at the man and his wife. She seemed familiar but Scott couldn’t place her at the moment. Not an enemy operative, though. Those were seared into his memory. Names, faces, allies, distinguishing marks.
“No.” He said and glanced over at one of the large windows that overlooked the wrecked street and store fronts. At civilians, cops and other first responders that were helping pull people out of ruined cars and buses, rubble of collapsed buildings.
“Hey,” A hand on his shoulder made him flinch. “Oh, God, I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize.” The waitress dropped her hand. Assuming, wrongly, that she had hurt him. Inadvertently touched an injury that was hidden by his black jacket. He made no move to correct her. Better for her to assume that, especially if it kept her from doing it again.
“Do you have any hand sanitizer?” He motioned to the dust that covered the entire establishment despite best efforts to clean it. “Or somewhere I can wash my hands?”
The later would be better but the former more convenient in the long run. When multiple patients meant moving from one of them to another with little regard for sanitation. He had plenty of surgical gloves and alcohol to disinfect his instruments. But it still felt wrong not to wash his hands thoroughly between each patient. Habits ingrained first from medical school, residency then surgical rotation.
“Um, there’s a sink in the kitchen and bathrooms in the back.” She ran her hand down her apron, leaving a small cloud of dust in its wake. “Oh, here.” She handed over a bottle of water. Precious commodity in what was currently a disaster zone.
He took it and once he made sure the seal hadn’t been broken nor tampered with, took long gulps of tepid water. Not the most appetizing thing in the world, but he hadn’t anything to eat since the early lunch he took between rotations. Didn’t think about the appendectomy he missed. Nor the metastatic brain tumor removal he was supposed to scrub into.
The first he could be easily replaced, the second had been something he had been looking forward. Embedded as it was near the cerebral cortex. The complexity of it, the challenge, it was the kind of surgery every surgical fellow much less resident would kill for.
Scott drank more water. Hunger an itch that grew and spread like an infection under his skin. He finished the bottle, considered asking for another but knew that food and water would be the most essential. For survival, for his patients, for civilians lingering on the streets in a daze and shock.
“Do we have blankets?” Outside a pair of teenagers brought a woman over. She was bloody and clearly in pain by the way her face contorted which each step. He watched as a officer crept out from the diner and helped bring her inside. They were going to run out of room before they ran out of injured.
The waitress ran both hands down her apron, realized the futility of the gesture a moment later when her hands came off more covered in soot then they had been. She glanced at the door as it chimed in a cheerful tune when it opened. The welcoming sound incongruous among the devastation outside and makeshift field hospital they’d made the diner into.
“Dr. Summers!” Scott sighed as he looked down at his nails, encrusted thickly with grime. At his pants that had flakes of blood and other bodily fluids. Closed his eyes and let his mind’s shields thin, let him know, as he always knew and didn’t always want to.
Caucasian female, thirty one, runner since a young age, previously broken femur, previously cracked skull from falling down a mountain trail, he took a deep breath and stopped. The world spun for a moment and he felt the hands of the waitress reach for him as he swayed in place. Pulled back, needed the distance, needed firmer ground. He breathed, forced the walls of his mind back in place with a painful snap.
Scott opened his eyes to worried blue, blue eyes. Young but not so young. Only a baby face, like his, but there was years and years of life in those eyes. “Blankets?” He reiterated. It made the waitress blink, probably at his abrupt tone. Internally grimacing, Scott moved toward the woman and the officer that was waiting for him expectantly.
“Beth,” someone said from behind him. Scott turned toward the waitress, eyes like flints even as she moved towards the back of the diner. She came back, hands full of worn clothes, rags and other things that would be good enough to prevent shock from setting in. She dumped them on a table and started clearing an area for him to work at. “My name, Beth Johnson.”
Scott didn’t shrug. That would be rude and while he didn’t purposely go out of his way to be blunt, he often came off that way. So he nodded, sharply before going to the woman, who wasn’t as badly off as some of his other patients. But not in great shape either.
They moved her towards the pile of rags. Scott grabbed his first aid kit and ignored the growing pounding at his temples. There was a lot to do, more people to try and save. By the end of the day, bodies would litter the streets. Scott, however had no intention of letting the people inside the diner become part of that body count.
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