[ The place is in chaos, has been ever since the flood of violent creatures first erupted. It's inevitable that it became a central point of gathering, a place to help and to heal, but with the size of the problem and the size of the building they're trying to make part of the solution, there's no respite for those working inside.
Faces revolve in and out, some more often than others, but there are very rarely snatches of more than thirty minutes between one grievous injury and the next and Stephen's opportunities to check in with friends and strangers come few and far between. Unless they're bleeding, they're not his business.
The size of the task holds more challenge than just its pressures. Stephen's work lost its precision years ago in another world. Now he's both one of their primary medical resources and one of their least effective medics. It doesn't stop him. It can't. Where he can't operate and apply he directs, and where he can't direct he delegates. More faces, more voices, more injuries. He snatches naps in the relative lulls and it's shortly after one of these, when the hubbub in the bar has reduced to the residue of suffering that others are well equipped to manage and there are no immediate requests for his specific attention, that he notices her.
He's never met her. He recognises her immediately. A million contesting thoughts run slapdash across his mind and he squashes them all down to focus only on the ugly streak of red and the messy patches of it her fingers have left behind.
A patient. That's all. He can deal with the rest later.
He ducks behind the bar to wash his hands thoroughly clean and picks up a few supplies - gloves, crucially - on his way over to her, setting them all down on the table beside her with no preamble and no introduction. Bedside manner never has been one of his strong suits and he's absolutely no energy for it now. ]
no subject
Faces revolve in and out, some more often than others, but there are very rarely snatches of more than thirty minutes between one grievous injury and the next and Stephen's opportunities to check in with friends and strangers come few and far between. Unless they're bleeding, they're not his business.
The size of the task holds more challenge than just its pressures. Stephen's work lost its precision years ago in another world. Now he's both one of their primary medical resources and one of their least effective medics. It doesn't stop him. It can't. Where he can't operate and apply he directs, and where he can't direct he delegates. More faces, more voices, more injuries. He snatches naps in the relative lulls and it's shortly after one of these, when the hubbub in the bar has reduced to the residue of suffering that others are well equipped to manage and there are no immediate requests for his specific attention, that he notices her.
He's never met her. He recognises her immediately. A million contesting thoughts run slapdash across his mind and he squashes them all down to focus only on the ugly streak of red and the messy patches of it her fingers have left behind.
A patient. That's all. He can deal with the rest later.
He ducks behind the bar to wash his hands thoroughly clean and picks up a few supplies - gloves, crucially - on his way over to her, setting them all down on the table beside her with no preamble and no introduction. Bedside manner never has been one of his strong suits and he's absolutely no energy for it now. ]
Mind out of the way.
[ Said as he gloves up. ]