Carolyn
One writes of scars healed, a loose parallel to the pathology of the skin, but there is no
such thing in the life of an individual. There are open wounds, shrunk sometimes to the size of a
pin-prick but wounds still. The marks of suffering are more comparable to the loss of a finger,
or the sight of an eye. We may not miss them, either, for one minute in a year, but if we should
there is nothing to be done about it.
-- F. Scott Fitzgerald
Upon exiting the elevators, Jim turned down his sense of smell as far as he dared. The things he could see and hear in the ICU unit of Mercy Hospital were bad enough without having to smell the terrible stench of the critically injured and dying.
Making his way to the room which housed the reason for his visit, he stopped at the door, as he had done each time he returned. Several deep breaths preceded his entrance into the hospital room where his partner still fought for his life. It had only been three days since the bullet meant for Jim had torn through Blair's chest, ripping through his lung and nicking his aorta. Death had come so close to claiming the anthropologist -- as it had Pete Sigerson. If Blair had not called Simon, using the last of his strength before shock and blood loss had taken hold of him... If the bullet had struck just a few millimeters to the left... If Simon and Rafe had been farther away... If the assassin had fired at the easy target who lay dying on the cold pavement...
A shudder passed through his body, and he mentally grasped for the truths, not the 'what ifs'. Blair had managed to place the call, and Simon did arrive in time. The emergency room doctors had quickly and correctly diagnosed the massive hemothorax and torn aorta, and had whisked the observer into surgery in time to repair the damage and give him a fighting chance of coming out of this whole and well, albeit after a lengthy period of recovery. The coma in which he now lay was medically induced, and no amount of wishing on Jim's part would make his partner open his eyes and breathe on his own before the doctors allowed it.
Despite the likelihood that Blair was completely unaware of his presence, Jim had found himself drawn to his partner's bedside, where he would speak softly to his friend and encourage his speedy return to the healthy, vital man Jim missed so deeply. Whether he held onto the IV-pierced hand that seemed to reach out to him in defiance of Blair's unconsciousness, or laid a cautious hand atop the heavily bandaged torso, Jim made sure that touch played a part in each visit.
He found it difficult to find words to share with Blair this evening. Two days earlier, after Simon had come to see him in this very room, he had wept in the silent presence of his comatose partner over the loss of Pete Sigerson. The bullet which had struck the young officer as he was dragging his wounded partner away from Dominic Altavista's doorstep had proved fatal. His partner, the veteran officer Jonathan Juarez, had taken a shot to the chest, point blank, and it was him that the EMTs swarmed over when they had arrived on the scene. The seemingly less-serious wound that Sigerson had sustained had gone untreated at first. The bullet had taken a deadly path through Pete's body, ricocheting off his hip bone and lodging in his liver. The strain of dragging his partner to safety had exacerbated the internal tearing, and by the time he had been rushed into surgery, it was already too late to save his life.
Losing a fellow officer was always painful. Knowing that the man who had killed Sigerson was gunning for Jim might have sent the reeling detective over the edge if not for his captain's supportive presence and directive to remain calm for his wounded partner's sake. It was with the constant echo of Simon's forceful words in his soul that Jim was able to compose himself and move calmly to the chair at Blair's bedside.
He did not want to share the somber details of that afternoon's funeral, or tell Blair about Pete's mother, who rested in drugged oblivion a few floors above them. He dutifully relayed Simon's wishes for recovery to the unconscious man, but fell silent shortly thereafter. Instead he held resolutely to the anthropologist's limp, cold hand, and let his touch convey his nearness and support.
We pardon to the extent that we love.
-- Francois, Duc de La Rochefoucauld
After a while, Jim reached out to gently run his hand across Blair's forehead, letting it trail back through his hair, needlessly brushing it back from his face. Three days in the hospital had taken their toll on his friend's treasured locks. The hair under his hand was lank and lifeless, an unsettling parallel to the anthropologist's own condition.
The coma was medically induced, he reminded himself yet again, but the vitality Jim associated with his best friend and partner was nowhere to be found in this too-still man lying in the hospital bed. The audible alerts on the machines which still monitored Blair's condition had been turned down to a low volume when one of the nurses saw Jim flinching in time with his friend's heartbeats. The consequential absence of sound was as upsetting as the scene before him.
Again he reached over to run a hand across the hair which Blair would likely insist on washing the moment he woke up. Jim was sure that at least one of the nurses would succumb to his partner's persistent coaxing and include a thorough shampoo with his first spongebath.
Smiling at the thought, he let his hand roam once more across the still planes of Blair's face and back over his high forehead into his hair.
"You sure like pettin' him, don'tcha?"
The voice startled Jim, and he twisted in his chair to face the owner of the voice, snatching his hand back from Blair's head as though burned. It was a male nurse, one he had not met before, who stood in the doorway to the room.
"What?"
The man took several more steps into the room, until he stood in the circle of light which came from above Blair's bed. He was younger than Blair, almost as large as Simon, and was garbed in the traditional white shirt and pants all nurses wore. Jim zoomed his eyesight in briefly on his nametag, which read 'Raphael.'
"He belong to you?" the nurse asked, his brows furrowed above deep brown eyes.
Unperturbed by Jim's silent glare, the man continued.
"I seen you in here with him for the past coupla days," the man remarked. "I noticed how you like to pet him. He your son?"
"No. Who the hell are you?" So much for hating the silence. Jim stood to face the unwelcome intruder, assuming an intimidating stance that he hoped would convey his opinion of the nurse's idle chit-chat.
"I'm Raphael. I work here," the nurse replied, pointing to his badge. "I'm watchin' over him just like you're doin'. I don't mean no disrespect, but you've been sittin' with him and pettin' him for two days now and I was wonderin' why."
The anger which had taken hold of Jim moments earlier fled under the guileless stare of the obviously concerned nurse. There was no malice directed at him or Blair. This was just a hospital worker, a bit slow if Jim guessed correctly, who was merely curious as to why the detective was so intent on constantly touching the patient in his care. Jim settled back into the chair beside his partner and released a deep sigh, turning to look at Blair. There was no way he could explain to Raphael that his Sentinel senses reveled in the feel of life beneath the death-like visage of his best friend. The blood pulsing through the capillaries and veins beneath his hand signaled the continued existence of the life he held so dear. Despite the shade of gray Blair's skin held, the essence of his friend was still present beneath the pallor of sickness surrounding him. That Blair might feel his touch and respond in some small way was a hope that Jim kept alive hour after hour in the depressingly silent and cold room.
Holding on to anger took energy, and all his reserves had drained away earlier as the twenty-two year old Officer Peter Sigerson was lowered into the ground.
"He's my partner," Jim stated simply.
"Like a 'boyfriend' partner?" The nurse's broad, gentle face was scrunched up in confusion.
The choking sound from the detective had the nurse running around the bed and kneeling in front of the Sentinel to render first aid. When it became apparent that the chokes were barely controlled laughter, Raphael stood and backed away from Jim, a hurt expression filling his unguarded, youthful visage.
Jim felt bad that his laughter had offended the young man, but was so grateful for the levity that he quickly wiped at his eyes and held out both hands to Raphael.
"I'm sorry, but your question took me by surprise. Blair isn't my boyfriend," he explained, chuckling again at the image. "I'm a detective for the police and he works with me."
"Oh," the man answered, appearing completely satisfied and just a bit fascinated by the answer, judging by the way he looked carefully from his patient to Jim and back again, nodding as his head swiveled to and fro.
"I hope you're not offended by what I asked. I like to take care of people -- that's why I volunteer here at the hospital -- but I also like to watch folks, too. I see all kinds of things here. The hospital is a good place to watch people. If I was in college, I bet I could write a good paper on what I've seen."
"You're an observer, huh?" Jim asked, smiling at the similarity between this man and his partner.
"Yeah, you could call me that. I like to guess the relationship between patients and their visitors without anyone telling me. You were a mystery."
"Why is that?"
"One minute you'd be sittin' there talkin' to him, and the next you start pettin' him like he's your favorite dog. Parents do that to their kids when they're sick, that's why I thought he was your kid."
Jim found himself flustered at the remark about his treating Blair like a dog, and wondered if the nurse would even believe him if he explained his Sentinel senses to him. He looked up to see the nurse squinting a bit as he regarded the detective.
"Now that I got a good look at you, I can see you ain't old enough to be his daddy."
Jim smiled at that, then watched as the nurse moved to the opposite side of the bed to scan the readings on the machines hooked up to Blair's healing form. He wrote the numbers on the chart hanging on the end of the bed and then, nodding to himself, he moved back into the hallway and returned, pushing a cart.
"It's against the rules, but I won't ask you to wait in the hall while I take care of him. Don't tell Martha, though, she's a real stickler for rules."
"Thanks," Jim replied quietly. "I won't say a word to Martha." Jim respected the head nurse in the ICU ward, but had butted heads with her over his prolonged visitation with Blair. The night nurses were more sympathetic to his desire to remain with his friend, and had also cautioned him to avoid letting Martha Hawthorne know about their bending of the rules for him.
Raphael quickly disconnected the catheter bag from where it hung beside the hospital bed and replaced it with a new one. After arranging some pillows for support, the man then reached over and carefully slid his large hands beneath Blair's unconscious form and rolled him forward slightly, taking care not to disturb the tubes and apparatus attached to the anthropologist. After untying Blair's hospital gown, he squeezed a dollop of lotion onto his hands and rubbed them together to warm them before gently sliding them along his patient's side and back. After retying the gown, Raphael repositioned the anthropologist and tucked the bedding securely around him.
Throughout, Jim watched silently, pleased by the care and efficiency shown by the young nurse. After pushing the cart over to the door, Raphael moved back into to the room.
"How's your shoulder feeling?"
The question came as a surprise to the detective, but he masked his shock and answered truthfully.
"Stiff and sore."
Raphael looked towards the door, the sheepish expression on his face slicing years off his already youthful face. He crouched down in front of Jim and spoke softly.
"Here, lemme see it."
Wordlessly, Jim extended his arm towards the nurse, who took it in his large, gentle hands, and began massaging the exact muscles which had been plaguing the detective with spasms and soreness throughout the day. After the first few minutes of the soothing attention, Jim closed his eyes with a sigh and focused his sense of touch to take best advantage of the impromptu therapy he was receiving.
"I saw the sling on your arm yesterday, and was expectin' you to be wearing it again."
"Mmh...forgot it today," Jim murmured, enjoying the feel of the slowly loosening knots in his arm and shoulder. Raphael steadily massaged around the bullet wound, remaining silent for a good ten minutes as he worked.
"You're a good friend to Blair," Raphael finally stated, receiving a slow nod in return from the Sentinel.
"I think he'd be worried about you sittin' with him so much when you're hurtin', too."
Jim nodded again, hearing the words, but focusing more on the slow lessening of pain in his arm than what the nurse was saying. The man's voice was as soothing as his hands.
"I don't think he'd let you pet him like that if he was awake." Raphael got a small smile from the Sentinel at those words. "He has so many drugs in his system right now, I bet he can't feel a thing. Tomorrow maybe, once the doctors stop pumpin' all that stuff into him and let him wake up, he'll know you're here. So I'm thinkin' this is more for you than for him."
"You're very observant," Jim replied softly.
Jim felt rather than saw the wide smile that split the face in front of him, heard the pleased exhalation of breath and the slight increase of pressure on the muscles beneath the nurse's skilled hands.
"I can tell you love him even though he ain't your son or your boyfriend."
Raphael's bold statement did not provoke the same feelings of indignation as they might have earlier. He graced the nurse with a gentle smile as he opened his eyes.
"He's my partner and my best friend. Of course I love him."
"And he loves you, too?"
Jim could not hide the pain that flashed across his face from the observant nurse. The guilt he felt over Blair's injuries still gnawed at his insides, but he tamped it down as quickly as he could.
"I hope so," he whispered truthfully.
Raphael's smile slid from his eager face. He glanced over to where Blair lay, then back at the Sentinel. The light from above the bed shone across his gentle features, softening them. For a moment, the brown eyes which locked with Jim's seemed filled with a wisdom belying his years.
"What good does it for a man to have ears that will hear for a thousand miles if he cannot listen to the whispers of his own heart?"
With a gasp, Jim opened his eyes from the chair in which he had been dozing at Blair's bedside. Releasing his partner's hand, he glanced about him, searching in vain for a man who had never truly been present.
He rotated his wounded shoulder, which should have been achingly stiff from sleeping in the hard chair, but his movements only revealed loosened muscles and the absence of pain. He moved to the doorway and sent his hearing out in search of the soft voice of the young nurse. He heard the voices of the familiar ICU nurses, and the whispers of several doctors in consultation over a patient three doors down. One of the nurses at the ICU desk noticed his scrutiny and moved over towards him with eyebrows raised.
"Is everything okay, Detective Ellison?"
"Do you have a male nurse named Raphael working here?" he asked her.
"No, we don't," she replied with a grin. "We've got a Michael and a Gabriel who work the day shift, but no Raphael here."
With a solemn nod, Jim moved back to Blair's bedside and sat down, trying to wrap his head around what he had just experienced. Without thinking, he moved his hand to rest on his partner's head, stroking gently as his mind pored over his mysterious dream. As soon as he realized what he was doing he stopped, self-consciousness halting his movements.
For the span of several heartbeats he sat unmoving, until the whispers Raphael's words had awakened in his heart became clear in his head.
Bending over the still form, he placed a gentle kiss on Blair's forehead before reclaiming the hand he had released upon awakening.
"I love you, Chief."
And Silence, like a poultice, comes
To heal the blows of sound.
-- Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr.
To be continued in "Healing"