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brittababbles · 4 years

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Best Medicine

Agent Whiskey x female nurse!reader

Something deeply self-indulgent that I accidentally came up with chatting with @thick-dick-din-daddy-djarin

Warnings: Mentions of blood, physical trauma, medical situations, angst (is that a warning?), no edits to speak of, me projecting like crazy

“EMS Unit 437 calling Mercy General”

Hour nine of twelve has rather numbed you to the sound of the EMS line, but you glance up from your charting anyway to meet the eyes of your charge nurse over the desk. Lance sighs and shoves his blond-grey hair out of his eyes before reaching for the awkward walkie-talkie like unit.

“Mercy General calling EMS 437. What do you got?” Lance says into the walkie, his voice the practiced detachment of a veteran ER nurse.

“40-year-old male, apparent GSW to the right chest. BP 90 over 62, pulse 132, pulse ox 90 on f15 liters. He’s alert and oriented times 3. We got an 18 gauge in his left AC and he’s had 200 milliliters normal saline and 40 micrograms fentanyl IV push. Pretty shocky… ETA 7 minutes to your location.”

Lance pauses for a second to absorb this information, then gives a single nod before responding

“Copy, EMS 437. See you soon”

You watch your leader-of-the-day impassively, the unspoken question lingering in your gaze. Lance consults his computer screen before answering.

“Trauma 3,” he says.

It’s not your assigned trauma room, but you’re at an impasse at the moment. You have three patients, and all of them are stable and waiting – one for social work to clear his discharge, one for CT to pick her up, and one for a room to open up on the floors above you.

With a sigh, you exit from your computer screen before heading to trauma room three to check that the room is prepped for a trauma. It’s relatively mindless work, and the last nurse had done a decent job cleaning the room up. You lay out leads for cardiac monitoring and grab a blood collection kit, then check the supplies are at least roughly in order. Seven minutes isn’t a long time to get ready, but you’ve given the room a once over by the time the ambulance bay doors burst open.

There’s a flurry of activities and voices as the paramedics roll in their stretcher. One is calling report over top of the patient to Danielle, the nurse who’s room you’ve just stocked. Two more are ministering to the patient himself. You watch them head toward you, bracing yourself for the adrenaline rush and mentally running through everything that will need to happen in the next few minutes. You stand on tiptoe, hoping to catch a glance at the patient’s chest, to see what you’re getting into.

Everything in your brain freezes. Every synapse stops. You swear you go deaf and wobble slightly from the impact of dizzying recognition.

Oh god.

Jack.

Evidently time does not stop, but you’re unaware of the intervening seconds before the gurney carrying your husband is in front of you. Doctor Thompson pushes past you to reach the patient, shouting orders to Danielle and Lance that you can’t understand. Instead of diving into your work, you take two shaky steps backward and find yourself leaning hard against the wall.

Lance is calling your name. His expression is obviously frustrated, but immediately switches to confusion at your stricken appearance. He glances at Danielle and jerks his head toward you. His hands are covered in crimson. You’re dimly aware that it’s blood. Jack’s blood. You squeeze your eyes shut at the exact instant Danielle’s hands impact your shoulders.

“[Y/N}? What’s wrong?” she asks.

She uses her nursing voice. Firm, matter of fact, slightly higher in pitch than her normal voice. You must look terrible.

“Th-that’s my husband,” you manage to gasp.

He’s still conscious. That’s the crazy thing. There’s so much blood everywhere; on his clothes, on the sheets, on the floor. You approach him cautiously, the way you would a wild deer, and carefully touch the IV Lance had shoved into the back of Jack’s hand.

The paramedics had given him some very strong pain medication in the field, and Lance had doubled it up with IV dilaudid on Dr. Thompson’s orders. Those beautiful brown eyes are rather glassy, but wide open and so alive. He grins rather lopsidedly under the oxygen mask as you approach.

“I always knew angels were real,” he slurs.

His voice cracks as he speaks, and it’s so soft that it’s hard to hear around the sound of the monitors and the oxygen and the IV pumps. But you catch every word and manage a weak smile.

“Hi, baby,” you say. Your voice shakes, too.

He squeezes your hand in response. His grip is stronger than you expected. A good sign, you tell yourself.

Danielle hadn’t hesitated once you’d managed to choke out your confession. She shoved you straight out of the trauma room, directly into the waiting arms of the social worker, Nancy. She’d heard, or maybe just observed and put together, enough to understand your abrupt ejection from the room, and used her considerable talents to calm you down enough to speak with registration. To get Jack’s details down. His name, such that could be provided, address, date of birth. His blood type. The fact that he reacted badly to onions and bee stings. That you were his wife. You rattled off the information automatically, the majority of your mind back in the trauma room with your bleeding husband.

You’d staggered back to the door of the trauma room just as the doctor was leaving. She pulled you aside and explained what they’d found. You nodded along, grasping clinically what she was saying but utterly failing to feel any emotion at all. By the time she had finished explaining what the next few hours would look like, Danielle had hung a unit of platelets, attached to the IV in Jack’s arm. On his other side, Lance was adjusting the drip rate on a bag of fluids, the tubing on these leading to the IV in your husband’s hand. A full set of vital signs flashed from the monitor above his head, and you stared unfeelingly at these, before glancing down at your husband. He was awake, and he was staring straight at you.

Now, you stood at his bedside, brushing silky strands of dark hair from his sweat-sticky forehead.

“You have what’s called a traumatic hemothorax, Jack,” you coo.

The expression in his eyes suggests vague confusion, and you mentally steady yourself before continuing.

“It means there’s blood in the space around your lungs. It’s gonna get hard to breathe if they don’t go in and fix it, baby,” your voice shakes, and you admonish yourself.

Some nurse you are.

Jack glances around the room, seemingly asking why he was still here if he needed fixed. You twist your face into a watery smile, trying very hard not to cry.

“You lost a lot of blood,” you tell him softly, winding your fingers into his, “It’s not safe to put you under anesthesia yet. We need you to finish getting these fluids and platelets, so it’s safe to operate.”

He absorbs all of this with the unshakable calmness that only a Stateman agent could muster at a time like this. You find yourself wishing for half of his poise to get your through the next several hours.

“What about you?” he croaks unexpectedly.

You carefully lift his hand and pressed a feather-light kiss to his fingers, which feel unusually cold against your lips.

“I’m staying right here until they take you to surgery.”

He has the audacity to look surprised.

“Danielle’s taking my patients. I’ll have to get her a gift basket,” you say.

This earns you a smirk, which fades quickly when he notices the tears you’ve failed to stop from spilling down your cheeks. He lifts your entwined hands and brushes his index finger against your face, wiping the track your tears have left, and fixes you with an intense stare.

“[Y/N],” he whispers, “I’m not leaving you today, darlin’.”

Your only response is to kiss the back of his hand more firmly than more before pressing your face into his skin, squeezing your eyes shut. You stay like this for a long time, listening hard to the too-fast beep of the heart monitor overhead.

At some point in the last two hours, you’d realized hospitals are cold.

You’d managed to trot behind the transport team as the whisked your husband toward the surgery suites. He tries to look up at you, but the angle was too extreme for his neck to manage under the circumstances. Jack raised a hand rather weakly to wave as you reached the edge of your access to the department, and you watched him disappear from your sight.

There were three people in the surgical waiting area, a middle-aged couple and an older lady, and all of them stood up when you walked in. It took you a moment to realize that they were reacting to your scrubs, not realizing you didn’t work on this floor.

“I’m sorry,” you managed to say, “I’m not a surgical nurse.”

You’d sat down, abruptly exhausted, in one of the thinly padded chairs, working hard to ignore the sound of the national news from the TV in the corner. The middle aged woman broke away from her partner and sidled over to you.

“Are you a nurse?” she asks

“Yes,” you said dully, “but I don’t work on this floor.”

That didn’t seem to mean much to the woman. She leaned toward you slightly, her eyes wide and somewhat bloodshot.

“My daughter’s in surgery. The doctor said something about a brain hemorrhage. Do you know about that?”

Sure, you know about brain hemorrhages; if only you could access the parts of your brain that knows things. Normally you would recognize the obvious pain in this woman’s voice, but right now the only emotion you feel capable of producing is exhaustion. You turned to the woman, blinking slowly. She watched, her expression expectant and a little bit desperate.

“I’m sorry,” your words came out sounding like a question, “I don’t know anything about that.”

She stared at you, her face utterly blank, for a moment, before getting up and returning to her husband’s side. You return your own stare to the carpet and utterly lose track of time.

At some point, the room becomes to small and you get to your feet and walk out into the hallway. Nobody tries to stop you. You round a corner and lean against the wall, feeling your knees starting to slowly give out. You slide gracelessly down the wall and curl yourself into a ball. The wall opposite you is very white. You stare at it endlessly.

“Mrs. Daniels?”

You have no idea how much time has passed while you sat on the floor. A sturdy looking middle aged man in green scrubs is standing over you. He offers you a hand and pulls you upright, before introducing himself as Jack’s surgeon.

“You’re a nurse downstairs, right?” he asks.

You nod, trying to remember what that even means.

He explains to you that Jack’s surgery went well. The damage was repairable. He’s in recovery now and will probably spend a couple days in the ICU before transferring to a nursing unit. He’s not out of the woods quite yet, but the surgeon seems optimistic.

“Your husband’s a strong man,” he tells you.

If he only knew the half of it.

Jack’s awake, if mostly incoherent, when you reach his bedside in the ICU.

“S’my angel girl,” he tells the nurse as she hooks him up to the monitor.

She glances at you and smiles.

To say your husband is an affectionate drunk is an understatement. He repeatedly tells you how pretty you are, how lucky he is. He even makes a couple lewd comments that normally would have you blushing, but at this point you’re too happy that he’s alive to feel anything but gratitude at the sound of his voice. He coos at you, reaching out to stroke your messy hair clumsily. You lean lightly into his touch.

You spend the next two days holding vigil at his bedside, watching the vitals monitor and gently questioning the nurses. Once Jack’s out from the influence of the anesthesia, he begins to get restless.

“I’m not in pain if you’re here, beautiful,” he insists, the afternoon following his surgery.

The nurse is standing by, vial of pain medication in hand, and she glances at you for confirmation. You, in turn, look to the monitor.

Blood pressure: 155 over 97. Pulse: 102.

You look at your husband, eyes widening.

“Yes, you are, Jack,” you say softly, “They cut your chest open. You almost died. You’re allowed to be in pain.”

He stares back stubbornly.

“It’s okay,” you murmur, brushing your fingers across his cheek, “Don’t be brave for me.”

He remains unreadable for a beat, then glances at the nurse and gives a curt nod.

The floor nurses adore Jack.

Of course they do. He’s charming, sweet, considerate, and insists on doing virtually everything for himself. He doesn’t beg for medications during busy times, and rapidly memorizes the nursing rotation to avoid being what he terms “a pest” at shift change. His only complaint is that the bed isn’t big enough to share with you, that his IV lines prevent him from holding you close. He smiles brightly at everyone who walks into the room and introduces you to every new face as “my lovely wife, best nurse in this here hospital”. The head of pulmonology visits early on Jack’s fourth day in the hospital and seems surprised by your credentials.

“You work here?” he asks

“ER,” you respond sleepily.

“Well, at least he’ll be in good hands when he goes home,” he doctor says.

Jack visibly brightens at the word “home”.

“Am I going home today, doc?” he asks eagerly.

“Not today, son,” the old doctor says with a sigh, “maybe tomorrow.”

Jack’s shoulders slump slightly, and he tries not to pout too obviously.

When the day finally arrives, you wait patiently in your chair as Jack paces the room. He’s doing remarkably well for a man who’d nearly died less than a week ago. Well enough for his team of doctors and therapists to sign off on his discharge. Unfortunately, Jack is less realistic about the speed of the discharge process than you are, and vents some of his frustrations by energetically pacing the floor.

“Don’t tire yourself out, baby,” you murmur.

You insist on removing his IVs yourself. Jack watches with fascination bordering on morbidity as you carefully slip the slender catheter from his arm and press a square of gauze to the bubble of blood that blossoms from the site. His eyes gleam with something like pride as he looks up and watches you cross the room to dispose of the used IV in the sharps container.

“You’re amazing,” he says, cupping the back of your head with his now-free hand and pulling you in to kiss you.

His nurse tries to usher him into a wheelchair, and as expected, Jack refuses wholeheartedly. He walks the length of the hall and reaches the main nursing station before his knees wobble and he leans against the counter. Panicked, you grasp at his side. He gives you a small smile.

“Maybe I will take the chariot,” he says.

Once the nurse has Jack loaded into the car, she turns to you with a smile.

“I’m glad he’s in good hands,” she says.

You can only nod, hoping she’s right.

Jack watches the trees pass as you drive home. He’s unusually quiet, seemingly lost in thought. You focus on the road and try to squash any lingering self-doubts. Abruptly your feel his hand rest on yours over the gearshift. His skin is warm again. You glance his way to see him watching you, his expression thoughtful.

“I’m not worried, baby girl,” he says.

“Hmm?” you feign innocence.

Jack always knows when you’re worried. It’s almost a sixth sense. He can pick up the tension in your shoulders and the concern in your brow at half a glance and ten paces. You wish you were half as perceptive, but you’d settle for half as brave.

The car eases to a stop at a red light and you turn to look at him fully. He’s smiling warmly, his eyes bright with life and love and you feel like your heart might explode just looking at him.

“You’ll take care of me,” he says softly.

You smile, lean in, and press your lips softly to his.

“Always,” you promise.

#agent whiskey x reader #agent whiskey #jack daniels x reader #agent whiskey x you #jack daniels x you #pedro pascal fanfiction #jack daniels #pedro pascal #Britta writes #Britta may be using Jack to work out her work trauma?#best medicine

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odenqist-blog · 7 years

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CBD LABs Pain Relief

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CBD LABs Pain Relief

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Canada, Spain, Germany, Austria, Netherlands, and Portugal are among the nations that have legally allowed the use of cannabis for health concerns. Recently, it was predicted that as many as 27 states might have legal medical cannabis by 2014. Such clinics do indeed serve a very important role in today's society. Only a small amount of cannabis was found, and Dodge County later paid the victim's family a $950,000 settlement.

Since these plants were considered to be illegal there were issues for making even fabrics out of this plant. She is also a member of the Wisconsin Nurses Association, long a supporter of cannabidiol legislation in the state. Recommendations generally are for one 12 months(the maximum allowed under state law). She couldn't talk or move and was given dilaudid intravenously every four hours.

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vernicle · 7 years

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