“Mr. Dixon, we have a room for you.” The receptionist stuck her head out of the sliding door.
Before Trevor said anything, Simon was walking back. Trevor really had no choice except to follow him, and his hand hurt like a bitch.
They’d probably give him some good....fuck. He couldn’t take anything. He wouldn’t. Drinking might have been his gateway, but there had been plenty of pills that followed it, and other drugs behind the pills. The last thing he needed was to get any of that shit in his system again.
Trevor squeezed his eyes shut. My job, Blake, Mom... He thought about the things he had in his life that were important to him. The things he risked losing if he screwed up.
He wouldn’t fuck this up. No matter what. He was doing this. One day at a time. That’s what they told him in his classes. One day at a time.
***
A registration clerk came back to get all of Trevor’s information. Simon watched silently. This part used to bug him sometimes. What he was doing was so much more important, but now, as crazy as it sounded, he actually missed it. Missed the whole process that led a patient to his table. The place where Simon would fix them.
His heart sped up with the memories. The pride that filled him when he saved someone. When he repaired their heart.
“Can I get your insurance information?” The clerk’s question snapped Simon out of his memories.
“I’ll be covering it. Can you bill me?” he asked.
“No, that’s fine. Please, bill me,” Trevor said, and Simon’s muscles tightened in annoyance.
The young blonde registration clerk’s eyes darted back and forth between them as though she didn’t know what to do.
“It happened on my property, so I’m responsible,” Simon told her.
She nibbled her lip nervously. “I understand that. I’ve never registered someone that way before. We put spouse or parent information for billing. Other than that it’s always insurance or workman’s compensation. I...I can try it, though. I mean, if you think I should.”
“Jesus Christ,” Trevor mumbled, and Simon gave her a smile. Simon liked getting his way.
“Yes, please do.”
Trevor wasn’t happy about it. The scowl on his face and the thick vein protruding from his forehead made that obvious, but Simon gave his information to the clerk anyway. She finished just as the doctor came in.
“The nurse hasn’t been in to see him yet, but I can tell you it’s going to need stitches. I cleaned it up before we came in but it’s deep, and a good two inches long. Just meat. He didn’t knick anything.” He’d been able to tell when he cleaned it.
When the older man cocked a brow at him, Simon introduced himself.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Dr. Wells. I did part of my residency in San Francisco, though quite a few years before you, I’m guessing.”
“Where?” Simon asked him. Trevor cleared his throat.
“Can we finish up with me please? I have to get back to work.”
Simon almost laughed. There would be no work for Trevor. Not with where he cut his hand. Then he was annoyed at himself for laughing because he wasn’t in the mood for that. He wanted to talk shop, wanted to breathe in the air of the ER, listen to the hustle of feet and the beep of machines and pretend he was prepping for surgery he would never perform again.
“You can’t work,” Simon said just as Dr. Wells asked him, “What do you do?”
“Construction, and let me worry about that.” Trevor held out his hand for the doctor, who unwrapped it.
A nurse came in and the wound was of course cleaned again, and Dr. Wells examined him. Simon stood off to the side, watching...wishing. He didn’t spend a lot of time in the ER, but he still felt close to the job he’d loved so much.
After they finished the examination and the nurse set out supplies, Dr. Wells confirmed from Trevor’s paperwork, “You’re not allergic to any medications?”
“No.”
“We’re going to give you a shot for pain. We can send a prescription in for Vicodin afterward. You’re going to be sore, and Dr. Malone was right about work.”
Trevor’s jaw visibly tightened. It looked like he loved his job as much as Simon had.
“I don’t want any medication,” Trevor gritted out.
“Son, I have to put quite a few stitches in your hand. You’re going to need—”
“I refuse. I don’t need it. I’ll walk out before I let you put drugs in me.” Trevor’s voice was tight, tighter than Simon had heard it. His eyes were hard on Dr. Wells. Briefly, Trevor glanced his way. It was just a second, but Simon saw it there. The shame.
