“I’m not on call, what do you want?” Of course it was him. If he’s about to give me some spiel about how he needs me to cover, then I’m taking great pleasure in telling him to deal.
“I need you to take a look at a patient,” Fred says, already walking backward toward a curtain closed around a bed.
“I’m not on call so if you need a consult, then you need to call Lee.”
“I think you’ll want this one,” Fred says, ignoring me.
He reaches the curtain and just as another protest rises in my throat, he pulls it back a few inches.
Snow sits on the bed, swinging her legs back and forth with her forearm cradled in her lap.
“Snow?”
“She’s drunk,” Fred warns in a low voice as he passes me. “Her friends ditched her out front and left. Figured you’d wanna tend to her since she’s from your department.”
“Thanks.” I make a mental note to thank Fred later, once I get over the surprise that he did something nice, and hurry to Snow’s bedside. As soon as the curtain is drawn closed, I toss my coat onto the floor and face her.
“Snow?”
She blinks blearily, then gazes up at me with slightly unfocused eyes.
As soon as she recognizes me, her face breaks into a wide smile. “Xander!”
“What happened?” Taking the seat in front of her, my attention drops to the bloodied fabric hiding a wound on her forearm. “Can I take a look?”
“I just fell.” Snow laughs softly. “It doesn’t hurt!”
Easing her hand off the fabric, I remove wads of gauze to reveal a four-inch gash across the back of her forearm.
Blood immediately weeps from the wound, so I cover it again and look up at her, masking my concern. “How did this happen?”
She shrugs. “It was icy and I was dancing and I fell.”
“You got this from a fall?”
“Mhm. My wine smashed when I fell, can you believe it?” Swaying slightly back and forth, she groans. “It wasexpensive.”
A wine bottle. Now things make more sense. “Okay, Snow?”
“Mhm!” Her gaze returns to me and she smiles widely again.
“I’m going to get some things to clean you up, then you need some stitches. Have you taken anything tonight other than alcohol?”
“Ew, no,” she protests immediately. “I would never!”
“I’m just checking. Stay here for me, okay?”
“Okay.” She hums to herself and her head lolls to one side as I place her palm back over the gauze. “Ow.”
“I know, I’m sorry. I’ll be right back.”
Twenty minutes later, Snow’s arm rests on a pillow while I gently weave thread through the gash and stitch the weeping wound closed.
I found no glass in the wound so my only concern is closing the wound before she passes out.
“Ow,” Snow whines softly. “Why are you being so rough?”
“I’m not touching you right now,” I remind her as I prepare the next stitch.
