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Not Nothing
MOAR ROYAL PAINS. I'M ON A ROLL HERE ;)
Not Nothing
PG | Hank and Tucker | 930 words
Hank's iPhone rings-- Evan rapping 'Baby Got Back', because Hank really needs to learn how to put a password on the damn thing-- at the unholy hour of six in the morning, right next to his head.
"Oh, come on," he says, to no one particular. Someone better be dying for this, he thinks, and immediately feels bad. His grumpiness shouldn't be taken out on his patients. "Hello?" he says groggily, putting it up to his ear.
"Hank? Oh, Hank, thank god it's you," Libby babbles into his ear. "It's Tucker."
"What? Libby, slow down. What happened to Tucker?" She sucks in a long breath.
"H-he," oh no, she's crying. Hank sits up and grabs a pair of jeans on the floor, pulling them on as she talks. "Today's the maid's day off, and we were making breakfast a-and..."
"And what, Libby?" Hanks says, gentle and forceful at the same time, the special doctor tone he'd spent months in med school perfecting. He's already heading for the door, grabbing at his jacket and his keys-- one good think about Evan's neat streak, he always knows where his keys are.
"And one of the glasses fell, and he tried to catch it, and it b-broke in his hand. He's bleeding a lot, Hank." Hank's already at his car, whipping the door open.
"How long ago did this happen?" Hank asks, starting the Saab.
"Just a f-few minutes," Libby says shakily. "There's so much blood..."
"Libby," he says sharply, speeding down Boris' oversized driveway. "Stay with me, okay?" He gives her a second to breathe. "I need you to get a towel and wrap it around the wound, tight as you can, and put pressure on it. Then I need you to hang up and call 911, I don't care what Tucker says about Hampton's Heritage. I'm on my way over right now, I'll be there really soon."
"O-okay," she says, slightly steadier. Hank gives a mental sigh of relief for Libby's task oriented mind, give her something to do and she can't freak out until it's done. She hangs up with an anxious, "please, hurry."
Hank's driving so fast that he barely has time to dial Divya-- who picks up on the second ring-- bark out the address and, "it's Tucker," before he's pulling past Tucker's father's cars-- brightly colored blurs in the corner of his eyes.
"Libby!" he calls, pounding on the door.
"Hank!" she yells back, voice far away. Upstairs. Hanks tries the doorknob and finds it open-- Libby has more foresight than any sixteen-year-old he's ever met. He runs past the memorabilia and up the inner stairs, taking them two at the time.
"C'mon Libs, there's no reason to freak out this much," Hank hears Tucker protest as he turns the corner. He's sitting on a stool, Libby in front of him, hands wrapped around a bloody rag. It takes him a second to realize that the bloody rag happens to have Tucker's hand under it.
The very fact that he's not trying to get away from her and her mother-hen-ing is a very bad sign to Hank. Tucker's pale, creases forming around his mouth. He grins at Hank, sarcastic and witty with a very evident tinge of pain.
"Hey doc, call off the cyberchondriac, will ya?"
"How's he doin', Libby?" Hanks says, taking Tucker's wounded hand from her and peeling back the towel slowly. He knows Tucker well enough to just ignore him when he tries to tell Hank it's nothing.
"It's not slowing down," she says nervously.
"It is slowing down, Libby I can feel it," Tucker says obstinately.
"Do not argue with me Tucker, I know clotting when I see it and that's not clotting," she snaps.
"Libby, did you call 911?" Hank asks without looking away from the wound. It's fairly deep, with at least one large piece of glass and probably many smaller ones he can't see lodged in it.
"No-" she starts.
"Because I wouldn't let her," Tucker finishes, smirking. Hank takes a deep breath, don't hit a bleeding hemophiliac, don't hit a bleeding hemophiliac.
"Libby," he says, ignoring Tucker, yet again. "You should go downstairs and wait for Divya."
"No! I'm not leaving his side," she protests.
"Yeah, you are," he says. "Doctor's orders." Libby is plainly hurt, and looks to Tucker for assistance. When none is forthcoming, she heads to the stairs.
Tucker leans forward, smirk widening. "Thanks for getting rid of her, man."
"I didn't do it for you," Hank says. The grin slides of Tucker's face. "You're a hemophiliac, and you need to take better care of yourself. If you're bleeding, call the hospital. I'd say that's pretty simple."
"Dude, I didn't even want her to call you, okay," Tucker says, leaning away from Hank.
"You should be glad she did, this is serious."
"It's nothing." Hanks has to grit his teeth together.
"It's not nothing," he hisses, trying to keep his voice low so Libby won't hear. "Do you know how many veins are in your hand? Your wrist? You could have bled out while I was on my way over."
Tucker pulls his hand away from Hank and haphazardly re-wraps the bandage.
"I didn't though," he sneers. "What do you care, you're not even my doctor anymore?"
Hank sneers back, "just because I'm not getting paid doesn't mean I don't care if you live or die." They stare each other down, Hank's green gaze warring Tucker's brown one. Tucker looks away first. Hank gently takes his hand by the wrist and pulls it back towards him.
~fin
Not Nothing
PG | Hank and Tucker | 930 words
Hank's iPhone rings-- Evan rapping 'Baby Got Back', because Hank really needs to learn how to put a password on the damn thing-- at the unholy hour of six in the morning, right next to his head.
"Oh, come on," he says, to no one particular. Someone better be dying for this, he thinks, and immediately feels bad. His grumpiness shouldn't be taken out on his patients. "Hello?" he says groggily, putting it up to his ear.
"Hank? Oh, Hank, thank god it's you," Libby babbles into his ear. "It's Tucker."
"What? Libby, slow down. What happened to Tucker?" She sucks in a long breath.
"H-he," oh no, she's crying. Hank sits up and grabs a pair of jeans on the floor, pulling them on as she talks. "Today's the maid's day off, and we were making breakfast a-and..."
"And what, Libby?" Hanks says, gentle and forceful at the same time, the special doctor tone he'd spent months in med school perfecting. He's already heading for the door, grabbing at his jacket and his keys-- one good think about Evan's neat streak, he always knows where his keys are.
"And one of the glasses fell, and he tried to catch it, and it b-broke in his hand. He's bleeding a lot, Hank." Hank's already at his car, whipping the door open.
"How long ago did this happen?" Hank asks, starting the Saab.
"Just a f-few minutes," Libby says shakily. "There's so much blood..."
"Libby," he says sharply, speeding down Boris' oversized driveway. "Stay with me, okay?" He gives her a second to breathe. "I need you to get a towel and wrap it around the wound, tight as you can, and put pressure on it. Then I need you to hang up and call 911, I don't care what Tucker says about Hampton's Heritage. I'm on my way over right now, I'll be there really soon."
"O-okay," she says, slightly steadier. Hank gives a mental sigh of relief for Libby's task oriented mind, give her something to do and she can't freak out until it's done. She hangs up with an anxious, "please, hurry."
Hank's driving so fast that he barely has time to dial Divya-- who picks up on the second ring-- bark out the address and, "it's Tucker," before he's pulling past Tucker's father's cars-- brightly colored blurs in the corner of his eyes.
"Libby!" he calls, pounding on the door.
"Hank!" she yells back, voice far away. Upstairs. Hanks tries the doorknob and finds it open-- Libby has more foresight than any sixteen-year-old he's ever met. He runs past the memorabilia and up the inner stairs, taking them two at the time.
"C'mon Libs, there's no reason to freak out this much," Hank hears Tucker protest as he turns the corner. He's sitting on a stool, Libby in front of him, hands wrapped around a bloody rag. It takes him a second to realize that the bloody rag happens to have Tucker's hand under it.
The very fact that he's not trying to get away from her and her mother-hen-ing is a very bad sign to Hank. Tucker's pale, creases forming around his mouth. He grins at Hank, sarcastic and witty with a very evident tinge of pain.
"Hey doc, call off the cyberchondriac, will ya?"
"How's he doin', Libby?" Hanks says, taking Tucker's wounded hand from her and peeling back the towel slowly. He knows Tucker well enough to just ignore him when he tries to tell Hank it's nothing.
"It's not slowing down," she says nervously.
"It is slowing down, Libby I can feel it," Tucker says obstinately.
"Do not argue with me Tucker, I know clotting when I see it and that's not clotting," she snaps.
"Libby, did you call 911?" Hank asks without looking away from the wound. It's fairly deep, with at least one large piece of glass and probably many smaller ones he can't see lodged in it.
"No-" she starts.
"Because I wouldn't let her," Tucker finishes, smirking. Hank takes a deep breath, don't hit a bleeding hemophiliac, don't hit a bleeding hemophiliac.
"Libby," he says, ignoring Tucker, yet again. "You should go downstairs and wait for Divya."
"No! I'm not leaving his side," she protests.
"Yeah, you are," he says. "Doctor's orders." Libby is plainly hurt, and looks to Tucker for assistance. When none is forthcoming, she heads to the stairs.
Tucker leans forward, smirk widening. "Thanks for getting rid of her, man."
"I didn't do it for you," Hank says. The grin slides of Tucker's face. "You're a hemophiliac, and you need to take better care of yourself. If you're bleeding, call the hospital. I'd say that's pretty simple."
"Dude, I didn't even want her to call you, okay," Tucker says, leaning away from Hank.
"You should be glad she did, this is serious."
"It's nothing." Hanks has to grit his teeth together.
"It's not nothing," he hisses, trying to keep his voice low so Libby won't hear. "Do you know how many veins are in your hand? Your wrist? You could have bled out while I was on my way over."
Tucker pulls his hand away from Hank and haphazardly re-wraps the bandage.
"I didn't though," he sneers. "What do you care, you're not even my doctor anymore?"
Hank sneers back, "just because I'm not getting paid doesn't mean I don't care if you live or die." They stare each other down, Hank's green gaze warring Tucker's brown one. Tucker looks away first. Hank gently takes his hand by the wrist and pulls it back towards him.
~fin