A Decorated Emergency

Mike's smoking a cigarette in one hand, a beer in the other. He's looking off the balcony down at the street cars speeding by. He's ignoring his friends who are punching each other as hard as they can. It's just another normal day of partying, and then having a hangover by tomorrow morning. Problem is: They're running out of Advil. Mike made a mental note to have Chiz go out and buy some more.

"Mike, move out of the way!"

"What?" He looks up, but it's too late. A plastic whiffle ball bat smacks him in the face. He feels something warm dripping down to his chin. Mike touches it. It's red. Blood.

"Did I hit it?" Sisky removes the blindfold, and his grin fades. "Oh shit. Someone get a towel!" Tony rushes over, towel in hand. Unfortunately, the clean white is going to be stained with red. Already, Butcher is leading Mike outside into the elevator as Bill is keeping everyone at the party calm. Chiz is holding the elevator door open with his arm, asking the very few people in the cramped space to make room. Sisky's apologizing profusely, but Mike isn't listening.

He doesn't feel much pain. His cheek feels hot, and it's more like a burning sensation. It's funny. Mike gets hit in the face, and he says nothing. No "Sisky, what the fuck?", or "FUCK!". No profanities. No nothing.

They all walk briskly to the van, where Mike is put in the back, and Tony drives. Mike's holding the towel to his face, but the blood is now starting to drip onto the floor. "Shit," Butcher murmurs, looking for something else that will absorb Mike's blood. He quickly takes off his shirt and hands it to Mike. "Here."

Mike is so out of it. Just takes the shirt and puts it against his bleeding face. Butcher places the soiled towel in plastic bag that, earlier, contained Chinese takeout. Tony finally drives up to the hospital. "Get him in there!" he yells as Sisky jumps out of the car and helps Mike out. They enter the hospital, seeing men, women, and children sitting, waiting to be seen by doctors. At that moment, all eyes are on Michael Carden. The desk clerk looks up from her papers, and her eyebrows are raised. She grabs a nurse's arm and points at Mike, whispering something. They have a short conversation, and the nurse is ushering Mike into a cramped room.

"So, what happened?" she asks, slipping her fingers into a pair of latex gloves. "You aren't allergic to latex, are you?"

"Nope." Mike makes a face, and he feels more blood squirt onto Butcher's shirt. The nurse gently pulls his hand away from his cheek. She grabs some gauze. "Well, it was a bit of a blur...I was hit with a whiffle ball bat, though."

"Oh? And why is that?"

"My friend completely missed the pinata." Mike tries to look at the nurse's face, but only catches her soft blonde hair. "Ouch!"

"Sorry, um...sorry, I didn't catch your name." She grins apologetically as she steps back from him. The nurse then starts to look through the drawers for something.

"My name's Mike Carden. And yours?"

"Phoebe."

"What are you doing here so late?" Mike looks at the clock, which reads "1:36." The time's ridiculous, and there are still people lined up, waiting to be admitted. "Are you a full-time nurse?" She lookspretty young.

"Well, I'm an intern, so I get to stay here late and work late. It's a bummer," she replies, placing a piece of cotton on his face. Mike squirms, but Phoebe holds his hand. "Just squeeze my hand if it hurts. Moving makes things worse, especially when I have a needle in the other hand." He stops.

"Okay. This is going to hurt..." Instead of squirming, Mike squeezes the intern's hand, his lips pursed. She puts the needle in his skin to sew up the wound. Mike's making all sorts of faces as she sews up the wound as she keeps telling him how sorry she is. "Think of butterfly fields, your girlfriend, or something."

"...I don't have a girlfriend." Mike just comes to this realization.

"Oh? A handsome guy like you doesn't have a girl?" Phoebe's laughing slightly, still sewing together Mike's bloody cheek. "I'm sure you'll attract the ladies with this scar."

"...More like they'll be grossed out by my face." They both laugh. "Man, interns really do get the short end of the stick, huh?" Phoebe nods sadly. "I'm real sorry. Still get to hang out with your friends?"

"They're in the cafeteria, drinking some coffee right now, most likely."

He smiles as Phoebe stops the bleeding. "You'll be just fine. And if it itches, don't scratch at it. And when it becomes a scab, don't pick at it. Just let it heal. You might have to come back in a couple of days. Oh, and use Neosporin," Phoebe warns, smiling. They waltz out of the small little examination room and up to the clerk. The clerk's already charged Tony, who's fiddling with his wallet. "You owe me," he mouths to Sisky, who shrugs.

"Hey, Phoebe, your friends wouldn't mind if I went to grab a cup of coffee with you, would they?" Mike glances at his friends, who are now bickering. Butcher's off on the sidelines, shirtless. The clerk is scowling at him, but the hospital doesn't own a "no shirt, no shoes, no service" sign.

She shakes her head and grabs his hand. Phoebe grins. "I'll introduce them to you."