Chapter Text
It wasn’t often FBI agents needed tending to their wounds because often they could get the job done without a scratch. Still, the FBI headquarters in Manhattan needed a resident nurse for when some agents got banged up, and that nurse was her.
She liked being a nurse at the FBI—believe it or not, it paid more than her previous job at Metro-General and it was up her alley to be working specifically with the FBI. She hated when her manager at Metro told her she’d yet again be switching departments, meaning she’d have to find a new way to commute to the hospital since it was so large and had different entrances. It was also hard to build a relationship with the patients there since she was often switched because the hospital couldn’t keep its shit together. Why get so attached to tending to the same patient almost every day, just for one day she'd be told she’d never be able to see them again?
It took a toll on her since she was the type of person to get attached to people she cared about. She may not have known her patients for a long time, but the time she spent with them was precious. These people were sick or injured, and they leaned on her not only to help them, but to have someone to talk to when their family couldn’t make it on any particular day.
So one day, she asked yourself, what’s the use? What’s the use in getting attached and being taken away so easily? What’s the use in letting the hospital treat her relationships with her patients as disposable?
When she saw the open position for a nurse at the FBI, she hoped she’d at least be dealing with the same agents now and then. So far, she has. No more switching around—no more connections being cut for no reason.
Being here almost six months, she’s come to know many of the agents. Many of them had families, some were new to the job—and for some, all they had was this job. Despite the only time she’d see these agents was when they were hurt, she looked forward to catching up with them in her exam room as she stitched up or cleaned their wounds.
Ray Nadeem is one of the agents who has a family. When it was Ray she had to tend to, she knew her time with him would be pleasant. He was—no pun intended—a ray of sunshine. A sweet family man, who truly cared about his job and justice.
Ray is in her exam room today. Not for anything serious. A bunch of agents responded to a complaint downtown—gang members fighting at a liquor store. Truthfully, not the worst she’s heard them be called for. The FBI normally had everything under control in situations like that. Ray had a few scratches on his face, and he was pushed into an aisle of white wine. She could smell the wine on his jacket. She already checked for broken glass. She was now tending to the cut on his cheekbone.
“Was it bad?” She asked him.
Ray shook his head. “Not really. We apprehended them pretty quickly. We had enough agents there.”
“That’s good,” she said, focusing on cleansing the wound. “Early night at least.”
“Yeah,” Ray sighed, “just in time for me to tuck Sammy into bed.”
Her heart melted at the mention of his son. No amount of cuts on his face could keep Ray from smiling whenever he brought up his son.
“How is Sammy doing? Is he going to try out for any sports this fall?” She asked.
“Maybe soccer. He’s more interested in spring sports, like baseball.”
“Ah,” she smiled. “I’ve always found that more fun, too. Spring in general.”
“Yeah,” Ray sighed, again. A sigh she’s come to know as regretful, these past few months getting to know him. “Just wish I was able to surprise him in the spring with the pool he’s been begging for.”
“I’ve only been here a few months, and I know you’re due for a promotion,” she said knowingly. “It’s only September. Anything can happen in the next few months,” a hopeful tone laced in her voice. She didn’t have a license in therapy, but sometimes the agents treated her as such. She didn’t mind, though.
“I hope so,” Ray said, exasperated. “Thanks, though. For fixing me up,” he pointed to the bandage she just finished putting on his face. “You make me look less scary coming home to Sammy.”
She wanted to laugh, but she stopped herself. It must be hard being an agent, working a daunting job, and coming home to a family like they don’t risk their life every day at work. Instead, she smiles softly at Ray.
“Thankfully, there wasn’t much to clean up. Just a check-up, I say. Get home safe, Ray.”
“You too,” Ray said, standing up from the exam table. “You going home after this?”
“Hopefully before 10,” she glanced out the window that showed a completely dark sky. One of the perks of working at the FBI, they offered her a service to get her home safely so she didn’t have to worry about going home alone. At night, as a young woman in this city, walking home could be dangerous.
“Good,” Ray said. “You deserve sleep just as much as we do. Everyone appreciates you being here. I hope you know that.”
She smiled. “I’m happy to be here.”
“Night, __,” Ray said. “I’ll be sure to tell Sammy you said hi.”
“Please do.”
With one last reassuring nod, Ray left her room. She quickly filled out his file on the computer and checked off the remaining boxes: no head trauma, no serious injuries, no broken bones, no concussion. Just a good old-fashioned cleaning and bandaging.
A knock on the door brings her out of her focus on the screen.
“Come in,” she called, not looking to see who it was. By how the door was carefully opened and carefully shut, she felt the person was hesitant in their movements.
“I’m sorry,” Special Agent Poindexter said. “I can come in when you’re ready.”
She swirled around in her chair to face him immediately. It wasn’t often Dex said much to her, so on the rare occasion he does decide to speak to her, she’s fully paying attention to what he has to say.
“It’s okay, I was just finishing up,” she stood from her chair. She could see now that his forehead was dripping blood from a cut, and he was attempting to absorb it with the rough paper towels from the bathroom. This indicates why he opened the door to come in—he needed help now. “I’m sorry, Dex. Please sit.”
While she quickly washed her hands, Dex awkwardly shuffled to the exam table and propped himself up on it, holding the paper towel to his forehead. He’s covering half his face and his gaze is away from her, like it always was when it was his turn to be tended to. His dirty blonde hair was pushed to the side. The veins on his hand were prominent.
“May I?” She asked him first, indicating she wanted to take away the paper towel to begin cleaning his wounds. He only offers her a small nod.
Dex was hard to figure out—he wasn't like the other agents she’s tended to. He was quiet. Stoic. He wasn’t rude, but he also didn’t go out of his way to make conversation. That was fine by her. She never wanted anyone in her exam room to be uncomfortable or pressured to talk—these agents worked a hard enough job already. They can’t always be at 100% all the time. She just could never tell if Dex was or not. She chalked it up to him being super serious about work. He’s in, and then he’s out. Sometimes, she's tried for conversation, but it was always hit or miss.
“This may sting,” she says gently. It’s something she says all the time to him, just to fill the silence between them. He faintly nods. His gaze stays away from her. She gently presses the alcohol-absorbed cotton pad over his wound. Ever so slightly his jaw clenches at the contact and he takes a small intake of breath. He shuts his eyes until the sting goes away.
“I’m sorry,” she dabs on it again. “Just one more. It’s a deep cut.”
“It’s alright,” Dex reassures her. “You can do what you need to.”
Maybe it was a good thing Dex didn’t talk to her so much when he was here—his voice was deep, a hint of a New York accent. And his speaking so closely to her made it hard to concentrate on the task at hand. Now it was her turn to keep quiet.
She dabbed at his wounds until the bleeding stopped. She grabbed fresh bandages and patched them up.
“I have to ask you some questions,” she said carefully, feeling nervous for some reason. Dex had his full attention on her now, his gaze no longer hidden. An unreadable expression on his face.
“Did you hit your head?”
“No.”
“Does your body hurt anywhere else?”
“No.”
“Is your vision blurred?”
“No.”
“Alright,” she nodded. “Otherwise, was tonight an okay night?”
Dex shifted on the exam table. “Yeah, it was fine. Easier than most.”
“Good,” she smiled. “Well, if nothing else hurts, then you’re free to go.”
“Thank you, __,” Dex says, and she realizes it's the first time he’s spoken her name. For a while there, she wondered if he ever cared to remember it. Maybe he was the type to have to warm up to someone first before he started a working relationship. That's alright—in a lot of ways, she was the same. “I appreciate it.”
And there it was again—another sentence from the agent she thought didn’t like her for the longest time. Sometimes the agents spoke of Dex in passing to her—saying the job went smoothly, save for Dex who was always too willing to go the extra mile when he didn’t need to. She never engaged in negative talk about him or anyone at the Bureau. She respected all their work. Everyone handles this job differently. Dex handles it in his way: by keeping to himself and keeping the conversation at a minimum.
“You’re welcome,” she smiled. Dex offered a hint of a smile as he got up from the exam table.
“Guess you can go home now?” Dex asks. He’s standing close to her as she crosses her arms, in an attempt to not appear nervous by the way he's looking at her. She's delighted at the attempts at conversation he’s finally making.
“Yeah, you were the last agent I needed to see.”
“I’m sorry for keeping you,” he says, brows furrowed.
“Don't be sorry. It’s my job,” she reasoned. “I like being here when I’m needed.”
Dex sighs; he looks tired. Despite his tiredness, she couldn’t deny how handsome he looked, even in the harsh fluorescent lighting of the room.
“Night, Dex. Get home safe.”
“You too.”
Another night of tending to wounded FBI agents. This time, the wounds weren’t as simple. Some of them got really banged up—stitches were required this time. She was hyper-focused on the stitching she had to do on Ray on his left shoulder. He had his sleeve hanging off his shoulder and sat stiffly on the exam table, holding his breath at every movement.
“Not a good night, huh?” She asked.
“No,” Ray shook his head. “Not the worst, but I’ve had better.”
“Good thing the bullet was just a graze,” she reasoned, finishing up the last of his stitching. “Alright. You need to take it easy with that arm this weekend.”
“Will do,” Ray nodded. “Good thing I can hide this from Sammy with long sleeves. I hate to see him worrying about me.”
“I know,” she sighed. She got up to take off her gloves and wash her hands. She undid her hair in her claw clip and brushed it before twisting it up again. “It must be hard. I’m sorry.”
“It’s alright,” Ray shook his head. “Part of the job. Anyways, got any fun plans this weekend?”
“Not really,” she leaned against the counter and crossed your arms. “Catching up on sleep, probably.” It was already nearly midnight at the Bureau. “You?”
“Taking Sammy to the zoo with his friends,” Ray said. “Should be fun.”
“It will be. I’ll see you Monday, Ray.”
Ray slides his jacket on and exits her exam room. She washes your hands again before preparing for the next—and final—agent she has to stitch up. Of course, it was Dex. He was always the last to be seen. Of all the agents, he managed to always get hurt the least.
Dex is waiting patiently on the chair outside her exam room, anticipating his turn to see her. He enjoyed being around her because he didn’t have to pretend to be anyone—didn’t have to pretend the job was hard. All these men and women around him had families to come home to, or they had someone waiting at home for them. That’s what made it hard for them. Dex didn’t have anyone. That’s what made it so easy.
And his fellow agents could never understand his nonchalantness about it all. He didn’t care. That was on them. He only got checked out by her because he had to—it was a requirement that all agents see the nurse before heading home after a task. Truthfully, he didn’t need to see her. Perhaps he just wanted to.
“Dex?” She calls his name, pulling him from his thoughts. Dex is slouched in the chair, but he perks up when he hears her say his name. She leaves the door open and he closes it behind him when he enters her exam room.
Her hair is up—he often wondered what it would look like if it were down. He's never seen her look casual before. Always in scrubs, always hair pushed back. Her scrubs were dark navy blue to match his FBI jacket, with a small FBI logo near her left shoulder. A piece of her hair falls to the front of her face, slightly framing it. He doesn’t blush, but he thinks she looks pretty. Really pretty. And tired, just like him.
Dex takes his seat naturally on the exam table. She grabs her stethoscope and raises her hands to touch his face, but stops.
“May I?” She asks, like she always did. Dex nods and looks away from her gaze. It was easier to get through these visits if he wasn’t looking at her. He feels her fingertips gently hold his face to get a better look at his wounds that don’t hurt that much.
“Well, they’re not bad. Not bad at all,” she says, unsure if she is saying it out loud for herself or for him to know as well. He didn’t care if he was hurt. “Definitely will need cleaning though. But let me make sure your heart is all good and your head is fine.”
“It’s fine,” Dex reassures her, but he knows it’s no use.
“I still have to check,” she gives a small smile. He nods in understanding. She places the stethoscope on his back and asks him to breathe deeply three times, which he does. Everything sounds good, she says. She then places her fingers on his head, searching for any bumps or bruises. He closes his eyes at this—truthfully, if he had a favorite part, this was it. For a moment, the thoughts that swarmed in his head were quieted when he felt her fingers trace over his head. It was hypnotizing almost, a trance he never wanted to snap out of.
And when her hands disappeared, he was brought to reality.
“All good,” she says softly. “I’ll clean up your wounds and you’ll be out of here before you know it.”
“You don’t have to rush,” Dex tells her. “I don’t need to be anywhere.”
“On a Friday night?” She questions with a smile as she cleans her hands at the sink. He knows she’s being nice, but truthfully he didn’t have anywhere to be. Just home. If he could even call it that.
“Yeah,” he laughs half-heartedly, an attempt to match her attitude. “Got no plans for Friday.”
“Same here,” she sighs as she puts on the periwinkle-colored gloves. “My plans are sleep and more sleep.”
This time Dex laughs—really laughs—because he agrees. He hasn’t been getting much sleep lately, despite how tired all the time he feels. “I get that,” Dex nods. He relaxes a little bit more on the exam table.
She dabs the cotton pad in alcohol and lets it dry before she places it on his wounds. There’s a cut on his forehead, right cheekbone and a little wound on his jawline. She opens her mouth to speak, but Dex cuts her off.
“I know it’ll sting,” he says gently. “It’s fine.”
She smiles sheepishly, “I do give that warning a lot, huh?”
“It’s alright,” Dex shrugs. “It’s nice to be warned of pain before it happens. That’s not always the case.”
“How—“ she begins, furrowing her eyebrows. Contemplating the wording of her question. “How do you brace yourself? For all this? This job?”
Dex sighs. It wasn’t an easy question to answer, because he truthfully didn’t have an answer. Most agents would probably chalk it up to it being part of the job, but it wasn’t that simple for Dex. It… was just a job. If he got hurt, he got hurt. There was nothing else to it. No one would be upset if he got hurt—no one would cry for him.
Plus, the other part of it, despite it sounding cocky… it was rare Dex ever got hurt in the line of battle. He was a sniper—he was part of the SWAT unit. He was the one who did the hurting. He was the one who used lethal force. It was rare he ever missed.
“Mindset is everything,” Dex says anyway. “I know what I have to do. I have a job to do.”
“That makes sense,” she says, believing him. “I mean, if it makes you or any of the agents feel better, despite this being my job—it doesn’t make it any easier seeing you guys hurt like this.”
“It doesn’t?” Dex questions.
“Of course not,” she said. “I’ve… gotten to know a lot of you over the past few months being here. A lot of these agents have families. A wife or husband to come home to. They open up about that a lot. There are other ways to be hurt than just having physical wounds.”
Dex takes in what she’s saying. He swallows hard.
“It’s just me,” Dex tells her. “I’ve only got me to worry about me. That’s why it’s easier for me to come in and do what I need to do.”
As she listens to him say this, a thought pings in her head. She noticed on the file she has on him that he didn’t have any relatives listed as an emergency contact. Ray had his wife, Hattley her husband—all the other agents had someone listed. But Dex had no one listed as an emergency contact. She knew he wasn’t being sheepish when he said he was all he had—it was the truth. Sad, but true.
She doesn’t say anything in return. She continues to clean his wounds and bandage him up in silence—comfortable silence, for once. Dex’s eyes remain looking at the floor as she works her fingers around his temple. She gently lifts his chin with her fingers to get a better angle at the cut on his jaw—his jawline that appears to have been sculpted by the Gods. Being this close to him, she got a whiff of the faint smell of his cologne, now mixed with the smell of sweat. With one last check on his face, she tells him she’s done.
“Are you hurt anywhere else?” She asks him, leaning against the counter and facing him.
Dex rises from the exam table and circles his shoulder to stretch. “No. I’m fine.”
“Alright well,” she sighs, feeling somewhat shy by the way he’s looking at her, giving her his full attention. “Get home safe, Dex.”
“You, too, __,” Dex breathes out. “And thank you. I don’t know if I say that enough.”
“It’s alright—no need.”
With a small smile, Dex is almost on his way out of her exam room—until he hears her call his name under her breath.
“Dex,” she says, hesitant with her words. “Don’t take this the wrong way. But you’re not all you have. You’re not alone. You’ve got me now to be worried about you,” she tells him, offering a genuine smile.
Dex looks away from her, stumped by her words. Regardless if she really meant it or not—it was nice for him to hear. Nice to know that he could be wrong about something he’s always firmly believed.
He doesn’t say anything in return. He holds her gaze for a few moments, holds her smile, and puts it to his memory. He smiles back. And then he leaves. Maybe he would get some good sleep tonight, knowing someone worried about him.