Chapter Text
“I have a favor to ask you.” Snoke’s voice was low and raspy, from years of smoking cigars and drinking gin. He didn’t move from his position, reclining in bed, but his eyes followed his physician around the room. The late afternoon air was golden, specks of dust floating in it. Snake’s residence was one of those old mansions off of St. Charles that had been passed down for generations – opulent and dusty, no matter how many white-shoed, uniformed cleaning ladies came each week. When the younger man didn’t answer him, or turn from the bar cart, which was fully stocked with prescriptions, rather than alcohol, Snoke made a low noise of amusement. “Ben.”
Ben half-turned, pretending to take a long time to fill the syringe he was holding. “Yes?”
“I know you dislike doing my… errands.” Snoke studied him, eyes hooded behind deep, wrinkled folds of flesh. He had the lilt of a native New Orleanian – the old money kind who secluded themselves in the Garden District in moldering mansions.
“It depends on the errand.” Ben kept his voice studiously steady, moving towards the bed. “I would prefer to keep our arrangement… confidential.” He grasped the elderly man’s arm and located a vein, efficiently inserting the syringe.
“You would prefer to keep your day job.” Snoke still sounded amused, but Ben knew better than to disregard the hard edge in his voice. “My offer of full-time employment still stands.”
“I wouldn’t have enough to do.” Ben deflected.
“There is a great need for discrete medical care in my organization.”
Ben was silent for a moment, knowing the futility of arguing with Walter Snoke. He had been his private physician for four years, making frequent trips to the old house. He never could shake his feeling of discomfort here. It was usually dark, and hot. Today the humidity was suffocating, as was the silence that stretched between them.
While their relationship was, in many ways, impersonal, he had been subject to Snoke’s fits of rage occasionally. Snoke was an old, fragile man. His bodyguard – sitting just outside the partially opened French doors, was not. Ben had learned that the hard way, three and a half years ago, when he’d stupidly protested that he preferred to keep his “private practice” separate from his attending hours.
“What was that favor you wanted?” He decided to appease Snoke – appear eager to do what he was sure would be an unpleasant task, to avoid being drawn into an argument about full-time employment.
“At Touro. There’s a girl who’s been admitted today. She’s in the ICU. Room 174.”
“All right.”
“I want her to stay quiet when she wakes up.” Smoke said quietly, wrinkled fingers folding. “If she wakes up. You understand?”
“Yes.”
***
“Room 174? You want to add that to your rotation?” The nurse raised her brow, fingers holding onto the manila folder.
“Dr. Lin asked me to. Family emergency.” Ben said coolly. Lying never came easily to him, regardless of how often he did it. His ears tinged pink despite his best efforts. Luckily, the nurse didn’t seem to notice it. She handed over the file.
“Well, don’t stay too late. She’s still asleep.” She hesitated, glancing at the bags under his eyes. “And you need rest.”
Ben lifted his coffee cup as a way of response, tucking the file under his arm and trudging down the hallway to Room 174. The ICU was not his usual domain, and now, at night, it was quiet and dark. He preferred the constant bustle of the Emergency Room, or the still, precise silence of the operating room. Touro had all of the grandeur and gravitas one might expect from a hospital continuously operated for over 150 years. It wasn’t slick and modern, but it felt hallowed. Ben liked that. He’d moved from the East Coast down to New Orleans specifically for that reason – the city’s grittiness, it’s distinctly gothic character, enchanted him.
He’d arrived at Room 174. He told himself that he’d only put off coming to Room 174 until after his surgery because he didn’t want to admit that he was reluctant to go there at all. He glanced down at the file. Jane Doe.
Perfect.
He pushed open the door, flicked on the lamp in the corner, and plopped into the plastic-y arm chair provided for patient’s families. This girl, whoever she was, had no family. Probably. He studied her in the dim light, occasionally glancing down at her chart as if to verify its accuracy. Female, early twenties, white. No identification card on her apparently, but plenty of scrapes and scratches. According to the chart, bruised ribs, and a sprained ankle. Injury to the neck – likely the result of the large chunk of hair that had been pulled out, leaving her scalp bleeding. More pressing, there was a minor trauma to the head.
The other notes in the file were far more interesting to Ben. Tox screen negative. Malnourished. Rape kit performed. Evidence of recent sexual assault. Ben squinted at her.
While he purposefully did not avail himself of the details of Snoke’s line of work, he could guess. A prostitute. Attacked by a client, perhaps, or her pimp. Snoke’s employee? He’d prefer not to think about that.
In any case, with the head trauma being what it was, Snoke probably had no reason to worry. He stood up, stretching. She likely wouldn’t remember anything when she woke up. He’d just have to be the first person she spoke to, to ensure that. He dragged his chair closed to her bed. She wouldn’t remember anything. And he’d be spared the necessity of threatening her, confusing her, or worse.
Up close, her face looked very young and drawn, the cheekbones almost sunken. Angry red stitches caught on the edge of her lips, and black bruise bloomed around her left eye. Older, yellowed bruises colored her jaw. She was frowning even in her sleep. Tapping the lip of his coffee, Ben leaned backwards. He was officially off the clock until his next shift, and Snoke would not want to see him until this job was done. He had all the time in the world. He could wait.
***
She opened her eyes, and it was too bright. The air felt dry and stale and it made her suddenly cough, violently.
“You’re awake.” She didn’t have the energy to lift her head and see who had spoken. It hurt too much to move. She distantly heard the sound of someone moving around the room and instinctively shrank back as he leaned over her.
“Relax.” He was blocking the early morning light from the window, but she could tell her was frowning, somehow. “I’m Doctor Solo. You’re at Touro Infirmary in New Orleans.” He moved to the end of the bed, flicking up her blankets and sheets to her ankles. She tried to jerk away when his hands unceremoniously grasped her ankle, and she groaned in pain.
“Try to stay still.” He was avoiding her eyes, her whole ankle fitted in the palm of his hand “Your ankle is sprained.” He touched the top of her foot. “Can you feel that?”
She realized she hadn’t spoken.
“Yes.” She croaked. “It hurts.”
He smiled. “Good. No nerve damage.” He grasped the other foot, the tone of his voice changing. He was making his voice warm, trustworthy, calm – she knew what that meant instinctively. He was trying to get her guards down. “What do you last remember?”
“I – I don’t know.” She gulped, leaned back into the pillow, trying, and failing, to stop the tears that leaked out of the corner of her eyes. “What happened to me?”
“I’m trying to figure out if you remember that.” His voice was almost soothing, deep and slow. “What is your name?”
“I…” She blinked suddenly, mouth rounded. “I don’t remember.”
“You’ve had a traumatic head injury. That’s normal.” She saw his grip on the end of her hospital bed loosen, and realized his knuckles had been white. For all his obvious efforts to seem unthreatening, she suddenly felt threatened. He was large, leaning over the end of bed like a bird of prey, in black scrubs. Blocking the door. His voice might be purposefully soft, but his eyes were flinty, peering at her. “Do you remember anything?”
“I remember…” She hesitated suddenly, and he noticed it. She’d been pale and sunken, but suddenly her face took on a distinctly gray color. Her lips settled into a straight line, as if she was pinching them closed to keep something in. “I don’t know.”
“You can tell me.” He prodded.
“I don’t remember anything.” She closed her eyes. “Can I have some food?”
She heard him exhale slowly. “Yes. I’ll send a nurse with food. And more painkillers. We can talk more when you’re fed and rested up.”
She didn’t open her eyes or say anything, but he could see her jaw clench and unclench, once. Her legs were trembling despite her best efforts to lie still. He could see them, with the blankets still pulled up to her knees. Placing a hand on one shin, he held it still, and she opened her eyes. Their eyes met. He knew that she was lying, and she knew that he knew.
He pulled the blanket slowly back down over her legs, not breaking her stare. He tucked it around her legs. It should have been a comforting gesture, but it felt more like iron shackles closing around her legs.