Come Hell or High Water - Striker x Reader (18+)

144. Dredge

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dredge: (noun) 

— an apparatus used for bringing up and clearing objects from a river or seabed

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It had been a little over a week since Striker was hospitalized. And though his wound was healing up nicely, and his body was responding positively to all the treatment it received . . . he wasn't particularly positive when it came to said treatments.

The wound care was one thing—he knew it was not only unavoidable, but also necessary, so he would always ultimately comply—but things like blood draws and toting around the portable heart monitor he didn't understand quite as much. Fortunately, after realizing he was going to be here a while, the staff went ahead and placed a longer IV in Striker's arm, so he wouldn't have to be stuck nearly so often.

The lab draws, on the other hand, couldn't be helped.

The physicians had ordered labs to be collected every day, primarily to monitor his blood count, and Striker was more than a little miffed about having to be stuck with a razor-sharp but very tiny needle at least once a day.

One morning, I found out from my coworkers that his blood count was considerably lower than the last—presumably due to the rather bloody dressing change the day before—and the attending physician had ordered a unit of blood for him.

Striker receiving the blood went swimmingly—the problem only came when they wanted to recheck his blood count that afternoon.

The phlebotomist rolled into the room, announcing that she was going to collect some blood, only for Striker to fix her with an irate glare and grumble, "No the fuck you ain't."

"Striker," I said sternly, like a parent scolding her misbehaving child. "Don't talk to her like that. She's just trying to do her job."

"Well, why can't they just pull it from this?" he countered, gesturing to the IV in his upper arm.

"Because it's an infection risk," I answered bluntly, crossing my arms. "Just let Phoebe stick you, honey. She's good, and you've got good veins—it'll be an easy shot."

Striker frowned, and after a moment, he begrudgingly unfolded his arm toward Phoebe, who promptly tied a tourniquet around his limb and gathered a handful of supplies.

"Y'got one shot, ma'am," he said as Phoebe selected a rather supple vein popping out of his forearm.

The succubus-hybrid smirked at him and replied confidently, "That's fine. I only need one."

Within a minute, she drove the butterfly needle into the vein and successfully collected a sample of blood. She untied the tourniquet and applied a small bandage to the site and smiled almost smugly at him before turning and leaving the room with her freshly filled test tubes.

"You shouldn't talk to my coworkers like that, Striker," I said, standing from my seat on the couch and fixing the electrodes stuck to his bare chest. "They're only trying to help you get better."

Striker gently pushed my hand away and retorted, "They're doin' too much. All they need to do is just keep my wound clean, but they're actin' like I've got some kinda rare disease or somethin'."

"They're keeping an eye on your blood count because of all the blood you lost when you were hurt." I lightly tapped my finger on the portable monitor in his sweatpants pocket. "And they're watching your heart rhythm because you're anemic from all the blood loss. Everything affects everything else, so that means we need to monitor everything." Craning my head to fix him with a disapproving glower. "You wouldn't talk to me like that, would you?"