Meeting Jordan...

Jordan's paramedic unit got a call for an apparent assault victim in a bad district of town: male, Caucasian, possibly broken arm, blood on his face, uncooperative.

Given the area, and that it was Friday night, it was probably a fight between prostitutes, johns, drug dealers, muggers or some combination of the above. They'd had a lot of calls to the district and none of them were ever pleasant. Most of their patients would prefer to slink off and lick their wounds in private, even if that meant they died in a gutter somewhere. But some good Samaritan had seen this one and called 911, so they were on their way.

They arrived, followed directions, and saw their patient halfway down the block, leaning against the wall, facing away from them, cradling one arm. His posture alone said he was in a world of hurt.

Jordan hoisted his bag on his shoulder. He went down the sidewalk. He gave the man a wide berth as he walked around him, not wanting to startle him. He was wearing a tattered black wool jacket, a mostly white t-shirt, dirty jeans and Converse sneakers. As Jordan came around, he had a shock - he recognized the man's face, even through the blood on his face and the swelling over one eye. Jordan's mouth hung open for a moment, but no sound came out.

Dexter opened his eyes and looked at whoever it was who hadn't merely walked on by, like everyone else. He too, recognized Jordan from his picture. The driver parked the van and got out. Dexter blinked and looked away, looking mortified and shamed. He hung his head, righted himself and started to hobble away.

Jordan was still standing there in complete surprise. Why was he out here on the streets?

The driver called out to the man, "Hey! Hey. Hang on, man. We're here to help you."

"I don't need help," Dexter's voice growled out.

Jordan finally jerked into motion. "Yes, you do."

"I don't need your help," Dexter cast over his shoulder, pausing anyway. He couldn't outrun them. He swayed slightly on his feet.

The other guy asked, "Hey, man. Is your arm broken? We can take care of that. You might need that arm later, you know?" He tried to make a joke of it. He walked up next to Dexter and put a hand on his back, steadying him. Dexter tried to brush him off. The driver looked back at Jordan, who went to get the stretcher.

When Jordan returned, the other hadn't made much progress. Dexter wouldn't let him examine him and continued to insist he was fine. Jordan heard the former say testily, "I got in a fight. I lost."

Jordan adjusted the stretcher so it was at half height. "Here, sit."

Dexter scoffed at it. Jordan put his hand on his shoulder and pushed, snapping, "All I'm asking you to do is sit down. Now sit!"

He sat. Jordan noticed the abrasions across the knuckles of his left hand and the palm of his right. He'd fought back, whatever had happened. His face was a mess. He'd been hit on the chin and jaw, as well as over the eye, and had dried blood coming down his forehead. Jordan reached up and picked out a loose fragment of glass from the man's hair, revealing he'd been hit over the head with a bottle. Dexter slumped and looked away, showing some resignation to Jordan's examination, a compliance that he hadn't shown with the other paramedic.

The Iranian let Jordan handle their patient, if he was going to be more cooperative with Jordan than with him. Instead he got out his clipboard and said, "I need to ask you some questions. We have to ask them of all our patients. They're nothing special."

"Neither am I," Dexter breathed. Jordan shot him a look as he got out disinfectant wipes and antiseptic. He'd decided to skip the arm and whatever was wrong with the leg and, at least initially, just clean him up. If he could get a rapport, then maybe Dexter would let him look at the parts that were more serious. He put a hand on Dexter's shoulder, then moved it up to his neck. Dexter looked back at him questioningly. Jordan raised the wipe wordlessly, showing it to him, and reached in with it to wipe at the man's forehead, well above the cut on his eyebrow. It was only dried blood and shouldn't hurt at all. Dexterr didn't fight it. His attention went back to the man named Gerard.

"Name?"

"Gabriel Jaro." His eyes flicked back to Jordan.

"Date of birth?"

"I'm 26." He was clearly counting the years in his nightmares as real, which was odd, but not any of Jordan's business. The passage of time there had always seemed so very real to the other man. Gerard groaned, calculated, and wrote something down.

"Height?"

"6' 3"." He was taller than he generally looked. Foster wouldn't have put him over 6', most of the time, but he slouched constantly and tended to wear flat shoes. Now was no exception, for either the shoes or the posture.

Jordan changed wipes and said, "This is going to sting a little." He began to clean the cut over his eye. It didn't look like he'd quite have a black eye out of it, but the upper lid was swollen and he had a knot under the brow. He'd probably gain a small scar there as well.

"Weight?" Gerard asked.

"I… I don't know. I've been losing weight." And he had. Jordan hadn't recognized him at all from behind. He was thin. He'd always been lean, but now he was positively frail. It was no surprise he'd lost whatever fight he'd gotten into. The mystery was why he was fighting at all.

Gerard said, "I'll put down 150. Do you have an address or a place of residence?"

"Yes." Dexter, as Jordan was now thinking of him, gave one. It was an apartment. Jordan moved down, wiping the blood off his cheek. He got a surprisingly grateful look for his efforts. He smiled a little and let his thumb stroke the other man's neck absently. If this kept up, he'd have a look at that arm in a moment.

Gerard went on asking questions about medical history. Dexter was tensing again, not liking the questions.

"Do you smoke?" "No." "Alcohol?" "No." "Drugs?" And that was too much. Dexter shoved Jordan away and hopped down off the stretcher, saying, "I'm done! I'm fine! Get away from me!" He limped off with more energy and determination than before, calling back, "Stay the fuck away from me!"

Gerard shrugged. "I guess I can write that up as a 'refusal to treat'?"

Jordan nodded. He reached out for the clipboard. "Let me see that." He looked at the address and memorized it.

"Well, there's only so much we can do," Gerard said. "Did that guy kind of look familiar? He looked a lot like that guy that was on TV a few months back."

Jordan grumbled, "If he was, then why would he be out here where the meat rack abuts junkie row? It's hard to tell anything under all that blood." He shook his head and handed back the clipboard. He could remember where he needed to go.

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