"Who are you?" Hank was trying to be patient, but he'd more or less used up the brunt of his patience trying to deal with Boris' most recent display of John Locke-esque, "Don't tell me what I can't do!" self-medication. If Evan were there, he'd have made some comment on "patience with patients," and that bit of wordplay would've sent Hank over the edge. Or it would've been the exact thing that Hank needed to relieve his frustrations. Hank wasn't sure how that would've gone down because his brother had been missing since he'd run off to trade Hank's cell phone for a box of illicit cigars.
So when the brunette had stepped onto the balcony without knocking, he'd gotten a little snippy. Never mind the fact that the balcony wasn't really his private office, even though he'd been utilizing it as such, and never mind the fact that the brunette couldn't possibly know what Hank's morning had been like and had next to nothing to do with the problems that were mounting around the Hampton's most lovable concierge doctor. She had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, and Hank was at the end of his rope. Hell, he was only human, after all. To her merit, the brunette didn't look upset. In fact, she answered his question as casually as if he'd asked her what day it was.
"I'm Freddie Koenig," she said by way of introduction. "I work for Boris." Hank raised a hand to stop her. A couple of weeks ago, he might have questioned her traditionally masculine name, but his time in the Hamptons had showed him stranger things, and he wasn't exactly in the mood for small talk. The last thing he needed was some lady in business-casual giving him a list of requests from Boris. He was mad enough at the stubborn German as it was. Freddie seemed to get the hint and flashed a mild grin.
"It's nothing like that, Doctor Lawson. Boris knew the risks of his decision. He had a standing order. If the procedure were to prove…" here, she paused, trying to come up with a tactful word for "insanely dangerous and/or life-threatening." After all, Boris was still her boss whether he was in a coma or not. Hank picked up on her apprehension and helped her along.
"If the procedure turned out to be exactly what I warned him it might be," he supplied, and Freddie nodded in agreement.
"Should the procedure turn out that way, as it very well has, I'm under clear orders to furnish you with anything and everything you might need. Medically speaking, the hospital staff should be able to help you, but Boris did say that you sometimes require more unconventional equipment. And, please tell me if I'm overstepping any bounds, it's come to my attention that you've been unable to locate your brother." If her tone was any indication, she had a clear opinion of how her skills were better spent.
"I'd feel a lot better if I knew where Evan was," Hank admitted, shifting his glance from the floor to meet her eyes. "If it wouldn't be too much trouble, I'd like you to find him."
"I'm sure it'll be a sufficient amount of trouble, Doctor Lawson, but that's alright. Trouble is my job," she replied with a shrug, turning on heel and leaving the room. Hank sighed to himself, taking advantage of her absence to collect himself. He'd been right. Boris was a Bond villain; he even had his very own Helga Brandt to prove it. Hank shook his head. Evan was clearly rubbing off on him.
Freddie shut the door behind her and gave pause. She adjusted her crisp, white blouse and smoothed the fabric of her black, pencil skirt before taking a deep breath and continuing on her way. Working for Boris required professionalism, confidence, and occasionally a willingness to circumvent the law. Luckily for Freddie Koenig, she excelled in all three, and it probably didn't hurt that her family had been working for Boris' for generations. She was the latest in a long line of "go-to guys," and, though relatively new to the job, she was taking her current assignment very seriously. As she passed the room where they were keeping Boris, she stopped again, this time out of surprise more than anything.
She'd known that Boris was sick, but she was rather unaccustomed to seeing him exhibit symptoms. It was a curious thing, a man so powerful and secure, lying prone on a bed, surrounded by doctors. Dieter, who'd been in Boris' service ever since Freddie could remember, caught sight of her standing in the hall and quietly exited the room. She barely registered that he was talking to her, but his hand on her shoulder drew her from her thoughts.
"Was hat der doktor gesagt, Farica?" he asked again. What did the doctor say, Farica? Freddie wrinkled her nose at the sound of her given name, but pushed her displeasure to the back of her mind.
"Er will mich zu seinem bruder zu finden," she replied in a low voice, as if she were trying not to wake Boris, despite the fact that the door was closed, and he was in a coma, not taking a nap. He wants me to find his brother. She could tell that Dieter disapproved of this turn of events, and she gave a half-hearted shrug.
"Boris könnte sterben, und sie wollen auf die suche nach der idiot bruder?" he asked her incredulously. Boris could die, and you want to look for the idiot brother? It was textbook Dieter to value his boss' life above anyone else's. Freddie raised an eyebrow.
"Wie lange glauben sie Boris wird leben wenn der doktor ist abgelenkt?" she asked frankly. How long do you think Boris will live when the doctor is distracted? This seemed to end the discussion, and Dieter ducked back into Boris' room. Freddie pushed forward, squinting as she stepped into the Cuban sun. Dieter didn't trust her judgment, which she supposed was only natural. Trust was something that had to be earned, and in Boris' circle this was no small task. Even so, she could care less what Dieter thought of her. Her primary concern was to make sure that Hank Lawson had whatever he needed, and right now he needed to know that his little brother wasn't face-down in a ditch somewhere. If she wanted to help Boris, she would have to find Evan R. Lawson, CFO of HankMed. Something told her that this task would be easier said than done.
Evan R. Lawson, CFO of HankMed, was mildly panicked. And by "mildly panicked," he really meant "out of his mind with horrible, crippling worry." But there was no way he was going to let the kidnappers see that. As far as they were concerned, he was fine. He was super cool. He was Baretta. He was Tim Roth in Reservoir Dogs. Wait, no, Tim Roth died in Reservoir Dogs. Not Tim Roth in Reservoir Dogs. Not anyone in Reservoir Dogs, come to think of it.
He squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to not hyperventilate. On the bright side, the two guys seemed relatively nice. For kidnappers, anyway. Sure, they'd stuffed him in the back of a car right out of a 1970s cop show, but they hadn't beaten him up in the process, and they weren't threatening him. Well, maybe they were. His Spanish was a bit rusty, if not non-existent.
He tried to think of anything he might have done to set this chain of events into motion. After a few seconds, he decided that there were too many things that could've lead to his free ride through Cuba. Maybe Mindy was a Canadian spy, and Evan had been pulled into some international spy stuff as collateral. Maybe these guys worked for Boris, and he'd sent them to retrieve Evan when he hadn't shown up for the flight. Maybe he was being recruited as a model on the count of his good looks and easy personality. The possibilities flew through his head, growing increasingly ludicrous as his anxiety rose like the tides.
"Oh my God!" he blurted out. One of his captors looked over his shoulder and raised an eyebrow, but he seemed more annoyed than curious. Evan didn't notice and continued having a panic-driven epiphany. "Are you taking me hostage because I'm American? Is this one of those things where you'll send my brother a message for ransom, and then he'll ask for a proof of life, like in that movie, Proof of Life? Please, don't tell me that Meg Ryan is going to show up."
He was fully aware that he was babbling now, but he just couldn't help himself. The kidnapper in the passenger's seat figured that was okay. Personally, he couldn't help himself when he pulled his gun out and knocked the talkative accountant over the head with it. Evan slumped to the side, alertness fading, wondering if this newest injury would join forces with his previous one and become some horrific medical disaster. He also wondered if Hank had noticed his prolonged absence. He took in the silence that had filled the car since his painfully slow descent into unconsciousness. Yeah, Hank definitely knew Evan wasn't there.
Author's notes: Terribly sorry about the short introduction chapter. This is my first Royal Pains fanfiction, and my first story in a long while. Needless to say, I'm a bit rusty. On that note, I apologize for writing with what I can only describe as the mannerisms of a squirrel on speed. Future chapters should have more substance. Should, anyway.
I am certainly not a doctor, and I will tell you up front that 99% of my medical posturing will be 100% fabrication. 60% of the time, it works every time. I'll try my best to depict medical issues, but mostly I'll default to incredibly vague symptoms and treatments thereof.
German Stuff: Farica is a German name and the feminine version of Frederick, which is why Boris' employee goes by "Freddie." She's a totally original character, and you'll find out more about her as the story progresses.
As for the German language, I do study German, but I'm teaching myself with a pocket dictionary and a Berlitz book, so I wouldn't be surprised if my German is the equivalent of Evan's Italian. I apologize to any people that actually speak German.
Can't really think of anything else to say at this point, so I hoped you enjoyed! Please review!