watching a scene with a fav character can be so humiliating sometimes. like yes i'm watching this scene with this character because i want to see the character. yes i've paused it multiple times because i got too excited. before the character fully entered the screen even. guhhhh
You know a lot about putting people back together. Brian Moser knows a lot about taking them apart.
or
Brain Moser x Surgeon!Reader
Chapter 1: Consultation
wc: 1,738
Hospitals always felt too sterile, no evidence of the lives changed inside these walls. The constant beeping and alarms blurred into background noise, only the smell of alcohol wipes pulling you back into the moment. How fitting that you had spent thousands of hours learning to take people apart and put them back together.
Miami Metro Hospital was the busiest in the city, serving thousands of locals and even more tourists. You had grown used to the chaos, but tonight was different.
You rushed down the seemingly endless white hallway. Shoes squeaking against the polished floor as you pushed through the heavy double doors and into the locker room to change. Being an attending had its perks, but being called in for a victim of the Ice Truck Killer was not one of them. Cases like this carried a different kind of pressure.
You finished changing and headed towards the OR, beginning your usual ritual of scrubbing in. One of the nurses moved in sync behind you, fastening your gown as she filled you in.
"It's insane," she whispered. "They found him awake with his whole leg and a hand missing. Can you imagine that?"
You grimaced, “I personally try not to imagine myself in that scenario. Shit keeps me up at night”
The joke earned a laugh, but your mind was already elsewhere. There would be plenty of time for sympathy later. Right now, you needed to work.
You stepped into the operating room, “Nurse, let’s begin the time-out.”
“Anthony ‘Tony’ Tucci, 37-year-old male, blood type B+, emergency amputation revision surgery to the left leg and left hand.”
“Let’s proceed.”
You had performed similar surgeries countless times. Traumatic amputations were hardly unfamiliar territory, although the damage was usually messier; car accidents, industrial injuries, things that left tissue and bone shattered. Tony’s injuries were different. Clean. Almost unnaturally clean. As you worked, you could not shake the thought that whoever had done this knew exactly what they were doing. The cuts were deliberate. Precise. There was very little of the chaotic destruction you would expect from an accident. If you had not known the circumstances, you might have assumed the person responsible had at least some surgical training. The thought stuck with you. Like gum on the bottom of a shoe.
Hours later, the surgery was successfully completed. What Tony had lost in limbs, he could at least make up for in the quality of the repair. He had a long road ahead of him, but his prognosis was better than it had any right to be. Still, it was difficult to feel proud. You had performed a job well done, but someone’s life was permanently altered to make that possible. Disconnecting yourself from the emotional weight of your patients was practically a requirement of the profession. There was no way to carry thousands of people's stories and still function. But some cases followed you home anyway.
You scrubbed out, changed back into your civilian clothes, and headed toward the only place still open at this hour: the hospital food court. You sat down with a lukewarm latte, staring blankly into the cup as the caffeine attempted to compensate for the adrenaline crash. Then you heard a familiar voice.
"Deb?" You looked up just in time to see her approaching, "Oh, it's been too long. You know I love a woman in uniform." You stood and pulled her into a quick hug.
Debra Morgan had gone to high school with you, along with her brother, and you'd made an effort to stay in touch over the years. It was strange watching someone you'd known as a bratty teenager turn into a respected detective. However, you had learned that ‘respected’ did not always translate to ‘professional’.
"Funny," she said, squeezing you before pulling away. "I wish I was seeing you under better circumstances." She dropped into the chair across from you. "All this Ice Truck Killer bullshit is draining me. No pun intended."
"I don't blame you." You took another sip of your drink. "I take it your visit today is professional and not for pleasure?"
"Unfortunately." She sighed. "I need to know if you were the surgeon on Tony Tucci. The guy who got his shit chopped off."
You nearly choked, “That’s one way to put it.”
"Well, I'm not exactly giving a press conference here."
You smiled despite yourself. "Yes. That was me. Rough case, but he's stable. He's going to have a long recovery ahead of him, but we're expecting him to bounce back almost completely."
“Did anything feel… off to you?”
You paused.
“Off?”
"Yeah. We thought this guy was an amateur at first, but I can't shake how neat everything looked."
You leaned back into your chair, “Amateur? Deb, this looked incredibly well done.”
Her eyebrows lifted.
“If this wasn’t an attempted homicide I’d tell you to send the guy my way.”
She snorted, “That’s reassuring.”
“No seriously, this guy knows his way around a scalpel.”
Her expression hardened,
"That's what I've been trying to tell my boss. But Laguerta has it out for my ass, I swear. She keeps chasing some stupid fucking witness while I'm sitting here telling her the guy who did this is the real deal. No way he'd be sloppy."
"Is there anyone you get along with at work who isn't related to you?" You flashed her a grin.
She rolled her eyes. "Hardy har har. I'll have you know I'm quite beloved."
“Oh I’m sure.” You earned a light smack to your arm.
"Anyway, I wanted to talk to Tucci since I was the one who found him."
"You're in luck. I was just about to finish my round." You stood, taking your now-cold latte with you, "He's lucky, all things considered."
"How so? I can't imagine losing a hand and a leg being lucky in any context."
"It isn't. But the amputations were incredibly precise." You scanned your badge and pressed the elevator button, "Whoever did this left him in pretty good shape for a prosthetic."
Deb followed you inside. "So he'll be able to walk?"
"Eventually. With the right rehabilitation, there's no reason he can't lead a pretty normal life."
"That and the money he'll get when he drags Laguerta's ass to court for defamation. You should've seen her face when I found him."
You laughed. "Wouldn't you milk the situation too? There's no price tag on a hand and a foot."
The elevator doors opened. "Let's hope it doesn't completely kill his career." You led her down the hall. "His room's right here. Last I checked, he was stable and should be waking up soon."
“Do you mind if I question him?”
"Be my guest. I have to put in some orders and finish my notes." You opened the door for her, "Let me know if I can help with anything else. Although I'd prefer if we could do it over dinner instead of this."
Deb gave you a tired smile. "Deal."
You left her to her questioning and headed back toward the staff lounge.
Time passed slowly as you sat in front of a clunky shared computer, entering orders for antibiotics and a prosthetics consultation. You finalized your note, leaned back in the rolling chair, and let out a long sigh. One more task. Then you could finally go home.
You stood, stretching your arms as the ringing in your ears drowned out the background beeps of the hospital. As you slipped your coat on and started toward the morning attending, a voice stopped you.
"Excuse me?"
"Can I help you?"
The man standing behind you was unfamiliar. He smiled. "Apologies. I don't think we've met. I'm Rudy Cooper, from prosthetics."
Something about his smile immediately caught your attention.
He gestured toward the computer behind you. "I saw the order you put in for Mr. Tucci. I just wanted to introduce myself since we'll be working alongside each other on the case." His eyes briefly flickering towards the chatter of police entering Tony's room before settling back on you.
"Oh, of course." You laughed softly, "Sorry. I hadn't put your name to your face yet." You looked him over briefly, trying to place him. "Are you new? I'm not sure I've seen you around before."
"Something like that." He leaned casually against the counter. "I can assure you this is our first time meeting, though." His eyes settled on yours. "I don't think I'd forget someone like you."
You looked away before he could see the color rising in your cheeks. "You're sweet." You adjusted your coat. "I wish you hadn't caught me on my way out. I got called in for this case and I'm just—"
"No, no. I should be the one apologizing." He smiled again. "I'll be sure to keep you updated on his condition." He paused. "Although, I don't think I have any way to contact you.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small notepad. "Want to give me your number?"
You raised an eyebrow.
"Only for professional reasons, of course." His smile widened. "Unless you'd like to grace me with your presence off the clock."
"Do you always ask your patients' surgeons for their numbers?"
"Only the ones I'd look forward to hearing from."
You laughed. "You're something." You took the pen from your pocket and wrote your number down. "Please let me know if anything happens before I come back. I'm worried about the guy."
"Don't stress yourself." He tucked the paper into his pocket. "I'll keep you posted." Then, with a quick wink, he pushed himself away from the counter and disappeared down the hallway.
You stood there for a moment. You made a point of knowing the people in the departments you worked with frequently. It made things easier. Faster. But somehow, Rudy Cooper had completely escaped your attention.
And normally, a man flirting with you while you were exhausted, wearing hospital-issued scrubs, and actively trying to go home would have been annoying. Somehow, this time it wasn't. Maybe it was the confidence. Maybe it was the easy smile, the sharp features, the faint lines around his eyes. Or maybe it was his voice. Whatever the reason, you found yourself wondering if he'd actually message you.
Your phone buzzed. You pulled it from your pocket.
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