Youngest Daughter of Cain

is she perverted like me

[assgarddaughterofcain]

don't mix work with pleasure

chapter one ?

Dr. Abbot knows how to keep his distance, especially at work. But when a violent case brings a criminal psychologist to his ER, boundaries blur in the quiet hours of the night shift, where trust forms quickly and attraction has nowhere to hide.

The night shift had it’s own music. Monitors hummed in steady intervals, IV pumps chimed softly like impatient reminders, and the robber soles of nurses’ shoes whispered against the polished and stained floor as they moved in practiced efficiency. The fluorescent lights were dimmed just enough to convince the body it was still capable of rest, though no one working under them fell for the ruse.

Dr.Abbot stood at the nurses’ station, sleeves rolled to the forearms, eyes scanning charts while his vision blurred from the familiar lines and chicken scratches some called his handwriting.

“Trauma three’s stable,” the charge nurse said, lowering her voice as she approached him with a brand new chart for him to look at. “Vitals are holding. Sedation’s been lightened.”

Abbot nodded once. “Any neuro changes?”

“None so far. CT came back clean, considering.” She hesitated, then added, “Also, admin wants you to speak with the criminal psychologist assigned to the John Doe.”

Abbot looked up. “Now?”

“She’s already here.”

That made him pause.

A criminal psychologist didn’t usually show up this fast, especially not in the middle of the night. “Christmas came early” he deadpanned. They were consultants, external, deliberate, fond of daylight and courtrooms. Not the type to hover in an ER that still smelled faintly of antiseptic and adrenaline.

“She’s in Consult B,” the nurse continued. “Said she wanted to speak with the attending who stabilized him.”

Abbot exhaled slowly, then closed the chart. “I’ll handle it.”

As he turned down the hallway, the sounds of the department shifted behind him, replaced by a quieter stretch of corridor reserved for offices and consult rooms. The walls here were lined with framed credentials and outdated hospital art, neutral landscaped meant to calm people who rarely noticed them, nothing says sorry your dad died like a mediterranean sunset.

Forty five minutes earlier, this hallway had been moral chaos and literal chaos.

*pretend this is a line break idk how to do a line break just imagine*

The call had come in just after 1:30 a.m.

Male, unidentified. Brought in by the FBI and paramedics. Severe blunt force trauma to the head. Multiple stab wounds. Unconscious on arrival.

Abbot had been finishing a lukewarm coffee when the trauma bay doors burst open

The patient was bloodied but breathing pulse thready but present. A John Doe, no ID, no medical history, nothing but injuries and the story the officers delivered in clipped, professional tones.

A kidnapping. A attempted homicide. A teenage girl. Escaped.

She had fought back hard enough to fracture his skull and drive a blade into him more than once before managing to get away and call the police. By the time paramedics arrived, the assailant was barely conscious, bleeding heavily, and combative.

Abbot hadn’t thought about the morality in the moment. He never did.

Airway, breading, circulation.

That was his job, not to play god.

They intubated him, maybe took a little more time than usual to push pain meds, controlled the bleeding, ordered imaging. CT scan first, no obvious intracranial hemorrhage. Lacerations cleaned and closed. Labs drawn. Toxicology pending. A neuro consult placed on standby in case the amnesia observed earlier by paramedics persisted once sedation was reduced.

Stabilized in under twenty minutes.

By the time Abbott stripped off his gloves, the patient was alive, monitored, and officially an open case being treated under police supervision in his ER. Only then had the weight of it settled. Not sympathy, just gravity.

*back 2 the present line break*

Abbot stepped outside consult b.

The door was ajar.

Inside, a woman stood near the window, flipping through a thin folder. The overhead light caught the edges of her hair as she tucked a strand behind her ear. She was not at all what he expected. Too young, his mind reached to immediately , before he could stop it. Not inexperienced, no that wasn’t it. There was nothing tentative about the way she stood or the way she held the file, already annotated with notes and tabs. But she couldn’t be much older than 25, maybe younger. Certainly not old enough, he thought, to be assigned something like this. He knocked once anyway and pushed the door open.

“Dr.Abbot,” he said. “I was told you wanted to speak with me.”

She turned. Up close she looked even younger than he’d thought, but composed, eyes sharp and observant in a way that suggested she missed very little. She offered a small, professional smile and outstretched her hand to his.

“Thank you for coming I’m the criminal psychologist, I’ve been assigned to the John Doe in trauma three.”

Abbot shook her hand, noting briefly that her grip was soft. “You’re the physiologist on the case?” He studied her for half a second longer than necessary, then stepped fully in the room and closed the door behind him.

“Surprised?”

“No, not at all, I just wasn’t aware the department was sending someone in so quickly” he said.

She tilted her head, “Given the nature of the offense and the condition of the assailant, they wanted early behavioral assessment, especially if the amnesia persists. Plus it helps one of their criminal psychologists prefers to work nights.”

Assailant. Not patient

Interesting.

Abbot crossed his arms, the fabric of his scrubs pulling tight across his chest, forearms thick beneath the rolled sleeves of his shirt. The motion pulled his shoulders forward making him seem larger than before. “He’s still under observation. Sedation was reduced ten m minutes ago. No significant neurological deficits so far, but he’s confused. Disoriented, memory gaps.”

She nodded already writing. “Retrograde or anterograde?”

His eyebrows raised, impressed. “Unclear right now, he doesn’t recall the incident or events immediately preceding it. We’ll know more once he’s fully awake.”

“And medically?”

Abbot shifted into familiar territory, words flowing out like a practiced performance.

“Severe blunt force trauma to the left temporal region, likely caused by a heavy object, impact patterns suggest multiple strikes. Lacerations and puncture wounds to the torso and upper extremities consistent with a bladed weapon. No organ perforation, no intracranial bleed on CT, we’re still monitoring for delayed swelling.”

She looked up at him, hair she moved from in front of her face before back in front, ‘that’s why all his doctors tie their hair back’ he thought. “Prognosis?”

“He’ll live.”

A beat. She didn’t react just wrote it down.

“Do you anticipate lasting cognitive impairment?” she asked. “Too early to tell,” Abbot said. “”But amnesia could be transient, or it could complicate your work.

She smiled at that, so the girl does have a sense of humor, “It usually does”

As she spoke, Abbot found himself noticing things he shouldn’t have been cataloging, the way she listened without interrupting, the absence of performative concern for a criminal, the fact she wasn’t trying to moralize the situation, the choices she made in color coding her notes, that strand of hair that kept falling in front of her face. She was focused, grounded, competent.

Which was worse somehow. She asked about too screens, prior injuries, whether he had exhibited agitation upon arrival. Abbot answered automatically, only realizing halfway through he was enjoying the exchange more than he should. He cleared his throat.

“There’s a guard posted,” he added. “Police presence remains until he’s transferred or cleared.”

“I’d expected as much.” She closed the folder. “I’d like to speak with him once he’s more coherent, see what he’s willing or unwilling to engage with.”

Abbot hesitated. “He’s dangerous”

Her eyes met his, “I know.”

The silence stretched, “I’ll be back in an hour,” she said gathering her things. “That should give him time to wake up”

Abbot nodded. “I’ll make sure you’re cleared to enter” She reached for the door fingers brushing the handle when he stopped her, “Oh and I’d prefer to be with you when you speak to him.”

She turned, one eyebrow lifting slightly. “Hospital policy?”

“Partly,” he said. Then after a beat, “And it’ll give me peace of mind.”

“I don’t usually get escorts,” she said.

“You’re welcome to decline,” Abbot replied. She studied him for a moment longer than nodded.

“An hour, don’t be late” she said. Then she was gone, converse soft against the floor leaving the room quiet. Abbot stood there for a minute, then exhaled and turned back toward the ER, already counting the minutes until an hour passed.

[assgarddaughterofcain]

Boy From Nebraska

former catholics. los angeles. a house in nebraska. a slow burn.

this is what you get when a ethel cain fangirl watches I love LA and the Pitt at the same time

She hates emergency rooms. They feel too much like confession. Bright lights and plastic chairs and the sense that if she sits still long enough someone will ask her to tell the truth. Her best friend Charlie forces her into the wheelchair the ER team pushed their way, ignoring her protects. “I’m fine,” she says, arms crossed, sunglasses still on even though it’s almost three in the morning. “I feel goofy in this chair.” Charlie squats in front of her, hands on his knees. “You stopped answering me in the Uber.” “I was thinking.” “You were dissociating.” “Semantics.” He sighs and slips his jacket around her shoulders anyway. Her friends linger nearby like they’re afraid she’ll disappear if they look away, which is a genuine fear after the night out they just had.

A man in scrubs stops in front of her. He doesn’t tower over her or rush through a script. He crouches a little so they’re eye level. “Hi,” he says. “I’m Dennis. I’m one of the doctors on tonight.” Her shoulders tense immediately. “I don’t need” This is exactly what she was afraid of, sitting in a wheelchair looking busted after the longest night of her life. “I’m not here to judge,” he says gently. “Just to check in. Is that okay” They move to a quieter corner. He pulls up a chair instead of standing. “How are you feeling right now” he asks. Sadie considers it. “Embarrassed.” He smiles a little. “That’s fair.” He asks questions softly. Sleep. Food. Anxiety. He doesn’t flinch when her answers get messy. He doesn’t rush to fix her. “You’ve never been here before,” he notes. “First time,” she says. “I try not to end up in places like this.” “Why’s that” She hesitates. “Too much like church.” That makes him pause. “Yeah,” he says after a beat. “Catholic,” he admits. “Formerly.” Her chest tightens, “Me too.” He exhales like he didn’t realize he was holding his breath.

“My dad worked at the parish,” she says. “Preached more than some priests did. Everyone knew us.” “That’s a lot to grow up inside,” Dennis says. “Yeah,” Sadie replies. “Leaving wasn’t exactly… encouraged” He nods. “I was the first in my family to go to college. Medical school was my way out. Took a while to stop feeling like I was doing something wrong.” She looks at him. “Do you still feel guilty” “All the time,” he says. Then adds, “But less than I used to.” “Nebraska,” she says suddenly. “That’s where you’re from.” He smiles faintly. “Farm town. I still call home to that house even though I haven’t lived there in years.” “I get that,” she says quietly. “I miss the good parts. The rest can stay gone.” Something settles between them then “You don’t sound like most doctors,” she says. “First-generation imposter syndrome,” he replies. “Keeps you humble.”

“first-gen imposter syndrome,” he replies with a small shrug. “keeps me humble.” she laughs quietly, more like a breath than a sound. “you make it sound poetic.” he smiles faintly, and she feels butterflies in her chest , it makes her stomach twist in a way she hasn’t felt in a long time, like a high school crush, or that could be the iv drip they are pumping through her system

for the longest time , neither moves. they just exist in the same space, breathing, listening to the soft hum of the fluorescent lights above, the occasional shuffle of nurses’ shoes on linoleum, the muted beeping of monitors somewhere down the hall. the room feels suspended outside of time. she notices the way he tucks a strand of hair behind his ear absentmindedly when he’s thinking. he notices the way she keeps her sunglasses on even though it’s late, hiding just enough to feel safe. “you don’t usually sit with patients, do you” she says finally, a little softer than she intended. “how do you know i though it was your first time here” he replies, but his voice is careful, probably afraid of a hospital write up if something goes wrong. he doesn’t push. he doesn’t insist. She laughs a bit for the first time all night.

she glances down at her hands folded over her knees. “you could walk away,” she murmurs. “i wouldn’t, i wouldn’t stop you, i’m sure your other patients need your attention a lot more than I do” he doesn’t. he just shifts his weight, leans back slightly, keeps his gaze on her. “i don’t want to,” he says. “not right now, plus your friends are really looking after you” she glances up to Charlie flirting with a med student in the hallway.

a silence stretches. it’s quiet, but not uncomfortable. it’s the kind of silence that hums in your chest, that makes your heartbeat feel louder she thinks about all the people who have looked at her like a thing, a trophy, a rumor. none of that is here.

when the nurse finally calls another patient, he stands too, slowly, carefully, as if moving too quickly would shatter something delicate. “i’ll be around,” he says. “just you know if you need anything.” she swallows, her throat dry. “i’ll remember,” she says, though she knows she will. she knows she’ll think about the way he leaned in he nods once and walks away slowly, each step deliberate, she watches him go it’s something she isn’t supposed to feel in a place like this.

charlie walks back in the room and nudges her lightly. “he’s… nice,” he says, cautiously, as if testing the waters. “he’s something,” she replies. her voice is soft, almost to herself, because she’s not sure if anyone else could understand what “something” even means. she doesn’t leave. she shouldn’t even though she wants to. she sits there, shoulder pressed against the chair, letting the quiet hum of the hospital fill her senses. for the first time in hours, maybe the first time in days, and somewhere under the fluorescent hum and the faint smell of antiseptic she feels exactly what she’s been writing all these years.