𝐓𝐈𝐁-𝐅𝐈𝐁
the pitt x reader | dr brendon "the shark" park x black! fem! reader
after snapping your leg while defending a friend in a bar fight, you are rushed to the pitt against your will. you refuse to tell the night shift your name in hopes of saving yourself from your husband's wrath, but it isn't long before he discovers what happened. and all hell breaks loose.
cw - wc: 4.2k, fluff, angst if you squint, protective brendon, jealous brendon, abbott is funny, reader is tough, brendon's a bit of an ass but justified.
a/n - send more requests if you want more pitt stuff i'm losing steam.
Years of loving an orthopedic surgeon had, quite naturally, turned a large part of ordinary life into forbidden territory.
Power tools were out.
Motorcycles, absolutely not.
Seat belts were nonnegotiable, lawn mowers were "death traps," and trampolines might as well have been medieval siege weapons.
Snowboards, mountain bikes, ladders, roofs.
Jet-skis, regular skis, bagel slicers, box-cutters.
Dogs with too much enthusiasm—every one of them had been blacklisted by a man who had seen too many fractures, too many mangled hands, too many limbs that couldn't be saved.
Even jogging too much had earned a suspicious side-eye from him, Brendon muttering darkly about cumulative joint damage and cartilage wear as if the use of your legs was a personal betrayal.
He had known long before marriage that you possessed a surplus of common sense the rest of the population seemed to mysteriously lack—especially in the realm of mundane, everyday tasks—and part of what had first drawn him to you was the cutting sharpness of your mind.
You were the first woman he had ever met who could truly keep pace with him, match his wit stride for stride, keep him honest, keep him guessing.
You never once allowed him to disappear too far into the polished arrogance of a surgeon's ego without neatly taking him down a peg and planting him back on earth where he belonged.
And yet, somehow, the sight of a mandolin slicer anywhere near your hands still sent his pulse into a frenzy, the same way he used to go visibly pale if you so much as reached for a meat cleaver.
It had always annoyed you—that suffocating, almost absurd protectiveness—because Brendon knew exactly who you were.
He knew you were careful.
Capable.
Sensible.
So for him to look at something as harmless as jogging and act as if your knees were one careless mile from catastrophe, it had always felt, if you were honest, just a little belittling.
But now, given your current situation, you had the creeping feeling that once he found out, he would never let you leave the house again.
"Thirty-two year old female involved in an altercation at a bar!" one of the EMTs piloting your gurney barked, breathless but practiced as the trauma team converged at the threshold of PTMC's emergency department. "Exchanged blows with an adult male, was knocked to the floor during the crowd surge, then sustained a compound tib-fib injury after being stepped on."
Jack Abbot was already at your bedside, gloved hands moving with cool efficiency over your face and splinted leg while Dr. Ellis and Dr. Shen flanked the gurney
"Active bleeding from the right temple, three-centimeter scalp lac. Split lower lip. Bilateral abrasions to the knuckles consistent with closed-fist strikes. Open fracture to the left tibia—visible bone protrusion lateral shin, splinted in field, distal pulse present before and after splint placement, foot warm, cap refill under two seconds."
You groaned, voice slurred but sharp with irritation as you pressed the blood-soaked pad tighter to your temple, "I told you guys to take me to Presby."
One of the EMTs exhaled through gritted teeth, exhausted. "Ma'am, please, this was the closest hospital."
John Shen's brows shot up as he glanced at the shredded knuckles and the blood on your lip, "You got into a fight with a man?"
Despite the temple blood trailing warm down the side of your face, you turned your head just enough to flash a crooked, drunken smirk. "You should see the other guy."
Your friend, Nicole, breathless and disheveled beside the gurney rail, immediately jumped in, "He pushed me off the bar while I was dancing. I was fine—she really didn't have to—"
"Shut up, Nic," you muttered, eyes half-lidded but fierce. "The bastard had it coming."
Jack's mouth twitched into a smirk as he palpated carefully around the temple wound, gaze laser-focused, "I like her."
Ellis leaned in, penlight already out as she held your cheek steady, guiding the light over your pupils, "What about the head lac? Did you fall into glass?"
You huffed a humorless laugh, "No. He clipped me with one of those ugly rings he was wearing."
You shifted, trying to lift the bloody gauze pad from your temple.
"I'm not concussed," you assured. "I just need some water."
"Keep that dressing on, ma'am," the second EMT said firmly, pushing the gauze back against your head.
The first nodded to the physician team.
"Intoxicated but alert and responsive, GCS 15. Oriented to questions. Respiration's normal, O2 sats 99, blood pressure 128 over 82, pulse 112 sinus tach, likely secondary to ethanol, stress response, and blood loss. Pupils equal and reactive. Denies loss of consciousness."
"Open fracture site dressed with sterile wet gauze, leg immobilized with vacuum splint, bleeding at temple controlled with direct pressure," the second EMT added. "No narcotics administered en route because patient repeatedly stated she doesn't feel any pain and remained hemodynamically stable."
That made Dr. Shen glance up sharply."No pain?"
The EMT gave a grim look, "None. Not even when we aligned the leg."
You shrugged, "I got a high tolerance."
"Yeah, adrenaline and alcohol'll do that to you," Dr. Abbott confirmed.
Ellis's eyes flicked up, "Name?"
Your gaze immediately shot to the ceiling.
The EMT gave a helpless shrug, "She's refusing to state. Friend won't provide it either."
Nicole pressed her lips together apologetically and stayed silent.
You let out a sigh, muttering, "My husband'll kill me if he finds out."
John gave a short incredulous scoff, partly joking, "What, does he work here or something?"
"Yes."
Ellis deadpanned, already reaching for the side rail as they turned toward Trauma One, "That is the least of your worries right now. We need your name."
A drunken chuckle escaped your split lip, "Jane Doe."
Jack huffed a laugh of his own, then his voice snapped back into crisp command. "Let's stabilize the leg, pressure bag fluids, trauma labs, type and cross. Head strike plus temple lac buys her a one-way ticket to CT soon as she's secure."
The team surged forward, gurney rattling down the corridor at top speed.
As they whipped past the central desk, Dana stopped dead in her tracks, expression twisting into one of concern.
"(y/n)? The hell you doin' here, kid?"
At the sound of your name, you groaned, allowing your head to fall back against the gurney as it disappeared into Trauma One.
"Looks like we got a name," Jack smirked, quickly lowering the rail on his side.
"Goddamnit, Dana..." you huffed.
.
.
.
Up at Orthopedics, the air still carried that sterile, metallic chill unique to post-op corridors—chlorhexidine, cautery smoke ghosts, and the faint rubber scent of fresh gloves.
Dr. Brendon Park strode out of the OR like a storm front in navy scrubs, mask already long gone, hair still slick despite the cap he'd just stripped off.
Behind him trailed a small cluster of medical students, all of them bright-eyed in the way only the deeply sleep-deprived and painfully ambitious could be.
Brendon, meanwhile, looked about as thrilled as a man walking behind his own casket.
"Post-op for BKA," he said flatly, voice clipped and fast enough that pens nearly scratched through notebook paper, "is not complicated unless you make it complicated. Serial neurovascular checks of the residual limb. Monitor flap perfusion, capillary refill at the skin edges, temperature, color changes, any duskiness that suggests ischemia."
He calmly turned the corner, gait smooth and to-the-point like that of a dormant predator.
"Dressing stays clean, dry, and intact unless there's strike-through. Rigid removable dressing or immediate postoperative prosthesis if PM&R clears it. Elevation for edema control in the first twenty-four hours, but don't leave the knee in flexion unless you enjoy flexion contractures."
He cut a look over his shoulder so sharp it could have opened skin.
"And if you forget early prone positioning and aggressive hip and knee extension exercises, congratulations, you just bought your patient a future revision."
The residents murmured frantic notes.
Brendon hated this part of the job.
Not the surgery—never the surgery.
The amputation had been clean, efficient, textbook: posterior flap preserved, tibial cut beveled, fibula transected proximal to the tibia, myodesis secure, hemostasis immaculate.
No, what he hated was this.
The teaching.
The hand-holding.
The dead-eyed terror in learners who somehow survived anatomy and clinicals only to stand here blinking like livestock.
Teaching hospital, he reminded himself bitterly. Comes with the territory.
Without warning, he pivoted mid-stride, nearly causing the MS3 closest to him to trip over her own clogs.
"You," he snapped, fixing her with a stare. "Hypothetical. POD one, BKA patient spikes tachycardia, increasing pain out of proportion, tense posterior flap, drainage darkening under the dressing. Next step."
The student froze.
Actually froze.
Her mouth opened. Closed. Her pupils went wide.
Brendon stared at her for one beat, then another, jaw flexing.
"Well?" he said curtly. "Go on. Quit wasting my time."
"I—I'd probably increase the opioid dose and maybe loosen the ace wrap to reduce—"
He cut her off with a sharp exhale through his nose.
"No," His tone was dry enough to desiccate tissue. "The next step is immediate dressing takedown to inspect the stump. Assess compartment tension, evacuate hematoma if present, and get the patient back to the OR for emergent decompression or hemostasis if there's any question of vascular compromise. Pain out of proportion after amputation is not treated by loosening bandages."
The student went pink with humiliation.
Brendon had already turned away, uninterested.
They rounded the corner into the Orthopedics charge station, the fluorescent buzz louder here over the drone of printers and distant telemetry alarms.
Charge nurse Sally was just hanging up the phone, expression pinched.
"Park," she called, "ED just called up a gnarly open tibial fracture. Sounds like a grade III, stepped on in some kind of bar fight. They're asking if you want to come take a look."
Brendon scoffed, already snagging the chart from the BKA he'd just finished.
He uncapped his pen and scribbled quick postoperative orders across the margin.
"Tell them to irrigate, start cefazolin and gent, tetanus if needed, splint, and wait." His tone was dismissive, eyes never lifting from the page. "I've got better things to do."
Then the elevator chimed.
A soft, ordinary ding.
But it sliced clean through the station noise.
The doors slid apart.
Nicole stepped out.
Brendon's pen stopped moving.
His head snapped up so fast the residents actually flinched.
His brows drew together instantly, dark and severe, eyes narrowing with a speed that telegraphed something far rarer than annoyance.
Recognition.
And then something colder.
Nicole.
Your best friend.
The two of you were supposed to be downtown right now, out celebrating her birthday.
For one suspended, electric second, the entire floor seemed to go still around him.
What the fuck was she doing here?
The instant Brendon's eyes locked with Nicole's, every trace of color drained out of her face.
Her mouth dropped open.
"Oh, shit."
The curse came out in a frantic hiss, far louder than she probably intended, and then she lunged for the elevator panel, jabbing the close door button with panicked, repeated stabs of her thumb.
Brendon moved before the doors even started to slide.
"Nicole!"
His voice cracked through the Orthopedics floor like a rifle shot.
Every resident at the charge station went rigid.
Sally's brows shot nearly to her hairline.
No one—no one—had heard that much raw emotion in Brendon Park's voice in years.
Not anger, exactly. Something sharper. Hotter.
Something terrifyingly close to fear.
He abandoned the chart in his hand without a second thought, pages fluttering against the counter as he crossed the distance in three furious strides.
His palm slammed between the narrowing doors with enough force to trigger the sensor, metal panels shuddering back open.
Nicole winced.
Brendon's face was taut.
"What the hell are you doing here?" The words came rapid-fire, clipped with fury. "Where the hell is (y/n)?"
Nicole's eyes darted left, then right, like she could physically outrun the question.
"I—I was just looking for the cafeteria," she blurted. "I got turned around."
Brendon's expression somehow got darker.
He leaned in, voice low and dangerous, every syllable razor precise.
"You know damn well that's not what I'm asking." His jaw flexed. "Why are you in a hospital, Nicole? Why aren't you out with my wife like you're supposed to be?"
She clammed up so fast it was almost audible.
Her eyes dropped.
Dodged.
Brendon barked her name again, louder this time. "Nicole."
Her chin lifted in stubborn apology, "I was sworn to secrecy."
Brendon's eyes widened.
"What do you mean sworn to secrecy?! What the hell happened?!" he snapped. "Is she hurt?!"
He stepped closer, voice dropping into something so cold it made even Sally flinch from across the desk.
"Nicole, so help me God..."
But she held.
Not a word.
Not a single word.
Brendon stared at her for one searing, vibrating beat, chest rising once, sharply.
Then he let the doors close.
The second the elevator sealed shut, he pivoted on his heel and stormed for the stairwell so fast the residents had to flatten themselves against the wall to avoid getting clipped by his shoulder.
Sally watched him go, wide-eyed.
The med students stood frozen in his wake, mouths parted.
Now that wasn't new.
This was Dr. Park the brilliant, merciless orthopedic shark who shredded residents for sport.
This was blood in the water.
And he was already hunting the source.
.
.
.
He hit the ED level in a blur of motion that made the elevator look lazy.
Fifteen flights should have left any normal person winded.
Brendon barely seemed to notice.
The stairwell door slammed open hard enough to ricochet off the wall as he strode into the chaos of PTMC's emergency department, eyes cutting through the movement with ruthless efficiency.
He scanned for one thing only:
Dana's blonde hair.
He didn't see it.
As Princess swept past carrying a stack of warm blankets, he turned sharply enough to stop her in her tracks.
"Where's your charge nurse?"
Princess blinked, eyes going wide.
He had never once, in the handful of ortho consults that dragged him down here, acknowledged her existence beyond the patient in question.
The sheer fact that he was speaking directly to her left her momentarily stunned.
Three seconds.
That was all the patience he gave her.
When she still hadn't answered, Brendon scoffed under his breath and moved on.
Across the pod, a cluster of male nurses and a couple of security guards stood in a loose knot, voices low and animated.
The second Brendon's expression came into view, the older nurses instantly read the room and scattered like prey.
Everyone except Ahmad.
New enough not to know better.
He looked up, grin easy. "Hey, man, you want in on the pool?"
Brendon ignored him, using the slightly raised vantage point near the desk to keep scanning the room.
Ahmad kept going anyway.
"Female in Trauma One. Bar fight, won't give her name but says her husband works here." He lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Abbott's the favorite since he admitted her, but weirdly enough Robby's pulling as a dark horse."
And then Brendon saw Dana.
He was moving before Ahmad finished the sentence.
Dana barely had time to look up before Brendon was in front of her, looming, eyes dark with something far more dangerous than his usual surgical arrogance.
She blinked once, surprised, then smirked, "Sally just called. Said you denied the tib-fib consult."
"I've got something more important," he bit out.
Dana folded her arms. "What can I do for ya, Shark?"
His response was curt, immediate.
"Park."
The smirk slipped.
"Did you admit a woman with the last name Park? Brown skin, brown eyes, curly hair." His throat bobbed once. "About this tall."
He gestured roughly to his own shoulder.
Dana frowned, already mentally running the board.
"No Parks."
His brows drew together so hard it almost looked painful, "Double check."
She held his stare, then shook her head once, firm, "No Parks in the ED today with that description."
For one second, pure frustration flashed across his face.
Then Dana's expression shifted.
"...Though," she said slowly, realization dawning, "there is that woman in Trauma One. Same description. The tib-fib from the bar fight."
The words hit him like blunt force trauma.
Brendon went still.
His heart dropped so violently it felt like it hit somewhere near his knees.
Shit.
You were the tib-fib.
Without another word, he turned and strode hard toward Trauma One, every step faster than the one before, fury and fear now fully braided into something lethal.
Dana watched him go, then slowly turned her head toward Ahmad across the room.
A grin spread across her face.
"Ahmad," she called.
He looked up.
She jerked her chin toward the retreating orthopedic surgeon. "Put fifty on Park the Shark for me."
.
.
.
The doors to Trauma One slammed inward so hard they rebounded off the stopper.
Both you and Jack Abbott jumped.
"For fuck's sake!" you yelped, your hand flying to your chest hard enough to jostle the blood-pressure cuff around your arm.
Abbott looked up from where he'd been checking the gauze at your temple, blatant displeasure flattening his mouth.
"Well," he drawled dryly, "look who finally came down from his ivory tower to join the rest of us."
Brendon didn't so much as glance at him.
His eyes found you.
Then your leg.
And every trace of color seemed to drain out of his face as his gaze landed on the mangled reality of your grade III open tibial fracture—the splint peeled back enough for the jagged cortical edge of tibia to protrude through torn skin and soaked dressings.
"Jesus Christ, (y/n)..."
His stomach visibly dropped.
He was at your bedside in two strides, all sharp motion and barely restrained panic, hands hovering before settling into practiced purpose as he took in the injury.
The second you realized it was him, your eyes screwed shut.
"Nicole," you hissed under your breath, "I'm going to kill her."
Brendon's voice came fast, rougher than you'd heard in a while, "Are you okay? Did you hit your head? Any dizziness, nausea? Can you move your toes? What the fuck happened?"
At the sheer informality of the exchange, Abbott's brows drew together.
Then it clicked.
A slow grin spread across his face.
"No shit," he said, looking between the two of you with delighted disbelief. "This is him?"
Brendon's head snapped around so sharply his curls shifted over his forehead. "What do you mean, this is him?"
And then, against his better judgment, something hot and ugly curled low in his chest.
Jealousy.
You... alone in a room with Jack Abbott for God knew how long, while you were hurt and vulnerable and half-drunk.
Not that he thought you'd do anything.
But Abbott?
He was a psych case with a stethoscope.
You turned to Jack with a pleading look, silently begging him not to say a word.
His grin only widened.
"The ED's been runnin' a betting pool on who her husband is," he said, enjoying every syllable. "Ever since she let it slip he works here and refused to give us her last name."
Slowly, Brendon's stare slid back to you, laser-sharp.
You visibly deflated.
Your glare cut to Abbott, "This is coming out of your patient satisfaction score."
He shrugged with an amused huff, "Worth it."
At the door, he paused just long enough to toss over his shoulder, "I'll take it we've secured that ortho consult."
Brendon answered with nothing more than a grunt.
The door shut behind Abbott.
Silence.
And then Brendon erupted.
"You deliberately omitted your name so I couldn't find you?!"
You scoffed right back, temper flashing despite the throbbing in your temple, "Because I knew this is how you'd react! Brendon, I am not made of glass!"
He took in one short, incredulous breath, anger still sharp but fraying at the edges with fear.
"I have every goddamn right to react like this when I find out from someone else that my wife nearly snapped her leg in half!"
His eyes dropped to the injury again, horror freshening as if seeing it for the first time.
"What the hell happened?!"
You exhaled through your nose, "It was just an incident at a bar."
That somehow made him look more alarmed.
"(y/n)," he started, voice low and serious. "Tell me what happened. Did someone do this to you?"
You held his stare for a beat.
Then sighed.
"Nicole and I were out celebrating. She was dancing on the bartop, we were having a good time, and this random asshole shoved her off."
Brendon's jaw tightened.
"She fell hard," you continued. "Really hard. So I punched him in the face."
His eyes widened a fraction.
"Then we got into it. Fist fight, cops got called, crowd rushed, people started pushing, I got knocked down..."
You gestured vaguely toward the leg.
"Yada yada, here we are."
For a moment Brendon just stared at you.
Then he almost stammered, disbelief cracking through the anger, "You got into a fight... with a man?!"
Your bandaged knuckles and split lip suddenly made awful, perfect sense.
You blinked at him, "Why is everyone so surprised by that?"
"What the hell were you thinking?!"
"I was thinking about my friend!" you snapped. "She could've cracked her skull open because of that guy. You of all people have told me enough stories to know people get seriously hurt from way less."
He shot back immediately, "Nicole isn't the one with the broken leg!"
You folded your arms over your chest and turned your face away.
"I'm not arguing with you about this," you said curtly. "It's already done. So you can either be my husband and leave until I find another doctor, or you can be Dr. Park and do the damn consult."
That hit.
It showed only in the brief tightening around his eyes, the smallest fracture in his expression, but it hit.
He wasn't trying to be that guy.
He'd spent the last ten minutes wondering if his wife was visiting a friend... or lying unidentified in the morgue.
And all because you'd hidden your name so he wouldn't get upset.
He exhaled once, slow and controlled, and forcibly redirected every ounce of emotion into the place he trusted most:
The medicine.
His gaze returned to your leg.
"Alright," he said, tone leveling into pure surgeon.
He snapped on gloves.
"I need you to answer everything honestly. Any numbness in the foot before EMS splinted it?"
"They already asked—"
"Humor me."
At his curt tone, you scoffed, but complied, "...No."
He palpated gently along the exposed margins of the wound, assessing the soft tissue and contamination. "Pain when you stretch your big toe?"
"A little."
He checked distal pulse at the dorsalis pedis, then capillary refill in your toes.
"Good distal perfusion. Toes are warm."
His fingers moved with meticulous care over the deformity.
"Obvious displaced open tibial shaft fracture, likely with associated fibular fracture. Significant periosteal stripping but the posterior soft-tissue hinge looks partially intact. No gross vascular compromise on exam, but I still need to rule out occult injury."
None of that sounded remotely reassuring.
He continued, snatching up the chart Abbott left and glancing it over.
"This needs urgent irrigation and debridement in the OR. Looks like broad-spectrum IV antibiotics were already started, but we'll need repeat tetanus verification, then likely external fixation. We'll also monitor closely for evolving compartment syndrome given the crush component."
You blinked at him.
Half of that might as well have been another language.
He finished the exam, stripped off his gloves with a sharp snap, and let out a breath.
Then his whole posture softened.
"Look," he said quietly.
Your arms loosened a little.
"I'm sorry for how I came in," he said first. "I'm sorry for how I spoke. And I'm sorry that you felt like you had to hide from me to keep the peace."
The anger had burned off, leaving only the truth beneath it.
"You scared the hell out of me," he admitted, voice lower now. "For ten minutes I didn't know if you were in the ED, visiting someone, or downstairs in the morgue. I was furious because I was terrified, and no one was telling me anything."
He rounded the gurney and gently took your hand, his thumb gliding carefully over the bandage wrapped around your raw knuckles.
"You are a strong woman, (y/n). You wouldn't be married to me if you weren't," he murmured. "But strong doesn't mean invincible."
His eyes lifted to yours, steady and sincere.
"And as your husband, it is my job to worry. I'd never forgive myself if something happened to you when I could've done something to prevent it."
Guilt curled warm and uncomfortable in your stomach.
Your arms fully uncrossed.
He reached up, cupping your cheek with a careful hand, thumb brushing beneath the uninjured side of your lip.
"But I'll try to be... softer about it," he said, the word sounding begrudging but genuine. "But you can't avoid me. Not in an emergency, and especially not when you're hurt."
You caved.
Slowly, you nodded.
For Brendon, the faint curve that touched his mouth was practically a beaming grin.
"Thank you," he muttered.
Then he leaned in and kissed you.
Soft.
Tender.
A world apart from the fury he'd entered with.
You hummed in pleasant surprise against his lips, the corner of your mouth quirking when he pulled back.
"Trying to bring up your patient satisfaction scores, Dr. Park?"
A quiet chuckle escaped him, forehead touching yours.
"Maybe."
.
.
.
