Clueless!John (also jealous!John) doesn't realise that he's your boyfriend
You weren't sure how exactly it had started. One day you were just hanging out with the ER attending who could always crack a joke when you needed it, the next you were waking up in his bed, tangled with his limbs, his body pressed closely to yours as his warmth kept you company. It's Wednesday night so you two had gone to your favorite dive bar during their usual matchmaking event where they tried to form new couples amongst their clientele, an event with the cheapest beer prices in all of Pittsburgh.
John always seemed to press himself to your left side when people circled around. By the end of the night, tired, tipsy and horny, you had ended up back at his place as usual, riding him until the sunlight started pouring, his strong hands grasping your hips like his life depended on it. And when the morning light hit your glistening body, John could not tear his eyes away, not when you looked like the sun itself.
He had known since the second time you two hung out that he wanted more than whatever was between you. You slid in perfectly within his life.
Also a night crawler, though in the paeds department, you'd first met during a consult, and he had noticed your smile, the way you brought energy and positivity when you arrived. You then had met again at Dunkin the very same day, both wanting your sugary coffees. What were two meetings in one day turned into meeting every day as you'd meet up for some food before your shifts started.
"Turn it off...." You grumbled as the strident alarm of John's phone went off. It was time to get up, time to get ready for the day, actually night ahead. The sun had started leaving, plunging the room into purples and blues, but you were both used to it by now.
John let out an exaggerated groan, detangling himself from you just tough to turn his alarm off before pushing himself back in his previous position.
"Hello, gorgeous."
Lips ghosted your neck and your shoulders as you sighed in content. What a great way to wake up.
By now the routine was organised to the very second. You'd take your shower first, sometimes with John, while he usually made boring black coffee and whatever breakfast foods he had laying around. This time it was yogurt and bananas. Then it was his turn to take a shower and you ran his laundry and dryer before you both headed to work, usually with John driving as he knew which backroads to take to get to the Dunkin closes to work the fastest.
And then you'd both hug, lingering for a few seconds until you each went to your respective floors, him in the depths of the Pitt, you to the children's level. Really, it was two worlds apart.
Which is why John couldn't understand why today you were leaning against the nurse station, smiling up at Jack Abbot who seemed to go on and on about a story that the younger ER attending couldn't hear. Jack's movements were large, energetic, and you were laughing. Not the polite laughter you reserved for everyone, but the genuine one, the one that made your shoulders shake and eyes tear up. The one only he could usually get out of you.
And then your hand went to Jack's arm, gripping him for stability as you threw your head back for more giggles to escape. And John couldn't have that. So of course he stalked up, unintentionally but with intention, pushing you a bit back as he took his place between you and Robby.
"What are you two laughing about?" It took John all his self control to not let some sourness spill into his tone.
"Dr. Abbot was just telling me about his travels when he had been younger, apparently he had been chased off a field by an angry cow in Scotland." Your tone was light and warm which slightly calmed John's overthinking, but it still wasn't enough.
"I guess you'll have to be careful when you go there with your boyfriend." Jack's tone was teasing. And John couldn't breathe. Because really... he was dumb.
He didn't notice the way Jack's eyes flickered lightly towards him, or the way you had stepped closer to him, seeking his presence. He only heard the sentence, and felt his heart shatter. And clearly he did not manage to hide his emotions as your eyebrows furrowed, arms wrapping around him as he stumbled lightly. He broke free of your embrace, pretexting the need to check up on a patient just to actually take a break outside, breath shortened, head swirling with thoughts.
He hadn't known you had a boyfriend, what did that make him? Your side guy? Were you cheating on your boyfriend with him? Maybe you were in one of those open relationships. He couldn't understand how you had gotten a boyfriend when you spent almost everyday together.
In all the time you two knew each other radio silence had not happened. Not even when John was hiking the Everest base camp, he'd still manage to find some internet to send you his pictures and a little email. But as you were waiting in the hospital lobby, ready to leave for some well deserved rest, John was not answering any of your messages. Not through SMS, not through insta, not even on snapchat. And that meant that something was wrong, especially so when once you went back down to the Pitt, the day crew had let you know that John had already left an hour ago.
So of course, you drove to John's apartment, using his spare keys that he'd given to you to open his door after knocking and receiving no answer in return.
"John?" Your voice rang out until you heard the shower running. You grabbed his laundry basket also filled with some of your things as you started folding everything, a habit you had developed as you hated doing the dishes but loved laundry while John hated the complete opposite.
Looking around the apartment it was clear that you spent a lot of time here, your clothes were in his hamper, your vitamins littered his cabinets, he even had a fridge magnet picturing your last year's family reunion with your aunts, uncles, cousins, and he wasn't even there. It was the same at your place, his extra switch was connected to your T.V, he had his own little section of your wardrobe, and for some reason his mom's workout equipment was in your extra bedroom since his downstairs neighbours had complained once about Mrs. Shen dropping a weight when she had come to visit.
You were snuggling into his couch, an episode of B99 playing when John appeared, sculpted chest and bottoms wrapped in one of your fluffy white towels he had stolen a few months ago. You wanted to run your hands on his wet body, feel his pale skin on you but his face clearly showed that something was on his mind. And unfortunately for you, John wasn't one to talk about his emotions much.
"What are you doing here?" He spoke out, eyes barely stopping on your figure before he made his way to the kitchen to make himself a smoothie.
"What do you mean what am I doing here? You didn't reply to my texts, didn't even come to see me after our shifts. Is everything okay?" His pace stuttered before he continued what he set up to do.
"Everything is perfectly fine." You got up from your spot, following the man as you leaned against the doorway to the kitchen, watching him throw blueberries into the blender alongside his usual protein shake ingredients.
"Don't lie." His eyes flickered to your face. "John tell me what's wrong." He looked straight at you before turning the blender on, the loud noise drowning out your demand. "John." He mimed not hearing anything and that's when you lost your cool.
Stalking to the kitchen island you pushed him aside as you unplugged the blender. You turned around quickly and gulped as he was now cornering you against the counter, looking down with his deep brown eyes staring into yours.
"I don't think your boyfriend would accept you spending so much time with me... and my bed." He wanted to sound teasing, but John just ended up sounding completely and utterly bitter. "What were you planning on doing? Just using me until your boyfriend realised it? I don't want to help someone cheat on their boyfriend, I'm not that type of gu-"
Your lips were on his in an instant as your arched into his body, droplets of his shower transferred onto you as one of your hands pulled his head down to meet you, the other going down to settle on his abs. He hated himself for it but he simply could not deny you, not when you smelled so good, felt so good against him. So with a groan he pulled you onto the counter top, slotting himself between your two legs.
"I-I can't, not when you're not mine." He groaned, turning his head away though you left little kisses on his cheeks, his jawline, his neck. Light feathery pecks that made him sigh from relaxation.
"John Shen, you are a very stupid man." His eyebrows furrowed as he turned his face back to you. "You might be the stupidest man I know."
"What-"
"You're my boyfriend you idiot."
You wished you could have recorded his reaction because it truly gave you whiplash. His confusion had turned to questioning, to realisation, to the sheepish expression he now bore, pale face flushed, eyes flickering from your face to somewhere else as he realised that he was indeed, quite stupid.
"B-But, you told Jack-"
"We were literally talking about going on vacation to Europe together last week John. You even said that you wanted to see cute highland cows."
"Ah... yes, yes I did..." John wanted to slap himself, so of course he did it earning an amused eyeroll from you. "I just... we never had a talk about us."
You circled your legs around his waist pulling him closer as his breath hitched from the closeness.
"John Shen, will you be my boyfriend?"
He replied by smashing his lips on yours, grounding his hips into your core until you were a moaning mess from needing friction, needing love, needing him.
Jack jerking off to a voicemail you left him while he was on shift. It's something that's not even dirty, which he knows you can be. God, you can be. But you leave him something domestic. Sweet. Nothing that should be used for aggressive masturbation material. But your pretty voice, the deathly shift you gave it in...Jack's never claimed to be a better man. Only that he's tried to be with you and failed.
"Hi, Jackie. I know you’re probably pretending the coffee you're drinking is a meal, so I have something for you when you get home. I love you. I’ll see you after shift. Mwah!"
So he listens to the voicemail more times than he can count and pumps his cock in harsh strokes with the spit he's been smearing down the veined shaft.
"I know you're probably pretending the coffee you're drinking is a meal..."
Jack grunts quietly, hips bucking up into his grip. "Like you're any better."
The voicemail, ghost of your sweetness moving through him, is only twelve seconds. So, he needs a lot of playback to get through what he started with his cock.
"So I have something for you when you get when you get home."
His cock throbs in his palm, and he's dripping all over his thighs. He switches hands, using the stickier one to twist at the base. You do that to fuck him up. You're awful sometimes, kiddo.
"...Thank you, baby."
"I love you."
Hopefully, you're awake by the time he gets home. Not that you at peace in your dreams has ever stopped him before. But considering he's thinking of splitting you open by flooding your ass right now, he has to wonder how much of a wake-up call that would be.
Feminism isn't about doing whatever feels good and fuels your specific personal interests btw sometimes you do in fact have to change how you think and behave
Notes: Can I interest you in parentified eldest daughter falling in love with a man with some fucking whimsy
Warnings: Exes to lovers; Whump. Lots of whump; descriptions of Reader being sick multiple times (not super explicit); mentions of pregnancy (but no actual pregnancy); reader is a workaholic; cursing; flashbacks; complicated family dynamics; reader has named sisters - no physical descriptions; canon-typical medical situations; reader's age is unspecified, but she and her sisters are all adults
Summary: John’s hands hook onto the railing of the gurney, his eyes darting to your face every few seconds as your entourage of medical professionals steers you down the hall.
“So,” He offers, “Fancy seeing you here.”
And you so don’t want to let him make you smile, but you can’t help yourself.
“This is a bit much,” He adds as you’re wheeled onto the elevator, “I mean, I told you you could call and you show up at my job instead? I appreciate the effort, but you're coming off a little desperate.”
When you propel yourself out of bed, you’re blindly guided by two things: your instinctual knowledge of where your en suite bathroom is, and your stomach violently rejecting its contents.
You drop to the floor, knees roughly smacking the cold tile as you fumble with the lid of your toilet. Your body shudders as you heave, fingers gripping the cool porcelain desperately. When the sickness finally lets up, you lean back, blinking the tears from your eyes. You swallow thickly, drawing in a deep breath, then wincing as your stomach threatens to revolt again. You lean back, closing the lid and flushing the toilet as you fight to steady your breathing.
The knocking on your door makes you jump, and you raise a shaking hand to your chest, croaking,
“Yeah?”
“You okay in there?”
You nod, though your youngest sister can’t see you, then manage,
“‘M fine.”
“Can I open the door?”
“...Yeah.”
It’s a moment before Lisa’s opening the door and peering inside, her brow furrowed at the sight of you where you’re still sitting on the floor.
“Are you okay?”
“You already asked me that.”
“Yeah, but that was before I saw you looking like…Well, this.”
“Who taught you to be so sweet?”
“You did.”
You offer a wobbly smile, huffing softly as you push yourself up. “Asshole.”
“Uh-huh.” Lisa folds her arms across her chest. “What the hell, by the way?”
“I don’t know,” You grumble, pumping soap into your hands and scrubbing up along your arms where you were leaning against the toilet. “Probably something I ate last night.”
“Could always call your doctor friend and make sure.”
The mention of him has your stomach churning again. “Ha-ha.”
“He should be getting off-shift soon,” Lisa adds as you rinse with mouth wash, “Could invite him over for a check-up.”
You swish, spit, and shoot Lisa a glare couched in a sickly sweet smile.
“Thanks for all of your help, Li.”
Lisa snorts, pushing off of the door frame as she drawls, “Fiiine. I’m gonna get ready for class.”
“You need a ride?”
“No, Joey’s gonna come pick me up—don’t.”
“Hm.”
“Don’t start.”
“I wouldn’t have to start if you weren’t making bad choices.”
“You never like my boyfriends.”
“That’s because all of your boyfriends—” You cut yourself off, raising a hand to staunch a nauseating belch, “Suck.”
When Lisa doesn’t answer right away, you figure that she’s left—but as you straighten back up, you find her watching you in the mirror with a narrowed gaze.
“Are you sure you’re gonna be okay?”
“Yeah,” You nod, turning to face her. “I’m working from home today, anyway. We’ve got rice, we’ve got broth, we’ve got saltines. Honestly, that was probably it, nothing left in the tank. I’m fine.”
Lisa hesitates before she closes the space between the two of you, raising her hand and pressing the back to your forehead. You force a poker face, doing your best not to lean into the coolness of her fingers. Her brow wrinkles, lips screwing to the side, then—
“I have no idea what your forehead is supposed to feel like.”
“Go to class and learn.”
Lisa scoffs, finally turning away and slouching back to her room. You wait until her footsteps have faded completely before reaching out, quietly pushing the bathroom door closed again. You swallow, wincing at the slight ache in your throat.
You don’t feel like you’re going to throw up again, but there’s an pain in your side, one that you hadn’t noticed when you were stumbling your way to bed. You raise your hand, rubbing slightly over a spot on your right and wincing again. Christ, that hurts. Did you bang it when you were getting down to get to the toilet? That must be it.
Of course, it couldn’t hurt to ask a professional. You didn’t block him, he said the door was still open if you ever wanted to talk, so maybe you could just send a quick little question—
No. No.
You have broth, you have rice, you have Google. You can figure this out. Besides, it probably really was just something you ate.
--
“This is John, the guy I’ve been telling you about!”
The words were half-lost on the music being pumped through your best friend’s place, and the chatter of the other people crammed into her shared 450 square foot two-bedroom apartment. You had been tempted to dip out of the party nearly an hour ago, but your friend had sworn that not only was the guy she was setting you up with going to eventually be there (even though he was running late), but he was well worth waiting for.
You turned to face the mystery man, and you were, admittedly, caught off-guard. It was a combination of things: the scrubs he was wearing, the Dunkin cup in hand, and the fact that the guy was really, really cute.
“Hi,” You said, offering your hand and your name in tandem. He took hold of your hand, dipping closer and requesting:
“One more time?”
You hesitated before leaning in and giving him your name again.
“Nice to meet you!” He smiled before glancing around. “It’s a little loud in here. You wanna get some air?”
It was cooler on your friend’s fire escape, and so much quieter. You curled your arms around yourself, toying with your little plastic cup of wine before glancing over at John.
“Can I ask,” You nodded toward the Dunkin.
“Oh—You want a sip?”
“No, no,” You shook your head. “I was wondering why you brought a…Frankly massive Dunkin iced coffee to a housewarming. Seems like an odd choice.”
“I could only stop by for a bit before I have to go to work.”
“Jeez, what time do you start work?”
“Shift starts at seven. Twelve hours.”
“Explains how big the coffee is.”
“Sure does.” He raised it again, giving it a little shake, the ice rattling against the plastic. “You sure you don’t want a sip?”
“Uh—No. Thanks.”
John just shrugged, raising the orange straw to his lips and taking a deep pull.
“You know, I was curious about you,” He offered once he’d swallowed.
“Oh?”
“Mhm. Heard a lot.”
“Good or bad?”
“Good, I think.”
“Like what?”
“Like…You’re the oldest of three sisters, really family oriented. Have your life together, have very high expectations for yourself…And that you’re a stickler for punctuality.” His teasing smile made your belly flutter. “Even more surprised that you’re still here, considering I’m late for our little set-up.”
And you could have told him that your friend had to talk you out of leaving twice, that you had nearly called it when her roommate’s sleazeball of a boyfriend tried to hit on you. All of that was true. But—
“Maybe I was curious about you, too.”
John’s bright smile made staying all the more worth it.
--
According to Google, you have food poisoning, stage 4 stomach cancer, and your period all at once.
And while you could waste your time speculating about something that’ll probably just pass, you choose instead to focus on your job. All you know for certain is that you have two reports due, three RFPs, and a presentation draft due by EoD, as well as a meeting with your manager for your annual review. All of that means only one thing:
You do not have time to spend fucking around, half-asleep in bed, or throwing up the little bit of room-temperature water that you’ve been able to get down.
But that doesn’t stop your body from revolting against you.
You manage to get bits and pieces of your work done in five to ten minute intervals, with your belly betraying any little bit of liquid, nutrients, or hope that you manage to take in. You go through your recipes, your fridge—you just manage to stop yourself from going through your trash to double check the dates on the ingredients that you used to make dinner last night. But it couldn’t really be that, could it? You’d checked all of the dates before you’d cooked, even thrown out a couple of ingredients because they were just a day past their best-by.
It’s your period, it has to be. This doesn’t feel anything like the last time you had food poisoning—at least, what you’re pretty sure was food poisoning.
--
“How ya doin’ over there, champ?”
You glared down at your phone, lips twisted into a pout. “I feel like death.”
“You’re answering me, so definitely not death.”
“I said I feel like death, not that I’m dying—ugh,” You groaned as your lower belly gurgled, shifting where you’d been sitting on your toilet for nearly ten minutes, “God.”
“What are your symptoms?”
“I really don’t want to disclose that to you.”
“Oh, c’mon,” John chuckled, “I’m a professional.”
“No!”
“Why not?”
“It’s embarrassing.”
“It can’t be anywhere near what I see in the ED on the nightly.”
“What’s the most embarrassing thing you’ve ever seen?”
“Honestly? Couple’a days ago, we had a guy came in with a Darth Vader figurine stuck up where it shouldn’t have been.”
Your jaw dropped with a stunned laugh. “Are you serious?”
“Oh yeah. He thought he’d be able to keep it from slipping in completely because the cape was triangular, but it went a little too far. He came in when he gave up reaching for the feet.”
“...Okay, this is one step below that.”
“Just one?”
The slight smile in John’s tone had a grudging one pulling at your lips. “Maybe a couple.”
“Uh-huh. Tell you what, I get off shift in twenty. I’ll swing by with a goodie bag.”
“I can’t handle goodies right now, John.”
“Not even if those goodies include animal crackers, broth, electrolytes, and pepto bismol?”
“I’m not going to be much of a conversationalist.”
“It’ll be a drive by. You buzz me up, I hand you the bag, I steal a couple of kisses, you go back inside.”
“You have a suspicious amount of this interaction planned out.”
“Well, this girl I’m dating has told me that she likes a man with a plan.”
Your smile stretched into a full-blown, lovesick grin, and you raised your hand to scrub across your eyes.
“Fine. Just…give me a five minute warning before you get here?”
“Sure. Hey, you might even find a surprise Darth Vader figurine among your goodies—”
“John!”
--
By noon, you’ve managed to polish off your notes on the RFP, but the presentation and reports have barely been touched. You message your manager reluctantly, warning that you’re a little under the weather, but still in a good place to finish everything on your plate by EoD.
And you do have every intention of finishing things off. You decide to take a half-hour nap, just give your body a little bit of a rest before getting back on the horse.
It’s a good plan in theory—but your head hasn’t been down for two minutes before you’re clambering out of bed, hardly making it to the sink before the singular sip of gatorade you’d taken twenty minutes ago is making a bid for freedom.
You groan, resting your forehead against the sink—and then whine when you hear your cell phone ringing. You straighten slowly, bracing your hand back against the wall and stepping back into your room, taking up the phone from your bedside table. Oh—god. Do you have the patience for this call right now?
You lower yourself to your bed, swiping the call acceptance and sticking it on speaker.
“What’s up, Lilah?”
“Holy fuck, Lisa wasn’t kidding. You sound like shit.”
You muster a weak smile, drawing your legs into the bed and pulling your blankets around your lap.
“Mom and dad did a hell of a job curating your manners.”
“Mm, but you’re the one who really honed them, generalissimo.”
You roll your eyes, resting your pounding head back against the wall of decorative pillows that you’ve piled up, and have been using to keep yourself upright for the last few hours. Growing up as the middle child, Lilah had always been the one raging against your de facto parental machine, where Lisa tended to push back a touch, but ultimately fell in line.
You pull in a steadying breath, catching on the sounds of school kids in the background on the other end of the phone. Must be recess.
“Whaddaya want, bean?”
“I can’t just wanna talk to my big sister?”
“Willingly? It would be a first.”
“Are you pregnant?”
The thought nearly triggers another heave.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” You snap. “Did Lisa tell you that?”
“No, but—”
“I’m on birth control, I have always used protection—”
“Those things aren’t always 100%, accidents happen—”
“And it’s been a while.”
“...If you’re sure.”
“John and I broke up months ago,” You remind her, “And even before that, we hadn’t been…” You wince. “Intimate.”
“Blegh, okay, we get it.”
“I’m just saying—”
“God forbid the two of you pushed the beds together.”
“Lilah, for godssake—”
“I still don’t understand why you broke up with that man.”
The comment stops you in your tracks, eyes unfocused on your dimming laptop screen. You’ve done your best not to think about John—your ‘how’s and ‘why’s and ‘what might’ve been’s. The closest you’ve gotten in the last few weeks is the brief flirtation with his contact in your phone that morning.
“...Okay,” Lilah finally concedes, seeming to take your silence in the spirit with which it’s meant. “Not pregnant.”
“It’s probably actually my period, anyway. You know I get queasy when I’m PMSing—and my cramps suck right now. I’ll be spotting by, like, 3pm at the latest.”
“And if you’re not, your uterus will hear about it.”
“Exactly.”
A moment of slightly tense silence, punctuated only by the odd giggle and screech of children from her end.
“Alright,” Lilah sighs, “The principal is giving me the stink eye, I should probably pay attention to the kids.”
“Lilah—!”
“Kidding! Jesus. Feel better.”
“Thanks.”
Lilah’s grunt is her only sign off before the call cuts. You reach out, drawing your laptop close and squirting at the screen for a moment before squeezing your eyes shut at the throbbing of your headache. Christ.
It isn’t as if you haven’t explained your break up to Lilah, because you have—at least twice. But you’ll tolerate her needling, her willful ignorance, it doesn’t matter. It’s not her relationship, it’s yours—was yours.
--
“I don’t think I’m gonna get Christmas off.”
“Aw, really?” You frowned, setting your planner down on the kitchen table and watching John reach for one of the two remaining Munchkins in the carton he brought over. “I thought you asked.”
“I mean, I did, but it was a little slammed when it came up—more of an informal request.” He raised his fingers to suck the powder off of them, adding through a full mouth: “I put in for it, but it’s up in the air.”
“Hmm. Well if you can’t, that’s alright. It’s just gonna be me and the girls.”
“What about your parents?”
You waved John off, shaking your head. “They’re going to be on a cruise.”
“Oof,” John sighed, slouching back in his seat, “You think you felt bad when you had food poisoning—”
“Okay.”
“Those floating buffet-laden crap shows.”
“Okay!”
“Nice scenery, though.”
You rolled your eyes, propping your chin up on your hand as you considered him.
“What’s your mom gonna do if you can’t get Christmas off?”
John’s lips pressed into a thin line, and your eyes caught on the bob of his Adam’s apple, the fidget of his fingers toying with the strings on his hoodie.
“...John?”
Another moment before he shrugged. “What she does when I usually can’t get the holidays off, I guess.”
You opened your mouth to ask, but he was sitting up before you could, shuffling his chair closer. “So what’d you get me?”
Your confusion melted to fondness, mind flashing to the smart watch you’d spent weeks researching and comparison shopping for, and you scoffed, “As if I’d tell you.”
“C’mon, gimme a hint. Is it black? Red? Lacey?”
--
Your manager only gets two minutes into your performance review before she ultimately cuts it short.
“You know what, why don’t we reschedule?”
You try to tell her that you’re fine to go through with it, but she waves you off: “I’ll throw some time on for tomorrow. Take a break.”
You manage a weak smile, an, “Okay,” and a, “Ping me if you need anything,” before you close out of the meeting. You lower the laptop lid with a sense of defeat, tears crowding your dry, tired eyes. When the urge to puke pops up again, you can’t make it all the way to the bathroom, instead lowering yourself to the floor and hunching over the trash bin by your bed.
It’s nothing but bile that devolves into dry heaves, and by the time you’re through, your pounding head is spinning. You brace your hand on the floor, trying to ground yourself, but it doesn’t hold, and there’s nothing more you can do as your world tilts.
--
The hand on your cheek, then your forehead, is so cold, and a distant, “Holy shit,” sounds so familiar. It’s chased by, “How long has she been like this,” and a frantic, “She wasn’t this bad this morning!”
You groan as you’re turned onto your back, wincing at the onslaught of bright light. It takes a moment, but the face that swims into view is comforting.
“Li-Li,” You smile, raising a hand to cup Lisa’s cheek. “How was school?”
“How long have you been on the floor?”
“Did that boy drive you?”
You hear a scoff, a grumble of, “On death’s fucking doorstep and still the captain of the morality police.”
“Lilah, shut up—”
“Bean,” You struggle to crane your neck as you look for Lilah. “Lilah, what are you—” You try to sit up, flounder, flop back and whack your head roughly on the nightstand, “What’re—”
“Christ, Lilah, call a fucking ambulance!” Lisa snaps.
“Where’s—” You raise your hand, patting along as much of your sheets as you can reach, “Where’s my work laptop?”
“Okay,” Lisa soothes, easing you to lie down fully, “Just relax, okay? We’re gonna get you help.”
Even in your confusion and fog, you can hear her panic, and you tut softly. “I’m okay, Li. Tell bean.”
“Lilah—”
“I’m on with the fucking operator—No, I won’t watch my language, we need a fucking ambulance here, like ten minutes ago!”
--
You do your best to answer the EMTs, but they’re only a few questions in before they’re loading you onto a stretcher, telling your sisters that you’re being taken to Pittsburgh General.
Lisa’s climbing into the back of the ambulance with you, and you only manage to request that someone grab your work laptop before the doors are being slammed shut and Lilah is out of sight.
The ride is hellish, bumpy and painful, and far longer than it should be when you wind up rerouted to PTMC.
--
“Can we talk about Thanksgiving?”
“Sure. Are we rankin’ sides?”
You shot a sidelong glance in John’s direction, eyes narrowed slightly.
“Trying to make plans, actually.”
“Ah,” He nodded. “Yeah, we can try.”
“My parents are probably going to be in town for it this year,” You shifted in your seat, trying to settle your nerves. This was normal, this was something that couples dealt with all the time. So why were you bracing yourself? “And…I mean, we’ve been together for a while, almost a year now, so I wondered if you wanted to…Meet them, finally.”
“You really think they’ll hold still long enough for me to make their acquaintance?”
And it was a fair question, but stacking that on top of your mounting nerves was nearly enough to send you over the edge.
“It’s a yes or no question, J. I mean, I know some of it will hinge on whether you can get work off or not, but—”
“If they’re the deep fried turkey type and I’m on shift, maybe you can bring them in. They can see me in action.”
You closed your eyes, taking a steadying breath in and shaking your head. “Forget it.”
“I’m kidding—”
“Not everything is a joke, John.”
--
There’s so much input at once. The ambulance was its own array of sound, but now you have doctors, nurses, EMTs chatting over you, underscored by the chatter and yelling of fellow patients—and somewhere, not far off, your sister’s panicked voice as you’re wheeled into a room.
“I'm gonna be okay, Lisa,” You mumble, but your promise is cut off by a surge of pain. You can’t help but cry out, trying to squirm away from the pressure that’s been applied to your right side.
“We’ve got rebound tenderness.”
“What’s that mean?” You hiss.
“That means,” A new voice in the room, but not a new voice to you, “That we’re looking at—”
You lift your tearing eyes to that all-too familiar face as he finally registers that it’s you in the bed, as it stops him in his tracks.
“Shen?” Someone urges, but he’s breathing out, “Shit,” eyes flitting to where Lisa is huddled nearby.
“You know each other?” That same voice presses, and John manages,
“I was—She’s my—”
“Okay,” Someone else steps up to the bed, leaning over you, “Ma’am, I’m Dr. Abbot—”
And you’re trying to listen, you are, but you’re also tracking where John is rounding over to Lisa, leaning in to ask questions, to talk, to reassure, you can’t tell—
“Do you understand?” Abbot tacks on, but no, you don’t. You didn’t catch a word, he said, so you shake your head. “Your appendix is on the verge of bursting, we need to get you up to surgery.”
“Surgery?” Lisa pipes up, “Like, now?”
“As soon as possible.”
“Where’s Lilah?” You whimper.
“Oh—Shit, she’s going to the wrong hospital!” Lisa’s out the door without a second glance, drawing her phone out of her pocket.
“Listen,” Abbot leans closer to hold your attention, “If we don’t get your appendix out, it could cause some serious problems. It’s still intact, but we need to remove it before it can rupture and cause you any more problems.”
“OR’s prepped,” Is mentioned somewhere behind you, and suddenly the bed is moving again.
“I’ll go up with her.” John’s at your side in a second, and he and Abbot are sharing a look that you don’t understand over your gurney before Abbot drops away completely. John’s hands hook onto the railing of the gurney, his eyes darting to your face every few seconds as your entourage of medical professionals steers you down the hall.
“So,” He offers, “Fancy seeing you here.”
And you so don’t want to let him make you smile, but you can’t help yourself.
“This is a bit much,” He adds as you’re wheeled onto the elevator, “I mean, I told you you could call and you show up at my job instead? I appreciate the effort, but you're coming off a little desperate.”
“John.”
“Appendix, too, you overachiever. Couldn’t you have broken your wrist, gotten a concussion, something easier?”
Your mental fog is melting to clarity, mingling with your panicked nerves, and the little laugh that leaves you makes the ache in your side twinge.
“I mean, come on,” He’s leaning against the railing now, seemingly unaware or uncaring of the looks that the nurses are giving him, “All of this, just to get my attention?”
“You’re so full of yourself.”
“And you know what you’re gonna be full of if we don’t get that appendix out? Pus.”
“Ugh,” You wrinkle your nose, closing your eyes, “Stop.”
“Better pus than Darth Vader, though.”
You laugh again, and the pain swells, worse.
“Please stop making me laugh, it hurts,” You whimper, and he mutters, “Alright, alright,” as the elevator chimes. You pull in as deep a breath as you can, the full weight of panic weighing down your chest. You swallow roughly, mumble, “John?”
“Yeah?”
“Make sure they give me the good stuff.” When you open your eyes, take in the sweep of lights haloing him as you’re guided down another hall, you find him smiling softly.
“For you? The best,” He promises. “I’ll tell them to check on your funny bone while they’re in there.”
Your laugh turns to a muted sob, the sound half-stuck in your thickening throat as tears spill over. But he’s reaching out before one can slip to the gurney below, swiping it away.
“I’m scared,” You whisper.
“I know. But it’s gonna be okay.”
--
“I like him.”
It was the last thing you expected to come out of Lilah’s mouth. You’d already known that she was miffed at you for taking so long to introduce you to John, doubly so when she found out that Lisa had met him nearly two weeks before she had (that had been an accident, though—Lisa had come home early from what was meant to be a romantic trip with her latest boyfriend, but had crashed and burned into a fight when she found out she was the other woman).
You didn’t answer, just watched Lilah from your end of the couch as she picked her nails. When she glanced toward you, she scoffed, “What?”
“I’m waiting.”
“For?”
“The punchline.”
Lilah rolled her eyes. “No punchline. I like him.”
Your brows rose at the insistence. “That’s a first.”
“Well,” She sighed, pushing herself up, “All of your other boyfriends sucked. I’m gonna raid your fridge now.”
You watched her go, processing for a moment before you followed. “What do you mean, all of my other boyfriends sucked?”
Lilah shrugged, eyes set on the inside of your fridge, scanning the shelves lazily.
“Just what I said.”
“They were all nice guys.”
“No, they were all assholes.”
You scoffed, “They were not all assholes.”
“Fine. They were mostly dickheads, with one or two of them crossing firmly into asshole territory.”
“They were all accomplished.”
“Yeah,” Lilah laughed derisively, “Especially that dude that got nailed for insider trading. How’s his prison sentence going by the way?”
You folded your arms tightly across your chest. “He was only fined and you know it.”
“Right, right.”
“Would you close the fridge door if you’re not gonna take anything? You’re letting all the cold out.”
Lilah raised her hands in surrender, allowing the door to slowly swing shut before she turned to your cabinet.
“As I was saying,” You added, “They were not all dickheads. I prefer to surround myself with ambitious people, and they can be…Difficult.”
“If by ambitious you mean rich, then yeah, you’re usually all over ‘em.”
“That is not what I mean—”
“Hedge fund managers, healthtech douchebros, morons who insist that they’re practically liquid when their entire net worth is in crypto.”
“That was one guy!”
“You know why I like John?” Lilah leaned back to face you, bag of chips in hand. “Cause it’s like you’re not dating with mom and dad in mind for once.”
It was like a slap. It rendered you completely speechless, sending heat creeping across your face, down your neck. And you couldn’t tell if Lilah knew the effect the comment had, but she pushed on:
“John’s ambitious, sure, he’s a doctor, but he’s also, like, genuinely a nice dude, you know. And you’re not trying to be perfect for him the way that you usually do for your dates, or for mom and dad. You’re not preening or constantly fixing your hair or checking your posture with him. You’re just, like…You. It’s good. Kinda freaky, but good.” She popped a couple of chips in her mouth, chewing slowly as you both mulled that over.
“Anyway,” She shrugged, pushing off of the counter, “Only a matter of time before you fuck it up, so. Enjoy it while it lasts.”
You rolled your eyes, following her back into the living room. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, bean.”
“Anytime, generalissimo.”
--
Coming to is slow, and uncomfortable. You’re propped up in bed, the room is bright, even with your eyes closed, and the beeping monitor beside you is starting to get annoying—but can you really begrudge something that reminds you that you’re alive?
You open your eyes, wincing into the light and allowing your vision to adjust. You can see a duffel bag on the chairs across from you, spot coats laying over the back of those same chairs. And when you let yourself glance around, you find someone at your bedside.
John is seated, folded over your bed with his head pillowed on his arms. His eyes are closed, and he’s breathing steadily. You can’t tell if it’s light outside with the shades closed, so you reach your IV-laden hand out, tapping on the face of the smart watch you got him a couple of Christmases ago. The screen flashes, but not in time for you to get a good look. You’re about to tap again, but—
“Are you snooping through my messages?”
Groggy, soft, warm—there’s that sleep-roughened voice you’ve missed so much. You smile a little.
“No. Trying to see what time it is.”
“Mm,” John pushes himself to sit up and proffers his wrist, scrubbing his free hand across his eyes as you get a better look. Nearly half past eight.
“Maybe a silly question, but is it AM or PM?”
“AM,” He chuckles, lowering his wrist.
“Shouldn’t you be home?” You ask. But before he can answer, the door to your hospital room opens, and Lisa and Lilah are trailing in with cups of coffee in hand.
“You’re up!” Lisa screeches, hurrying forward so quickly that some coffee sloshes over the side of the little paper cup. Lilah’s joining her a moment later, crowding in against you with leans, hugs, and carefully placed hands. You begin to reach for them with both arms, but wince when your IV pulls slightly. Lisa steps back, allowing Lilah to lean into you more closely.
“Did you grab my phone?” You ask, “And did you call…You know?”
“We didn’t,” Lisa winces, “We weren’t sure—”
“No, no. You did the right thing,” You soothe before glancing at Lilah. Her smile is watery, thin, and she seems to be opening her mouth to start to say something, but you have to ask:
“Did you bring my work laptop?”
That watery thin smile is gone in a second, mouth flat. Her eyes seem to glaze over, hands drawing back and curling into fists at her sides.
“I—No.”
“Lilah,” You groan, “That was, like, the one thing I asked you to bring—”
You barely get it out before she’s stomping out of your hospital room, Lisa hot on her heels, swearing, “I’ll get her.”
You close your eyes, sinking back in your bed. “Shit.”
“You shouldn’t be working right now, anyway,” John warns. You peek one eye open, frowning as he rounds the bed, pouring water from a pitcher on the bedside table. “Here.”
You take the cup carefully, though John keeps a loose grasp on it as you take a sip. He sets it aside once you’re finished, offering, “You want some more?”
“Nn-nn,” You shake your head. You perk up as the door opens again, but Lilah’s sweeping in and grabbing her coat without looking at you.
“Bean, I’m sorry—Hey!” You call out as she turns away again, “I’m not mad at you!” But your protests seem to fall on deaf ears as she rounds back into the hall. You close your eyes, tipping your head back against the pillows. “Great.”
“You want me to go get her?”
“No. Lisa’s gonna try to do that, anyway. And when she’s pissed at me, Lilah needs time to just…Decompress. Trust me,” You huff a laugh, “I’ve pissed her off a lot.” You tip your head to the side, wiggling your fingers toward his hand. And you expect him to just take it and hold on, but John is climbing into bed with you, carefully nestling against you. You sigh softly, turning your head and nuzzling against his neck. Neither of you speak for a few moments, the room falling into quiet, save for the beep of the monitor beside your bed.
“...Shouldn’t you be home?” You finally ask again.
“Mm…You want me to go?”
“No.”
“Then I’m right where I should be.”
And it’s so gentle, and firm, and certain. Your eyes well with tears again, and you try to squeeze tight against them, to hold them back, but they’re slipping before you can stop them. John doesn’t tut, tell you that it’s alright, that you’re okay. He just cuddles closer, intertwining your fingers.
“When I’m, um,” You sniffle, “When I’m less of a mess, can you explain what happened? Like, properly?”
“Using all of my big brain and science-y knowledge? Sure I can. Dr. Garcia will probably come to speak with you, too.”
“Did they do the surgery?”
“No, Dr. Walsh did. Case got handed over to the day shift, though.”
“Oh.”
“...So next time you want my attention, I’m thinking a kidney stone could be the way to go.” He keeps on over your quiet giggles—“Getting rid of those is way more fun than an appendix. Hey, when’s the last time you were on a roller coaster?”
--
It’s nearly ten by the time John is leaving your room with a kiss on the forehead and a promise to check in with you over the next couple of days. Lisa is back, but the two of you are speaking little. She won’t tell you where Lilah is, or what she said when she stormed out. You fall asleep around noon.
When you wake up around two, your work laptop is sitting on top of your duffel bag, and Lilah is nowhere to be seen.
--
You can’t remember the last time Lisa played nurse maid to you like this. You try to think of it, but you’re coming up with…Well, never. On the odd occasion you’ve gotten sick, you’ve always managed it yourself—but this isn’t just getting sick.
You can get around on your own, but it’s not the most comfortable. Lisa emails her professors, lets them know what happened, gets a pass to skip a couple of her classes so that she can stay at home and look after you for a couple of days. She helps you clean and change your wound dressing so that you don’t have to twist, or look at the little laparoscopic scars any more than you have to. She even offers to help you inject the prescribed blood thinner, but you insist on doing that yourself. It’s a way of taking back just a little bit of control after you’ve spent so much of the last 72 hours feeling helpless.
Besides, you’re usually the one doing the minding, so being minded makes you feel unbalanced.
Your manager gives you the week off to heal, tells you not to worry about the presentations and reports, commends you for the work that you were able to get done, and insists that if she sees your status active on your laptop, she’s going to have IT lock you out.
You try texting Lilah a few times, and she doesn’t answer, save to react or send lone emojis. You don’t try to call, or FaceTime. You’re not sure where you’d start if you did.
So when Lisa tells you the next day that Lilah’s at the apartment, and that she’s sitting on your unit’s balcony, it’s sort of a relief.
--
You know those things are bad for you.
It sits on your tongue, but you hold it there. The fact that Lilah is there at all is a boon, so you do your best to pointedly ignore the smoke curling from the end of her cigarette.
“I thought you were gonna die, you know?”
It cracks the air open, splits you down the middle, but Lilah doesn’t stop there:
“I’d never seen you like that. My superhero of a sister, on the floor, just…Laid out. When Lisa was getting into the ambulance with you and I stayed to grab some stuff like you asked, I was just like, on autopilot. Clothes, medication, phone, keys. The important shit, you know? And then I got to the wrong hospital and Lisa called, and I was like ‘well, shit. I’m not gonna get to say goodbye.’ And then you were in surgery, and then you were out, and then you woke up,” Her voice lilts with a hysterical little laugh, “And your first question was where your fucking work laptop was, and that was when I remembered that you asked for it. And I was like ‘well fuck. I fucked up again.’” Lilah quiets as she takes another drag from the cigarette, but for all the comments buzzing against your lips, you wait.
“You know what I think?” She exhales, “What this was? God or the universe, or fucking whatever—it’s telling you to slow down.” She turns her head to look at you finally, bloodshot gaze pinning you in place. “Because your first question coming out of major surgery should be what happened, how long was I out, what are the next steps, not where your fucking work laptop is—”
“I know.”
“Like that’s psychotic. And the worst part is you can’t even blame the meds, like, you’re just like that.”
“I know.” You pull in a deep breath, just managing not to wrinkle your nose at the scent of smoke. “I’m sorry, bean. I shouldn’t have said that—and you’re right, I can’t even blame the anesthesia.” You shift your seat a little closer, nudging her knee with yours. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“...Well, you didn’t. Your bitch-ass appendix did.”
You snort, looping your arm around Lilah’s shoulders and drawing her in.
“I love you, bean.”
Lilah sniffles as she huddles closer, tucking her head beneath your chin.
“I love you, too, generalissimo.”
--
“Saw Lilah on the way in.”
“Yeah?” You sit against the mountain of pillows still against your headboard, watch John unpack a few things from his bag onto your bed—gloves, gauze, tape, small scissors, alcohol wipes.
“Everything okay?”
“...Fine,” You concede, “She just has a shitty sister.”
You can feel John glancing toward you as you carefully wriggle out of your loose shirt, leaving you in a sports bra.
“Okay, let’s see what we have here.”
You hold carefully still as John peels back your wound dressing, leaning in to get a better look at the scars.
“How’s the pain been?”
“Fine, I guess. The gas pain in my shoulders sucks, though.”
“Yeah, that’s from the CO2 they use to inflate the abdominal cavity.”
“Hate the use of ‘cavity’ there.”
John’s lips quirk with a smile. “Wounds look good, no irritation or excessive redness.”
“Lisa’s been a very good nurse.”
“Mm.” John opens an alcohol wipe, carefully cleaning your wounds. “Has it been itchy at all?”
“Not really.”
“Good…A heating pad should help with those gas pains, by the way.”
“Okay.”
The two of you go quiet as he rebandages your wounds, then straightens.
“No fever, chills?”
“Nn-nn.”
“Appetite’s back?”
“Mostly.”
“Good.” John sits on the edge of the bed, removing his gloves and dropping the old dressing and alcohol wipe into the (now cleaned) bin by your bed. “When we were in the hospital, Lisa said you were sick all day. Why’d you wait so long to come in?”
“Just…” You shrug. “I thought it was my period.”
“Your cramps are that bad?”
“They can be.”
“Yeesh,” He mutters, tucking a few supplies into his bag. “When are you due back for your check-up, remind me?”
“Friday.”
“Okay.”
The two of you fall into quiet, and when you reach out for John’s hand, he slips it warmly into yours.
“...What’d your parents say?”
You focus on the press of his palm, trace the length of a vein on the back of his hand.
“I haven’t told them yet.” Your eyes flicker to his incredulous frown, and you shake your head. “It’s kinda too late now. I mean—I’ll tell them eventually. At this point they’ll just be upset that they weren’t invited.”
“Invited?” He scoffs. “It wasn’t a birthday party.”
“You know what I mean. I should’ve told them when I was on my way to the hospital, but I didn’t, and neither did the girls, so…Now this gets to be that funny story I tell them on New Year’s Eve in two year’s time, when they’re good and buzzed and less likely to get mad at me for not telling them right when it happened.”
“Sounds like you already have it all planned out.”
“I like a plan, remember?”
John smiles, thumb sweeping across the soft of your wrist. “I remember.” It’s a moment before he hedges: “Remind me, is that why we broke up? Not enough plans?”
You sigh softly, eyes dropping to your hands. “That was some of it. Other times, I just…I felt like you were making jokes of everything, all the time, or not taking things seriously. But honestly, after the whole,” You wave toward your abdomen, “You know, how chaotic it was, how scary…I kinda get it now. Why you’re so level.”
“...Doesn’t mean I should be doing it all the time. I’m sorry if I made you feel like we couldn’t just have a serious conversation.”
You smile. “I’m sorry I was so rigid. I should’ve been more understanding.”
“Hindsight’s 20/20, huh?”
“Famously.”
John gives your hand a little squeeze. “I should let you rest.”
“Okay…Can I selfishly say that I don’t want you to leave yet?”
“Yes,” He chuckles. “Tell you what. I’ll stick around for a bit, keep close. Make sure you don’t roll over in your sleep.”
“Oh yeah? You do that for all your patients, Dr. Shen?”
“Oh, all of them.”
“You really know how to make a girl feel spesh.”
John chuckles, nudging off the house shoes he’d worn inside and climbing into bed beside you, resting his hand on your hip. You tipped your head against him, relaxing into the warmth of his body as you had just a few days ago.
“Would it be selfish of me to say that I missed you a lot?” You mumbled.
“There’s that word again.”
“Hmm?”
“Selfish.” You feel John tip his head toward you. “Wanting things isn’t selfish. Neither is feeling things.”
You gnaw on your lower lip, letting your gaze drop back to his chest. He smoothes his hand over your hair, drawing you carefully closer.
“Tell you what,” He murmurs, “We’re gonna talk about this later—for now, you need your rest.”
“When are we gonna talk about it?”
“This weekend.”
“Oh?”
“Mhm. You’re gonna get clearance from Walsh to resume normal food and activity on Friday, we’re gonna get coffee and go for a nice, easy walk on Saturday—”
“I see—”
“And we’re gonna clear up all this selfish talk.”
“And then what?”
“Oh, just you wait.”
“Do I get a hint?”
John tips his head down toward you, lips brushing your forehead.
“You thought that first go-around was something? I’m gonna date the crap out of you.”
You smile. “I’d rather our dating not have anything to do with crap.”
✃ summary: john shen's first day as an attending goes a little something like this. or, 5 times you believe in him and the 1 time he believes in you.
✃ pairing: john shen x surgeon!f!reader
✃ wc: 6.0k
✃ notes: I AM FOR THE PEOPLE!! THE JOHN SHEN NATION!!! john n reader r the bestest duo ever and idc about anyone else ermmmm also can be read as stand-alone! but makes more sense given in universe context which u can find more of in the series masterlist! anyway this one is mainly for @rayveneyed my john shen girl....
✃ tags: literally just fluff, some angsty touches, set pre-s1 of the pitt! medical inaccuraces sorry babes
read on ao3 || series masterlist
1.
John's barely two minutes into his shift. His first shift as an attending, mind you, when he hears the fall of footsteps and someone leaning in next to him, but his shoulders still rest easy, his heart steady.
He already smells eucalyptus and catches the flash of your scrubcap before he turns, which is the only reason he doesn't incite a panic out of sheer boredom. A stretch of pale green, sprigs of leaves and flowers, pulls across your temple. Daisies, with white petals and golden centres, blooming all over your head.
Very spring-like, which is an antithesis of who you are. John classifies you as very much a winter person, though maybe it's because he met you during a blizzard after you'd been called in for an emergency craniotomy. The snow-chill was still melting from your fingers, and your toes were still thawing as you had walked in like a breath of fresh air.
Shen had been an intern then, and you were an R7, in between your attempts at publications and trying to figure out your footing after graduating. It felt like Godzilla stepping into the Pitt.
Now, he's technically your equal. Attending to attending.
He stifles a laugh as you forgo a greeting and start with, "Dr. Shen, I hear congratulations are in order." Your hands are clasped tight as you lean in beside him on the counter, but your expression is as it always is: neutral, a settled brow line and clear eyes catching the Pitt lights. "Attending Physician Dr. Shen, I should clarify."
"Attending Physician Spider, I thank you," he replies, "if we're going by our official titles."
"That's Attending Physician Dr. Spider," you correct. "Or, I mean, I still have a real name."
As if swatting a fly away: "Yeah, but no one calls you that." Biting on his coffee straw, he looks up at the board. "Any advice for the new guy?"
"Advice?" you echo. "It took two months for it to really sink in, and a year until I really felt normal about it all, if that's the right word for it. When the paperwork started piling up, I realized that it's not that different."
"Well, next year I'd like to request a check-up and see if that's a common diagnosis." John grins around his straw. Your expression flickers before settling into amusement. "Make it a routine thing, make sure I'm doing this whole 'attending' thing right."
"If you get to your desk and there's three stacks of papers needing to be signed," you intone smoothly, "you must be."
"I don't think we get private offices."
"Oh? Robby and Abbot share one. They must have some room they can empty out for you."
"You think?"
You shrug. "Maybe." Then, you add on, "By the way, a car versus pole arrived right before you came in. Not going too fast, airbags deployed. Bruising on the chest, closed radial fracture, no acute head injury. Ordered a CT to rule out anything that might've caused dizziness or confusion. He was awake and alert, but keep an eye out for decompensation for me, will you?"
"Did you let Abbot know?"
"I did, but I wanted to let the other attending on shift know," you remind him. "Just in case."
John is quick to mask his surprise. "One less patient for me to round on. God, you're so good to me and I'll do anything you want."
"Just don't be lazy on your first day of being an attending."
"Oh, I'd never dream of it. Hey, you gonna be around for the night?"
"Yeah." You cup the back of your neck and massage it thoroughly. Under your brow, you stare up at the board. As always, the air around you warps and undulates like a heartbeat—each pulse making something twinge as you shrug helplessly. "No one else would work July 4th weekend."
"Short end of the stick, then."
"No, I volunteered," you admit. "I'm not in a very patriotic mood." This, at his levelled gaze. "You know me."
"I'm still of the mind that you need friends," he drawls. "More friends, I mean. 'Cause that's what we are."
"Oh? I hadn't noticed."
"Yeah, between dastardly saves and water cooler talk. Oh, and by the way, you're terribly in love with me." Your eyes crease in a smile, and John feels a relief pool in the bottom of his gut. "You know, I think we're friends. Like you could talk to me, because you can. If something's bothering you."
At last, a small, placid smile finds its way onto your face. "We are friends," you tell him quietly. "I'm not friends with people who aren't exceptional at their jobs."
"Then why're you so tight with Abbot?"
"Do you want to toe that line on your first day?"
Another heave of his shoulders. "You know me," he parrots. "I like to toe the line."
You draw away, and with it comes that tone you always take on whenever you decide to drop into his world. Finely trimmed in warmth and warning is your grin as you retreat to the elevator. "Be good, Shen."
"Y'know," he ventures, "technically, you can't boss me around anymore."
You spin on him, quick as a whip, tracking backwards down the hall. "When did you start biting back?"
"I'll never bite your hands. They're too expensive, and I haven't gotten my first attending paycheck yet," he promises solemnly, hand to his heart and fingers splayed as if you'll stitch each digit to his skin if you had the chance.
You don't laugh, or frown, or show any sign that you're angry, as you are wont to do. Your countenance softens, and then you jab your thumb into the button. Immediately, the sign above you lights up and the two heavy doors part.
"Don't let the R2s defer to Abbot when you stand in the room," you advise, stepping in, "Attending Physician Dr. Shen."
ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ
2.
The sterile, cold air shifts with a gust of air that sweeps into the trauma room. A quick glance at the clock. Only barely past midnight.
Shen is craned over the woman on the gurney when you duck in and around the staff setting up stat monitors, your eyes dark and focused. You sidle in next to him, hand digging into your pocket to withdraw your penlight.
"Oh, I know you love me if you're here so fast," he sings as you take over the neurological exam.
"My gift for our new night shift attending. Dr. Shen—" lifting the woman's eyelids, you swing the light and watch the pupil dilate— "who've we got here?"
John shoots a finger gun over at the intern. "Phillips, go time."
"Anna Badriya, twenty-seven, GCS 12 en route. She called 911 before losing consciousness. Head ache, slurred speech, nausea for three hours."
You frown. "Do we know how long she's been complaining about the headache?"
"She said a few days?"
"We're setting up fluids, zofran, haloperidol," Shen cuts in cleanly. "No barf yet, but you know I hate to see aspiration." His hip bumps against yours as they rip open her front. "Alright, woah, stop. Looks like we've got someone fresh from cardiothoracic surgery. We need to pull up her EHR and be careful when we move her around."
Your gaze darts towards her chest. A surgery wound splits the patient's skin a part, and you clench your jaw, turning back to the woman. "Is it infected?"
"Nope. Looks clean. POCUS." With a generous slather of gel, Shen places the wand to the skin. "Bilateral lung sliding."
"Is it from a valve replacement? Like, could it have failed?" Phillips asks.
"Don't know yet… nope! Chest is clear. Upper quadrants are clear."
Lathered in sweat by pain, the woman lets out a soft moan as you press your hand to her forehead, using your thumb to draw back the other eyelid. "Anna? Anna, do you know where you are?" A soft moan comes out choked and out of the corner of your eye, you see gloved knuckles rub against the sternum.
"Responsive to pain," reports Phillips.
"Lower quadrants are good too. Spider?"
"Got a blown pupil. We need a head CT."
"She came in two weeks ago for an ascending aortic aneurysm. Discharged and lives at home with her mom." You whip your head over your shoulder at Olive standing by the computer. "Post-op DVT prophylaxis."
Straightening up, you step back and tuck your torch back into your breast pocket, ripping off your gloves with a rippling snap. "Alright, CT to OR."
"We'll need someone to call her mom."
"What is it?" asks Phillips.
Olive nods. "On it."
"A brain bleed caused by the blood thinners. Generally pretty rare," you explain, "but probable now." The harsh clang of the metal punctuates your words as the gurney rails lock into place. The ER staff become a procession, ushering the patient to the elevator and you cup your neck, lolling it under your palm and hearing the bones click. "We'll have her spick and span before you can say 'infundibulum.'"
"Still think mammillary bodies is weirder when we're talking about brains," Shen retorts, his fingers ghosting your elbow as you walk past him to follow. Side by side, they push their way out of the trauma room. The intern scurries ahead to help push the gurney.
Shen inclines his head towards yours. "Why do they call it that, by the way? Is it cause they look like a bunch of tiny nipples?"
"You just like boobs." You wrinkle your nose at him
With a huge, impish grin: "What guy doesn't like boobs?"
From where he leans on the counter by the arm, swiping mindlessly on the iPad to keep the screen active, Abbot interrupts whatever retort you had building up. "Hey, you need an extra set of hands?"
Shen pauses, fingers wrapping around the ends of his stethoscope. You continue onward, sending Jack a lazy wave, and as easy as breathing you say for him, "Relax, old man. Shen's got it handled."
You slip into the elevator just as the doors slide shut.
Turning on his heel, John walks a pace around the hub before pulling up Anna's chart on the computer, sitting down with a restrained groan. He stretches his arms high and back behind his head before flinging himself into the keyboard. Better to get started on his charting while he's ahead.
Yet as he settles his hands above the keyboard, he pauses for a moment. Then, he looks up at Abbot. The man doesn't even look phased as he works. John folds his arms on the desk, and says airily, "Don't know if you believe all that she's said."
"What? The part where she called me old, or where she said you had it handled?"
"Well, you're only, what—pushing seventy?"
"Alright."
"No, I mean, the other part."
Abbot doesn't bother even looking up from the iPad. Vaguely, he answers, "She's an excellent judge of character for everyone except herself."
"Which means to say she's good at holding people at a distance," John surmises under his breath, but he averts his gaze when Abbot sends him a well-meaning but hard warning glance. He tries to think of what little he can glean from you—your hobbies, what you like or dislike, even how old you are—and doesn't like at what he comes up with.
Which is to say, nothing.
"So, when's her birthday?" Abbot tells him, and he frowns. "How do you know that?"
"Ladies are attracted to a little experience." Shen pulls a face. Abbot snorts. "I mean, maybe she digs guys pushing seventy."
His boss pushes off the counter and walks over to the South wing. John's jaw drops, and Lena reaches over to manually hinge it shut.
ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ
3.
John Shen isn't superstitious. He doesn't believe in saying the Q-word or the S-word or any word bringing bad luck, no matter how hard Ellis slugs him in the shoulder for it. Full moon madness isn't real. And he definitely doesn't think deaths come in threes. Good things, maybe, but not death.
Mostly, he believes good things should happen to good people.
"Dr. Shen?"
"That's me." He looks up, chin lifting from the cup of his hand to see a woman standing there. A surgical nurse, by the scrubs, stands there with shoulders pulled back as she stretches her arms. Her ID tag glints when her chest arches up towards the lights. CONNIE JOAN HUNTER. Crazy, he thinks idly, to have a name comprised entirely of first names. "Can I help you?"
"Spider sent me down. Said you would want to know that Ms. Badriya is well and in recovery."
"Oh." He stands, suddenly feeling very impolite sitting when someone is talking to him. In the back of his mind, he hears his mother chiding him. "Well, thank you. You didn't have to come all this way."
"She insisted," the nurse says with a shrug. She doesn't look at all bothered. "She told us that it was your first day as an attending, so you get to hear about all the wins you don't normally hear. Congratulations."
"Wow, is it a party up in neurosurg or something?"
"Always is." The nurse taps the counter with her fingers rhythmically before moving to glide off towards the stairs. She barely drags her hands away before coming back to stand in front of Shen. "Hey, are you close with Spider?"
"Decent friends," he says, pausing awkwardly between sitting and standing. "Have been for a while."
"Like outside of work," she clarifies.
"Those questions are directed to Dr. Abbot," he says. "Why?"
"We already asked him. We want to celebrate." She adds it as if it's the most obvious thing in the world and his confused look is stupid. He straightens up again. "But we don't know what she'd like to do or get. If you have an idea, let any one of us know. We have, like, a group chat and everything, and we asked Abbot but he told us to ask Dr. Robby, and no one really wants to talk to Dr. Robby, so we're still in the middle of trying to convince Abbot to be a liaison." He frowns. Connie Joan Hunter slumps. "It's a whole thing."
John's still trying to wrap his head around the first half as he asks, "Celebrate? Did I miss a memo in the company emails or something?"
"You didn't hear?" At this, Conne Joan grows a little concerned. "Spider got her pick of fellowships next year. Neurotrauma at U-Dub, or UPMC, or Toronto. It's where she went for med school," she adds, although Shen somehow knows that. Fellow Canadian, and all that. "They're holding a spot."
"Can they do that?"
"Well," Connie Joan says, "I think they make exceptions for her."
She continues to prattle on about adding John to the group chat so that they can come up with some sort of celebration together. He opines that you wouldn't like a big party—even a simple gift would do—and ignores the strange, sinking sensation that floods him. An overwhelming wave of sadness, almost, if he gives it too much credence.
He clenches his jaw tight and tries to temper his thoughts on why you wouldn't tell him with other things, like genuinely, what gifts you'd like. How you'd react to a surprise party.
How much you hate it, how much you'd try to shimmy your way free from the room. Sure, you'll thank them all with a smile, but you'd try not to shrink in on yourself, attempt to sweep the entire thing under the rug with enough white lies to drown yourself in. Let's not make a big deal out of it. It's not like I'm dying. I'm really not worth all this. It's just U-dub. It's just U of T. It's just UPMC, and it's just neurosurgery. Anyone could do it—
A pager beeps. Connie Joan curses under her breath. She scurries out of the Pitt with a, "I'll text you!" and it's loud enough that Abbot frowns as he rounds the corner back from South.
"Were you hitting on her?" Appalled.
As petulant as a child who's lying but Shen really isn't lying: "No."
ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ
4.
Somewhere between the lapse of hellish exhaustion and the second wind at 5 AM, Shen treks up to crit care with a half a sandwich, a banana, and goal in mind. That is to say, to find you and figure out what this whole fellowship business is about. He prides himself on knowing the general comings and goings. He also wants to know if he's about to lose one of his friends to U-Dub of all places.
He'd rather you go back to your alma mater of Temerty, across the border if you didn't want to stay in Pittsburgh. At least he'd stop by the Falls to visit. He himself graduated just up the St. Lawrence from McGill, so it's not like it would be too far if he ever decided to swing up there. Support a friend. Toronto winters aren't so different.
He'd rather you just tell him straight that you're leaving instead of playing along with routine yearly check-ups and all that bullshit.
A young man sits at the nurse's station when John gets there. Hair limp and oily under the pale light, he leans back into the most unergonomic, cheap, shit black office chair the hospital could scrounge up, and stares up at the screens mounted on the pillar. One for scheduling, another for stats.
Spooning yogurt robotically into his mouth, he just watches. John would think he's a statue, if not for the steady lifting and sinking of his chest. The few others are writing or typing away, and it's quiet. All around him are other staff, sweeping in and out of rooms for their hourly neuro checks, the shout of a particularly cantankerous patient complaining loudly about his sleep being disturbed, and John's shoulders rise, tense just a bit, eyes darting.
"Sorry." The nurse swivels, spoon pulled over his bottom lip. The ID has been tossed onto the desk as John leans over on his knuckles. Carter. "Is Spider around?"
"Could try her office. It's on the neurology floor, though. Not here."
"She got pulled into surgery," another one intones, not even bothering to turn around from where she leans onto the desk by her elbows. The nurse pushes her face into her hands, dragging the skin up and down as if wiping away a memory. "Jordan wanted the lesions out and the tumour biopsied as soon as possible and she said she could squeeze it in tonight by… I don't know, magic?"
"What the fuck?" the male nurse mumbles, then remembers Shen. "Sorry, man. Guess she's in surgery. Might be a while."
"Everything okay?"
"She's poking around in our friend's head. Like, nursing school and shit." With a daggered look over his shoulder: "He told me he was doing it tomorrow."
The woman holds her hands out in the air, shrugging. "Don't shoot the messenger."
The nurse, back to John: "You see how it is."
"Yeah. It gonna take another two or three hours, I'm guessing?"
Carter nods apologetically. "Do you need a consult? She's got some R1s tonight. They'll page her directly."
Everyone here is so nice, he thinks distantly. He sweeps his gaze around him. Then he realizes that there must be endless compassion or endless apathy to work in a place that dealt so cleanly with life and death and the meaning between the two.
John doesn't want to say it's any harder than the Pitt, but he remembers when he did a neurology rotation during his intern year. He shadowed a stroke team for weeks, watching as they brought back pieces of a person's identity—their speech, or the capacity to understand it, parts of the body that would jolt and twitch, and then go still.
"Maybe there's a small mercy here," Dr. Mehta once said to him, lacking his usual sense of joy and joke that he had gotten used to. He must've caught John's expression when a patient arrived too late for treatment, and died right in front of them. He remembers feeling sick. It wasn't the first person who died in front of him, but probably the first one where the doctors stepped back, and let the patient pass peacefully. "Not just to our patient, but to his doctors who don't have to weigh at what point the quality of life justifies living."
"No," he remembers to say presently. "Just tell her if she's free to page me. I wanted to talk to her about… Lance Burns. Car accident guy from earlier." He forks over his extension and the banana as thanks, and a little recognition flickers over the nurse's face.
"We'll have a room for him ready eventually," the nurse says apologetically, taking the food offering. He pauses. "Wait, you're the new EM attending."
"That's the story."
"Sweet. Congrats."
"Yeah, thank me when I keep sending up the guys that won't shut up," John teases, clutching onto his sandwich tighter. "Say, do you have a bathroom I could use?"
By the time he comes out and walks back to the nurse's station to retrieve his sandwich that he left for safekeeping and sanitary reasons, a few new figures roam the hub. One in particular is peering over Carter's shoulder. Your arms are planted on your hips, scrub cap still on your head as you dictate orders to the residents behind you.
"And make sure she doesn't try to roll out of bed again. Check the output every hour. I don't want to explain to her son why her EVD got dislodged or some other nonsensical thing," you mutter, fingers pulling down your cheek. The two residents nod and scatter, and you redirect your attention to Carter. "Next scan, please. See, right there. I knew it. He needs new scans. The lesions are way more invasive than these showed." You slide your hand to cup your neck, and roll it out. "I'll have to consult with Dr. Cheung and Dr. Conley. The good news is the biopsy results will be in by the end of the week, the bad news is I can't give you definitive answers." Your face twitches. "I'm sorry I can't do more right now."
"It's not your fault," Carter says, eyes empty as he clicks repeatedly. His voice is tight, and the other nurse from earlier has a hand tight on his shoulder, knuckles blanch, fingers rigid and digging. It looks painful. Carter doesn't even flinch.
"You can be there for him," you suggest quietly, pulling off your scrub cap. "Tired advice, but it's hard to be a patient." At his approach, you look up, exhausted, but still forcing yourself to blink and peer at him with as much energy as you can. "Shen?"
"Hey."
"Is something wrong? Lance; did he decompensate?"
"I just wanted to ask you about something." A meaningful look. You nod sharply down the hall, excusing yourself with your exhaustion. He follows after you and hands over the sandwich. "Just in case," he adds as you lead him through the twist and turns of the floor. You gesture to an on-call room after a quick peek inside to assure no one was already in there before slipping in.
John locks the door behind him, turning around just as you sink onto the bed, rest your elbows on your knees, and pry open the plastic encasing the sandwich. He pulls the chair from the desk and seats himself, arms lined along the worn armrests.
"What is it?" Your eyes warm in the gentle glow of the lamplight, and you look up from beneath your brow as you eat, cheeks full. You wipe at your lip, lowering your face at his expression, and your eyes widen, ducking your head even more into your hand when you realize he's still staring. Shen can't help the slight smile, the way his face heats as he turns his head away, pressing his jaw into the heel of his hand. "Sorry. I'm eating like a pig. I haven't eaten since… Sorry, what time is it?"
"Half past four."
"Probably since eight or nine," you confess. "Sorry."
"You just apologized three times in the last two sentences."
"Ah. Yeah. Habit." You eat slower. John watches out of the corner of his eye and wonders what that could mean. "Right. What happened to Lance?"
"Nothing."
"You're being weird." Your eyes are shadowed, a slight frown weighing down on your lips in concern. "Did something happen?"
John winces. "No. No, it's not that." He leans forward too, steepling his fingers. Their heads are inches apart. You cock aside, your brow wrinkling delicately. "We're… we're friends, right?"
"I think I recall saying that earlier tonight. Is the late night getting to you?" You clear your throat. "Shit, this sandwich is good."
"I think the late night's getting to you," he comments, and the tone holds more of an edge than he wants. He tempers it with a quick, "It's from the cart in the Pitt. Marginally better than the cafeteria."
You stare at him, gaze searching. Although you keep your tone light, it doesn't refract an inch in your face. "The cafeteria could kill people." Tone measured, every movement calculated. "I think it's what keeps us in business."
"Tell Gloria that."
"Hm." You chew the rest of the sandwich, dust your hands into the plastic container before setting it on the table, snapped shut. It's such a carelessly tidy sort of action that has John's throat going dry. He rubs his palms together. "So?"
"So what?"
"You clearly have something to say to me."
"No."
"Shen."
"I'm sure it was some baseless rumour, but you should know that your staff have loud mouths. Like... it could be a security breach, and if you were the president—" he whistles— "game over."
"Do you want me to have a talk with them?" The corner of your lips twist, displeased and a bolt of guilt strikes through John. He shakes his head violently, hands shooting out in front of him. Pitching forward at the hips, his feet shuffle and make his legs wider apart. You flinch.
"No! No, no, no, it's not like... bad or anything." He draws back, scratching at his brow. "It sounds bad in hindsight. No, what I mean to say is that I heard you were returning back to humble roots but instead of an R7 it's to fellowship. Should I be hurt that I wasn't in on the newsletter?"
Your shoulders fall, and your lips part, a soft breath coming out in the quietest of sighs before you utter, "I don't know. The only reason people know is because they keep eavesdropping."
He smiles wryly. "Do you think that maybe they eavesdrop because you don't tell anyone anything?"
"People need to mind their business. They spread all these rumours about fellowships, and I don't even know if I'm accepted into some of them. I don't want to get my hopes up in case they retract their offers and decide with a better candidate. Either way," you continue brusquely before John can cut you off, "don't be like me. Just enjoy the attending life. Maybe that's the advice I've got for you."
"Then why?"
"Competition. Interest. I was lucky to get a job without doing a fellowship. I need to be better to keep it. And it's either this or being a neuroscientist."
"So you're going to move to Canada."
"I don't know yet," you tell him smoothly.
"You're leaning to one over the other."
"I'm letting myself weigh the options. Measure twice. Cut once." Your eyes knife to him, under your brow, a butterfly's touch. Hair has slipped from your tight hairdo, ending like a swaying rope by your mouth. Over the past four years, he's seen your face—a passing ghost between doors and curtains, hidden behind a computer screen, translucent through a printed scan. Underneath Abbot's arm when you're too still and half the room thinks you're a cadaver and he's trying to shake some life into you. Over Olive's shoulder. In the break room, the line of your shoulders sloping downward as you press your forehead to the wall, and there it is again: that distinct puncture wound Shen gets between the ribs urging him to reach out, to tell you that he's sorry and that he's here—
It vanishes like smoke.
"The whole point of the brain is to adapt and survive," you tell him as you reach up and pull the elastic out of your hair. It tumbles all around your face, a wave of eucalyptus fragrancing the air as you rub at your scalp. Your words are a hand on his arm, squeezing him assuredly. "And to remember. In neuro, we gauge the humanity of a surgery by what will remain after."
He doesn't know why that sticks with him. You press a hand on his shoulder before you go, tell him you'll see him later.
John turns to watch you go, a lone shadow flooded by a pillar of light.
ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ
5.
He doesn't see you again until his shift's over. Well, technically it ended fifty-seven minutes ago, but who was keeping count when he had charts to dictate and final discharges to go through?
You're talking to Langdon, which is a strange sight in itself, but the claws have been sheathed since March. Not gone completely, but the scratches glance off the skin rather than draw blood. You pass off an iPad, gesturing with your pinkie about levels and brain bleeds and shit he can't think of when he's tired off his ass from running everywhere.
But Langdon gets it. With every nod along to whatever medicine you're spewing, Shen wonders if the guy realizes he's staring more at the side of your face than at whatever you're talking about. He wouldn't be able to notice himself if he wasn't sitting at the hub right in front of the pair, double-checking to make sure his charts are fully uploaded.
"So, we hitting the diner?" he cut in cleanly when you pause in the midst of your conversation. You snap your jaw shut, pinning him with a look before muttering a dismissal to Langdon who hands back the iPad and disappears into the swirl of the Pitt without another word.
You turn to fully lean against the counter, setting down the iPad. "The diner?"
"Yeah."
"Don't really recall an invite."
"Well, consider this your invitation to the best congratulation dinnerfast in all of Pittsburgh. Who knows how much time I have left with you?"
"You mean how much you have to stick out before I'm out of your hair," you reply ruefully. "Besides, I have plans."
"What? A date?"
"No, of course not. Hey, give me your hand." Your fingers delicately steady his wrist as you slap something into his palm. "Come to the roof when you're done with your shift. Oh, and tell the DoorDash driver 2091 when he asks for the code."
He crumples up the twenty dollar bill in his hand, staring at it as if it were a baggie of paraphernalia. "What?"
"The DoorDash driver. That," you say, pointing at the money, "is his tip on top of the tip. Bring up the bags when he gets here."
"Why?"
The withering look you give him could've rotted a flower in the height of spring.
He's sure he's on the brink of asking another question you'd never call him stupid for when a nurse scrambles up to them, wide-eyed, flush-faced.
"Sorry!" she squeaks out, head swiveling from one doctor to the other. She seems to decide on you, fists clenched tight in front of her. "Ma'am, we need an attending in South 16 to oversee an intubation."
Without missing a beat: "Don't look at me. Talk to Shen."
The nurse firmly faces him with a determined nod. "Dr. Shen, we need you in South 16."
Shoving the money into his pocket, he shoots you a look. You smile innocently, and shrug your shoulders, head tilting towards the bed. "Yeah, yeah, I'm on my way."
ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ
1.
"Lemme know how much this was and I'll send back the money," John says around a mouthful of fries. You wave the notion away. They watch the sunrise as Piitsburgh begins to come to life under the growing sunlight reaching between the skyscrapers to brush along the filling roads and empty paved walkways.
"Are you sure?"
"Positive. My treat, remember?" Whilst rifling through the bag: "Hey, don't forget your double-bacon."
"You got burgers too?" You withdraw your hand as he takes it from you, peering into the bag. Within indeed is a waxy bag of onion rings, and a neatly folded and huge lump that no doubt promised a greasy burger with crispy bacon and melted cheese. His stomach yawns and shudders at the idea of it and he pats himself through his shirt. "I knew I was your favourite."
"Right…"
The summer heat does not yet bog down their clothes, and you sit aside John, legs sprawled against the concrete as you saw a piece of waffle apart in the takeout container in your lap. The man himself stands, chin tilted to the wind the way a dog sticks his head out to feel the breeze. The night's exhaustion wears on him, but he knows if he sinks to the floor, it'll take you and a handful of nurses to haul him to his feet again.
He looks down at his packet of fries—near empty now—and his fingers crunch the paper. Just another thing you wouldn't be around to do in a year's time.
"How was your first day as an attending?"
Truthfully, he answers with a glance to where you sit by his feet, "Better with you in it."
You open your mouth to retort, but John doesn't hear it. A strange grief has wrapped around his heart in the hours since he's left the on-call room. It's a hard wire, tighter than it might've been if you had just left without warning. Like he's expecting to one day turn around and you won't be there.
"Sorry, I'm about to be real fuckin' annoying."
"Look, Shen—"
"Did UPMC say yes?" he interrupts. "Or are you just expecting a no?" Your lips press together, a small knot between your eyebrows and he jerks his stare away, a hard lump congealing in his throat. "Kill a guy for wondering if his friend's leaving the state."
Your eyes settle somewhere along the curve of his jaw. "Yes. I mean, no, they didn't say yes, and yes, I am expecting a no. I also don't know if staying here is the right choice. I've been here since my internship. Maybe a change of pace would be good. Maybe Pittsburgh saying no would be a sign."
"A sign for what?"
"A sign to move on." You throw a hand listless in the air in some vague expression. "If I don't have the medicine, I don't have much. I need to be somewhere where I at least have that."
John's heart drops. "They'd be ridiculous to reject you," he murmurs to the wind. You must hear him anyway, because the feeling of your arm disturbing the fabric of his scrub pants as you cut your food ceases. Forcing himself to speak louder, he looks over at the Pittsburgh skyline. "Especially since they know about your publications, case records, your work ethic. The fact that you already live here."
"My weaknesses."
"Your strength," he counters with an incredulous look down. "Your achievements. You. Spider, don't you know? Anyone would be lucky to have you." Your eyebrows rise at the heat in his tone and he turns back to his fries, fighting the tingling heat in his ears. "Besides, we'd miss you."
"We'd?" you echo, quirking an eyebrow at him. He nudges you with his foot, a grin flickering onto his face like a neon light, buzzing and bright. "You flatter me."
"Yeah, yeah, eat it up." You huff a laugh. After a moment of consideration, he remedies it. "I would miss you."
"…thanks, John."
He watches the sun your face into a bust of burnished copper when it tilts up to smile at him.
✃ summary: ptmc's latest gossip piece: dr. langdon and the neurosurgeon. spoiler alert: he absolutely can NOT stand her. who even knows why?
✃ pairing: frank langdon x surgeon!f!reader, implied robby x surgeon!f!reader
✃ wc: 8.5k
✃ notes: my first pitt fic! not too sure if i should write more, but this is me going back to my roots 'cause one of my best known fics back in the ffn days was a grey's anatomy fic. regardless, i love my pittlings so i might write more? esp with reader and langdon bc they have a juicy dynamic... or even reader and robby! pls lmk!
✃ tags: langdon is a dick (i'm so serious), enemies(?)-to-it's-complicated, set pre-s1, medical inaccuracies (sorry!), angstier end, but mostly slice-of-life convo/banter!
special thanks to my lovely @rayveneyed for being my sounding board throughout all this madness!! xoxo love u
read on ao3 || series masterlist
eleven am
It's a widely known secret that Frank Langdon cannot stand you.
Understatement of the century, but Princess isn't one to judge.
Even though Ahmad runs a board every time there's an incoming trauma with a reported head injury, hidden in a corner so all the post-its are sorta piling on top of one another. Just in case. No one turns down a small bonus just for guessing whether or not the ED will explode when you and Langdon are put into the same room.
She's got five on fifteen minutes, patient care, she walks out.
It's just so unfortunate that Dr. Langdon can't get over the one neurosurgeon that'll zip down to the Pitt in five seconds flat if she gets called, but it makes for a great way to pass the time. Or that's what Perlah says after putting in ten with Ahmad: thirty minutes, snippy comment, Robby breaks it up.
Over the counter and pretending to charge the iPads in low, humming Tagalog: "And they'd look pretty together, if they weren't always at each other's throats."
"Maybe that's what makes them so pretty," Princess had answered. "It's spicy."
"And he's married."
"Right, can't forget that. Is she?"
"I dunno. Should we ask Dr. Robby?"
"If you're so curious."
But any other conversation dies as the doors to T2 are pushed open with a shove. The patient is already being wheeled to surgery right when Princess catches something an ischemic stroke turning hemorrhagic and a very pissed off neurosurgeon. There's a whisper of intercranial bleed and craniotomy as a flash of navy blue is followed by grey.
A cat and a mouse, constantly chasing one another.
She glances over her shoulder to catch the action.
"I can take it from here, Dr. Robby," you call, hands wrapped tight around the gurney rail. Down the hall, Mateo holds the waiting elevator open and Dr. Robby's planted himself at the head of the gurney, pushing with all his might as if that'll separate you from Dr. Langdon faster. Said Pretty Boy lingers by T2's doors, ripping off his gloves with a violent snap. "I would've preferred to avoid this."
"I know, Spider, I know."
But even Dr. Robby cannot pacify you. You twist at the waist, glaring at Dr. Langdon. "Keep a closer eye on your residents then so when they decide to administer t-PA for a patient with high blood pressure and a CT showing an aneurysm well on it's way to bursting—" the edges of your words are embittered and icy— "this doesn't happen again."
"It was, what, 7% chance? He had no blood flow—"
"—Do not worry, I will caution Dr. Langdon one more time about there being such a thing as too gung-ho."
Langdon looks more like a angry hound than the bright shining star as his head snaps to Robby. His eyes are wide and too bright under the pale lights, lips curled into an ugly snarl.
"You're welcome, by the way."
His voice carries across the hall, bouncing off tile and ceiling.
It's far too loud. Far too sharp. The sentence is strung all wrong, like a bone that hasn't set right and needs to be broken again. A silence plunges into the Pitt as Robby stops. He rubs his face into his hands, a muttered noise escaping through the crevices of his palms as his star pupil shoots his gloves into a waste bin and steps into line next to him.
"Now you can clear your schedule on Thursday."
You pull the rest of the gurney into the lift with Mateo's help, your eyes, clever and cold, fixed on him. "Do you want to take me out to dinner, Hasselhoff?"
"I'd rather be beheaded."
You step into the elevator. A faint smile pulls at your mouth. "Too bad I'm fully booked in OR 3 and blissful silence, otherwise you and I really would have a date with the guillotine."
"Oh, you'd be lucky to even get an invite anywhere."
Your smile flickers. "What do you mean?"
"If you need me to spell it out for you: You. Do not. Get any."
For a moment, Princess wonders if you're going to leap out and strangle Langdon or turn on your heel, but you surprise them all with a slight laugh. "You'd be surprised, Dr. Langdon."
The elevator doors slide shut. The oppressive quiet seems to swell, pushing down onto all of their shoulders. Princess barely thinks to breathe. Perlah, leaning against the desk, meets her eyes with wide, dark eyes and a slight shake of her head.
Then:
"Freaky." Dana smacks Langdon in the back of his head as she passes and he frowns, cradling his skull. "What? Something I said?"
"Langdon," she begins, shoving the iPad back into the rack, "have you ever learned the phrase 'I'm sorry'?"
"Vaguely recall 'em." He draws up a chair and plops down, reaching over for a glob of sanitizer. He rubs his palms together, flashing a smile. "Why?"
"'Cause it'd be good if you remembered how to use them," Dr. Robby says, leaning in beside him. He smiles, but not with his eyes. A warning if Princess has ever seen one, "before you run off our one-way ticket to a neurosurg consult."
For a moment, Dr. Langdon and Dr. Robby's gazes meet, searching and fighting and running. The air fizzles and burns.
Then, Pretty Boy bows his head, the Big Boss claps his shoulder. "Good man," he says. "Now, let's all get back to work." Langdon eventually gets up with a groan, muttering something about doing a round. He grabs an iPad from the rack, and offers a grim half-smile at Princess as he walks past, shoulders slouched and a boy's pout on his lips.
The thickness in the air begins to melt away. The rush of the ER comes back—the clacking of keys, the sound of wheels running over linoleum tile and the muffled coughing between curtains and squeaking beds—and the world keeps on spinning.
You'll come down again with the good snacks from upstairs for the nurses and another one stuffed in your backpocket for Dr. Robby.
And Dr. Langdon will cause a fuss, like he does. It shouldn't be any different, but for some reason, Princess feels weirder than normal going back to work after that blown fuse.
Dana crashes into a seat next to her, but her body's still stiff like a live wire is strung throughout her skeleton, her feet never quite leaving the floor, always planted in case she needs to dash. It's the Q-word in the ED, which means the charge nurse eyes the phone with a wariness and a thumb flicking over a pack of cigarettes, waiting for the shoe to drop.
"Fucking unbelievable," she mutters.
"I still stand by what I said last week," Perlah intones as Ahmad ducks into the office to read over the post-its. "We should get them both a shock collar."
"As much as I'd love that, I don't think Gloria would appreciate our doctors wearing collars on the clock." Dr. Robby slides along the counter until he's leaning over, head cocked towards the nurses and his voice lowering. "Do I even bother trying?"
Dana pulls on her glasses. "He's your puppy, not mine. Yank his leash a little. Throw 'im a bone. You don't have to make 'em get along. Just civil enough that a patient doesn't die."
"Or a patient doesn't complain." He buries his face into his palms. "Fuuuuuuuuck…"
"You could lock them in a room together," suggests Perlah.
"Nope. Will not be doing that."
Princess smiles sympathetically. She walks around the counter and pats Dr. Robby on the back. Her eyes catch something glinting in his back pocket. The trim of his hoodie lifted when he bent over, and it reveal the silver wrapper of a granola bar, untouched and a little bit smushed. "They just need to work it out."
His eyebrows knit together. "Work it out."
She nods. "Maybe you could promise a treat, so long as they play nice. You know, train them."
"Those two are not food-motivated," he answers. "Especially her. Trust me, I've tried everything."
"Well, we can't all roll over at the first sight of pizza."
Doc straightens up, frowning. "Wha—Hey, what's that supposed to mean?"
"Means you're not you when you're hangry," Dana says as Princess leaves. "And you better try somethin' before they start blowing shit up."
ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ
twenty-three minutes later
"I thought we would have to duck for cover," McKay jokes.
Mateo blinks. He doesn't know how long he's sat in the break room. His legs are partially jelly, the heels burning up to the Achilles and pulsing in a way that makes him grieve the remaining time he has left to sit down. Very quickly he is realizing doubles are not his speed, especially not in the Pitt. That, and he needs a new pair of shoes. He's pretty sure the sneakers he's got on right now are so run-down that he can feel every bit of the floor.
McKay fixes herself a cup of tea into a to-go cup, sweeping her fringe with her fingers and collapsing into the seat across from him. She smiles sympathetically. "First time seeing them fight?"
He pinches the bridge of his nose and groans. "Why are they like that?"
"I know right," McKay replies, and doesn't elaborate. She looks like she doesn't see the need to. A frown pulls at the corner of his mouth and when her big blues catch it, she sighs. "Look, it's just how it is. I'm not saying it's right, but they're not out to kill each other, and a patient's never said anything. I don't think anyone takes it that seriously."
"Has it always been like that?"
"Always?" she echoes thoughtfully. She thinks about it for a moment, her eyes squinting, lips pursing. "Hmm, yeah. No." A beat. A reconsideration. "I don't know, actually. Probably, since Robby's never done anything more than a light slap on the wrist to stop it. He gets tired when someone plays the same song twice on the radio. I can't imagine what those two do to him."
"Doesn't explain why Langdon hates her guts."
"Because Langdon is Langdon," she says as if that explains everything, "and Spider is Spider. They're like oil and water, y'know."
Mateo does not know. The bite of Dr. Langdon's words echo in his brain over and over, like a sort of memory that wakes you up in the middle of the night. He shudders at the idea of one day that vitriol turning on him. "It's a miracle," he says carefully, "that she keeps coming. Normally, surgeons are too good to slum it with us. And for Langdon to act out that way—"
"Oh, yeah. Heard it's like a personal favour for Dr. Robby." McKay shrugs. "They've known each other for a while, and from what I've gathered, she's not going anywhere. No matter how hard Langdon tries to run her off."
"Whatever his deal is."
McKay's voice twinges. "Two kids under five does that to you. I have enough trouble with Harrison alone."
"That isn't solely a Harrison problem." Mateo doesn't need to add the Chad and Chloe of it all. "He's a good kid. The rest is something you just deal with."
She laughs dryly, tugs on the string of her teabag with long, graceful fingers. "I suppose. Then Langdon'll just have to deal with all of it, too."
"And 'dealing with it' entails…?"
"A very harsh reminder from Dr. Robby," she replies, "or going until one of them runs out of steam. But between you and me—" and she leans over conspiratorially, voice low and raspy— "I think she likes the fight. I mean, how often does someone get to tell Langdon that he's wrong?"
Mateo's gaze shoots to McKay. His lips press into a thin line, eyebrows furrowing. "You're being a little too supportive of those guys," he murmurs. McKay draws back, capping her to-go cup with a small, self-satisfied smile.
"Trust me, ordinarily, I grin and bear a surgeon's big ego because it gets them out of our hair and back up to their little glass pedestals faster. But Robby likes her. It's good enough reason for me."
ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ
four-thirty-six pm
Kim chews on her nails. She tugs at her hangnails. Given the chance, she'll pick at her cuticles if all else has been depleted.
It's a fucking really bad habit, but one that makes her look busy when she looks down at iPads. Gives the impression that she's reading really hard.
Ugh, who's she kidding? It's terrible. She's a pretty confident person, or so she likes to say, so biting nails feels a little out of left field, and she can't help it. It's not the high-stress situations that do her in but the feeling of doing something that she shouldn't be doing that makes her fidgety.
But when she bites at her nail and has a screen in hand, it makes her just perfect at standing in places she probably shouldn't be in. Even better at eavesdropping juicy gossip she can pawn off to Princess and Perlah for a small boon of her choosing. A favour here, a snack break there. Knowledge is power.
Which is why she's here, standing. Lurking, mostly, with her juicebox while she can get away, and her thumb picking away at a hangnail she gnawed at. Her feet are glued to the floor, and she presses herself against stairwell.
Above her, two voices come louder and louder, their footsteps slapping as they skip steps with practiced ease.
"I'm just asking to talk." Langdon.
"We're talking right now." The neurosurgeon from earlier. "Unless you want to say something specific, Dr. Langdon."
"Don't be—"
"Don't be what?"
"You're genuinely insufferable. Do you know that? Like really, really know that?"
"My father drilled that into my head. Anything else?"
"Yeah, but someone's deciding to be a—" He cuts himself off and groans. "Nevermind. Just stop."
Your little laugh barely conceals the slight shocked noise that comes out of Kim. Because as far as she's concerned, Dr. Langdon's never taken back anything he's ever said. Never stopped. Never backtracked. Granted, she's worked here for a little less than a year, so she doesn't know everyone all that well yet, but it's sort of obvious.
"Stop what?" you ask.
"Stop being that."
"Being what?"
"Being you. For just a second."
"Don't be stupid."
Langdon's voice scorches. "I'm not being stupid. You're being a bitch."
The word makes the air swelter thickly and feeling more increasingly like she shouldn't be here.
Kim glances at the door back to the Pitt, and debates the odds of her being able to sneak there without them seeing.
The two doctors stop at the landing. Her fingers tighten on her juice box, and it squirts, dribbles all over her fingers. With a quick shift of her foot, Kim snuffs out the possibility of her splatter making noise, and she holds back a wince. Her splatter. Not the best turn of phrase, but nonetheless, she's getting distracted from the gossip at hand.
"Is that so?" you're in the middle of saying, flat as still water. Langdon hitches a breath, then he lets out a long exhale, a soft muttered 'fuck'.
"No, well, yes, but I just—I just wanted to say that I rushed. With Mr. Harland. I didn't want to say... the other stuff."
You let out a small 'huh'. A few seconds roll past. Four, to be exact. The soft squeak of a shoe shifting against the floor. "And is this supposed to be some sort of apology?"
"If you let it. Can you just give me a fucking second? Please."
"Okay. Fine." No answer. "Langdon, we both have patients. Can we speed it up?"
"Yeah, I'm finding it."
"If you have to find it, I'm not sure you're ready to say your big boy words. In fact, you drain the satisfaction out of getting an apology in the first place. That's nothing short of a miracle."
With a sharp squeak of a shoe turning, the fuzzy shape of your shadow grows sharp and clear as you descend the steps, and Kim presses herself tighter to the white plaster, inching side-face and closer towards the exit to the ambulance bay. The zipper of her jacket scratches against the plaster wall, and she jolts to a stop, pricking her ears and glancing fearfully over her shoulder.
But Langdon, hot on your heels, has swallowed Kim's presence with storming footsteps. "It's easier when the person I'm trying to talk to gives me the time of day."
"You would know better than most that our time is valuable."
"And surgeons are worth more, yeah, yeah. I've heard that spiel before."
You reach the bottom of the stairs and turn around, mouth opening to reply, but for a split second, your eyes snag on Kim's, and you immediately snap it shut. She bites back a panicked scream at the slightest twitch of your eyebrows and instantly vows off eavesdropping anyone ever again.
"Dr. Langdon," you say as you drag your gaze up towards the doctor still higher up on the steps, "I don't think we have much more to say to one another."
You don't wait for an answer.
Instead, you walk swiftly towards Kim, and grab her by the arm. Wrapping fingers around your wrist, she tries to form an apology but no words can slip out of her mouth. You drag her around the corner behind the stairwell, and outside to the ambulance bay. The autumn air hits her face, cold against her flushed neck and chest, and she presses her knuckles to her cheek. She didn't realize how much she'd been sweating until now. Gulping down some apple juice, she glances back between her toes and your side-profile.
You dig your hands into your pockets, searching for something, and, with a pounding heart and a red stamp that reads TERMINATED in her head, she spins around to face you.
"I'm sorry! I am so sorry," she bursts. "I didn't know, I mean, I was just drinking my juice and I wanted to get away from the chaos for just a minute—"
"Let's wait a few minutes out here," you interrupt calmly. You don't even look mad. Maybe a little amused, but mostly nothing. A sort of indifference that comes across a little uncanny as you pull out a box of gum.
You offer her a stick.
She takes it carefully and squish the tiny little beast called fear that had been growing at an alarming rate inside her chest. The apple juice is gone by the time she's undoing the wrapper of gum and popping it into her mouth. The mint crawls up her nose, and makes her feel like she's actually breathing properly for the first time since she's clocked in.
"You probably shouldn't do that again," you say out of nowhere, pivoting towards her. Kim nearly jumps, her head snapping to you.
But you're not looking at her. You're looking back over your shoulder, at the doors that have clicked shut and there's a harsh line in your brow, a tiny squint to your eyes.
When you speak, it doesn't sound like those are the words you really want to say. "Dr. Langdon's not… he, ah, whatever he said, he won't appreciate that being spread around."
"It wasn't on purpose," Kim says guiltily.
"If you want something to bring back to Princess and Perlah," you continue, "just tell them that I've seen Dr. Robby naked or something."
No. Fucking. Way. She gawks. "Wait, is that true?"
You shrug. "Maybe."
ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ
and right after…
Donnie knows who's approaching him way before he turns around. Call him a bit of a genius, but the comings and going of the Pitt have become sort of his business. Whether it's the footsteps of a new RN trying to get a good footing, or the hurried skips of an intern, Donnie has heard it all.
Which is why he takes a deep breath, sends a quick prayer to Jesus for patience, and another to Mary for kindness, before Langdon speaks. He woke up late, didn't have a chance to shower, and has had vomit on his new shoes. Donnie's a saint, but even he runs short on patience.
"Do we have an update on Mr. Harland? Saw…" Donnie notes in the corner of his eye the way Langdon clenches his jaw. "…Spider down here just now."
Without looking up from the monitor where he puts in orders for Mrs. Gillian (food poisoning mixed with anaphalyxis is not something he wishes on his worst enemy), he snorts. "And World War Three didn't start?"
"We stayed out of each other's way."
Sure. If Kim's pale white face after slinking from the ambulance bay is anything to go by, 'staying out of the way' translates to minor casualties, but Donnie doesn't mention that, clicking enter and logging out. He tells Ms. Gillian to stay put until she feels better, and that he'll be back to check on her before walking to the next patient. Langdon trails after him.
"Mr. Harland got moved to the neuro ICU," he reveals at length. The doc runs a hand through his hair, but it only makes it fall back over his face in a super 90s hearthrob way. Talk about pissing him off. He shrugs and looks at him. "It's all I got. I don't know anything else."
"She didn't say anything about a prognosis?" Langdon prods.
"No, man, but if you wanna know so bad, you could ask her."
"Why would that ever be a good idea?"
"I don't know, but you're barking up the wrong tree. He's not my patient." And because Langdon's got the wide guilty eyes of a kid that dropped his lollipop, Donnie adds quietly, "Look, I can tell her to forward the results to you, or something. She's not gonna get pissed because you care."
"No, don't," Langdon blurts out. "She'll find a way to needle me about it, and…" Scrambling for words, he gestures with his hands. "I don't want her to… Agh, fuck, Donnie, just don't let her know. Please. I don't want to add more to her plate."
He can't resist saying, "More than what you've already given her?" Langdon shoots him a look. Donnie shrugs again. "Look, man, I like her. And I like you, too, so I'll do you this favour once. After that, you go straight to her for what you want. Okay?"
A quick nod. Langdon lets out a long, long breath, and squeezes Donnie's shoulder. "You're a good guy."
"Better than you."
The smile that appears on the doc's face is all that of dry humour. "On that, we can agree."
Truth be told, Donnie doesn't think about that conversation for the rest of his shift. An hour and a handful of minutes later, as the night shift begins to pour in, his glances at his watch grow more and more frequent. He signs half a dozen discharges, writes down notes, and overall just imagines coming home to his wife and a pint of icecream. The buzz has died down, chairs growing into a more containable mess, but never ending.
Never. Ending.
As he returns to the main hub from South, his eyes catch on T2. Within, two familiar figures are locked deep in a conversation—Robby and Langdon; the former stoic and gesturing emphatically with his hands, the other bouncing on the balls of his feet and scrubbing at his face in frustration. Tense and shifting, the man looks half-ready to bolt as he glances out the window. The only thing stopping him is Robby grabbing Langdon's bicep to make him focus.
"Poor Langdon," someone mumbles, a waif of a figure that brushes past Donnie. Craning his head, he recognizes the shape of your back as you pause on your way out to the ambulance bay, a hoodie pulled over your form. Hands shoved into the pocket, your gaze lingers on the window. "What's that for?"
"Probably defending your honour," Perlah replies as she hits the extension for labs. You frown, head jerking back minutely as if offended, and your expression, always neutral, always guarded, seems to flicker a little when you blink.
It's then that Donnie remembers his promise. "Hey, is there any update on Mr. Harland?"
When you turn to Donnie, the mask slides back into place as if it had never shifted at all. "Uh, yeah. Made it through surgery, still checking for neural deficits. We won't know more until he wakes up. Why?"
"Just wondering. Caused a bit of a stir this morning. Thanks."
"Yeah... no worries." There's a tiny twitch to your brow, your eyebrows knitting together as you scan Donnie from head to toe. Then, you add, "By the way, if Robby asks, I'm outside."
"Y'got it."
"Thanks, Donnie."
You continue on your way out, a gusty autumn wind sweeping through the ED when the doors whirr open and shut. Shaking his head, he turns back to his clipboard and his iPad. More signatures. More orders to pass on to the night shift. The calmness of the ED, a warm buzzing feeling that settles deep into his lungs, reminds him of work again tomorrow. He just hopes that he'll be able to get the smell of vomit off his shoes.
"What are those two jokers doing?"
When Donnie looks back to T2, he finds two pairs of eyes fixed in his direction, or more specifically, towards the sliding ambulance bay doors. Lena, seated in the office chair before him, arches an eyebrow at him, but Donnie doesn't have the energy to give any sort of explanation.
"Spider," is all he manages.
Lena nods sagely. "It always is."
"You're here early," he adds.
"Just to give Dana time to smoke," she promises.
ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ
five-fifty pm
"Got room for another?" Dana lifts the cig from her mouth at the sound of your voice. Dark craters for eyebags have landed beneath your eyes, but you don't look worse for wear as you peek around the corner. "Just needed some air."
She scooches over on the ledge she'd been perched on, and you sidle in next to her, pulling out your own box of Luckies. Your movements are slow, sure, but you run your finger along the side of the wrapping like you're contemplating actually smoking it.
Then, you pinch it between your lips and cup the end. The sizzle of the lighter fills their silence.
Dana breaks it. "You okay?"
"Hm, why wouldn't I be?" You take one long drag before glancing over. "Oh, with Langdon this morning? That's how we usually are. You know that."
"Yeah, I know, but you seem a little down. Not every day I get company on my smoke breaks."
"I can go smoke on the other side of the bay if you want," you say, a wry smile twisting your lips. "But I'm not gonna stop."
"I'm no hypocrite," is all she replies.
They smoke for a while in quiet. The wind is nice, but it stirs leaves up and over the pavement, the scraping hiss accompanying the soft cough that comes and goes with smoking. You somehow finish your cigarette before Dana, and are already on your way to lighting up a second one when she nudges you in the side.
"Are you sure you're okay?"
You look down at your unlit cigarette and laugh. "Sorry. It's gross, isn't it?"
"Only if you're hitting three."
"No, I… no." You finger the cigarette, then look at Dana, and make a judgement call. As you tuck the Lucky back into its box: "Fine. I'll stop. But you stop after yours."
"I only smoke one at a time, ma'am."
"What's that about keeping each other accountable?"
"Never heard of it."
This time, your laugh comes out sharper. You lean back into the pillar, kicking up your feet onto the ledge, and watch Dana or somewhere past her at the wall, but she doesn't care. Your stare wanders, like a weightless thing. Never quite tethered. She can't imagine what it's like in your brain. Bad enough that you see inside others and have to dig through all that grey matter to make sense of it all. Could be worse if you had to be inside your own head all the time.
Dana's of the belief that most, if not all, neurosurgeons are a sort of freak. To hold the one thing that makes everyone someone and stab into it, to dig through and be careful enough not to mess with it—to deal with the consequences when you do. Few things are worse than dying.
She doesn't shudder easily, but if she was the type of person to, her whole body would be shivering just sitting next to you.
"D'you think Langdon's actually good to go back to work?" you ask thoughtfully, suddenly. Dana's gaze could've cut air with how fast it darts to you. You're looking at the road now. It's dark, and the asphalt's grown shiny in the way that makes the streetlights smudge. The only light is the one behind them, but it eases the lines in your face. Makes you younger.
Reminds Dana, idly, of when you first came to PTMC, however many years ago.
"Sure. PM&R cleared him."
"Yes. I suppose." You fidget with the drawstrings of your hoodie. "But eleven weeks is not enough. A sprained back, sure. But it's not enough for what he went through. Langdon's good, maybe the best, but he's not invincible."
"No G.I. Joe."
"No Superman," you agree dourly.
Dana takes in your expression. It's a strange mix of frustration and something else. Your fists are clenched tight in your lap, your thumbs rubbing the sides of your hands as if you're trying to pry something sticky off. "You think they cleared him early?"
"I think doctors make the worst patients and that he's fucking stupid." Dana accedes to that with a duck of her head. "I don't… I don't hate him, you know."
"'s okay if you do. He rubs people the wrong way." You shoot her a look. "Hey, just because I work with him doesn't mean I sing his praises. Especially since he's come back. He's testy. Can't stand up for too long."
"You noticed that, too? I thought I imagined it earlier, but he's slower. More uncertain." You tuck your knees to your chest. "He's going to hate that more than anything."
"What?"
"Feeling incompetent." Arms draped around your shins, you look away. "Like he's in the way, or not good enough. It'll make him shake with how frustrated he'll get, and then it'll cloud his mind. Pain makes you sluggish. It distracts you."
"You know a lot about that, huh."
Your eyes dart to hers for a moment. There's a hard read if she's ever seen one. "Maybe too much."
The doors slide open and shut as a figure clears the corner, and you turn your head up, the storm clouds parting immediately once you recognize who it is. The change is immediate, and it strikes Dana suddenly that she doesn't know much about a doctor she's seen on the regular for eight years, give or take.
Only that you're quick on your feet, love a smoke.
"Hey, how was your, uh… craniotomy patient?"
"Harland? Fine. A simple craniotomy isn't out of my realm of expertise." Your smile is sly and small as Robby leans in on the pillar behind you. "Want a smoke?"
Dana rolls her eyes when he laughs, declining.
And her boss flails at flirting with you. It's hard to keep track with where you stand with Robinavitch. Some days, you look as if you hardly care whether he lives or dies. And other days, you stare as if he hangs the heavens.
But Dana has no stomach for those uncertainties tonight. "If you're gonna flirt, do it outta my sight. You're ruining one of the few safe havens I have left."
Robby shrugs. "I just wanted to talk."
"It's never 'just to talk' with you," you reply, giving Dana a look. Either way, you hop off the ledge and let Robby lead you a few paces away. Dana watches from her spot, feeling the cold, steady press of stone against her thighs and the hot thick cloud in her lungs.
The two of you walk far away enough that no one really hears if they're rushing in and out, which most people are, but Dana's standing still and the night is quieter than usual. Voices might as well bounce back right at her.
"Do you wanna explain what's going on with Langdon?"
"I've… got nothing." Your eyes flicker up from the asphalt, to Dana, and then to Robby again. "We just don't get along."
"That's sort of impossible. You get along with everyone."
"Just not Langdon," you say, shrugging, but there's a pang there. One that's confused, and a little hurt, and you stuff it down stubbornly if the set in your jaw is anything to go by. "I don't know. He hates me, and he likes seeing me mad?"
"Yeah, but that doesn't mean he should be digging into you."
"It's just personal. As long as he doesn't do anything professionally, I don't care and… Robby. Don't give me that look. We agreed. No pity eyes."
"I don't have pity eyes." Robby's hand twitches up, fingers stretched out to touch you before he forces it up to rub at the back of his neck. You watch him, eyes narrowed, and then smack him in the elbow. He drops his hand. Dana snorts into her shoulder instead of laughing straight in his face. Just to be polite.
"What is wrong with you?"
"Uh, caffeine withdrawal."
"Right. Well, if you're here to ask me to play nice with Langdon in the name of patient satisfaction scores—"
"You know it's not that—"
"Not just that."
"—I need my team to work as a team."
"And I'm not part of your team."
"Honorary member," he proposes.
A beat.
"You just don't want to lose your neurosurg consult."
Robby's head swivels around like he's trying to make sure no one eavesdrop his secret before he mutters around a smile and a hapless shrug, "And I like seeing you at work."
Despite staring at the end of her cig, Dana knows you're smiling around your words. "Still haven't given that up, huh, Robinavitch?"
"Neither have you." A shoe scuffs against asphalt. "What will it take for you to tolerate him?"
"Tolerate's a strong word," you reply but by the reluctance laced through your words, you're already giving in. "He dishes out, I can't help but serve back."
"I know. I've talked to him about it, too." He steps closer. You don't stop him. Dana hides her scoff around another puff. These fucking kids. "What about dinner?"
"What, like a date?"
"Eh, could be."
You huff. "Smooth, but I'm on call for the next few days. I'm crashing when I can."
"Is that the only reason you're saying no?"
"This was a great talk, Dr. Robby."
Dana finishes her cigarette and looks down to make sure no ash got on her clothes as she gets up. She smacks at her legs, dusting her backside off and giving herself a shake, chasing the chill that's wrapped around her old bones out.
Robby's already walking back over towards the doors when she looks back up, some self-satisfied smug etched into his mug.
Dana meets you in the midst of trailing after him.
They both eye the attending in front of them, Dana's arm slung lazily around your shoulders. "Sayin' no takes a lotta willpower."
You nudge her back with your elbow. "I am never going out on a date with that man."
ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ
seven-twelve pm
Frank finds you in the hospital lot, on the other end of PTMC. The side of the bourgeoisie, as Collins likes to call it, as it's directly in front of the ivory tower of the esteemed Gloria Underwood, and the lot that's generally more empty because no one wants to staff the buildings—though, that might be more of Robby talking.
Still, that means he's able to snag a pretty good parking spot close to the ED, which saves him a couple of steps when his back keeps tweaking with that fucking pain that's been dogging at him all day. He can't think of anything other than something warm to eat and the feeling of his meds down his gullet. Maybe that's why his hands are so shaky as he fumbles for his car keys, backpack tight in his grip. Stopping beneath a street light, he squints, wrestling what he needs free from all the other shit he's got inside his bag before looking up with a relieved sigh.
Stepping off the curve, he wonders what Abby's made for dinner. Soup, or curry. She's been trying Asian cuisine lately, just to pass the time...
A slight figure catches the corner of his eye.
You sit on a bench parked right by a trashbin and just outside of a circle of lamplight, a cigarette half-finished and pinched between your lips.
And because he can't help himself, Frank calls out, "Don't you know those things kill you?"
"Had to go somewhere Dana wouldn't kill me first," comes your reply, and when you don't rip his head off or make a move to escape him, his feet take that as a sign to approach. You don't offer a cigarette to him. He supposes they've not yet reached such desperate times, and Frank's not sure he would've taken it in the first place. "Did you want something?"
"Uhhh, nope. I was heading home after this shit day." He hauls his bag onto his shoulder and shrugs. Your gaze flickers to him for a moment before cutting away. "Small mercies, and all that."
"Good for you." Your fingers brush over the buttons of your Spectralink, but it's not fidgeting. Langdon's realized quite quickly that you're not someone who fidgets. You simply find something for your hands to do, and that's decidedly different.
Or maybe it's just you don't fidget around him because he doesn't make you nervous, and that sort of peeves him. It roughens his voice when he, against his better judgement, asks, "You good?"
The cigarette is flicked into the trashcan. "Yeah. Long day." He nods. You kick your feet out, flexing your sneakers before letting them drop back down, heels scratching against the pavement. "I'll have to round with the night shift in the neuro ICU in…" A quick glance at your watch. "Fifteen minutes. I'd prefer to spend that time in silence."
Frank nods. "Right." He turns to walk to his car, his knuckles blanching and a crushing in his chest before he's spinning back around again. You arch an eyebrow at him.
"Mr. Harland's in the neuro ICU," he says. "Donnie told me you told him that he wasn't awake yet."
You eye him warily. "So what?"
"What's the prognosis?" Did I fuck it up? Do you hate me? Will he be okay?
"The same as I told him. Still tubed, and asleep. We still have to do tests and see if there's any neurological deficits."
"You don't sound hopeful."
"I don't get hopeful. It's not conducive to a healthy mindset to constantly be disappointed. But I do think we'll be able to wean him off vent." You shrug. "You would understand. Just living is the baseline. Anything else is more than we could want."
"Some would argue that's not much better than dying."
"What? Living?"
"Like that. Having those bare necessities and even that being forced on you," he corrects. "Staying afloat, but not exactly sailing. There's just no agency." He glances at the bench, then points because the stabbing in his back is a bigger problem than his pride. "Can I sit?"
You nod. They sit a respectable distance apart, each one leaning against the metal armrests. Frank puts his backpack down between them too, just for another barrier in case it really does come to blows. But it never does. Not really.
The silence that falls upon them is a fragile thing. The sharp prickling in his back and legs barely resolves as he shifts uncomfortably, and, between you and the dark lot, he cannot decide which he'd rather stare at. You're watching him, too, head angled just enough for their eyes to meet fully. A section of hair falls by your ear. He chews on his cheek, and holds his backpack tight against himself.
"Sometimes, you have to be okay moving without control," you tell him after a while. His eyebrows shoot up. "It's frightening, but it's too exhausting to think you can command every aspect of every thing, even if that means yourself. You just sort of hope that eventually the leaks in your ship patch up and you reach calmer waters. And sometimes that doesn't happen for a long time. With nerves and brainmatter, it takes its time to heal, and in that time, you have to accept and come up with a plan on what you'll do if it decides not to."
"Yeah?"
"Mhm." You pick off a piece of stray lint clinging to your woollen coat. "You okay?"
"Didn't I just ask you that?"
You snort. "I'm a bit of a pain specialist, if you've forgotten. Your back is bothering you, and it's still getting to your legs. L4 and L5, if I had to guess." At his look: "It's most common for herniated discs. Not engaging the core properly when you lift, pulling beyond your weight. Both probably true for you because I know you, Langdon: if you can move it faster the wrong way, you won't bother with the right way."
Frank nods despite himself, hot barbs of shame latching onto his neck and laying like a snake down his spine. "I was helping my parents move."
You, at least, have the decency not to sound smug. "Yeah, and now?"
"Now? Now, it hurts like a bitch."
"I'm not surprised. Are you still on anything?"
"Dr. Hagan prescribed pregabalin. Robaxin."
"But if you're cleared, you're supposed to be tapering off."
"I know that," he mutters harshly. "I will. I just… need a little longer since the pain's lasting longer than it should."
"Normally a sign that you need to rest more," you reply. "Or that you're addicted."
"I'm not addicted." His words are serrated and spiteful, his head snapping to dig a hole into the side of your head. You turn slowly to meet his stare, blinking like he's a petulant child.
"Okay." You're so calm it pisses Frank off. Like you could've predicted he'd burst out. "I'm just saying dependency can happen easier than you think."
"I'd recognize the signs. I'm a doctor."
"And even doctors need to rest. The Pitt's not going to collapse if you leave it for a few more days. Everyone should take a few days off."
He scoffs, raking up and down your body. Scheduled hand off, yet you're still in your scrubs, your hair still pulled into a tight bun as if you're prepared to go back into an OR at a moment's notice. Your Spectralink in hand.
A sneer works its way onto his mouth. A workaholic cautioning a workaholic, pot calling the kettle black.
"Yeah, well, trust me, I don't get much rest at home with the kids and all," he continues acerbically. He watches your face closely, searching for a flicker, a crack, anything he can wedge himself into to split apart your stony mask. "They still ask for piggy back rides, and I just can't say no. That's the joy of kids, and family. They keep me young, don't let me feel so alone."
"That's nice."
Your mouth doesn't so much as quaver.
It only stokes the mounting heat inside him. "And I always insist to Abby that I should be the one taking care of groceries and all since she's doing all the housework. 'Course she tells me I'm doing too much."
"You should listen to her," you murmur. "You're a candle burning at both ends. And we delude ourselves more than you think." The fringes of your voice come jagged and raw, then. When you let out a soft breath, shoulders falling, facing frontward again, Langdon feels like there's a part of you he, of all people, shouldn't be seeing. "But even being aware of that is not enough to stop the habit. We think we know everything. We think we can push our limits because we know what the human body can and can't handle, but we truly don't."
A lick of fire rises, blackening his heart. "Don't tell me what I can and can't do," he murmurs, a shark sensing blood in the water. "I've got it under control."
"I'm not saying you don't. I'm just suggesting you go slower for just a second." There's a softness in you that makes his heart pound. Blood roars in his ears as you place a hand down on the space between them, lean forward. He squeezes his eyes shut. It's meticulously hidden but theres a knife's edge somewhere inside you. He just can't decipher where you want him to get cut on. "One moment, before you spiral out of control and the next thing you know, you're not just hurting yourself, you're hurting the people around you. It's not a crime to stop."
"It is when people need me," he spits, bright eyes flashing in the darkness. You have the gall not to flinch.
"Langdon—"
"My kids need me, my wife needs me. Which is more than I can say for you. Who the fuck needs you? You go home to your empty house and you can't stand it which is why you're always at work, so why don't you back the fuck off and stop trying to pretend to understand?"
His ears ring in the silence that descends upon them. Nothing but a high-pitched squeal just out of his grasp keeps pinging as he ravages your face for any glimpse of care. Any ounce that you even heard him. You stare at him in that way you always do—like you don't care about him; like there's a million other things you could be doing.
But if that were true, why do you keep talking to him anyway?
"Did that make you feel good about yourself?"
The first breath he takes in is cold enough to shock, and he flinches back. He doesn't know when he started leaning forward, his hand gripping the metal back of the bench so hard his skin has turned white. Blinking, he draws back, tucking his chin in and staring down at his lap. His backpack has fallen to the wayside, as you take a deep breath yourself, shoulders rising and falling evenly.
"You're not the first angry man who's ever raised his voice at me. And I've always wondered why that is. Maybe I've got the face for it. Or maybe because I'm an easy target." Your voice is tempered and quiet as you bundle your jacket closed down your front. "Maybe because it makes them feel strong, to scream at someone weak. So, does yelling at me make you feel good?"
Your name slips out between his teeth before he can stop it, and a light flickers in your eyes. He clenches his fists tight in his lap. If he focused, he'd hear the rapid thud of his heart, the trembling breath rattling against his ribs.
Your eyes glitter in the faint lamplight, lips a soft line, hair falling into your face from a long day. A longer day made by his mistake. Made horrible by his words.
His hands dig tight into his knees. There's a grocery list he needs to fulfill, and a tank of gas he needs to top up, and he needs to tuck his kids into bed at eight, which is a deadline he can still make if he leaves now, while the space between them has fractured, a chasm carved deep into the air too great to mend. It wouldn't matter, he knows, whether or not he tried to fix it.
But that doesn't mean he can't try. Part of being in EM is about trying, being a stubborn pain in the ass who sees insurmountable odds and straps on a pair of gloves. Gets to work. Day after day for a thankless task.
And it will be. Because you're too good to put whatever they have in the way of patient care. You're too good for Frank, and the taste of the dust you leave in your wake has been bitter ever since he's met you.
"Frank?" you prompt softly.
The sound of his name rouses him. It falls from your lips like a whisper, a word you can't retract. You swallow, and he meets your stare, shaking his head. "No," he utters at last. "No, it doesn't."
"Okay, then. I'll watch Mr. Harland tonight," you tell him quietly. It sounds more like a dismissal than anything, "and you just go home."
"Spider, I—" The words catch in his throat as you get up. With a cocked head, you stare down at him patiently. Always patiently. He works the muscle in his jaw, a thousand things he wants to say and none of them he can bring himself to. "Try to get some sleep. Alright?"
The corners of your eyes crinkle when you smile. "Get home safe, Dr. Langdon."
He makes it home at 8:12, with no groceries and a limp. Abby's torn between ushering him to bed after seeing how he drags himself through the door and getting pissed that he missed dinner and forgot groceries.
But she relents once he's eaten and once he's showered and the meds have been swallowed down. He gives his kids their goodnight kisses, careful not to wake them up, before heading back into the bedroom and preparing himself for what he hopes will be the sleep that fixes him. As the mattress welcomes him, with his phone charging on his bedside, and Abby singing in the shower, he hears something buzz.
A text from Abbot.
9:32 PM
ABBOT:
A Mr. Harland fresh from a craniotomy is awake and responsive. GCS 11.
Spider wanted to tell you that. Said you were his doc when he came in?
LANGDON:
yeah.
thanks.
His fingers hover over the keys. A draft of a message (tell her that i'm sorry—) is put in and he stares at his screen until his vision goes blurry. He sees you, expression open and honest, voice ebbing with compassion and gentleness and your hand. You had reached out to him just for him to—
He tosses his phone onto the nightstand and buries his nose into his cupped hands.
Frank's only good at making a bad situation worse lately.
warm welcome home - john shen x fem!reader
warnings: pre-established relationship, unprotected penetrative sex
“Baby, scoot over.”
John’s voice came out rough with exhaustion, softened by the little smile tugging at his mouth. Fresh from the shower, his hair was still damp at the ends, curling slightly against his forehead. The faint scent of soap and hospital antiseptic still clung to him beneath the clean cotton of his dark pajama shirt. You only hummed in response, half-asleep beneath the blankets.
John chuckled quietly when you shifted exactly one inch toward the edge of the bed, lifting your arm lazily like that was somehow enough room for a grown man.
“Oh, wow. Thank you for your generosity.”
You cracked one eye open at his teasing before letting out a dramatic, inconvenienced sigh. Slowly, you rolled onto your side, making a bigger space for him while keeping your eyes closed the entire time.
“There,” you mumbled. “Happy now?”
“Ecstatic.”
The mattress dipped as he finally climbed into bed. The second he settled beside you, your body moved automatically toward him, like muscle memory. You draped yourself over him immediately, knees settling on either side of his hips while your chest pressed flush against his.
John let out a tired laugh through his nose, arms wrapping around you on instinct.
“Miss me?” he murmured.
He pressed a kiss to your forehead, lingering there for a second longer than usual. Overnight shifts always left him feeling wrung out between the twelve hours of fluorescent lights, rushed footsteps, too much caffeine, and not enough rest. But this… this was the first moment all night his body actually started relaxing.
You nodded against him immediately. “So much, baby.”
His hands moved slowly over you, absent-minded and affectionate. One hand slipped down to intertwine with yours, thumb brushing repeatedly over your knuckles. The other settled low on your back beneath your shirt, tracing the familiar dip of your spine with gentle fingers. He felt your whole body soften against him.
“Long night?” you whispered.
John sighed softly. “You have no idea.”
“M’sorry.”
“Don’t be.” His voice dropped quieter. “This helps.”
You melted a little more at that, face buried into the warmth of his neck. His skin was warm from the shower, his pajama shirt soft beneath your cheek. You could hear his heartbeat slowing steadily under you.
For a while neither of you spoke. Then your hips shifted against his carefully, hesitant but needy all at once.
“Please?” you whimpered softly. “I tried before bed, but it didn’t work.”
John’s hand paused against your back for a second.
“Yeah?” he asked, voice lower now.
You nodded against him. “Just want you. Just like this.”
John shifted, pulling your sleep shorts to the side carefully. You whimpered when he ran a finger through your folds, hot and slick already.
“You musta really tried, huh?” He murmured, dipping a finger into you achingly slow. He traced each ridge of your gummy walls, drawing a mewl from your lips.
You whined at the intrusion, hips bucking on their own accord. “Yes.”
John kissed your temple. His hand slid up into your hair, scratching lightly at your scalp until he felt you melt further into him with a tiny sound. He slowly pulled his hand away to push his pajama pants down. You sighed when he slotted his cock between your lips, bucking his hips enough to gather your slick over the tip.
“Don’t tease,” you whispered against his neck.
John kissed your cheek. “On your back or here?”
“Don’t wanna move.”
He laughed again. “Alright. Lift your hips,” he mumbled, pushing your sleep shorts down over your thighs. You scrambled to kick them off quickly. You ran your pussy over his length, teasing your clip with the ridge of his tip.
“Now you’re teasing,” he chuckled, reaching down to notch himself at your entrance. He groaned when you sank onto him with no warning. “Oh, shit.”
You whimpered against his neck again at the stretch. His fingers dug into the flesh on your ass, spreading you open to accommodate his hips. He groaned against your shoulder, pushing your hips down.
“Fuck me,” you pleaded. “Hard.”
John planted both feet against the mattress, rocking his hips slowly. Each thrust punched a little squeak from your throat, aimed perfectly at every single spot that sent shivers up your spine.
“John,” you moaned as your fingertips dug into his shoulders. You meet each of his thrusts, bucking your hips in time with him.
He grunted in response, picking up his pace without hesitation. His greedy hands are grabbing at your ass now, guiding your movements, pulling you down harder onto him with each roll of your hips.
“I love when you do this,” you panted.
“Like when I take care of you?” He whimpered, slowing his pace.
You nodded into his shoulder. “Oh, fuck, John.”
“Like when I come home and fuck you to sleep?”
Your face flushed, but you can't deny it. You can feel how wet you are, hear it, you’d probably even be able to see the evidence of your arousal coating the hair at the base of his length. Each press of his hands against you brings you closer and closer to the edge.
“Slow,” you gasp, “I want to cum together.”
John kisses your temple, his words muffled against your hairline. “We will, I promise.”
The sounds of your pussy squelching around him makes you clench, making the lewd noise impossibly louder. You whine again, getting higher and higher. One of John’s hands slides back into your hair, tugging you to kiss him. You moan against his lips, unable to hold back. You try to pull away to warn him, but he moans against you again, lips working against yours to muffle the moan.
You pulse around him in time with your heartbeat until you can’t breathe, pulling yourself away. John cums with another drawn out groan, bucking his hips into you and using his one hand to keep your hips straight. You collapse on him, wrapping your arms around him as best you can, breathing heavily against his skin. John runs his hands over your skin slowly, calming himself down and chancing his breath until he tilts to get a better look at you.
“Better?” He teased. “Will you be able to sleep now?”
You nod shyly before getting ready to move to shift off of him. Instead, John keeps his arms around you. “This part’ll help me sleep.”
I really like when people write older readers in x reader, idk why
"Big age gap" "college student reader" "19/50" fuck that porno shit, man, give me a reader who's in their thirties, forties even, give me joint pain and wrinkles and gray hairs
"But that's not relatable at all!!! I'm not forty!!!" Well, neither are you a fucking Avenger, are you? So just roll with it
lend a hand, pt. 2 - john shen x reader
warnings: mild descriptions of injuries (cuts and blood), stitches, miscommunication, avoidance, talks of sex, nosy ahh jack abbot, smut (oral sex m. rec.) at the very end (it was what i started, but then decided it didn't fit in anywhere else)
part one
“Don’t worry, we’ll fix you up good as new,” you said gently, pulling the suture tray a little closer so you didn’t have to reach.
The little girl sat stiffly on the bed, shoulders tight, fingers curled into the edge of the sheet. Dried tear tracks marked her cheeks, though fresh ones threatened every time she glanced down toward her leg. The makeshift bandage made of a bedsheet was now bunched near her ankle, stained through.
“Okay,” you added, softer now, crouching slightly so you were more at her eye level. “I’m just going to check that the numbing medicine is doing its job.” You took a sterile pickup and lightly pressed along the edge of the wound. “Do you feel that?”
She shook her head quickly. “No.”
“Good,” you said with a small nod. “That’s exactly what we want.”
Her eyes flicked toward her leg again before she caught herself. “Can I look away?”
“You can look wherever you need to,” you reassured her. “Wall, ceiling, my shoe. Whatever works. If you want to lie down, I can lower the bed too.”
She hesitated, then shook her head. “I’ll stare at the wall.”
“Perfect choice,” you said, a hint of a smile in your voice.
That earned the faintest twitch of a smile from her as she turned her head decisively away. You turned your attention back to the wound, now fully exposed and irrigated. The laceration ran diagonally along her calf, extending upward toward her thigh. It was long, but thankfully superficial. No obvious involvement of deeper structures, no muscle exposure. Clean edges after irrigation, and no debris left behind.
You adjusted your gloves and reached for the needle driver, loading it carefully with a simple interrupted suture.
“So,” you said conversationally as you positioned your hands, “tell me about your school. I heard this was a sleepover situation?”
Rose nodded, still staring firmly at the wall. “My dance team.”
“Oh yeah?” you said, placing the first stitch with steady, precise movements of entering one side of the skin, following the curve, exiting cleanly on the other. “What kind of dance?”
“Mostly hip-hop,” she said, her voice steadier now. “But we do jazz too. And sometimes lyrical if we have competitions.”
“Wow,” you said, tying the first knot and cutting the suture clean. “That’s a lot of styles. You must be busy.”
You placed another stitch, carefully approximating the wound edges without pulling too tight.
“Yeah,” she said. “We practice like… three times a week.”
“Three times?” you echoed. “That’s more than I exercise.”
That got a tiny huff of a laugh out of her.
You continued the space, place, tie, and cut rhythm, working your way along the length of the laceration. Each stitch brought the edges together neatly, restoring the line of her skin.
“Is this your first sleepover with them?” you asked.
“No,” she said. “But it was the first time we played outside at night.”
“Ah,” you said. “Midnight softball. Very high-risk sport.”
She smiled a little more at that. “I didn’t even see the stick,” she added, her voice dipping slightly.
“I believe you,” you said, glancing up briefly before returning to your work. “Honestly, I probably would’ve tripped over it in daylight. You’re doing really well, by the way,” you added. “A lot of people don’t sit this still.”
“My mom says I’m good at holding still,” she said quietly.
“Well,” you said, finishing the last suture and trimming the thread, “your mom is absolutely right.”
You set the instruments down and leaned back slightly, inspecting your work. The wound edges were well-approximated, tension even, no gaping. Clean.
“Okay,” you said, peeling off your gloves. “All done with the stitches.”
Rose turned her head cautiously, eyes flicking down to her leg before widening slightly, not in fear this time, but in cautious curiosity.
“That’s it?” she asked.
“That’s it,” you confirmed. “We’ll get a dressing on there, and you’ll have a pretty cool scar to show off.”
She nodded, looking relieved more than anything. You cleaned the area once more, applied antibiotic ointment, and covered the sutures with a sterile dressing, securing it gently.
“I’m going to have another doctor take a quick look,” you said as you stepped back. “Just to double-check everything. It’s something we always do.”
“Okay,” she said.
You gave her a reassuring smile before stepping out of the room. The hallway felt a little thicker compared to the steady hum inside. You spotted Abbot at the desk, flipping through a chart with his usual focus.
“Hey,” you said, approaching. “Got a lac repair in 12. Kid named Rose. Calf to lower thigh. Pretty straightforward, I think, but can you take a look?”
He glanced up at you, then nodded, already setting the chart aside. “How many stitches?”
“Simple interrupted, about… twelve,” you said. “Clean edges, no deep involvement. She tolerated it well.”
“Alright,” he said, pushing off the desk. “Let’s see it.”
You fell into step beside him as he headed toward the room, your shoulders loosening just slightly now that the work was done. You fell into step beside him as he headed toward the room, your shoulders loosening just slightly now that the work was done. You reached the curtain first and pulled it gently to the side.
“Hi, Rose,” you said, your voice slipping easily back into that warm, reassuring tone. “Is it okay if my friend Dr. Abbot checks your stitches?”
She nodded right away, looking between the two of you with a small, brave smile. “Hi, Dr. Abbot.”
He winked as he snapped on a fresh pair of gloves, stepping closer to the bed with an easy confidence that always seemed to settle patients. “Well now,” he said lightly, leaning in to take a look, “what have we here?”
“Someone decided to play midnight softball,” you mused, folding your arms loosely as you watched. “But guess who was declared safe?”
Abbot huffed a quiet laugh as he examined the sutures, gently adjusting the edge of the dressing to get a better look. His movements were quick but thorough, eyes scanning the line of stitches.
“Well,” he said after a moment, straightening up and peeling off his gloves, “I’d say Dr. Y/L/N here did a very nice job.” He gave you a brief nod before turning back to Rose. “I’ll just have your parents sign a few things, and then we’ll send you on home.”
“I’m going back to the sleepover,” Rose said immediately, a little spark of excitement breaking through. Then she leaned in slightly, lowering her voice like she was sharing state secrets. “Don’t tell my mom, but one of the girls’ older sisters got us a scary movie.”
Abbot mimed zipping his lips and tossing away the key. “Your secret’s safe with me, kiddo.”
Rose beamed.
“Alright,” he added, patting the edge of the bed lightly. “You’re good to go.”
You gave her one last smile before stepping back, letting the curtain fall closed behind you as the two of you exited the room.
The second you were out in the hallway, your smile slipped. Jack fell into step beside you almost immediately, hands clasped behind his back like he had nowhere else to be and all the time in the world to investigate.
“So…” he drawled, glancing sideways at you, “care to explain?”
“Explain what?” you said with a small chuckle, already scanning the board ahead like you might find an excuse written there.
“Where’s your sidekick?” he asked, a faint, knowing smile tugging at his mouth.
“Don’t know,” you said, a little too quickly.
“You sure?”
You nodded, glancing into one of the rooms as you passed, checking on a sleeping patient just to anchor yourself to something real. “Yep. He’s a big boy,” you added, forcing your tone into something casual. “He can handle a shift without me velcro’d to him.”
“Uh-huh.” Jack’s skepticism was immediate, stretching the word thin. He blinked slowly, then tilted his head. “It’s not like… a fight or something?”
“Nope,” you muttered, wishing it were that simple. “Why?”
“Just thinking it’s a little odd,” he said. “When you need an attending, you usually go to Shen. But you’ve been coming to me all night.” He glanced at the clock on the wall. “Over half a shift, I might add.”
You pressed your lips together briefly. “Mixing things up.”
He nudged your arm lightly, aiming for playful. “Come on. You guys are like Batman and Robin.”
You scoffed, rolling your eyes as you kept walking. “Please.”
“You’re Robin,” he added.
You shot him a flat look. “Rude.”
“Just because he’s an attending and you’re a resident,” he said quickly, like that explained everything.
“Can I be LEGO Robin?” you asked, completely deadpan.
Jack blinked. “What?”
You didn’t answer right away.
Your attention had already drifted past him, pulled across the department like muscle memory you couldn’t override. At the main station, Parker leaned casually against the counter, mid-conversation and laughing at something John had just said.
He looked… normal. Relaxed, even. One hand resting on the counter, the other gesturing slightly as he spoke, like nothing had shifted. Like two nights ago hadn’t happened. Like you hadn’t walked out of his apartment with your pulse racing and a flimsy excuse already typed out before the door had even closed behind you.
“John would have known what I meant,” you muttered, quieter now, almost to yourself.
Jack followed your line of sight, then glanced back at you, his expression sharpening just slightly as he picked up on the shift.
“Ah,” he said softly.
You straightened almost immediately, dragging your attention back to the present like it hadn’t just wandered off on its own.
“What?” you asked, a little too brisk.
“Nothing,” Jack said, though the look he gave you said otherwise.
You excused yourself quietly when one of the nurses flagged you down. Jack rounded the corner toward the main station, posture shifting seamlessly back into something more composed, more neutral. Parker was already there, leaning against the counter like she’d been waiting.
She glanced past him first, scanning for you, then looked back. “Well?”
Jack lowered his voice, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth. “They’re so sleeping together.”
Parker nodded immediately, like she’d already decided that. “And something went wrong.”
Jack bit the inside of his cheek, fighting a grin. “You kids and your gossip.”
“You love it, old man,” she shot back without missing a beat.
In truth, things had been weird since Saturday night.
Parker had planned a drag brunch Sunday morning, but both you and John mysteriously bailed. You’d texted something vague about food poisoning. He’d apparently claimed exhaustion. Neither of you checked if the other was going.
You didn’t even know he hadn’t shown up until Parker called you mid-morning, her voice suspiciously soft in a way that meant she was absolutely investigating.
“Do you need anything?” she’d asked.
You’d stared at your ceiling for a long moment before answering. “No. I’m good.”
You couldn’t face him, and apparently, he hadn’t been able to face you either.
You barely made it into the ED just before your shift started, slipping through the ambulance bay doors with your bag still half-unzipped, hair pulled back in a rushed attempt at looking put together.
Parker was right behind you.
She caught your elbow before you could make it more than a few steps inside and steered you sharply into the hallway, out of the direct line of sight of the main station.
“What the hell was that?” she hissed.
You blinked at her, already bracing. “I told you, I had a stomachache.”
She stared at you for half a second, then shook her head. “I mean you and Shen.” Her eyes narrowed, voice dropping even lower. “Did you guys fuck?”
“No,” you said immediately. “Absolutely not.”
It came out faster than you intended. Her brows pulled together. “You guys always come in together.”
You frowned, turning toward your locker and yanking it open a little harder than necessary. “I don’t need him to survive,” you muttered, getting ready to toss your backpack inside.
Your words echoed slightly in the metal as the door swung wider. On the shelf, right where it always was, sat a fresh iced coffee. Condensation beaded along the plastic, your usual order still cold. Behind you, Parker clocked the shift immediately but, to her credit, didn’t comment on it right away.
“Alright,” she said after a beat, softer now. “But just know I’m here. For whatever.”
You swallowed, closing the locker a little more carefully this time. “Thanks, P.”
By 6 a.m., exhaustion had settled into your bones in that deep, buzzing way that no amount of caffeine could fix.
Your feet ached like they were made of glass. Your thighs burned from crouching through a trauma that felt like it lasted hours, your back tight from tension you hadn’t had time to stretch out. The fluorescent lights felt harsher now, the beginning of a headache settling behind your eyes.
You’d run into John a few times. The first, you were stepping out of a patient’s room, chart half-formed in your head, when he passed by mid-conversation with Abbot. His hand came up automatically, patting your shoulder in that familiar, absentminded way.
“—and then we’ll just recheck labs—” he was saying, already moving past you.
The second time was quieter.
You were in the breakroom, leaning against the counter, chewing through a granola bar like it was a chore rather than food. The room smelled faintly of burnt coffee and whatever someone had microwaved an hour ago.
The fridge door opened. John stepped in, scanning the shelves before grabbing a Babybel cheese. He peeled the red wax halfway off before glancing over at you.
He lifted it slightly in greeting. “How’s it going?”
“Fine,” you said, forcing a small smile, lifting your granola bar in response like it was a toast. “What was up with the screamer earlier?”
“Oh, Jesus Christ,” he muttered, rolling his eyes as he leaned back against the counter. “Don’t even get me started.”
There was a beat. Something almost normal settling between you.
Then, like it hadn’t taken any effort at all, he added, “You wanna grab breakfast?”
You nodded.
So now, not only were you exhausted from your shift, your muscles aching and your brain running on fumes, but you were also quietly, deeply terrified of breakfast. The last time he’d asked you to go, just the two of you, was about six months ago. You could still picture it clearly.
You’d been standing on the curb outside the ER, the sky still that early-morning gray where the sun hadn’t quite committed to rising yet. Your breath had fogged faintly in the air, hands shoved into your coat pockets as you debated whether you had enough energy to walk a few blocks.
He’d jerked his head toward the street. “C’mon.”
Jack had shown all of you the diner early on, probably within your first few weeks at PTMC. It sat a few blocks away, nothing fancy. Just warm lights, cracked vinyl booths, and a standing understanding that a few seats were always kept open for hospital staff coming off shift. Most mornings, it was just you, John, and Parker—half-delirious with exhaustion, laughing too hard at things that weren’t that funny, stacking plates of pancakes like it was a competitive sport. You’d leave buzzing just long enough to make it home before crashing.
It had snowed overnight.
A thin layer blanketed the sidewalks, untouched in some places, packed down in others. The hospital entrance had been cleared, but a few blocks out, it got uneven with the patches of ice hiding under fresh powder. Instead of turning back, John had walked ahead of you, deliberately stepping down the snow, flattening a path with slow, careful strides so you could follow without slipping.
“Your personal snowplow,” he’d said over his shoulder.
You’d rolled your eyes but stayed right in his footsteps anyway. At one point when you were attempting to step off the curb with John holding your hand, your boot hit a patch of ice hidden under the snow. You felt your foot begin sliding, forcing your free hand to fly out for balance, making things worse.
John gripped your sleeve tightly, pulling you towards him. For a moment, your faces were an inch apart. You caught your breath, suddenly grateful of the gum Parker had handed you before she disappeared into the night.
“Jeez,” he said, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “You think you’d be used to the weather by now.”
You let out a short, breathy chuckle, still feeling the ghost of the near-slip in your ankles like your body hadn’t fully caught up with reality yet. “Yeah,” you said, flexing your foot slightly as you tested your balance more deliberately now. “One would think.”
The final hour of your shift blurred together in the way only end-of-night hours could. Everything became procedural. You moved through it on autopilot, muscles remembering what your brain didn’t want to think about anymore.
You finished your last chart standing at the workstation, rolling your shoulders back once, then again, trying to shake off the fatigue settling into your spine.
“Fuck,” you muttered under your breath, pressing your thumbs briefly into your eyes. Just long enough to reset.
Then you straightened, blinking hard. The shift was almost over. The second you turned away from the computer, a pair of hands landed on your shoulders.
You flinched hard.
“Jesus—” you snapped instinctively, twisting slightly before your brain caught up. Your eyes dropped immediately to the hands. You exhaled sharply. “You scared me.”
Cassie smirked at you. “Good. Means you’re awake enough to make it home.”
You huffed a laugh despite yourself, pushing a loose strand of hair back behind your ear. “Debatable.”
Her eyes flicked over you for a second in that quick, assessing way attendings had even when they were off-duty in spirit. “Go home,” she said simply.
“Working on it,” you replied, already reaching for your badge.
“Mm-hm,” she hummed, unconvinced, then pushed off the counter. “Before you get another patient on your plate.”
By the time you finished handing off your patients, the weight of the shift had fully lifted and been replaced by that hollow, floaty feeling that came after running on adrenaline for too long. You signed out to the oncoming team, traded quick nods with a few nurses, and said your goodbyes in passing without slowing down.
Parker caught your eye from across the station and lifted a hand in a tired wave. You returned it.
John was already in the ambulance bay, leaning slightly against the wall just outside the doors like he’d been waiting without making it obvious. Hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed, hair slightly messier than earlier in the night. He looked up as you approached.
“Hey,” he said, easy smile sliding into place like it always did when the shift ended.
“Hey,” you echoed.
For a second, neither of you moved. Just that brief pause between work and whatever came after.
Then he pushed off the wall. “Diner?”
You nodded. “Yeah.”
You fell into step beside him without thinking about it. He held the diner door open when you reached it, stepping slightly to the side so you could go in first. The bell above the entrance chimed softly as warm light and the smell of coffee washed over you both.
“After you,” he said, gesturing lightly.
You rolled your eyes, but went in anyway.
Behind you, he followed.
You found a booth near the window, the vinyl seat creaking softly as you slid in, your backpack thumping lightly against the wall beside you. The diner was half-full with just enough people to fill the space with low conversation and the clatter of utensils, but not enough to feel crowded. Warm light pooled over the tables, a welcome contrast to the sterile brightness you’d just left behind. The familiar waitress spotted you almost immediately.
Nicole gave a small nod of recognition, already turning before she even reached the table. Within seconds, she was at the counter, pouring two thick mugs of chocolate milk like it was muscle memory.
John slid in across from you, stretching one arm along the back of the booth, shoulders loosening in a way they hadn’t all night.
“What’s up?” he asked, voice easy, like this was just another morning.
You shrugged, peeling your jacket off and shoving it beside you. “Not much. What’s up with you?”
“Nothing.”
You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head slightly. It was almost funny—how neither of you could quite look at each other at the same time. One of you would glance up just as the other looked down, like you were orbiting the same moment but never landing in it.
Nicole returned, placing the mugs in front of you with a soft clink. The chocolate milk was cold enough that condensation had already started to bead along the sides.
“Your usuals?” she asked, pen already poised over her pad.
You opened your mouth, but she was already nodding to herself, half-turned away.
“Yeah,” John said, amused.
“Got it,” she replied, already moving off toward the kitchen.
You watched her go, then let out a small laugh, wrapping your hands around the mug just for something to do.
“I think it’s kinda funny,” you said, finally glancing up at him, “that going to places where they know my order makes me feel bad about myself.”
John’s eyes lifted a second later, like he was timing it without realizing. “Tell me about it,” he said, a grin tugging at his mouth. “The Dunkin’ crew got me a gift card for my birthday.”
You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head. “That’s… honestly impressive.”
“It was personalized,” he added. “They spelled my name right and everything.”
“That’s how you know you’ve made it,” you said.
You took a sip of your chocolate milk, the sweetness cutting through the lingering taste of hospital coffee. “That reminds me,” you added, leaning back slightly. “When I was in college, there was this Taco Bell down the street I went to all the time. Like… an embarrassing amount.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Go on.”
“I didn’t even have to order,” you said, already smiling. “I’d just pull up, and they’d hear my car through the drive-thru speaker and go, ‘Is this the usual?’”
John laughed, the sound easy and unguarded. “That’s insane.”
You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling. He leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table now. “Do you remember when we went to the Jersey Shore house and you cried?”
You groaned immediately, dropping your head back against the booth. “Oh my god.”
“You did,” he said, pointing at you like he’d been waiting to bring this up again. “Full-on tears.”
“Well excuse me,” you said, straightening, “for getting emotional about the pop culture history that happened in that house.”
“Okay, well what about that time,” you countered quickly, leaning forward now, “we had to call Abbot because you forgot you were the designated driver?”
He winced, already shaking his head. “No. That wasn’t fair. You know how I get about the White Claws.”
“Yes,” you said, smug. “He had to pick us up mid bar crawl.”
“You were not helpful in that situation,” he said.
“I was thriving,” you corrected.
He huffed a laugh. “I have the picture Parker took of us with our heads in the bushes framed in my apartment.”
You blinked at him. “You do not.”
“I do.”
“John.”
“It’s in my living room.”
You stared at him, then shook your head. “That’s deeply concerning.”
“It’s art,” he said simply.
Nicole returned then, balancing plates along her arm with practiced ease. Pancakes stacked high, eggs, hash browns, everything exactly how you always ordered it.
“Careful, plates are hot,” she said as she set them down.
“Thanks,” you both murmured automatically.
For a while, conversation softened into something quieter, slipping between bites. The clink of forks against plates, the low hum of the diner, the occasional comment about the food.
You didn’t realize how hungry you were until you started eating. At one point, you glanced up mid-bite and caught him looking at you. It lasted maybe half a second before he dropped his gaze back to his plate. A moment later, you caught his eye again and there was a small streak of syrup at the corner of his lip. You couldn’t help it, you giggled.
“What?” he asked, immediately defensive, hand already coming up.
“Nothing,” you said, shaking your head, trying to hold it together.
He narrowed his eyes slightly, then wiped at his mouth anyway, checking his fingers. “Wow,” he muttered. “No loyalty.”
“None,” you said, still smiling.
Eventually, the plates were empty.
Nicole swung by, gathering dishes without interrupting, leaving behind the mugs and a receipt tucked neatly at the edge of the table.
“Take your time,” she said, already moving on.
And just like that, there was nothing left to do.
John leaned back again, one arm draped along the booth, the other resting loosely near his mug. You traced the rim of yours with your thumb, watching the faint ring of condensation it left behind, following it in slow circles like it might give you something to focus on besides him.
The silence stretched just a second too long. You exhaled softly, then broke it.
“I’m sorry for abandoning you the other night,” you said, your voice quieter now, more careful. You glanced up briefly before looking back down at your hands. “It just…”
John shook his head almost immediately, cutting you off before you could spiral into it. “It’s okay,” he said, softer than you expected. “I get it. Really.” He shifted slightly in the booth, his fingers tapping once against the table before going still. “It’s okay. I could have backed out just the same,” he added with a small shrug, “but I trust you.”
You blinked, your gaze lifting to him again, searching his face. “You do?”
He nodded once, steady. “Yeah.”
There was a small pause, his expression shifting.
“You know,” he continued, a faint smile tugging at his mouth, “you ignoring my texts gave me a long time to think about you.”
Your cheeks warmed instantly, heat creeping up your neck before you could stop it. You leaned back in the booth, like the extra space might help, your hands retreating into your lap as if they needed somewhere to hide. John let out a quiet breath through his nose, glancing down for a second before looking back up at you.
“Do you remember when we went to that 30th anniversary special for that movie you like?” he asked, his tone lightening just a little.
You huffed a small laugh under your breath, already knowing exactly what he meant.
You’d begged someone, anyone, to go with you for weeks. Everyone had brushed it off, calling it one of those movies that was “so bad it’s good,” which meant no one actually wanted to sit through it. You’d finally cornered John after a shift, bribing him with snacks and the promise that it would be “culturally important.”
“You were sitting there,” he went on, smiling now, “and the entire movie you were whispering the lines to yourself.”
You groaned quietly, covering your face for half a second. “I was not—”
“You were,” he said, laughing softly. “Every line. Like you were afraid the actors were going to forget their cues.” You peeked at him through your fingers, already smiling despite yourself. “And then,” he continued, his voice softening again, “during that big speech at the end… I looked over. Just to make sure I heard what I thought I heard.”
He paused, holding your gaze now. “You were crying. That’s when I realized that I’m in love with you.”
You blinked. You just stared at him, eyes wide, your brain struggling to catch up as the words landed all at once. Your jaw went a little slack, like you’d forgotten how to respond entirely.
“Oh my god,” John blurted suddenly, dragging a hand down his face. “I just gave myself the ick. That was—” he winced, shaking his head. “That was so weird of me to say.”
You didn’t move. “That you’re in love with me?” you whispered, like saying it too loud might undo it.
“That’s not—” he started, then stopped, exhaling sharply. “That’s not what I meant. I mean—” he laughed nervously, running a hand through his hair. “That felt so man of me. Like I just dropped that.”
You watched him, something soft and disbelieving pulling at your expression.
“I mean,” he tried again, quieter now, more honest, “you’re… you’re this great friend. You’re helpful. You’re—” he cut himself off, shaking his head again. “The other night, when you left… I was getting somewhere when you were talking me through it.”
Your brows knit slightly, listening.
“I hadn’t settled on a person,” he admitted, glancing down at the table for a second before looking back at you. “But I saw you there.” He cleared his throat. “I saw you, and I freaked out.”
“Instant boner killer?” you said, a small, incredulous laugh slipping out before you could stop it.
John let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “No. Not even a little.” His smile softened. “I just… I kept pushing these feelings down because I didn’t want to make it weird.” He gestured vaguely between the two of you. “And then we did all of this.”
You laughed quietly, the tension in your shoulders easing just a fraction. “Yeah,” you said, nodding faintly. “I was doing the same thing, I guess.”
He looked at you, curious.
“I felt it when you trusted me enough to let me in,” you continued, your voice softer now. “And then I was in your room, looking at your bookshelves, and it hit me that I only know, like… a tiny piece of your life.” You smiled a little, almost shy. “And in the same thought, I realized that I want to know everything about you.”
For a second, he just looked at you.
“Well,” he said, a quiet confidence settling back into his voice, “I guess that settles that.” He tilted his head slightly. “Can I take you out on a date?”
You felt your smile spread before you could stop it, softer this time, a little more careful. “Yeah,” you said. “I think that’d be really fun.” There was a small pause, then you added, “Can I ask you something?”
“Anything,” he said immediately.
“I saw your undergraduate thesis on your shelf,” you said, glancing down briefly before meeting his eyes again. “And I was wondering if I could read it.”
He let out a small laugh, already sliding out of the booth. “Do you want to come over?”
You smiled, pushing yourself up as well. “Good thing I left my bag there.”
He shook his head, amused, reaching for both of your backpacks without hesitation. He slung them easily over one hand like they weighed nothing, using the other to grab the door and hold it open for you.
“After you,” he said.
You stepped past him, the bell chiming softly overhead as you pushed out into the cool morning air. You barely had time to register the shift in temperature before his hand found yours, like it had always belonged there. His fingers laced with yours without hesitation.
You tried to hide your grin, but it tugged at your lips anyway, impossible to contain. You stepped just half a pace ahead of him, like that might disguise it.
Bonus (smut):
Three weeks of dates and sleepovers. You and John had decided to keep this to yourselves for the time being, resulting in almosts each time. In those three weeks, John still hadn’t cum. Not for lack of trying.
The first time things started to get heated, you were grinding against him on your couch. He hovered over you, braced on one arm. One of your legs was wrapped around his hips, nudging him closer and closer as your hips rolled against his. He whimpered when you pushed him away from your kiss, just to have enough space to unbutton his jeans.
Both of you flinched when your doorbell rang when Parker had come over unannounced with takeout. Another reason you wanted to stay a secret, neither one of you wanted to break the news to her.
The second time, John was nestled between your legs, kissing up and down your bare thighs. He hooked his fingers into the sides of your underwear when both of your phones began to ring with a notification about a massive car accident and a call for extra help.
But tonight, you’d gotten as far to kneeling between his legs. One of your hands held him at the base. You ran your tongue over the length of him.
“I w-won’t last,” he panted, holding your free hand tightly.
You wrapped your lips around him. His hips twitch as he fights the urge to buck forward, though you tried to tell him you were okay with it. You hollow your cheeks around him as you bob up and down slowly. John would probably let you do this to him for the rest of his life, and you wouldn’t be opposed. And though you know you’d do this again, you want to make it last.
“Oh, please,” John begged. “Oh, it feels so good.”
You pulled off of him with a pop, running your finger along the underside of his cock before dropping to his sack. His eyes fluttered shut as you kitten licked his tip, never once taking your eyes off of his face.
“Yeah?” You teased.
“Where do you want it?” He panted, barely opening his eyes to look at you.
“Where do you want it?” You breathed back, leaning back to get a better look at his fucked out expression.
“Keep goin’, sweetheart,” he hissed, sucking in a breath when you wrapped your hand around him again.
John lasted about two more minutes. He twitched on your tongue, whimpers slipping from his lips as he came. You moaned at the taste of him, slightly sweet, undoubtedly from his coffees. You clenched at the sight of him with his head thrown back, your stomach burning with need. He helped you into his lap as soon as he recovered his breath.
“How was that?” You grinned
“It’s my turn,” he responded, his hands running over your waist and hips, then to the button of your jeans.
“You up for it?”
He nodded. “I’ve got more in me, but I know how we can pass the time.” He hissed when he ran his tongue over his lip. “I think I bit myself.”
lend a hand - john shen x fem!reader
warnings: talks about intimacy, masturbation and hook up culture, little bit ooc, mastrubation described
You tossed a chuckle over your shoulder, glancing back at the couple you’d just spoken to as they shuffled out of the room, the man walking stiffly while his partner hovered at his side.
“Why so quiet?” you teased, nudging Shen gently with your elbow as you fell back into step beside him.
He shook his head, lips pressed thin, eyes still a little too wide like he’d just returned from the depths of hell and wasn’t entirely convinced he’d made it all the way back. “Forgive me for having a little empathy,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face.
You snorted, unconcerned. “Hey, it happens. Maybe he’ll learn to let ’er sit on his face rather than risk another penile fracture.”
Shen made a strangled noise somewhere between a cough and a groan, turning his head away as if that might physically distance him from the mental image. “Jesus,” he mumbled.
The attending shook his head again, though there was the faintest hint of amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Well, that’s probably all she’ll be getting from him for a while.”
You let out another short laugh, already swiping through charts on your tablet as you leaned against the desk. “Gross.”
“You started it,” he shot back, though his tone was weak, distracted. He leaned against the main desk beside you, arms folding loosely as his gaze drifted over the nurses bustling around the station. “Besides, having a broken y’know is like… the worst thing imaginable for a man.”
You angled your head, squinting at him. “You say that like you have experien—” You cut yourself off mid-sentence, eyes widening as realization hit. “Wait.” You sucked in a sharp breath, pivoting fully toward him. “This is juicy. Spill.”
Shen’s brows furrowed instantly, defensive. “No. No, it’s nothing.”
“Oh, it’s so not nothing,” you shot back, straightening as your full attention snapped onto him. You set your tablet down with a soft clack, crossing your arms with a grin that was already threatening to break into laughter. “You don’t get that weird about something unless it’s personal.”
“It’s embarrassing,” he muttered, suddenly very interested in the random chart he’d pulled up on one of the iPads lying around. He scrolled aimlessly, not reading a single word.
You bit your lip, fighting the urge to laugh outright. “Well, now you definitely have to tell me.”
He exhaled sharply through his nose, shoulders tensing. “You’re being mean already.”
“I am not,” you said quickly, though your grin betrayed you. You forced it down, inhaling deeply and softening your expression as you reached out, placing a hand lightly on his forearm. Your tone gentled. “Listen, I just know you’re making a much bigger deal out of it than it needs to be.”
He glanced down at your hand, then back up at you, unconvinced.
“You can tell me wherever you like,” you added, voice quieter now, more sincere. “I won’t force you, but I’m here.”
He held your gaze for a long second, then huffed a quiet, humorless laugh. “You’re so full of shit.”
“Please, John,” you said immediately, slipping into mock desperation but keeping your voice low so no one else would overhear. You leaned in just slightly, eyes bright with curiosity. “I swear I won’t tell a soul.”
He arched a brow. “You? Not tell a soul?”
You pressed a hand to your chest in exaggerated offense. “Wow. First of all, rude. Second of all, I can absolutely keep a secret when it matters.”
He gave you a long, skeptical look.
You softened again, nudging his arm this time. “C’mon. You can’t just drop that kind of hint and then expect me to move on with my life.”
“I can, actually,” he said, though there was less conviction behind it now.
“Nope,” you said, popping the ‘p’ as you shook your head. “Too late. You’ve opened the door.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, clearly debating his options. “It’s not even a big deal.”
“That’s what everyone says before they tell a very big deal story,” you replied immediately.
He sighed, long and resigned, glancing around the station as if checking for witnesses. The nurses were busy, no one paying the two of you any real attention.
“Fine,” he muttered at last, lowering his voice. “But if you laugh—”
“I won’t,” you said quickly.
“You will.”
“I will try not to,” you amended, raising a hand like you were taking an oath.
He narrowed his eyes at you, then shook his head again, a reluctant smile threatening at the corners of his mouth despite himself. “You’re the worst.”
“And,” you said sweetly, leaning in just a fraction closer, “you’re still going to tell me.”
He hesitated one last time, then exhaled. “Okay. But you asked for it.”
Your grin spread, victorious. “I always do.”
John led you out to the ambulance bay, pushing through the heavy doors with his shoulder before continuing a few steps farther than necessary, like he needed the extra distance from ears, from light, from everything inside. The late air was cool, carrying the faint smell of exhaust and antiseptic. He stopped near the edge of the lot, hands settling on his hips before he dragged one through his hair.
“You swear you won’t tell?” he asked again, quieter this time, not looking at you.
You nodded immediately. “On everything I hold near and dear.”
He glanced at you, unconvinced but running out of exits. “If I make you uncomfortable, you have to promise that you will just walk away and pretend I didn’t say anything.”
You nodded again, softer now. “Okay.”
He could tell you were about to speak, probably to reassure him again or make a joke to lighten it, so he lifted a hand, stopping you before the words could come out.
“Just… let me say it,” he muttered.
You pressed your lips together and gave a small, understanding nod.
John exhaled heavily, the kind that came from somewhere deep in his chest. He shifted his weight, gaze drifting out toward the empty stretch of pavement like he might find the right words written out there.
For a moment, he didn’t say anything. And then, finally he nodded slowly.
“I know what it feels like,” he said, voice low, “to have a broken dick.”
You blinked, but didn’t interrupt.
He huffed a quiet, humorless laugh, shaking his head. “Not like that guy,” he added quickly, gesturing vaguely back toward the ER. “Nothing like that, thank God.”
He swallowed, jaw tightening.
“But it’s… it’s messed up. In my head.” He wrung his hands together, briefly meeting your eyes before looking away again. “Which somehow makes it worse.”
You stayed quiet, arms loosely folded, giving him the space he’d asked for.
“For the last few weeks,” he continued, slower now, like he was picking each word carefully, “my routine has been… off.” He let out a breath through his nose. “Like, you know how your body just does certain things automatically? No effort, no thought. It’s just normal.”
You nodded faintly.
“Yeah,” he said. “Not anymore.”
He shifted again, clearly uncomfortable now. Not just with the topic, but with saying it out loud. “It’s like everything just… stopped working the way it’s supposed to. And the more I notice it, the worse it gets.”
His hands dropped to his sides, fingers flexing slightly. “At first I thought it was just stress. Long shifts, no sleep, whatever. But then it kept happening. Or… not happening.”
He winced at his own phrasing, shaking his head again.
“And now?” he added, quieter, almost frustrated. “Now I’m in my own head about it all the time. Which, shockingly, does not help.”
A dry, self-deprecating smile flickered across his face.
“I mean, I see guys like that patient, and yeah, it’s objectively worse. But at least his problem is… fixable with some surgery and rest. Mine just feels like I broke something I can’t point to.”
He finally looked at you then, searching your face for a reaction. “So yeah,” he said, a little defensively. “That’s why I said what I said.”
There was a brief pause, the distant sound of a siren cutting through the quiet.
“And before you say it,” he added quickly, holding up a finger, “yes, I know how it sounds. I know it’s not the actual worst thing imaginable. But it feels…” he stopped, exhaling. “It feels pretty bad.”
His shoulders dropped slightly, like just admitting it had taken something out of him.
“I don’t get it.” You said it before you could stop yourself, brows pulled together as you stared at him, trying to reconcile the confident, composed attending you knew with the flustered, spiraling man in front of you.
Your name slipped from his lips, strained, almost desperate. “I haven’t cum in weeks,” he said, like admitting it out loud made it more real. “Close to two months.”
You sucked in a sharp breath, eyes widening despite your best effort to stay neutral.
John groaned immediately, dragging both hands over his face. “Don’t! D-don’t do that,” he muttered. “That face? I can’t handle that face right now.”
But he kept going anyway, like once the door was open, he couldn’t shut it again.
“I’ve tried everything,” he said, pacing a few steps before turning back to you. His voice dropped, equal parts frustrated and embarrassed. “Lotion, no lotion. Phone, laptop. Different, uh… sources.” He gestured vaguely, clearly unwilling to get more specific.
You pressed your lips together, shoulders already tightening as you fought it.
“I even—” John stopped himself, then forced himself forward with a grimace, “I even drove four hours to my parents house one weekend. Dug through a box in my old room to find the stupid magazine that got me through puberty.”
That did it. You inhaled sharply, eyes squeezing shut as you turned your head away.
“Don’t,” he warned, pointing at you. “Don’t you dare—”
“An old dirty Playboy?” you choked out, voice breaking as you tried to contain it.
“Yes!” he snapped, throwing his hands up. “And it didn’t even work, okay? Not even a little!”
You clamped a hand over your mouth, shoulders shaking now despite your best efforts.
“Like, mentally?” he continued, gesturing to his head, clearly committed to finishing his confession. “Sure. Everything’s there. Imagination’s fine. Great, actually. A-plus performance.”
He tapped his temple again, more insistently this time.
“But physically?” He dropped his hand, letting it hang uselessly at his side. “Nothing. It’s like my body didn’t get the memo.”
There was a beat of silence that lasted a little bit too long.
“Please don’t look at me like that,” he pleaded, catching your expression when you finally glanced back at him.
“John, please just stop talking,” you said quickly, turning away again and squeezing your eyes shut. “I’m trying not to laugh and you’re going to make me feel like an asshole.”
He stepped closer and gave your shoulder a light shove. “I’m serious!”
“I know, I know,” you said, half-laughing, half-groaning, dragging a hand down your face as you tried to compose yourself. You turned back to him, still fighting a smile. “So what, you’re just done trying?” A small chuckle slipped out despite you. “And besides, two months is nothing. You’re a full-time attending. You’re working insane hours, barely sleeping, and, what, unpacking a lifetime of religious guilt on top of it?” You shrugged lightly. “Give yourself some grace if you can’t pop a boner or two.”
He winced immediately, shoulders hunching. “I can do that part,” he muttered.
You blinked. “What?”
He gestured vaguely, clearly regretting continuing but unable to stop himself now. “That’s not the issue. It’s the… you know.” He grimaced. “The finish line. I can’t get there.”
There was a split second of silence.
“Oh my god,” you said, turning sharply away from him, one hand flying up as your shoulders started shaking again. “Walk away so I can laugh or go—just go—”
You took a few steps in the opposite direction, trying to regain control, but it was pointless now. “You’re such a dweeb,” you added, voice breaking with laughter.
“You’re really not helping,” he said flatly, though there was a hint of reluctant amusement creeping in despite himself.
“I know I’m not,” you admitted, waving him off without turning back yet. “I’m so sorry, I’m trying. Just please go before someone comes looking and finds us out here having this conversation.” You finally glanced over your shoulder, still grinning. “I’ll find you later. When I’m a better person.”
He shook his head, exasperated, but the tension in his shoulders had eased just a little. “Unbelievable,” he muttered, though there was no real heat behind it. As he turned to head back inside, he paused just long enough to glance back at you.
“You’re still not telling anyone,” he said.
You straightened, forcing your expression into something resembling seriousness, though your eyes still betrayed you. “Scout’s honor,” you said again, tapping your chest.
He narrowed his eyes. “You already broke that once.”
“I did not.”
“You absolutely did when you told Abbot I was late because of our coffees, not because of my grandmother.”
You held up a hand immediately, already grinning. “That one was on you. You’re on your third dead grandma.”
He stared at you for a long, unimpressed beat, lips pressed thin like he was deciding whether to argue or just accept defeat.
“…You’re a terrible person,” he muttered finally.
“And yet,” you shot back lightly, “I’m your favorite.”
He didn’t answer that, which was answer enough.
With one last exasperated shake of his head, he pushed back through the doors and disappeared inside, leaving you alone in the cool air.
The second he was gone, you doubled over, laughter finally spilling out freely into the empty ambulance bay. It echoed off the concrete, sharp and unfiltered now that you didn’t have to hold it in.
In the last few years John had known you, things had always been easy. Natural. Effortless in a way that was rare in a place like this. Even now, with him freshly promoted to attending and you still grinding through your final year of residency, not much had changed. If anything, the dynamic had just shifted enough to give you new material.
You, Parker, and John had started on the same day as three nervous, overcaffeinated interns trying not to look like they were drowning. Somewhere along the way, that turned into something closer to a unit. The kind of friendship that didn’t need explaining.
Parker had been bumped to day shift months ago, which meant you didn’t see her nearly as much, but she still lingered at shift changes, hovering just long enough to trade stories, steal snacks, and remind you both that sunlight existed. And then there were your weekly drag brunches, a sacred ritual none of you ever skipped unless someone was actively coding.
With John, though, it was different. You’d slipped into this rhythm of a kind of buddy-cop dynamic that made long shifts survivable.
You liked to insist your primary job duty was “keeping attendings humble,” which in practice meant talking just enough shit to keep them on their toes. You’d wander into trauma bays with commentary no one asked for, crack jokes five seconds too soon, and somehow still manage to read the room when it mattered. John complained about it constantly.
“You’re going to get written up one day,” he’d say.
“You say that like I didn’t have you in tears,” you’d shoot back.
And the truth was, for all his grumbling, he and Jack both leaned on it more than they’d ever admit. After the codes that didn’t turn, the families that broke in front of you, and the kind of nights that stuck, you were the one who cut through the heaviness. Not by dismissing it, but by giving everyone just enough space to breathe again. You didn’t let things rot in silence. You straightened up, rolling your shoulders once before heading back inside.
Thirty minutes later, John felt your presence before you even spoke. You had a way of moving through the department like you belonged everywhere at once, somehow loud and subtle at the same time. He didn’t turn right away, but his posture shifted slightly as you came up behind him.
You held out a coffee, nudging it into his line of sight. “Peace offering.”
He glanced at it, then at you, suspicious. Still, he took the cup carefully.
“I’m sorry for laughing at you,” you started, more sincere this time. “And it was really shitty, and I’m sorry.”
He studied your face for a second, weighing it, then took a sip. “You didn’t take it upon yourself and try to cure me, did you?”
You shook your head immediately. “Where would I even get one?”
There was a brief pause. Then, in perfect unison you echoed one another.
“Jack.”
You both looked at each other with a smile.
“Yeah, no,” you said, waving it off. “I’m not getting involved in stealing his prescriptions. I don’t really want to turn you into a Halsey song.”
“What?” John huffed a quiet laugh into his coffee.
You cocked an eyebrow. “Everything is blue, his pills, his h- oh, so you’re just uncultured.” You shifted your weight, leaning your hip lightly against the counter beside him. “Anyway,” you said, tone softening again. “You have an issue. What’s going on?”
He didn’t answer right away. John knew you wanted to go into psychiatry.You had the instincts for it, obvious in the way you listened, the way you asked questions that didn’t feel like questions, and in the way people opened up to you before realizing they were doing it. But the idea of sitting in a quiet room all day had driven you insane, so you’d stayed in emergency medicine. Somehow, that just made you better at both.
You didn’t force conversations. You made space for them.
“I really don’t know,” he admitted finally, quieter now.
You nodded slowly, eyes drifting for a second as you thought. “Any big changes recently?” you asked. “Your salary bumped, right? Maybe it’s stress from that. Are loan payments kicking in harder?”
He shrugged, one shoulder lifting. “Yeah, but I’m fine. I mean… objectively, I’m fine. I’m a single-income, no-kids household living like I have been, but with a good car.”
You hummed thoughtfully. “Okay. So not money.”
He shook his head.
“Anything from your parents? Work stuff? Did Gloria say someth—”
“No,” he cut in, a little too quickly. Then, softer, “No.”
You watched him for a beat, catching the shift but not pressing it.
“We just had a meeting,” he added instead. “About some of the time off I requested. She suggested a resort.”
You let out a slow breath, tilting your head back slightly. “A resort,” you repeated, like the word itself was exhausting.
“Yeah.”
“Okay,” you said finally. “Well… think about it, I guess.”
“I already do,” he replied, a little sharper than he meant to. He exhaled, running a hand through his hair again. “Way too much.”
You glanced at him sideways. “About the resort?”
“…About everything,” he admitted.
That made you straighten slightly, attention sharpening. “Everything, everything?” you asked gently. “Or like…oh my god, my brain won’t shut up, everything?”
He gave a small, humorless smile. “The second one, but it’s bleeding into the first.”
You nodded slowly, absorbing that. “Okay,” you said again, softer this time. “That’s something.”
He looked at you, brow furrowed. “Something?”
“Yeah,” you said, nudging his arm lightly. “Means it’s not random. Means there’s a thread somewhere.”
He didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t argue either.
You took a small sip of your own coffee, then glanced at him again. “We’ll figure it out,” you added, casual but certain.
John huffed under his breath. “We?”
You smiled faintly. “Yeah. Unfortunately for you, you told me. So now it’s a group project.”
He shook his head, but there was the ghost of a smile there now. “God,” he muttered. “I should’ve kept my mouth shut.”
“Way too late for that,” you said lightly, bumping his shoulder.
For days following, you treated John like a science experiment with invasive questions. You’d shown up to shift two days later with a black-and-white composition notebook, the kind every kid had at some point in school, and slapped it down dramatically in front of him at the desk. On the front, in thick Sharpie, you’d written jerk-off log.
John had just stared at it for a full five seconds, then slowly lifted his eyes to you. “You’re kidding.”
You folded your arms, completely serious. “I am not.”
“You’re not actually going to make me write in this,” he said, pushing it an inch away from himself like it might bite him. “Or read it?”
You nodded once, firmly. “Maybe there’s something in your subconscious that you’ll spill on paper.”
He let out a short, incredulous laugh, rubbing his forehead. “This is really personal.”
You shrugged, unfazed. “No more personal than you looking at my rash.”
His head snapped toward you. “That is not the same thing.”
“This is purely for science,” you added, holding up a finger, “and bonding as best friends.”
He stared at you, lips pressed together, clearly trying not to smile despite himself. “There is nothing scientific about this.”
“There are prompts,” you said, flipping the notebook open and tapping the first page proudly.
He glanced down despite himself, and immediately regretted it. You had already dated the first few pages. There were bullet points.
Time of day.Mood.Stress level (scale 1–10).Attempt? Y/N.Outcome (pun intended).Notes (be honest).
He swallowed thickly, flipping the page like maybe it would get better. It didn’t.
“This is not the same as looking at a poison ivy rash,” he said flatly.
You tilted your head. “It was on my taint.”
The memory flashed easily between you about how you’d called him in a full-blown panic, voice tight and urgent all while refusing to explain over the phone. How he’d shown up at your apartment expecting something catastrophic, only to find you pacing in oversized sweats, muttering about “a situation.” It was embarrassing enough to bend over just to hear him laugh that it was a simple case of poison ivy in a very unfortunate place.
John looked down at the notebook again, then back at you, then down again.
He sighed, long and suffering, but there was no real resistance left in it. “Okay,” he said finally, picking it up like it weighed a hundred pounds. “I’ll write.”
You beamed.
“But,” he added quickly, pointing at you, “there will be no… nasty details.”
You held up both hands. “I don’t want nasty details.”
“You absolutely do.”
“I want data,” you corrected.
He narrowed his eyes. “Those are not mutually exclusive with you.”
You grinned. “Just fill out the prompts, Dr. Shen.”
He flipped it closed again, tucking it under his arm with a resigned shake of his head. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”
“You’re welcome,” you said sweetly.
“For what?”
“For fixing your life.”
He scoffed as he turned to walk away. “You’re unbelievable.”
You called after him, “I’m the only one trying to solve your problem.”
He didn’t turn back, but you caught the faintest hint of a smile as he disappeared down the hall, notebook in hand.
John tried for days.
He tried after long shifts, when the hospital finally quieted down and his apartment felt less like a place to live and more like a place to collapse. He’d stand under the shower longer than usual, leaning one hand against the tile like that might reset something.
His body had never given him trouble before. If anything, it has always been inconveniently reliable. Five minutes, maybe less, then done. Roll over, lights out, gone for hours like nothing had ever happened. Now it was like someone had rewired the system without telling him.
He’d lose track of time entirely, then catch himself halfway through the attempt, suddenly aware of the absurdity of it, the effort, the expectation. And just like that, the urge was gone. The interest would evaporate, replaced by frustration, or fatigue, or a weird, clinical detachment that made everything feel like a task instead of anything resembling instinct. He’d give up before anything even happened, annoyed at himself more than anything else.
He tried in the mornings too, when the apartment was still dim and quiet and he had a rare pocket of time before work. Fifteen minutes, maybe less. Enough time that it should have been simple. Instead, he’d end up checking the clock, thinking about traffic, thinking about patients, thinking about anything except the thing he was trying not to think about, and then he’d be running late.
By the end of the week, the notebook you’d given him sat on his nightstand like a taunting little experiment he didn’t know how to complete. He’d filled almost nothing out. A few half-hearted notes. A lot of question marks.
It wasn’t helping.
“Any progress?” you asked one day.
It was your turn for the coffee run, and you came into the department balancing a paper bag in one hand and a drink tray in the other like you were delivering critical medical supplies instead of caffeine. You set the bag in front of him with unnecessary ceremony, then slid his usual drink toward him. After a beat, you added another cup from the tray. You’d always get him something more experimental and overly complicated, the kind of thing you ordered just to see if he’d complain.
He eyed it immediately. “What is that?”
“Joy,” you said simply.
He gave you a look. “That’s not an answer.”
“It’s coffee-adjacent. Just drink it.”
John exhaled through his nose, taking the regular cup first like a man choosing stability over chaos.
You leaned your hip against the counter, watching him. “So?”
He didn’t even pretend to misunderstand. He just stared into his cup for a second, then muttered, “No.”
You blinked. “No as in… no change?”
“No as in,” he said, rubbing a hand over his face, “it’s like… actually broken.”
You didn’t laugh this time. Your expression shifted slightly, just enough to take the edge off the teasing.
“Okay,” you said slowly. “That’s new wording.”
He shot you a look. “Super helpful.”
“I’m trying,” you said, holding up a hand defensively. Then, after a beat, softer: “Maybe you need someone to get out of your head.”
His brow furrowed. “What?”
You gestured vaguely between the two of you, like the idea was obvious. “Like… external reset. You know how they say to get over someone you have to get under someone else?”
He made a face immediately. “That is not medical advice.”
“It’s not medical advice,” you agreed easily, “it's an emotionally backed theory.”
He let out a short, incredulous laugh through his nose, shaking his head. “How long has it been since you were with… what was her name? Monica?”
His eyes flicked up at you. “You know she hated when you called her that.”
“Yeah, well,” you said, shrugging, “she hated everything. She was basically a walking red flag in ‘siren eyes’ packaging. As if Dr. Google was bad enough, now we have theory this, theory that. Stupid names for features like siren eyes as if she wasn’t rolling her eyes back so much, I’m surprised they didn’t detach from the cord back there.”
That earned a reluctant huff from him, the kind that meant he was listening even when he didn’t want to be.
“And another thing! The looksmaxing? A mom brought her kid in because she thought he was getting beat up and he was beating himself with a-”
“Is there a point to this? Not to be self-centered, but I’m kinda desperate here.”
“But seriously,” you continued, leaning back against the counter, “remember when I made you go out with Parker and me after your breakup?”
John gave a slow nod.
It had been one of those nights that started with good intentions and ended with questionable memory gaps. You’d found him sulking in scrubs after shift, looking like a man actively losing a war with his own thoughts. So you did what you always did and you dragged him out anyway. Parker had been relentless. You’d been worse. Drinks appeared in front of him whether he ordered them or not. Someone had declared it “healing.”
And, as always, things had spiraled.
By the time the night blurred into neon lights and bass-heavy music, John had been on his feet on a crowded dance floor, uncharacteristically unsteady, laughing at something Parker said like the world wasn’t sitting on his shoulders. Fifteen minutes later, he’d stumbled out of the club entirely changed in trajectory, hand in hand with one of the waiters, who had looked equally surprised by the development.
The next morning, none of you had spoken about it directly. Which, in your friend group, counted as respectful silence.
“That’s what you’ve gotta do, man,” you said now, snapping him back to the present.
“I cannot go onto the dating scene like this,” he said immediately, rubbing a hand over his face. “That’s just even more embarrassing.”
You tilted your head. “Like what? Mildly emotionally constipated?”
“I was going to say ‘not functional,’” he muttered.
“Same thing.”
He hadn’t had issues before. Not really. Not when he was younger, not when things were messy and uncomplicated and driven more by curiosity than anything else. Not with his first serious partner, not even with the three-year relationship that had ended in something slow and quiet and mutual exhaustion. That’s why it all felt wrong. There wasn’t a single thing he could grab onto and that is what is driving him insane.
You watched the shift in his face as he went quiet again, the way his gaze dropped briefly to the counter like he was trying to solve something that didn’t have clear variables.
“Still not happening,” he muttered.
You didn’t push right away. You just nodded once, like you’d expected that answer. Then you said, “I’ll do it.”
His head snapped up instantly. “Excuse me?”
You didn’t even blink. “You rubbed ointment on my taint for two weeks. I jack you off once. I think it’s a fair trade-off.”
The silence that followed was immediate and sharp.
John stared at you like his brain had temporarily stopped rendering new information. “Absolutely not,” he said finally, voice flat, but there was a faint crack of disbelief underneath it.
You shrugged. “Worth offering.”
“Wor-” He cut himself off, dragging a hand down his face again. “Do you hear yourself right now?”
“Constantly,” you said. “It’s a problem.” You leaned forward slightly, resting your elbows on the counter. “Look,” you said more quietly. “I’m not actually trying to make your life weirder. I’m trying to get you out of your own head.”
His gaze flicked to you again.
You tapped the counter once. “And if I made you uncomfortable, feel free to ignore it and pretend it never happened.”
“I will,” he said automatically.
+++
John had never been one to try and impress you. You were his best friend. That had always been the baseline.
On your first day, you hadn’t said a single word that wasn’t necessary for the shift. No nervous chatter, no overexplaining, none of the usual intern noise that filled every quiet corner of the hospital. Just clean, efficient communication. It wasn’t until the end of the shift that you finally shifted out of that clinical mode.
The two of you ended up outside the ambulance bay as the sun started to rise, the sky bleeding pale orange over the tops of the trees. The parking lot was still damp from overnight rain, the air sharp in a way that made everything feel slightly unreal.
You stood there for a second, shoulders dropping for the first time all day, and let out a long breath like you’d been holding it since orientation.
“What a shift, huh?” John had said, watching you carefully.
You turned toward him, exhaustion still written all over your face, but you lifted your hand anyway. “Got through the first day,” you grinned.
He met your palm with his, a light tap that barely counted as a high-five but somehow felt like agreement anyway.
You didn’t stop talking after that.
By the time you reached your car in the parking lot, you were rambling, words spilling out in a tired, excited stream about expectations versus reality. About how you thought everyone would be meaner, more like the horror stories people told in med school. How you’d mentally prepared yourself for battle and instead gotten… teamwork. Humanity, even in the middle of everything.
John leaned against a post nearby, listening more than he spoke, watching the way you talked with your hands even when you were exhausted. Watching how you kept going anyway. He blinked at you once, like he was recalibrating something. You were tired. Obviously. Your scrubs were wrinkled, your hair falling out of place, your voice slightly hoarse from a full shift of constant chatter.
You stopped at your old Honda Civic, keys already in your hand, and gave him a small shrug. “Either way,” you said, unlocking it, “I’ll see you tonight.”
Which was exactly what you had told him again that morning at the end of shift.
Only this time, it had come after a very long text exchange about boundaries, logistics, and John trying, unsuccessfully, not to feel like his entire life was being turned into a group project.
He still wasn’t entirely sure how he’d ended up agreeing to any of it.
Now, hours later, that agreement had arrived at his apartment in the form of you yelling through his door. “Open the door.”
He sighed, already rubbing a hand down his face before unlocking it. “You have a key.”
“Yeah,” your voice shot back immediately, muffled through the wood, “but do you see hands to open the door?”
He opened it to find you standing there with a grocery bag hung from one hand, visibly overstuffed. A backpack was strapped on your back like you were about to leave for a week-long expedition instead of a night at a coworker’s apartment. Another larger bag was in your other hand.
“Moving in?” he asked flatly.
You stepped inside like you owned the place, immediately brushing past him. “That,” you said, shifting the bags onto his kitchen counter with a relieved exhale, “is all your clothes from my apartment. And some of my roommate’s old stuff if you want to go through it.”
John blinked. “You raided your roommate’s closet for me?”
“What can I say? He has style.”
You were already unpacking the second bag. “Takeout,” you added. “And some pajamas for me.”
That made him pause. “Pajamas?”
You nodded, completely serious. “And my skincare. And other stuff.”
His gaze flicked between the bags and you. “You think I won’t go through with it?”
You finally looked at him properly then, hands resting on the counter like you were bracing yourself for a normal conversation in a very abnormal situation.
“I never said that,” you replied. “I just thought I wouldn’t totally screw myself over if it didn’t happen.”
John leaned back against the kitchen counter, arms crossing loosely over his chest as he watched you start organizing his space without asking permission, as if it was just another shared workbench in the ED.
“You realize this is insane,” he said.
You didn’t look up. “You realize we work in an emergency department.”
“That’s not an argument.”
“It is if you think about it long enough,” you said. “C’mon. It’s not firecrackers under a lawn chair or some freak accident. It’s just a friend being a good friend. I won’t even look at your penis. I promise.”
John felt his cheeks warm up. John ran a hand over the back of his neck, tension creeping back in. “It’s just… this isn’t something you fix with a… group project. This is solo work.”
You gave him a look. “You literally work in a trauma center. Everything you do is a group project.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“Because people are dying,” he said immediately.
You nodded once. “And right now, no one is dying. Just your ego a little.”
You tilted your head. “Look,” you said again, quieter. “I’m not trying to make you uncomfortable. I told you I wouldn’t. I meant it. And to do that, I won’t look at your penis in the eyes,” you added flatly.
John closed his eyes for half a second. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” you said, as if this was a normal professional boundary conversation and not whatever universe you two had wandered into.
He opened his eyes again, still clearly stuck somewhere between disbelief and resignation.He shook his head, looking at the bags on his counter, the takeout, the absurd pile of your belongings already invading his apartment like they belonged there.
“You’re unbelievable,” he muttered.
You smiled faintly. “You love me.”
One episode of Boy Meets World later and two more servings of pad thai, the apartment had settled into that oddly intimate hum that comes with midnights.
John sat against the headboard, sweatshirt discarded somewhere off to the side, his T-shirt slightly wrinkled from restless shifting. A thin strip of skin showed at his waist where the fabric had ridden up, unintentional and unnoticed. He looked like he’d been sitting in his own thoughts for too long. You were beside him, not touching, just there. Sitting on your heels with your hands folded neatly in your lap like you were about to start a very serious, very clinical procedure and not whatever this had slowly turned into. The air between you felt… careful. Like both of you were afraid that moving wrong would tip everything off balance.
Neither of you spoke for a while.
John’s foot twitched once under the blanket. Then again. His grip tightened slightly on the comforter before loosening. You could hear him breathing more than anything else.
Finally, his voice broke the silence.
“Do… do you want me to just take it out?”
You blinked once, then nodded immediately, forcing yourself to keep your tone steady. “Um, yeah. I guess..”
He raised an eyebrow.
Then, quieter, you added, “Just… show me what you usually do. How you handle it. I’m sorry, I know that sounds—” You exhaled sharply through your nose, a faint, self-conscious laugh. “There’s no way to say this that doesn’t sound weird.”
His mouth twitched like he might agree, but he didn’t interrupt.
You shifted slightly, still keeping your hands in your lap. “I’m not… judging anything,” you clarified quickly. “This is just information. Like troubleshooting. That’s it.”
John swallowed, nodding once. “Okay.”
He hesitated for another second, then shifted his weight and adjusted his pajama pants with slow, awkward precision, like even the movement itself felt unfamiliar under the circumstances. The confidence he usually carried in every other part of his life was nowhere in sight here. You kept your eyes on his face instead of anywhere else, exactly like you said you would.
“Okay,” you said softly, more to anchor him than anything else. “You’re in control of this. Just… do what you normally would.”
He let out a slow breath through his nose, nodding again, shoulders slightly hunched as he tried to settle into something that clearly wasn’t settling.
You broke your promise nearly instantly, gaze frozen on the way he was palming himself over the thin fabric. A soft sigh slipped from his lips, forcing you to drag his gaze to his face. His neck had already started to flush.
“I.. I can’t,” he whispered, stopping his movements.
You adjusted the way you were seated, facing him, your thigh against his. “Just close your eyes.” You swallowed nervously. “Would it work better if I did it for you?”
He blinked. “Uh, I-I don’t know,” he admitted. “I can keep trying.”
“Okay. Close your eyes and just think,” you said, nodding encouragingly. “Imagine yourself with your dream person in front of you.”
John nodded, eyes fluttering shut. He rolled his shoulders and settled against the headboard again.
“What do they look like? Smell like.” You picked at the hem of your t-shirt. “What would you like them to do?”
Another sigh slipped from his lips.
“Now that you have your person… imagine what they’re wearing. Jeans? A skirt? Can you see their legs?”
John nodded, eyes tightening. “Can I take it out now?”
“Whenever you feel comfortable,” you said. “I’m not looking.”
While John shuffled out of his pajama bottoms, you focused elsewhere. Beside the window stood a bookcase. The bottom shelves were littered in textbooks and manuals. There was a bound book labeled as his undergraduate thesis, something you’d probably beg him to read in a few weeks.
“Imagine their hand is yours,” you whispered, smiling at the figurines and funko pops on the higher shelves, covering the books and DVDs on the shelf. “That they’re the ones stroking you.”
John cleared his throat, eyes still shut. His mind hadn’t settled on anyone in particular, but this was seemingly working. He could feel the pit in his stomach begin to warm. He worked himself thoroughly from base to tip, running his finger over the head like he’d figured out worked best.
Your eyes traced the CD cases, trying to read the spines. Michael Jackson. Earth, Wind, and Fire. Red Hot Chili Peppers. “Now, think about where you are. Laying in bed, your person between your legs, working you carefully.”
A groan fell from his lips, his muscles relaxing as he imagined a set of hands clasped over his thighs, teasing him. His other hand dragged over his thigh, fingernails scratching at his skin. He hissed when he felt the sting of going too fast.
In an unstoppable, instinctual reaction, you looked at him. The back of your neck flared with the flush of embarrassment at the sight of John so exposed. Your eyes focused on the red line marking his otherwise smooth skin. His shirt had ridden up in the process, revealing the smooth plane of his abdomen. His muscles weren’t defined, but you’d seen the way he could effortlessly lift patients. His skin looked soft, like he never missed a step in his full body skin care. Probably the lotion you’d recommended him a few months ago. He moaned again, losing himself further into the moment. Your mind went blank at the expression on his face, jaw slack as he stroked himself gently.
“I’m going to step out,” you whispered.
He nodded. “Okay.”
You slipped out of his room as quietly as you could, easing the door shut behind you until the latch clicked softly into place. The second you were alone in the hallway, the air felt different.
Never, in all the years you’d known John, had you been in his bedroom. You’d been in his kitchen, his living room, had leaned against his counters during late-night study sessions and early-morning debrief, but this part of the space is new. Even now, standing there, it felt like you’d crossed into something private in a way that had nothing to do with what was happening and everything to do with him.
Your eyes drifted briefly to the closed door, then down the hall to the one across from it. The boxes he consistently complained about holding too much shit. There were still parts of him you didn’t know.
Your heart thudded hard in your chest, loud enough that it felt like it echoed in your ears as you made your way down the hall, each step a little too quick, a little too restless. By the time you reached the couch, your hands didn’t quite know what to do with themselves. You sat, then shifted, then finally forced them into your lap like that might steady something.
You stared straight ahead. This was your idea.
You exhaled, shaky, then leaned forward suddenly, grabbing your phone and keys like you needed something desperately. Your vision blurred slightly as your thumbs moved too fast across the screen, typing out the first excuse you could think of before you could overthink it.
john shen who as a broke med student made some…. asmr. ya know, never would hurt someone. john shen who’s your attending and for some reason when he groans about an annoying patient…. you remember something.
josie u know how ur amazing and wonderful and brilliant…. i need more shen x reader x abbot idgaf what maybe them finding out reader has a tramp stamp? and they’re just keep getting her to bend over orrrrrr idc GIMMIE ANYTHING PLEASE
hello my dear! i gooootchu, thss kind of goes hand in hand with what we were talking about in freakville ;)
you’ve got your heels in your hands as you rush to the changing station. “woah hot rod! gonna knock someone over,” dana calls out to you, and you throw a smile at her once you reach your destination. you’d been called in after a hectic day shift, which meant your night crew would have a lot to clean up.
“what’s the occasion?” Dr. Toomarian whistled, eyeing you down as you type in your code. “ahh…had a date. don’t wanna hear it,” you cut off the bajillion jokes and questions you knew would come from her, “but it wasn’t looking like it was gonna end in good taste anyway. i haaate guys who only talk about themselves the whole time. blegh.” you stick out your tongue playfully as you finally get your stuff open, only to see your change of scrubs were gone, the only thing there were a pair of back up shoes.
your jaw drops with an exasperated sound of disbelief, eyes wide as you grab your shoes. “oh my god, i-my fucking scrubs are…” you pause as you remember how you took them home a few days ago to wash, the image of them on your couch folded clear in your mind. you sigh, and the cool air against your bare legs feels like a taunt.
“i took my scrubs home to wash, and forgot them.” you sigh, combing back your hair with your fingers. “oh shit, you need a pair? i got some in mine,” she offers, her thumb angled back to the opposite locker. “no, no it’s fine. i’ll get some out the refill thing.” “oh…the tech is all down, i thought they told you. don’t even worry bout’ it-you can wear mine,” she says while moving past you, and you don’t fight her as you sigh out a thank you.
she hands them to you before leaving to check in with her patient. and while you’re thankful, Nazely is a little smaller than you, so the pair fits you a little..too perfectly. a little tight around your ass and thighs, and the shirt was a bit too small, small enough to ride up your stomach with every swing of your arms.
you tuck your hair behind you ears as you find your attendees, sighing again at the small inconvenience that you could’ve easily avoided had you not been in a rush the other night. “talk to me,” you walk up to Dr. Abbot and Dr. Shen outside a patient door, and their eyes take their time raking over you. “have a growth spurt over night kiddo?” Shen cracks, and you pull a forced sarcastic smile,
“har har. i wasn’t in scrubs when i came, my spares aren’t here, these aren’t mine.” “where were you comin’ from? you had a hot date?” Abbot jokes, though falls visibly shocked when you confirm. “not hot, but it was definitely a date. i’d rather be here though, was getting boring.” “you’d rather hang around sick and dying people?” “of course, what’re saturday’s for?” you smile, leading the way around the ED so they can catch you up to speed.
you walk a little ahead of them (because they’re old, and can’t be bothered to speed walk with you), and as mentioned, your shirt was tight on you, riding up with each swing of the arms. so as Abbot is giving you the run down, something catches Shen’s eye.
he sees the little fine lines that occupy your hips, and as they sway he gets the tiniest peak of your tattoo. your tramp stamp. he takes in a breath, silently cursing himself as warmth grows in his chest, wanting to look away but the harder he looked, the more of it he wanted to see.
“that’s Shens patient though,” Jack nudged him, his head snapping up, and just in time because you’re looking back at him with curious eyes. “i’m..i’m sorry, who?” he cocks his head, a little embaressed by how easily distracted he got. “mrs. laverne, your patient with the puss coming out the eye?” Jack jogs his memory, a playfully annoyed tone on his tongue.
you scoff a laugh as you face forward again, “oh! yeah, yeah. senior citizen, simply eye infection…” through his monologue he nudges elbows with Jack, pointing down at the display in front of him. he audibly stammers, holding his chest while he clears his through, shaking his head at the display.
his eyes squint, trying to get a better look at the peaking ink, though your shirt hides most of it. that’s taunting, to say the least. he makes a whistling face to Shen, shaking his head before trying to act casual, looking around and scratching the back of his neck.
he waited and waited for the moment your shirt lifts completely so they can see the ink, but it didn’t come. he sighs when you turn around to face them, eyes flickering away quickly. and i guess his face tells more than it should, because you immediately catch him. “you’re red, dr. Abbot. your old age catchin’ up to you finally?” you joke, and he scoffs a laugh, rubbing his hands down his face.
“me? no, nev-never. they call me the energizer bunny for a reason. i’m just…hot.” he shrugs, and you don’t give it a second thought as you give him a little giggle, turning around the corner. when they know you’re actually out of earshot, the two men let out a big breath, eyes hard on each other with one thing racing in mind.
“dude. i…wow.” Shen started first, shaking his head. “haven’t seen a tramp stamp since my resident days, jesus. did you get a good look?” they whisper amongst themselves. “nah, just barely. looks like words and other shit but..damn. like, daamn.” he shakes his head.
“words? i only saw the squiggles on the side. did you make out anything?” “nah, bet i can make out what it is faster than you.” he shrugs, and Jack grins. “oh yeah? bet i can see the whole thing before four o’clock.” and it’s a deal as they sprint over to an incoming patient.
you didn’t know how it started, or if you were just making it up in your head, but your attending were like..fucking all over you. you had to be imagining it.
there’s no other way to spin it, you guess. Shen is just a nice guy, you don’t look too into it when he rubs at your back, only when he goes lower and lower until it’s resting right against your tailbone, playing with the hem of your shirt while he spoke with you. whatever, you’re going crazy.
you also think you’re going crazy when he later pulls at your shirt to hold you back, the cool air gushing underneath the fabric as he hooks it under his finger. he just didn’t want you running off like you always do. right!
“hey-get in there doctor [last name],” Dr. Abbot forcefully pushed you down, his head keeping you steady at the middle of your shoulder blades. you stammer over yourself, eyes widening in shock as you keep your head down at the task at hand, feeling your shirt lift slightly. “incision with precision, you’ll kill em if you’re not looking hard enough ok?” “mhm, yeah ok. s-sorry.” you nod quickly, trying to hide how flustered you were.
dr. Abbot and Shen on the other hand are glancing over at each other, with Abbots hand still holding you down he leans his head back a little to scan you, fuck. almost there. he shakes his head quickly at Shen before pulling off. a small look of couldn’t see it.
you start to catch on that the attention was intentional when… “i like your tattoos.” Abbot says, and when you look up he’s talking to your older patient, not you. “thanks, surpised they’re still kickin’, got em mostly in 88’. you got any of your own?” you listen in, looking between them but Jack doesn’t spare you a glance.
“me? oh, nah. never was my thing because i couldn’t think of anything cool, but i like them on other people. had a girlfriend thing in med school, she had a tramp stamp. i thought it was the hottest thing, still is. haven’t seen one of those since, though.” that makes your ears perk up, brows raising as you clean off his wound.
the man whistles, “whew, haven’t seen onea’ those either. remember when they were real popular, everyone and their mother had one. what about you, missy? you got any ink?” he asks you, and Jack finally meets your eye. you giggle a little, “yeah, a few. mostly where the sun don’t shine.”
your breaking point of the situation was in the main area, you at your desk catching up on charting. it was probably around four, and you’re already sporting a coffee. you stand and bend over your table to shred a few documents, when you’re jolted out of your body—Shen had landed a hard slap against your hips, just between where your ass met the curve of your back in passing.
you suck in a breath at the intrusion, only to turn your head to see him and Abbot walking talking leisurely. “uh-dr. Shen???” you call bad in shock, and both men turn to meet your face as if nothing happened. “sorry, did that hurt? was just trying to lighten up the mood.” “yeah you look bent outta shape. did he hit something?” Abbot asks, and it hits you.
your shirt is so small, and it’s been riding up all shift. is THAT what’s this all about?? the realization makes you smiling, scoffing a chuckle as you shake your head. you spot an empty room behind them, setting your pin down and rubbing at the back of your neck. “follow me.” you say carelessly, and the men exchange glances before following you.
you let them enter first and close the door, shutting the curtain with a sigh. “is this why you’ve been bothering me all night?” you shoot them a look before turning around, and they suck in a breath when you lift your shirt over your back, giving them the full view of your tramp stamp.
they fein closer, Abbot squinting as he reads it, “lucky you.” on the sides of your curves there’s symmetrical fine like designs sitting pretty, but it was far behind them now. lucky. you. “i asked a question.” you speak, and they straighten up with a quickness, clearing throats and looking around bashfully.
“bothering you? no, no i mean i wouldn’t—” “yeah it-it was more like..investigating. wow.” Abbot whistles, meeting your face as you turn back around, a sly look on your face. “investigating? that’s what you’re calling it, not sexual harassment??” you joke, giggling watching their faces flip with worry.
“calm down, i’m kidding. i’m not mad, but if you’re gonna bend me over all night at least take me to dinner first. or paris.” you roll your eyes, and they chuckle nervously with you. “we were just curious, promise. it’s..it’s cute.” “it’s slutty, too.” Abbot adds, and you nod with a giggle. “thank you.”
they hang back as you pull back the curtains, “you’re lucky i don’t take it to HR, perverts.” you wink, finally exiting the room as if nothing happened.
bonus!
“lucky you. that’s so fucking hot.” Shen sighs, still accompanying the room, watching you strut past it. “s’pornographic, that’s what it is. also did…she said paris, right? you don’t think she…” he shrugs, rubbing the back of his neck. “no, no. surely she didn’t mean.. yknow.” Shen shrugs, and Abbot sighs, nodding his head frantically.
“yeah nono, surely. i mean it..wouldn’t be crazy going to paris..with her,” he shrugs, eyeing his buddy as they exit the room, “but nah, she didn’t mean that. surely.” they catch your gaze in passing, and you’ve still got the flirty grin across your face, and they notice the way your hips sway. “yeah. surely.” Shen looks over.
turnnoffyourmind
titsay
dailybridgerton
snowghoul
andulkaphoto
annaxmalina
discoholicmusic
ellievsbear
2087
prguitarman
