Tags: shy nurse!reader, soft whipped emery (but don't tell anyone), fluff, yearning, no use of yn
Request: here! Celebrate 2k with me!
Word count: 0.7k
જ⁀➴⋆.˚
There's a lot about you that confounds Emery, but mostly the way you make her pause. She's not one for idling around—she never has been, and especially not at work. But just the sight of you, doing something as laughably simple as staring down at your tablet with a pursed lip, has her feet stalling before she can fight the movement.
Or, something as ridiculously transfixing as setting down your weary head on your desk and letting your eyes drift closed amongst the ceaseless din of the hospital. You're still in your scrubs, a heavy darkness under your eyes, your chest rising and falling slow. Somehow, despite the rush of day shift settling in around you, you're fast asleep.
Emery's bag is already hitched on her shoulder when she spots you, her phone out, earbuds slipped in. By all accounts, she should be leaving. She is leaving. But.
Two hands stretch her in opposing directions: she's already itching for bed, her back aching, head still throbbing with the interns' asinine questions—and you're slumped in your chair, forehead tucked into the crook of your elbow, and, well, she doesn't have much of a choice left in the matter, does she?
If Parker caught wind of this—
"Hey." She shuffles over, nudging the meat of your shoulder with her knuckle. It's a gentle touch—moreso than she expected it to be. You don't stir.
Her eyes rove over the lax lines of your face. You look unusually peaceful, no frown pulling your brows, no tightness tugging around your mouth. It must be a crime, somewhere, to wake you when you look like this, but the bigger crime is to leave you sleeping in this fluorescent-lighted hellhole.
Emery sighs and slips her phone into her pocket. She bends down closer, tap tapping your shoulder. "Hey. Sleeping beauty."
You mumble a protest, a faint sound humming from your throat. It tinkers strangely with Emery's pulse. She gives your shoulder a heavier shake, her thumb brushing the warm skin beneath your collar, and your eyes flutter open. They're bloodshot, bleary, and they widen when they see her. You shoot up in your seat, blinking.
"What?" You mumble, touching your cheek. "Was I paged?" You frown, fumbling with your pockets.
Emery doesn't need to look to know that your pager is lying just behind the monitor on your desk.
"I should think not, all your patients are conked out." She says, leaning over to grab it. You rear back at her movement, flustering, eyes downcast as she hands it to you. Her fingers itch to smooth the sleep-lines imprinted onto your skin. They itch to do a lot of things to you—beautiful, skittish you.
Sleepy you.
"Thanks," you rub at your eye, slipping the pager into your pocket. "I didn't expect to just drift off like that."
Your voice pitches even lower in your exhaustion, your words slurring the faintest bit. It does something to her that she doesn't care to rationalize. She adjusts her grip on her bag, ignoring the voice in her head telling her that maybe she should escort you to your locker—make sure you don't hit your head in your daze, or whatever—when you look down to check your watch and wince with the movement, your hand shooting up, fingers gingerly finding the base of your neck.
"Sore?" Emery guesses. You nod, and she's shifting behind you, her hands moving before she can stop them, flanking the warm curve of your throat without her explicit permission.
What in gods name is she—
"Jesus, your neck is riddled." Her brows pull together. You're stiff under her fingers, knots buried just under your skin. "What the hell do you sleep in? A coffin?"
"Um." You squeak. Your hand rises up to the side of your neck, almost like you're about to touch her, or shove her off, or both.
You do neither and let it fall back into your lap. "I guess my pillow's a bit stiff." You say meekly.
"Well, I'm no masseuse," she begins to say—but, there's a but there—then forgets the rest of her sentence when your head tilts, shoulders rising up as she works a knot loose, a small breath of a sigh winding out of you.
Her hands go still. Your skin is blazing hot under them, and you roll your neck to test the movement, your small, satisfied hum reverberating right through her fingers.
Emery, for the first time in a while, forgets what it is that she was going to say.
Can you do park reader who lives in his apartment building and has guide dog for whatever reason you want and the dog comes to his door when reader falls in the hallway thanks love your stories
You turn to your left and see your next-door neighbor.
Brendon Park.
He was stupidly handsome and such a nice guy.
You always see him at different times of the day because he’s a surgeon down the road at ptmc. It’s also a nice perk to live next door to a doctor, which he insisted you knock if you ever need him day or night.
“Hey Bren, going out or just getting back?”
He smiles as he leans against his door “Just getting back. A long nap is calling my name. Hopefully I’m up by lunch. Where are you and Meesh headed?”
Meesh, a nickname for Misha, is a 4 year old golden retriever. He’s also your service dog of almost three years now.
You had been diagnosed with POTS as a teenager and over the years it had gotten a little more intense. This had led to you passing out while out by yourself one day and had hit your head. Luckily a passerby called EMS and you were taken to the hospital and treated.
It happened more frequently after that and your parents decided a service dog was non-negotiable since you lived alone.
You’ve lived next to Brendon for about a year now and even though he’s a doctor, you’ve never told him of your condition. You just didn’t want to seem incapable or weak around him.
Obviously he knew you had some sort of medical condition as you had Misha but he’d never ask unless you were to bring it up first.
“We’re headed to the new farmer’s market downtown. I’ve heard good things and I've been dying to check it out.” you laugh
“Oooo there's a jam stand there that sells raspberry peach jam, here–” he pulls $40 from his wallet “Could you grab me two jars? I’ve not been able to go with my schedule lately.”
You shake your head with a smile “Bren, I’ll get them. You don’t have to pay me.”
He raises an eyebrow and holds the money out.
“Uh uh, take this and keep the rest for the troubles.”
You tap your chin dramatically “How about I’ll take it when I bring the jams back, fair deal?”
He tilts his head with a chuckle.
“You drive a hard bargain woman but okay, when you get back.”
You wave to him as you walk Meesh to the elevator.
Brendon watches you go even after the elevator doors close.
He bites his lip at the thought of seeing you again later.
Shaking his head he finally unlocks his door and walks in.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
After a whole day in the hot Pittsburgh heat, you’re finally making your way back to the apartment building.
You hold your tote bag on your shoulder, the two jars of jam securely tucked in it.
As you walk towards the elevator you notice a sign on the doors
‘Elevators out of service until tomorrow.”
“Fuck” you say quietly.
Guess you’ll be taking the stairs.
You’re on the sixth floor so it’s not terrible but the trek up there still won’t be easy.
After a few minutes you realize the air conditioning isn’t great in the stairwell and you’re starting to sweat a lot.
You end up stopping on the fourth floor to sit down for a few minutes.
You’re pretty out of breath and start to feel a little dizzy.
Just two more floors.
When you go to stand up Meesh is at your side and is trying to lay on your lap, keeping you sitting.
You then realize he’s alerting you to your fast heart rate. A potential episode starting.
Normally this is when you’d stay seated and rest a bit but you don’t. Gently you pet him while trying to catch your breath.
“I-It’s okay Meesh. Just t-two more and I’ll sit w-when we’re upstairs.”
You knew better than to ignore him and not immediately take it easy but you were almost home.
Meesh whines a little as he desperately tries to get you to stay sitting but you get up anyway and continue up the stairs.
Finally you’re only a set of stairs away from the sixth floor door. As you go to take a step, it feels like the ground is shifting. Your movements feel sluggish as you take another step.
Shit. I need to sit right now.
Your hands shake as you try to grab your phone from your purse. Meesh is back at your side nudging you and again trying to get you to sit.
Without looking you take another step but the dizziness throws you off balance, sending you tumbling down the few stairs to the platform below.
Your bag hits the ground, scattering all your belongings somewhere you can’t see.
“M-Meeshhh” you try to call for him. He looks torn to find something to help and staying to help comfort you.
Then in a split second he’s racing up the stairs to the hallway door. The inside of the door is one you push to open from both sides.
Luckily, in training Meesh, he had been taught how to open a few different types of door handles for retrieving water, medicines, and other things.
It doesn’t take long for him to figure this one out and as soon as it starts to open he’s squeezing through the opening and runs to your apartment door.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
Brendon’s enjoying his post-shift nap when a noise pulls him from his sleep.
He looks up from the couch and listens quietly.
There’s a scratching sound.
Are there rats in the walls?
He goes to lay back down when he hears whining.
“What the f—“
Then there’s a loud bark that sounds close by.
He then moves from the couch and towards the front door.
Cracking it open he sees golden fur by your door.
Brendon opens the door wider and sees Meesh scratching at your door.
“Hey Meesh!” he stays where he is since he’s well aware to not touch working dogs.
Speaking of working, where were you?
He walks out further and doesn’t see you but he notices Meesh’s frantic behavior.
“Where’s your mommy buddy?”
Meesh runs to Brendon and frantically paws at Brendon and then runs down to the door leading to the stairwell.
Brendon’s eyebrows furrow as he observes the dog's behavior.
Then it hits him.
Shit.
In a training seminar he was taught that if a service dog is alone, to follow them. That some dogs were trained to find help if the handler was injured or suffering a medical emergency.
You could be in trouble.
He immediately runs to where Meesh is and pushes the door open.
Peering down the stairs, his heart stops.
You’re at the bottom of the stairs on your side looking like you passed out. Your stuff is everywhere and Meesh is trying to comfort you and lay on your chest.
“Sweetheart, hey!” He yells as he makes his way to you quickly.
He notices your labored breathing and that your eyes are barely open.
“Hey sweet girl, what happened? Are you okay?”
He gently feels around your head and takes note of a bump on the side where you likely hit your head.
“B-Bren?” you slur out a little
His hand engulfs your face as he looks you over.
“It’s okay sweetheart, we’re gonna head to ptmc right now.”
You shake your head as you try to sit up.
“Sorry baby you can’t get up. Just stay still.”
“No Bren,” you mumble “no ambulance.”
He grabs your attention, looking into your eyes.
“Hey, hey I know but you’re hurt. So either the ambulance takes you or I do.”
You squint your eyes at the pounding headache and try to curl into him “Take me please.”
——
Brendon had quickly gotten his keys and then grabbed you and Meesh, making his way to ptmc.
He wished he had a picture of Dana’s face when he had come in with you in his arms and a dog glued to your side.
The three of you were a sight to see amongst his friends and colleagues.
Quickly Robby had been called down to your room to assess you.
Brendon stayed glued to your side with your hand in his as they evaluated you, taking in all the information Robby talked about.
You had POTS?
Fuck, he wish you would’ve told him so he could’ve helped better.
—--
About an hour later you were more coherent and able to register where you were.
“Bren?” you whisper as you see him to the side of you.
Your voice gets his attention and he looks over, his hand immediately stroking the side of your face gently.
“Hey sweetheart, you feelin better?”
You take a mental inventory of how you’re feeling.
“Yeah,” you nod “what hap—Meesh! Where is h-“
Brendon hushes you softly “He’s right here.”
He motions towards the dog that’s been attached to him and head in his lap since you guys arrived.
You nod shaky as you try to calm your racing heart.
“You had an episode, POTS. Guess you already knew but they think it was likely brought on by the heat and the exertion from climbing the stairs.”
You start to recall the events in your head.
“Yeah I-I remember it. Meesh alerted to the symptoms but I just wanted to make it to the apartment first. I should’ve listened to him. I’m sorry to drag you into all of this.”
Brendon squeezes your hand “Hey it’s okay. I’m glad I was home to help. But I’m gonna give you my number and next time the elevator is out or you don’t feel good, you use it and call me. I don’t care if I’m asleep or not home. You call me and I’ll come get you, okay?”
You shake your head “Bren, I can’t d-“
“Promise me sweetheart?” his face pleading with you.
You contemplate it and then nod, squeezing his hand.
“Okay, I promise “
He brings your hand to his mouth and places a kiss there.
“Perfect.”
You look around “Where’s my bag?”
Brendo turns and takes it off the back of his chair.
“I gathered what I saw on the stairs earlier but if something’s missing, tell me and I’ll go back and look for it baby.”
Rummaging through the bag you pull out what you were looking for, holding them out to him.
“You really got them?” his grin gets wider as he carefully takes the jars of raspberry peach jam from you.
pairings / trinity santos x female!intern, jack abbot x female!intern (platonic)
summary / jack abbot had his suspicions over his favorite intern for a while now. it doesn't help when she shows up bruised and battered and he finds out that someone else shares his worries. (3k wc)
warnings / abuse! scenes described & abuse hinted at. this is very jack centric oops, my bad! ooc jack? ooc trinity? jack abbot is a dad. medical inaccuracies because i'm not a doctor and the research makes my head hurt sorry lol.
notes / this is part 1! this is just the start of my girly prongs' series <33
୧ *·˚ PTMC, 7PM.
The neon-red emergency sign loomed in front of her bright and heavy as she gripped the straps of her backpack with sweaty fingers, feet firmly rooted to the ground — For a moment she felt taken back to starting her first year of residency at PTMC a few weeks ago; eyes wide and limbs trembling. She remembered the way the attending Doctor Robinavitch — Call me Robby, kid — had looked at her as though she was a kitten in need of rescuing; the way Doctor Abbot had made sure to give her a thumbs up or an encouraging word after every patient during her first shift — because, of course, her first shift as an intern had to clash with the shooting at Pittfest — or the way Dana had proclaimed her as the baby of the ER a week into her residency.
Whatever it was, something about her — something about her doe-like eyes and her thin frame that seemed to tremble with frigidity when the wind picked up — made her seem like something in need of protecting. She was skilled too; working with the precision of someone who was more than just an intern and the empathy of someone who had faced her fair share of horrors over the twenty-something years she'd been alive — and, in all fairness, none of them doubted that she had.
The clock was just shy off seven — it was her second week of night shift — when she finally found the courage to meander through the chaos that was the PTMC waiting room. Flashing her badge to the security guard at the front, she pushed open the door to the familiar Emergency Room that had become more of her home than the tiny apartment tucked in between a flower shop and a cozy bar she actually lived in.
She buried her face in the collar of the jacket she had thrown over her scrubs in her haste to get out of the door, pulling her cap deeper into her face as her eyes easily sought out Robby and Doctor Abbot leaning against the nurses station. Fuck. Truth to be told, she was certainly aware that there was no way in hell that she could hide the evidence of her weekend, that stood out against the pale skin of her face like a lighthouse, from anyone at the PTMC but she had hopped to put it off until the last second — or at least until Robby, the equally as worried but more emotional part of the two, had left for his home.
"Hey." she muttered uneasily in passing, merely raising her hand in an akward wave.
"Well, hello the— Woah, woah, woah! Hey!" Robby interrupted himself, abandoning the tablet in his hands to rush towards her. He was in front of her in seconds, gentle hands tilting her face towards the light as he took in the bruise blossoming around her left eye with furrowed brows. Doctor Abbot moved into the space behind him quickly, straining his neck over Robby's shoulder to get a good look on her face as well.
She winced as her head throbbed with the motion. She had looked at herself in the mirror before she left and, in all honesty, she knew if the slight limp in her gait didn't raise any concerned questions, her left eye that was almost swollen shut at this point definitely would.
"What happened there then, huh?" Doctor Abbot hummed, muscular arms crossed in front of a broad chest. Her answer was a mere grimace as she watched Robby pull out a penlight from the chest pocket of his scrubs, checking her pupils before prodding around the bruised swelling starting around her eye.
"Pupils are equal and reactive— Come on, follow my finger." Robby muttered; a calm focus replacing the frantic worry even if she could see the hints of unease slipping through the cracks. She obliged begrudgingly, humoring Robby by following his finger with her eyes — Heaven knows there was no way he would let her slip off to work before assessing her. "Okay, good. That looks to be in order. Nothing seems broken either, but I want to get a head CT so we can rule out everyth—"
Her eyes widened in panic and she was quick to stumble a step back. "Hey, no, that's not necessary at all. I just tripped on my way down the stairs this morning and knocked into a table. I'm good... seriously. Nothing ice and a little TLC can't fix."
The corners of Doctor Abbot's mouth quirked up into a solemn smile as he moved to stand next to Robby. Sure you did." he muttered, sharp eyes taking in the way she stood there, clearly favoring her left leg and thin arms wrapped around herself delicately.
Her face had considerably hollowed out since she had started at PTMC all those weeks ago; already prominent features now sticking out sharp and distinctively gaunt. With the sleeves off her underscrubs permanently stretched past her knuckles and her head always tucked into the hood of the jacket she always wore, it suddenly became apparent to Jack that she was shrinking right in front of his eyes — that there was significantly less her standing in front of him now than the girl he'd met stumbling into the ER for the first time that day of Pittfest. "You're not working in my ER until you're cleared. One of your eyes can barely stay open." he huffs, tilting his head up ever so slightly at her. There's something in his chest that he can't quite name but his voice is thick with it — It's the same way his heart had seemed to swell in his chest leaving him breathless when his late wife had thought she was pregnant all those years ago.
"Doctor Abbot—" she tried in a feeble attempt but Jack shook his head, one hand already hovering near her back.
"You and I are gonna take a trip up to CT." he explained, a sense of tenderness seeping through his actions and words that was so entirely different to the doctor she had met at the start of her residency. "Did you pass out? Any nausea? Dizziness?"
She wanted to argue; wanted to tell him that she is more than capable of diagnosing a concussion on her own, that despite being just an intern she still went through med school and could take care of herself but a tiny part of her — the tiny part that wasn't terrified of being found out — couldn't help but think it felt nice to be taken care of. "No, no and no." she muttered, shaking her head despite the pounding in her head.
It was a white lie, really. In truth, she had no clue if she had passed out — She remembered her boyfriend's face distorted in rage, his fist raising after one of their many arguments had once again blown out of proportion before it came barreling towards her. It took a full minute, however, for her to actually feel the pain searing through the left side of her face, a full minute as she just looked at his face; looked at the man she'd loved for seven years who had for the first time actually punched her in the face.
She couldn't remember the ten minutes that followed — She could distinctly think of her body breaking to the right, hip crashing against the bedside table and she could faintly picture her boyfriend changing her trembling body into her scrubs, but that's when her mind blacked out.
Jack looked over at her with his eyebrows narrowed and lips pressed thin in a way that was so Doctor Abbot — so like the man that had driven her home once after a gruelling shift left her drained to the point Robby worried she would wound up in the ER on a gurney if he let her leave alone; the man who had covered her in his jacket when she had fallen asleep in his passenger seat and had mindlessly driven for an hour through Pittsburgh just to make sure she got at least an ounce of sleep — that it almost made her cry.
It was silent after that — or: as silent as it could get in the chaos of the pitt — as Doctor Abbot guided her to the elevator, his broad back shielding her from the prying looks from the nurses he knew to like the ugly gossip. His hand was just shy off her back, close enough for her to feel the warm radiating from him but far enough for her not to feel suffocated.
"Anyone we can call for you? Boyfriend? Parents?" he asked mindlessly as he got her situated on a chair just outside the doors of the CT. His gaze was trained on the tablet in his hands as his fingers swiftly moved to start a chart on her but his sharp eyes didn't miss the way she seemed to sit up a little straighter at his question.
"Uh... no," she muttered, a sense of shame spilling from her lips "My boyfriend's... busy and I don't— My parents— They live out of state.", she settled on after a brief moment of akward rambling. Jack made a noise in acknowledgment; something between a hum and a grunt.
He could feel something tighten in his chest — His parents, too, had always been 'out of state' whenever anything had come up; for his wedding, every Christmas and every birthday. He shifted towards her against the strain it put on his prosthesis. "Okay, kiddo," he muttered, his voice edging on a sense of softness he usually reserved for his kid patients "I'm pretty sure Robby will stay until you're cleared anyway so he can drive you home."
She wanted to protest but Doctor Abbot just shook his head. "Don't even think about it. I don't think your patient satisfactory scores wouldn't handle your face looking like you just came home from a pub crawl." he joked — Joking because joking with her felt safe when he couldn't quite decipher the feelings wrapping around his chest like a rubberband.
Her shoulders slump in unconcealed defeat. She knew that not only would Doctor Abbot and Robby not let her work under any circumstances, but — and everything in her loathed to admit it — she was in no condition to treat patient when she could neither walk nor see properly. "I can take the bus, it's fine."
Jack's head lifted ever so slightly, eyebrows raised and lips pursed ever so slightly. "No chance." he stated simply, his tone brooking no argument.
She let out an exhale — shaky and deep — as she slouched deeper in the chair. The night shift, when she'd joined them two weeks ago, had felt like a safe haven; night shift meant that she could spend as little time confined to the same four walls as her boyfriend. Night shift meant she could leave home before he returned from work and take so much time getting back home in the morning, that he'd already left when she opened the door.
"Is your boyfriend home?" Jack asked casually. He barely looked up from the tablet in his hand but she noticed the slight shift in his posture; noticed the tension pulling through his shoulders and the slight downturn at the corners of his mouth. She knew her coworkers had a hunch — the bruises peeking out, the way she checked her phone almost obsessively and the times she refused to meet up with them for any social event outside of work.
"Yes, got home from work when I was getting ready." she explains, the words tasting bitter on her tongue. Jack nodded wordlessly, fingers flying effortlessly over the tablet.
Jack wanted to ask — Wanted to know if it had been him; if the man that was supposed to love her had been the one who had hurt her to the point of this, but he knew that would inevitably only cause her to shut down. The door to the CT opened before he could say anything else.
Her name was called with that quiet softness the hospital edged into when one of their own was hurt and Jack watched with his eyebrows set in a deep frown as she stumbled to her feet and disappeared into the room.
"Doctor Abbot?"
Startled, Jack turned around to find a fidgeting Trinity Santos lingering just around the corner. She looks uncomfortable in the way that being vulnerable after years of faux strength makes one squirm uneasy. "Doctor Santos." he nods at her. "If there is an issue down in the ER, I'd ask you to please find Robby—"
Trinity shook her head quickly, eyes flickering over to the door to CT. "No, no, no problem in the ER, just... Is she okay?"
Oh, Jack thought, as his eyes carefully traced the way Santos held herself with both hands tucked in the pockets of her scrub pants and her shoulders pulled up to her ears. He nodded, lips twitching into an attempt of a comforting smile. "She took a nasty hit, but she will be fine." I hope, left unsaid.
Trinity hummed, adverting her eyes from Jack's piercing stare. For a moment, Jack debated asking her about Prongs' boyfriend. He knew they were friends; knew that the name Prongs stemmed from an inside joke between Prongs, Santos, Javadi and Whitaker (something to do with Harry Potter, not that Jack would ever admit to eavesdropping on them when they were huddled up at the nurses station during shift change). Once Robby and him had even run into them at the bar just down the road from the hospital which had ended up with him taking a giggling group of girls and a sleeping Whitaker home in his truck.
Trinity started speaking before he could think of what to say.
"She's been showing up with these bruises a lot lately." she started, shrugging in a way that seemed careless but Jack could see the tension pulling through her shoulders. He nodded, giving her the time and space to continue. "It's just— I'm not trying to say... whatever, it just seems weird, you know? She isn't that clumsy."
Jack watched as Trinity twitches on the spot and the pit that had been sitting heavily in his gut since Prongs had stumbled into the ER looking like death warmed over seemed to double in its' size. He knew Trinity was observant like that — appreciated her, even, when he had a case that seemed a little less medical and a lot more psychological — but right now he could only wish that she was wrong.
She sighed heavily, continuing. "I don't even know where I'm going with this. I guess I just—"
"You worry."
Trinity nodded, wordlessly.
"I worry, too." he admitted quietly, shoulders dropping slightly. He could see Trinity straighten up at his words, eyes widening in a way that made Jack think she'd expected him to dismiss her. Jack cleared his throat, thoughts racing a thousand miles a minute as he mulled over how to approach the topic when the door to the CT opened with a faint creak.
Within seconds the air shifted. Trinity pushed herself upright, shoulders pulled back and if it wasn't so devastating watching her swallow down the worry and fear, Jack would've asked her if she had ever considered a career change to acting. "Heard you lost a fight to the stairs and a table." Trinity huffed with a sense of feigned ease.
"Thanks for always being so worried for my wellbeing, Trin." Prongs snorted, lips twitching into something akin to a smile despite the aching in every bone in her body. Trinity only huffed in response, body subconsciously shifting to be closer to her. (Jack noted that; filing it away for something to discern later.)
"So," Jack cut in, lifting up the tablet with her file still opened "What's the verdict?"
Prongs' shoulders dropped ever so slightly but the half-smile stayed pulling stubbornly at the corners of her lips. "Everything looks good. You can see for yourself if you want." she shrugged.
Jack nodded, fingers already moving to pull up the scans added to her file. He didn't doubt her — Still, if there was one thing he'd learned over the years working in the ER it was to always be rather safe than sorry and there was no way in hell that he would take a chance with her. He hummed thoughtfully as his eyes flickered over the scans. "Looks good; think I can send you home without losing hair. Let me just ask Robby if he can take y—"
"I can take her!" Trinity cut in, an instant blush spreading on her cheeks as she realised how eager she sounded.
Jack didn't miss a beat, however. "Sure, that's fine."
The elevator ride back down to the ER went on quiet — Prongs, visibly drained, was propped up against one wall, eyes just about open while Jack and Trinity very obviously hovered, the worried crease between their eyebrows matching.
"Be safe," Jack muttered with a thick swallow as he leaned at the hub, watching Trinity juggle her and Prongs' backpacks in one hand, the other one kept steadily on Prongs' back "And don't even think about coming back before you're properly healed, you hear me?"
She giggled — the sound strained and not enough to ease the tension in his body even slightly. Jack could only beg to whoever might listen as he watched her leave; Please don't come back on a strechter. Please don't make me fight for your life. Please. I can't bury you.
After 20 years of separation, as you transfer to PTMC as a second-year resident, you find your elementary school best friend Trinity.
TW: mentions (Santos’ likely childhood) sexual assault/coercion (emotional manipulation and grooming > internalized guilt), mentions Santos’ self-harm, (internalized) homophobia, trauma (ptsd and anxiety) obviously… medical gore (taken from the show), Garsantos mention
fluffy, somewhat canon compliant, possible early season 2 spoilers, --if you know what you’re looking for I guess-- happy ending, everyone in the Pitt being a menace —> all wanting to earn a quick buck.
—> Best friends to strangers to best friends (or lovers) again
Word count: 12K (honestly don't know how that happened.)
Disclaimer; I don’t own any of these characters, or claim to. Some bits are taken from the show, as they inspired me to write this. And wanting to keep it medically accurate, I trust the Pitt writers more than my non-creative medical brain. As far as the story beyond the medical goes, it contains (slightly dramatised) bits of my own life :) and I don’t speak any Tagalog, but I researched a bit, asked American-Filipino family and they okayed it… but couldn’t write a Santos fic, in the Pitt, without the Filipino chorus (Greek tragedy style)
Also, no AI was used in making this! Sure a spellcheck and grammercheck, but generative AI can stay the fuck away from me and my work.
Please don’t translate or feed it to AI or whatever without reaching out xx
———
It was an early Monday morning in late August, when you first met Trinity. You were five, clutching your backpack like a safety blanket, when a whirlwind of energy changed your life for the better.Your first day of kindergarten, you were nervous. Those viridescent eyes caught yours as she stepped off the school bus. She made a beeline for you, sprinting across the asphalt with the kind of reckless excitement only a kid could muster. You barely had time to blink before she halted mere inches away, cheesing like she’d already won in life. You froze as she closed in. Her smile bright yet fully confident of her cause, potentially dangerous when coming from a stranger.
“Hi! I’m Trinity.” She declared, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Do you want to be my friend?” The young girl said grinning so wide it looked like it might split her face in two. “Uh—yes, okay.” You squeaked introducing yourself, cheeks already warming. She grinned, grabbing your hand before you could overthink it. "Perfect. Now we’re best friends. Forever."
—
“Okay, kindergarten group A, please come to me!” A woman with curly orange hair called out, wanting to take her students inside.
As you turned to head over to the teacher, Trinity grabbed your hand, intertwining your fingers. “We’re friends now; we stay together, Rosy.” Trinity whispered, staying close to you.
“Rosy? But my name is Y/N.” You whispered back in confusion. Trinity let out a delighted chuckle at that, music to your ears: “I know, but your cheeks are nice and rosy,” she answered, using her free hand to softly touch your cheek.
Her action made your cheeks brighten even more. “Oh!” You exhaled softly, eyes avoiding hers nervously, yet she tightened her grip on your hands. “Is that okay?” She asked for consent, even though her eyes showed no remorse. “Yeah, I like it.” You smiled back at her brightly.
The teacher called out names, doing roll call. “Here!” Trinity responded, holding your intertwined hands up to the teacher, to signal your presence. This once again caused your cheeks to flush. The teacher continued down the list, “Trinity Santos?” “Present!” Trinity happily called out in response, grinning ear to ear at you.
As the teacher wrapped up roll call, you followed after her. Trinity hummed happily, swinging your hands back and forth.
——
During your second week of kindergarten, while waiting by the bus loop for your teacher to pick you up, Trinity tripped and skidded across the pavement on her bare knees as she stepped off the bus. You were by her side before her tears even gathered.
“Hey, you’re okay, Trin. I’m here.” You said as you grabbed her hand and help her sit up. “Ouchie, not a great time to wear a dress, I guess.” She joked, even though she lets out soft whimpers.
You crouched beside her, gently picking out gravel embedded in her scraped knee. Each tiny rock felt like a betrayal— how dare the sidewalk hurt your friend? “It’s not deep,” you murmured, more to yourself than to her. “I know it hurts a lot right now. But it’ll scab over, see? Just a little crusty patch for a while, then—poof!—gone in a few weeks. Like magic!” You exclaimed calmly as you tried to quiet her sobs by making it sound more fun.
A teacher came rushing to you too, “Hi girls, what happened here?” He said. You had seen him before; he taught another kindergarten group.
“Trin stepped off the bus and falled. I think we should go to the nurse.” You told him, wanting to get Trinity patched up as quickly as possible.
“Ah, okay, so Trinity fell? Then I’ll tell Ms. Frizz that you’ve gone to the nurse. Do you know how to get there?” He softly spoke as he corrected your mistake. “Yes, I know the way. Thank you, mister.” You thanked the man as he helped you and Trinity up.
—
As you walked down the hallway, supporting Trinity with her arm wrapped around your shoulders. You turned into a doorway, having reached the nurse. “Hello nurse. My Trinity falled outside; can you help, please?” You announced yourselves as you did not see anyone in the small room.
“Oh hi, this is an early call. So you fell? Let’s have you two take a seat on the chairs. I’ll grab some peroxide, saline, and the Band-Aids.” The nurse said as they turned to grab the necessary supplies.
“No, no perkside.” You insisted, wagging a finger at the nurse, stepping between them and Trinity protectively. "It stings, and my mommy says it’s bad for boo-boos. We only use the salin.” Trinity giggled beside you, clutching your hand like a lifeline.
“If you say so, but school does want me to use it.” They argued. “No, thank you. My mommy said to say no to perkside.” You half explained, the nurse backing down, knowing there’s no arguing with a decisive 5-year-old.
“So the sa—salin is used to clean out the germs and small things I couldn’t get. It may hurt a bit, but it should not hurt too much.” You helped Trinity onto the chair, immediately moving to sit beside her and hold her hand again.
Swinging your legs, you softly whispered to Trinity, “Maybe we can have a playdate after school: watch LazyTown and play Mouse Trap.” while playing with her fingers nervously.
The nurse bent down in front of you two. “Ah, you did very well, rockstar; you cleaned most of the debris.” The nurse praised you, sending you a smile.
“Okay, Trinity. Like she just said, I’ll be using this saline. It’s a salt and water mix, like you have in your body, so it’s used to it. I will use it to disinfect and clear your scrape.” The nurse shared, adding more to your earlier explanation.
“How did you know what to do and all about the saline, sweetie?” The nurse asked you as they mindfully clean Trinity’s wound.
“My mom is a doctor, and I want to be a doctor too when I grow up.” You shared timidly, knowing you still have a long time to get there.
“Wow, for a kindergartner you’re already doing really well. If you keep at it and listen to your mother, I have no doubt you’ll make it there.” The nurse told you with a proud smile.
“Okay, Trinity, it’s all cleaned up. Now it’s time for a Band-Aid. What color would you like, honey?” The nurse asked, looking up at Trinity.
“Rosy, what is your favorite color? I want that.” Trinity said quietly looking over at you.
“My favorite color is green, like your eyes.” You told her with a merry grin; the raven-haired girl leaned her shoulder against yours lovingly.
“You two seem like very good friends.” The nurse said as they stuck the Band-Aid on Trinity’s knee. “We are bestest friends!” Trinity said with bright, glimmering eyes.
——
Over the next few months, you and Trinity did everything together. You sat together in class and always played together out in the schoolyard. Your favorite thing arguably was playing tag, as Trinity and her short kid legs rarely managed to catch you. You were always somehow able to just slip out of her hands.
“Catch, please!” She wailed out, voice cracking like the world was ending. You skid to a stop, letting her tackle you into a hug. “Gotcha,” you laughed at her, breathlessly. “Always.” You’d assure, followed by her resting her face in your neck, words tickling you slightly.
Then she’d whisper, “Tag, you’re it, Catch.” before running off giggling happily. You knew this was her play, yet you kept stopping for her: maybe because you liked her hugs, maybe for having her close, or maybe because you knew it would make her smile so brightly.
She later answered your unasked question. As you were laying in the grass, hand in hand, catching your breath from running around. “I call you ‘Catch' when we’re playing because I don’t think I can catch you myself. But you always let me catch you when I ask for help. I know; you know, I’m not sad. And also we always catch each other when we fall off the monkey bars. So you’re my catch.” Trinity whispered as she turned to you, wrapping her free arm around you.
A laugh bubbled up, loving and familiar. “Oh Trin.” You smiled as you pulled her closer, her body falling atop yours. You two were cackling as you rolled Trinity off you, so you were on top of her. Rolling back and forth for a while, never ceasing to laugh, you two were suddenly stopped.
“What are you two doing?” Tim, a boy from your class, asked with a tone of disgust. Trinity pulled back from you, her hand still wrapped in yours.
“We are best friends, having fun. Don’t you know what that is, Tim?!” Trinity spat at the boy, not liking how he interrupted your free time by the playground.
“Well, you looked like grown-ups in love.” Tim said back, not relenting or intending to walk away.
“Okay, but we are only five, so we are not old enough to be in love yet.” You said to Tim, holding up your free hand with five fingers, with Trinity nodding beside you.
“Oh, you are right.” Tim said nearly dejectedly.
“But if we were grown up, then I’d be in love with Rosy.” Trinity told you more than Tim.
“Oh, me too, Trinny!” you squealed happily at Trinity, kissing her hand, like you had seen in movies.
“Ew, that’s yucky!” Tim yelled out, attracting the teachers’ attention.
“My mommy and daddy say that kissing is only for mommies and daddies.” Tim said matter-of-factly.
“Okay, then we just become mommies. No problem, right?” You said as you turned to Trinity to check; she nodded enthusiastically beside you.
“We will be doctors and mommies in love, together.” Trinity added to your theorized future to come, as a teacher was nearing you three.
“That would be nice!” You concured, twisting your held hands to wrap around her body.
“So what is going on here, kids?” Your teacher asked as she tried to figure out what had Tim a little riled up, only catching the end of what Trinity said.
“Rosy and I will be mommies, and doctors, and in love when we grow up.” Trinity shared your newly formed plan. “Yup!” You piped in with a bright smile and red cheeks.
“Ah, that’s great, girls. Is there anything wrong with that, Timmy?” Your teacher asked, turning to the clearly peeved boy, wanting to nip any hateful behavior in the bud.
“No, I don’t think so. As long as they’re mommies, I think it’s okay. Right?” Tim verified, looking at your teacher; she nodded.
“My parents say only mommies and daddies can be in love, so if Y/n and Trin’ty are mommies, it’s allowed, right?” Tim almost stuttered, wanting the teacher's assurance.
“Well, almost, Tim; you don’t have to be a parent to be in love. As long as you’re grown up, nice to each other, and take care of each other. As not all couples can have or want children of their own. Like me and my partner, we don’t want kids, because it’s hard as two women and because I already have my entire class. All my love is shared between my girlfriend and you crazy bunch.” Your teacher explained slowly, emphasizing care and love being paramount.
“If people are happy, who are others to say that their love is wrong?” Your teacher wrapped up before smiling at you three, awaiting an obedient nod from Tim.
——
The next months you were inseparable, spending every other day at the other’s house. If you weren’t at home, you’d be found at the Santos household or at Trinity's gymnastics practice, as over the course of your kindergarten year she took up the activity. In the spring you started playing soccer. Trinity joining you while absolutely hating the game. Because despite football being the bane of the Filipina’s existence: nothing beat seeing the look on your face after scoring a goal and coming in for a hug, and then sharing orange slices after practice. She wouldn’t trade the experience of you like that for the world.
During the summer break, heading into first grade, you went to a two-week sleepaway camp together. Your parents had told the Santoses when picking you up one day, knowing the Santos family did not have lots to spare. So as a thanks for being so kind and generous and having you sleepover nearly every weekend, your parents wanted to sponsor your best friend’s summer. Despite Trinity’s father refusing to accept twice, your parents ended up convincing them, having bargained out a deal: After the camp, the Santoses would take you to the local pool and have you sleep over for a couple nights, potentially in a tent in the backyard.
At the camp, you shared a bed. Or well, every night after the camp counselors did their bunk sweep, one of you slipped out of bed to join the other. Content to just sleep side by side, holding hands. Over the weeks, you had started to call Trinity ’Tickle’ as she'd wake you up with tickles every day, either her hands at your sides or her hair tickling your neck. You had made (bestest) friendship bracelets, spent countless hours swimming in the lake, and had won capture the flag.
Upon returning from camp, Trinity’s mom picked you up having matching temporary tattoos: a little guppy on your collarbone and a heart with a letter drawn in it with a Sharpie on your upper arm. You had ’T’ for Tickle, and Trinity had ‘R’ for Rosy.
“So what? Did you girls get tattooed at the young age of 6?” Mama Santos asked with a charismatic lilt.
“Yes, Mama, but it’s only temporary. In a few baths, it’ll be gone.” Trinity told her mom sincerely.
“But when we are doctors and live together in love later, we will get the fishes for real, by our hearts. If you and my mommy allow us.” You chimed in bashfully, pointing to your sternum, near the fish.
“Fish, baby, but sure thing, Guppies. One step at a time though.” Her mom said, full of amusement at your dedication.
——
Then over the winter break of first grade, the unimaginable happened. Your family was going to move across the country; it all happened really quickly. One day you were going home with Trinity after school, and the next was spent at your house packing your things.
“My mommy says we’re moving because my grandma isn’t feeling okay. She wants to be with her more, so we are moving away.” You softly shared as you put some books in a moving box.
“That is nice of your mom. I’m lucky both my grandparents and my lolo and lola live nearby.” Trinity said, blissfully unaware of what your moving actually entailed. You turned to her, holding a box of pencils, tears in your eyes.
“Trinny, because I’m moving to my grandma's, I won’t live here anymore. I’ll live really far away, a plane ride even. That means I go to a new school, and I won’t see you… unless we fly to each other during school breaks.” You told her remorsefully as she started to tear up as well. You dropped the box of pencils and enfolded her in a hug. You moved to sit on the ground to cry it out together; after a few minutes, you both quieted down a bit.
“But I love you so much, Rosy; we will see each other in my dreams. And when we are old enough, we will live together forever; I just know it.” She murmured as she cradled you in her arms. From the box of pencils, you grabbed your favorite pencil; it was white with multicolored flowers and had a purple butterfly eraser on top.
“Here, I want you to have this. So you’ll always have something of mine that is useful.” You said, handing over the pencil. Trinity promptly put it in her backpack.
“I will always keep it, even when it’s stumpy. It will always be my Catch pencil.” Trinity responded, holding you closely and kissing your cheek over and over.
You turned to face her fully, and she pecked you on the lips; at the realization, you both blushed and burst out laughing. “You’re my favorite person on Earth, Tickles.” You giggled out as you wrapped your arms around her tightly.
———
It was an early morning on the Fourth of July, just before the start of your first shift at PTMC. You had just signed your contract with Trent and gotten a tour of the PTMC along with Dr. Al-Hashimi. “And then here we come to the place you’ll be calling home, more than your actual home.” Trent finished off the tour as you stepped out of the elevator into the Pitt.
“I hope everyone you’ll be working alongside will be helpful in your transition to this hospital, that they’ll be welcoming, and most importantly, that they can teach and be taught to your fullest. If you need anything, I’ll be in my office for a bit before heading out for the celebrations.” Trent wrapped up as he shook both your hands before taking his leave.
“So would you like to share your story with me, as I will be your attending? Or do you want to wait for introductions when the whole day shift arrives?” Baran turned to you with a questioning gaze.
“I mean, I might as well tell everyone in a bit, no? And otherwise I’m pretty much an open book.” You stated a little dismissively, looking around the ER.
“Well, it’s just that I, as your attending, also got to read your transfer request along with your resume. It’s very uncommon for a person to want to transfer out of Mass General; it is one of, if not the best, teaching hospitals in the country.” Baran poked, knowing there was information to be shared that wouldn’t be relevant for your coworkers. You let out a chuckle at that.
“You’re not wrong there; the administrative office made me talk to a psychologist before taking me seriously. They thought I was either being harassed by the staff I interned with or that I was having a mental break. The conclusion was neither; I loved my colleagues, and Boston is an amazing city, and it only takes a few minutes by bike to get wicked good coffee in the North End. And the real reason was a toxic relationship and my family being too far away; now I can drive down on a day off or in case of an emergency. So yeah.” You smiled at Baran, knowing it was not the most logical explanation, but it made sense.
Al-Hashimi was speechless at the quick, rambling yet coherent explanation; she merely sighed, nodded, and turned to walk away. “Top of her class, amazing referrals, it’ll be fine.” She mumbled to herself as she walked away; you were just able to make it all out, snickering as you did so.
——
You went to get your scrubs from the clothing dispenser. Grabbing them and quickly making your way to the changing room, not wanting to be late for the first shift change while at PTMC. In the changing room, you were quick to strip your clothes off, already regretting the multiple layers you had put on.
Quickly reapplying deodorant as you had already felt the temperature rising since you arrived at the PTMC, this would be a hot one. You stepped into your scrub bottoms, slipping on your Crocs. You pulled your top over your head and assessed yourself in the mirror. You straightened your top as you noticed a bit of your tattoo poking out: a minimalistic fish just under your left clavicle near your sternum, or more accurately where kids think their heart is.
You twisted your thin golden necklace to move the clasp to the back and remove all your rings and place them into your backpack. From your backpack, you grabbed your pens, notebook, and stethoscope. Placing everything in their designated pockets, and draping your green Littmann along the back of your neck. You clipped your hospital badge to your shirt and headed to the lockers to store your backpack.
——
A flash of green—a shade so familiar and vibrant yet so distinct—caught your attention. Your breath hitched. No, it couldn’t be. Not after all these years. You had practically forgotten her over time. You had always known her first name was Trinity, but for the life of you, could never figure out her last name.
— Your parents were no help either; by the time you’d first asked them, it had been 3 years since you moved. “Too many kids' names, sweetie; I don’t recall the family name of your friend. It was something Hispanic, with an ’s’ sound maybe. Sorry, baby.” Your mom had said that made you back off. —
But deep down, you had never really let go. Time had blurred the memory of her face; you hardly recalled any features. But the ache of missing her? That had never faded.
How similar would she even be? All you had were puzzle pieces: gymnastics, green eyes, Filipino decent, from greater DC, and a name—Trinity. If only those were actual parameters that could help you find her.
You hung around the nurses’ station, seeing Robby chatting with Dana. You had met both two weeks ago during your interview here. Assuming Robby was about to delegate patients, you stayed nearby with your ears open, not wanting to miss a thing. Dana got a call: “Incoming.” She announced, to which Robby turned to you.
“Okay, Dr. Y/l/n, you’ll be between Dr. Santos, Dr. King, and Dr. McKay for now; they’re being brought up to speed by Dr. Ellis of the night shift. They’ll get you settled and familiar with the layout and system. We’ll check in in a few hours to see if we can send you out on your own, okay? If you have any questions, feel free to ask.” Robby called out, heading to the incoming trauma.
“Will do!” You called back hesitantly, as Dana pointed you towards the doctors down the North hall. “Thank you.” You hurried to the group of doctors.
——
Dr. Ellis had shared all you needed to know and promptly ran off. Citing needing sleep to get through all her bullshit before her night shift rolled around again.
McKay turned to you, “Okay, so anything we need to know about you, Dr. Y/l/n?” Dr. Santos chuckled, as Dr. King stood there zoned out.
“I grew up outside of DC and moved to Washington state when I was 7. I went to Harvard Medical School and transferred over from Massachusetts General for family and to avoid a possibly dangerous ex. I’m happy to be here, to help people, and to save lives.” You explained in less than 30 seconds, knowing there wasn’t too much time for chitchat and that it’d be forgotten within minutes anyways.
“Harvard, huh. Let’s have you tag along with Santos; I think you’ll complement each other perfectly.” McKay laughed, intent on pestering Santos a little. You blushed at the compliment and implication, Santos noting the flushing of your cheeks. McKay was hoping your skills and knowledge could take Santos down a peg, playfully of course.
You turned to Santos. “We’ll start in N-2, with the girl with a chin lac.” Dr. Santos started.
“We’re a pretty chill team; the only ones to watch out for are Perlah and Princess. If you want anything to be confidential or to be subtle, don’t talk to them. They’re the living example of tsismis; sorry, that’s Filipino gossip culture. And they are all of that; they mostly gossip in Tagalog, but sometimes they’ll unknowingly do it in English. It’s entertaining but not always fun.” Santos let you in on the need-to-know of the gossip spreaders as you walked back to your patient.
The fact that it sounded like she knew Tagalog and had similar piercing leaf-colored eyes made your Trinity senses tingle even more. But you knew it would be a long shot, so you pushed it aside and decided to focus on what’s important: making a good impression and helping people to the best of your ability.
——
“Hi Kylie, I heard you took a tumble down some stairs. Is it okay if Dr. Y/n and I, Dr. Trinity, take a look at you?” Trinity introduced you before the young girl nods. Your eyes perked up at her first name.
The two of you easily working in tandem assessing the girl. You leaned over Kylie to check her body. Santos was not looking at the girl, instead asking questions while looking at you. She instinctively glanced down your scrubs as you leaned over Kylie. She did not see much, as the scrubs are tightly fitted, but she saw something resembling a fish by your sternum.
The tattoo set off alarms in her head; you lived near DC, moved across the country when you were 7, and had a similar tattoo on the same spot she and Rosy had decided to get it. And your cheeks had turned rosy red at McKay’s compliment.
“Kylie, did you hit your back? There’s a pretty big bruise here.” You asked, unaware of Trinity’s inner turmoil. “I got shoved in soccer.”
“Dr. Y/n, did you play soccer growing up?” Trinity wanted to investigate you as well as narrow down Kylie’s wounds. “Yes, I actually played kindergarten through college. Nearly went pro, but chose to stick to medicine.” You shared, eyeing Santos questioningly. “That's so cool!” Kylie chimed in, and you smiled at her.
“I saw that you broke your arm last year.” You continued, wanting to narrow down what was going on. “Fell while skateboarding. Got a purple cast.” She chirped. “Sweet color!” Trinity peeped out.
“Okay, Kylie, any chance you can pee?” You asked. “With the bruises, we need to check your urine to be safe.” Santos added. “Mm, I think I can.” The young girl said.
——
You had gone to grab a urine cup for your young patient. Dr. Santos was showing you where everything was.
“So you said you were from the DC area. I am too. What town are you from?” Trinity asked, sounding offhandedly, yet hanging on to your every word.
“Rockville, in Maryland.” You piped out, keeping an eye on her. You saw her eyes widen slightly, a sparkle appearing you hadn’t seen in decades.
"Wait—Ms. Frizz’s class?" Her voice hitched nervously. “Rockville Elementary?” You froze, eyeing the now clearly familiar shade of green.
“Holy fuck—it’s you.” Your voice cracked. Before you could think, you lunged forward, pulling her into a bone-crushing hug. She stiffened for half a second—then melted against you, arms locking around you like she’d never let you go again.
“Christ,” she whispered into your hair. “I’ve spent years hoping it’d be you, when I saw your name anywhere.” She instinctively pressed her nose into your neck.
“Hey, when I saw your green eyes, heard you speaking Tagalog and that you were named Trinity. I didn’t want to assume or bring it up until I was certain. But my god, Tickles.” You laughed, resting your head against her shoulder.
Javadi and Whitaker walked by, giving each other a curious glance, neither of you two noticing.
“So wait, how did you put it together?” You asked, pulling back. “Rockville, soccer, your blush—all clues. But the fish tattoo? That was the smoking gun.” She smirked. “Though, I might have seen down your shirt to discover that.” She supplied, glancing down at the neckline of your shirt.
“Not calling you out, but it’s perfectly placed so you can’t see it when wearing scrubs, so are you saying you were actively looking down my shirt?” You cackled, pushing her off you slightly. Trinity’s cheeks blushed bright red at being caught admitting it.
“Well, uhm, eh, it’s just instinct, you know. When someone bends over and you can't help but take a peek. There were only appreciative and mostly respectful thoughts.” She stammered, scratching her neck sheepishly. You smirked at her.
“Let’s figure Kylie out and chat when we’re charting or something?” Trinity’s eyes widened, and she merely nodded, following you to Kylie’s room.
——
“Kylie, there are some questions that we ask every kid who comes in with an injury.” You started, Kylie hummed in acknowledgment from behind her locked toilet stall.
“Sometimes the people you live with can get so mad that they hit you or hurt you, maybe without even meaning to. Does that ever happen?” Santos went on; you saw her hand gripping her left thigh.
“No, not to me.” “Or sometimes kids can get punished for doing something wrong with maybe a spanking or a belt.” Trinity followed up, “or any grown-up touching you in a way other adults don’t?” You then noticed her hand strongly gripping her thigh. You instinctively moved your hand to grab hers off her thigh. Giving it a quick reassuring squeeze. You filed her action away for another time, when you had time to get into it.
—
Returning Kylie to her room, you said, “So, because we saw some unusual things in your pee. We would like to take some blood. Is that okay? It will be really quick and only hurt for a moment. Just to check if everything on the inside is doing what it should.” You explained to Kylie and her father’s girlfriend, both apprehensively agreeing.
——
You two ran into Robby and Al-Hashimi after delivering Kylie’s urine and blood samples to the lab. “The girlfriend hasn’t been much help. She’s only been going out with the little girl Kylie’s father for a few months.”
“Where is he now?” “Out of town for work.” “I left him a message to come in.” “Okay, let us know if you need anything.” Baran wrapped up, turning away.
“You talk to the trauma counselor this week?” Robby covertly asked Trinity. “I’m going to, I promise.” “Okay, good.” Robby said as he patted Trinity on the shoulder. You noted the interaction under ‘things I’ll bring up once we’re alone, if and when Trin wants to share’ in your head.
Only moments later, Kylie’s father was brought to you by Lupe. “I understand that you and Kylie do a fair amount of roughhousing.” Trinity said, after having introduced you two as Kylie’s doctors and sharing that she was okay and you just wanted to ask some questions really quick.
“What?” Mr. Connors asked, taken aback. “I’m sorry. Are you fucking kidding me? Where are you going with this?” He asked defensively, getting a little heated.
“Mr. Connors, nobody is saying that—“ Santos quickly backtracked, with the tone of the father.
“It’s just that this is very unusual to be just accident-related.” You covered for Dr. Santos, thinking of countless statistics around severe childhood bruising.
“Are you saying that I hurt my daughter?” The man asked dejectedly.
“Kylie’s platelets are only 9000.” Dana said coming in at high speed with the bloodwork, having caught the end of the interaction.
“Thank God.” Trinity mumbled. “Sorry, sir, we are just doing our due diligence, but we have found the cause. Let’s take you to Kylie so we can tell her too.” You sympathized with the father, wanting to end this as soon as possible.
“Hi Kylie, look who we have here. And we figured out what’s up.” “You have a rare disorder called ITP.” you started, as the girl happily hugged her father.
“Immune thrombocytopenia means that your immune system causes you to bleed quicker. That’s why you have so many bruises that we were worried about.” Trinity continued.
“But it’s an easy fix with high-dose steroids and intravenous immunoglobulin. She’ll need to stay here for a few days to ensure it’s working correctly, but then she should be all good.” You finished up, calling for a nurse to hook her up with the needed medication.
——
You were both typing out charts by the nurses' station. “So what are your plans for tonight?” Trinity asked, looking over at you.
“Well, I am going to go home and crash most likely. My roommate was hosting a party, but they decided to go elsewhere, thank God.”
”Oh well, I was thinking that maybe you would want to come and watch the fireworks at my place. Huckleberry will be gone for the night, and we could use the time and peace to catch up. And I have AC!” The ravenette proposed nervously, playing with her hospital badge.
“If that means I don’t have to cook, I’m totally in.” You cheered as you grabbed her badge, pulling it as far as possible and letting it zip back to its clip. Trinity looked up at you with shocked eyes and a blush at being caught fidgeting.
McKay walked past, smirking at the interaction. Enjoying the fact that she read your chemistry so well, and liking Santos being caught off guard, or even softened. Walking past Dana, she nodded to you, Dana turning to Cassie with a shocked-surprised face at Trinity’s body language: rather than its usual tough and confident stiffness, she was comfortable and more in your personal space than she had ever seen Santos be with anyone.
“Time for a new department bet? But it has to be on the down low.” Dana said, eyeing her surroundings, like someone might tattle on the secret betting pool soon to be revived.
——
“Mabait na kasintahan.” Princess commented, calling you a nice girlfriend in Tagalog, as she came to stand beside Trinity. Both observing you discharge a patient from a distance.
“Don’t even, Princess; I’m not playing these games with you. Don’t you have patients to check on?” Santos rolled her eyes, yet there was some sort of endearment in her tone. “Okay then.” Princess grinned at Perlah, as she walked off.
Princess headed across the nurses' station to Dana, Perlah following suit. Standing out of Trinity's earshot: ”Put me in for long-lost lovers, and they’ll be together before Robby returns.” Princess subtly slid over a folded $20 bill.
“That's risky business, honey. You know, Robby could be gone for 3 months or, more likely, 2 weeks or only even a matter of days.” Dana laughed, slipping the bill into a file map. Neatly filled with post-its and bills, tracking people's wagers.
“That’s why it’s such a good one.” Emma stood there, with a hesitant smile, unsure what to make of Princess’ reasoning.
Donnie walked past, stopping in his tracks seeing the so-dubbed ‘secret betting binder’. “Oh, who is the victim of the SBB this time?” Donnie piped, following the three women’s line of sight.
“Our R2s.” Dana said, writing out Princess' wager.
“What? Santos and the new girl? I doubt it. Who even knows if the transfer is into women? And besides, Santos is seeing Garcia. Yoyo was whining that Dennis had accidentally used her toothbrush, while we were in Trauma 1 earlier.” Donnie shook his head at the thought of sharing a toothbrush.
“Umm, put me down for just friends, for 30. Daddy needs a white noise machine to cancel out the crying.” Donnie cringed before walking back to triage.
—
“So what’s the up and under on the R2 bet, and what’s the consensus on inside knowledge?” Whitaker asked Dana in a tone that sounds like he was talking about a patient.
“There's a definite favor to romantic, but there’s more money on platonic. And anything is allowed, except for exposing the bet or locking them in a closet together… can’t have that happening again.” Dana said offhandedly.
“What?!” Whitaker asked in surprise. “It was the early 2000s, kid; people were ruthless. Till HR put an end to all our bets. So now we have to fly under the radar so the ‘new’ head of HR doesn’t—” Dana explained, cutting the conversation short as her phone rings.
“Motorcycle trauma incoming, Robby, Whitaker, Santos, and Y/l/n Trauma 2. ETA 10 minutes!” Dana called out to the galley.
——
Whitaker quickly headed to the bathroom before the trauma arrived. After he stepped out, he saw Santos in the hall, having probably also used the toilet just now.
“We’re needed in trauma 2, guy with a motorcycle-related knee laceration.” Dennis stepped into pace with Santos.
“Okay, Catch too?” “Catch?” Dennis asked in confusion. “Sorry, Dr. Y/l/n, it’s an old nickname.”
“Ah okay, yes, her too. Speaking of which, what is your deal? I haven’t heard of her before today, yet you seem thick as thieves. You’ve never been that comfortable around me, and we’ve lived together for 10 months. So what gives?” Dennis said, straight to the point, knowing Trinity was most likely to answer if he was straight to the point.
“We were best friends till she moved away in first grade. My—uhm—five-year-old self had vowed that I would marry her someday. Guess time and distance didn’t change much.” “Cute” Dennis concluded, wrapping up the conversation with a shoulder bump.
“Go grab her; I’ll be right with ya in Trauma 2.” Dennis said, heading the opposite direction.
—
At the nurses' station Whitaker slid in next to Dana and Emma. “So, I’ve done my research. I say: They’ll be dating in a week, tops. I’ll have to find a new apartment, for my own well-being, before the end of August. They’ll be married before either is a senior. For 50 bucks, please.” Dennis casually put down his wager, coolly walking away. Leaving a stunned Dana, knowing the first-year doctor pretty well by now, this tone of security and casualness being a first.
——
“Okay, Harvard, you take the lead.” Robby ordered just outside Trauma 2 as the gurney rolled in.
“Oh Y/n, this is Dr. Yolanda Garcia, Fellow in trauma surgery upstairs.” Robby introduced you to a woman who showed up in blue scrubs.
“Hi, R2 transfer from Mass Gen.” You quickly introduced yourself, sending a quick glance at Garcia before focusing on your patient.
“Ok, ready to roll.” You and Trinity were standing over a motorcyclist, with deep road rash around his legs. You were assessing his lacerations as Santos asked him some questions.
“CT’s ready for him.” Perlah called, hanging up the phone. “as soon as we take a look at his knee.” Trinity said. “Whoa!” Whitaker exclaimed.
“Through the deep fascia.” Garcia concluded. “Definitely going to need stitches.” You stated.
“How many?” Brandon, the patient, asked interested. “A lot. Could be an open joint. CT first; saline load can be done after up in surgery.” You answered and announced, confidently delegating a deciding short-term treatment plan.
While Robby, Whitaker and Perlah rolled the patient out towards the elevator, Garcia, Santos, and you straggled behind. “I know Whitaker was likely to play farm boy against this weekend, but I may need a rain check for tonight.” Garcia said softly, looking a little bummed out. Her tone was not whispered but definitely meant to be somewhat private.
“Oh, all good; I have important catching up to do with Rosy.” Trinity said happily, and Yolanda frowned at the response. Her eyes glanced at you momentarily before settling back on Trinity, her eyes flicked down before they widened.
“Oh! Okay… I’ll just, uh—“ She pointed to the elevator your patient disappeared in and hurried off.
“Was it just me, or was that…” you questioned, not knowing how to phrase it.
“Awkward? Uncomfortable? Yes. Uhm Garcia and I have a thing.” Trinity stated with a laugh before quickly adding seriously:
“It is not a thing-thing, though, just blowing off steam. Meeting people is complicated with these hours, you know.” She explained hastily, trying to laugh it off.
“Oof, I’m jealous you found yourself a good deal. Never really got that lucky up in Boston.” You laughed as you exit Trauma 2, ready to start your charting for the patient.
——
The rest of your shift went swiftly. Not too much insanity for a quarter-millennium celebration of a nation. So at 6.30 PM sharp the night shift arrived, all in good spirits as they weren’t called in earlier. You and Santos gave Dr. Ellis a tour of your patients and their assessments. Before you knew it, you found yourself in the dressing room with Trinity.
You were stripping off your scrubs. When you pulled your shirt over your head, you immediately felt Trinity’s eyes on you. You looked up; she was looking at your sports bra-clad chest. “Just looking at the tattoo, I promise.” She teased.
“You can take a closer look; I don’t mind.” You teased back. She stepped into your space. Her right hand carefully traced the outline of the fish.
“It was supposed to be a guppy, like we had. But the tattoo artist had sketched this when I told her the story of our fish way back when. When she showed me, I knew it’s what I needed to get.” You said with a smile as Trinity stepped out of your space.
“It’s adorable, but I think I have you beat.” She simply challenged as she pulled off her top. She tugged at the drawstrings of her pants, baring the line between her left spina iliaca anterior superior and her pubic bone. Roughly where you would be able to feel the femoral artery, you saw a one-lined rose. It couldn’t be bigger than a few centimeters.
You bent down to look at it. “So I got a tattoo for you near my heart. And you got one on your upper inner thigh, for me?” You mocked rhetorically as you shook your head laughing.
“It’s cute, but that’s not an uncommon tattoo; only the place makes it intimate.” You pointed out tenderly.
“I mean, I had gone through a rough patch. The thought of you was one of the few things that helped me get through it. I have some ugly scars on my thigh that I’ll save you from. So when I turned 18, I wanted something to remember that beauty and love are stronger than pain and fear.” She offered timidly, turning to the showers, clean clothes and towel in hand.
“Shit.” You mumbled to yourself under the shower. She was telling you about something linked to a terrible time in her life, and you ruined it by making it a silly competition.
——
You were walking side by side through the park; you assumed towards Trinity’s apartment. You smiled at all the kids running between groups of people. Then as you came across a group of people dancing on the walkway, you instinctively grabbed Trinity’s hand as to not lose her. Trinity looked back and down at your intertwined hands. “Don’t worry, Catch. I won’t let you go far without me.” Her tenderness made your cheeks flush with warmth.
——
Once at her apartment, you were easy to get settled. She seated you in her kitchen. Suggesting she’d make a quick pasta. “Can I offer you anything to drink? I have a fuckload of fruity seltzers; Huckleberry loves them. I have some beer, white wine, or a chilled red.” She peered in the fridge as she grabbed ingredients for dinner.
Trinity poured you both a glass of red; beside it you had a fruity sparkling water. You leaned against the kitchen counter beside her. “So you mentioned a bad relationship. What did eh… h—sh—they do?” Trinity hesitantly gendered your ex while broaching the subject, not wanting to assume.
“You know how it is. Bright-eyed, just out of high school, freshly on campus. And a kid, Marc, from my ethics class asked me out. We had hung out in study groups and at a couple of parties. Even though I wasn’t actually into him, I thought there’d be no harm in trying. He seemed sweet and thoughtful after all.” You chuckled, mocking your naive self.
“I tried to cut it off after a few dates; he backed off but still associated with my group of friends. Then one night at a bar, I drank a little too much and was enjoying the attention he was giving me, I guess.” You took a sip of wine as Trinity eyed you.
“We went into a toilet stall, made out, and one thing led to another, I guess. He made me, well, I wanted to, I think. I—uh—“ You scratched your neck hesitantly.
“He guided my hand into his pants. And made me, you know. I—uh, I only did it for a few minutes, before I couldn’t do it anymore. Bolted out of there, frazzled to bits. The bathroom attendant, only then, I guess, figured out I wasn’t in my right mind. I bolted home, didn’t even look back or tell my friends.” You laughed, shaking your head.
“I scrubbed until my skin burned, until the sink was stained pink with blood. I just wanted to feel clean again. But no matter how hard I scrubbed, I couldn’t wash away the feeling of his… in my hand.” You grimaced, thinking back to your burning hand.
“I hardly ever doubt myself when it comes to patients. If I see or feel something I don’t like, I trust it. I follow my instincts. So I don’t know why I didn’t do that when it came to my own feelings. I later told him that I didn’t like it or him and that it confirmed what I had already known: I’m not into guys. And I guess he took that personally.” You let out exasperatedly as you took a few big gulps of wine.
“Then I—uh—started seeing him everywhere. He’d never engage but was just always around. I ended up getting a restraining order, and he adhered to the minimum. But I’d come home to flowers. Anonymously, so I couldn’t prove it was him, but I knew. So yeah, after years of him doing that, I just needed to leave.” You sighed in relief. Trinity had stopped her movements, just looking at you in pain.
“I’m so sorry that happened to you, Rosy.” She whispered, tentatively grabbing your wrist to ground you both.
“If not for compulsory heterosexuality, I wouldn’t have tried that. Wouldn’t have icked myself for myself, for infinity. But on the bright side of things, it all ended up bringing me back to you, Trinny.” You grinned at her, pushing away the anxiety of the past. You wrapped your fingers around her wrist, giving her a warm squeeze.
“I love how, even after all these years, it feels like very little has changed. Even though so much actually has. But you even feel and smell the same, in a sense.” Trinity tenderly tucked a stray curl of hair behind your ear. You tilted your chin at her action, her eyes sparkling with recognition at that. Just like you used to do when you were little.
“Trin, you’re burning the onions.” You exclaimed, looking over her shoulder, her eyes widening as she turned back to the stove.
——
After dinner you were seated on her balcony, enjoying a soft summer breeze with the latent heat of a dwindling sun. Side by side, thighs nearly touching, talking about whatever came to mind.
“I know this is an intimate question, considering we’re playing catch-up on 20 years of experiences. There were some things I noticed at work this morning. And your behavior made an alarm go off in my head. You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to; I just need to know if you’re okay or if there’s anything I can do in any way.” The story not mattering you much. Rather just wanting to be sure that Trinity is safe.
She squeezed your thigh, giving an awkward smile. “I don’t mind talking about it, but I don’t want to put a damper on our happy day of reconnection.” She squeezed your thigh again; you noted a hint of sadness in her voice.
“No, Trin, nothing you could say would affect how happy I am having you back. I’ll happily receive anything you’re willing to share. But mostly I just need to know how you are doing.” You grabbed her hand on your thigh, giving it a comforting squeeze.
“I—eh—was assaulted by my gymnastics trainer when I was 15-16. He did it to a couple other girls, one was my best friend. No one took us seriously until she killed herself because of what he was doing.” She took a labored breath. You hold her hand on your thigh, rubbing soft circles on her palm.
You were about to tell her that she did not have to continue when she shook her head. “It’s okay, just rough to get into.” She took a settling breath and sipped some water.
“I let him hurt me for a year and a half. I told myself it was my fault, that if I just endured it, he wouldn’t hurt younger kids and he’d stop. But he didn’t. And then she—" Her voice cracked. "She couldn’t live with it anymore. And I couldn’t even save her. Then, I had to deal with the aftermath of abuse and her death, without my closest friend.” “Christ.” You muttered as you scooted closer, not invading her space but offering comforting warmth.
“So I—uhm—started to harm myself on my left thigh mostly. And so when I started therapy and quit gymnastics to start healing and distancing myself from the past, I got the tattoo. A convergence of the best and the worst times.” She concluded, resting her head on your shoulder.
“Fuck, so here I was trauma dumping about Marc. Meanwhile, you were assaulted as a kid by someone who was supposed to guide you and protect you. Fuck Trin, I'm so sorry.” You found yourself angry at yourself for having suspected such a thing and not thinking.
“Don’t do that. Don’t minimize your trauma cause of what happened to me. Neither should have happened, and just cause mine is ‘classically’ worse doesn't mean yours didn’t impact your life as much or even more.” Trinity shut you down, stilling your thumb in her palm. Holding it till your eyes met hers. Her eyes glared at you reassuringly, yet somewhat playfully.
“Okay.” You let out a soft, almost timid, sound at her prickly sweet gaze. “Doesn’t mean I don’t feel bad about it. You shouldn’t have had to go through that, Tickles.” You whispered with wet eyes.
You laughed at a realization: “Sorry. I think the wine and the heat on top of the adrenaline and joy of the day are getting to me.”
That made Trinity laugh. “Rosy, are you… a lightweight?” She accused, immediately detaching herself from you to hand you your sparkling water.
“No, no, it’s just today was just full of highs and emotions. So I’m running on fumes. They’re tired happy tears, I promise.” You giggled between small sobs. “Sure thing, Catch. Sure thing.” Trinity dismissed accusingly.
——
The sun had set; it was not dark yet though. Pittsburgh started to illuminate with some fireworks here and there, clearly parents trying to appease their kids into going to bed. You and Trinity were comfortably leaning into one another, feet propped up on the table. You had offered the rest of your wine to Trinity, pledging yourself to stick to your sparkling water.
The comfortable silence between you was broken by Trinity’s phone ringing. ‘Gay Mouse’ You couldn’t help but read her screen. She picked up as you let out a soft giggle, eyeing you like she’s caught you.
“What do you want, Huckleberry?” “Told ya it wasn’t smart to play house with your dead patient’s widow.” Trinity said, as you were unable to make out what Dennis said.
“Well, what do you want? That's more important, you know. If you’re interested, go for it, but be sure to talk about it. If you’re not, then don't; that’ll only lead her on and kill any possibility of a friendship.” She offered two options empathetically. Looking up at you, realizing you did not know what was going on.
Trinity turned on the speakerphone: “FYI, you’re on speaker; I’m on the balcony with Rosy.” “Hi, Dennis.” You felt obliged to say.
“Hi. Is it okay if I come home tonight, Dee?” Dennis asked almost shyly.
“Yeah, of course, Fuckleberry. Why couldn’t you?” Trinity asked with an unsure tone.
“Well, I thought you’d like to have the apartment to yourselves, if she was gonna stay the night…” Dennis explained quietly, seeming even more nervous. Trinity looked over at you, both cheeks and tips of ears reddened.
“Well—uhm...” “So then…” You both stammered nervously, very aware of his implication. Pointedly avoiding each other's gaze.
“Come home, Dennis. I’d hate to be the reason you have to stay somewhere you don’t want to be.” You formulated and said before you had even thought it through. Trinity could not help but grimace at your words; you caught it in the corner of your eye.
“Okay. I’ll be home in 30 or so, depending on traffic.” He rushed out, aware of the tension he created, even through the phone.
“Eh—“ Trinity started before Dennis cuts her off. “Yes, I’ll make sure your tank is full enough and park your car in that one spot. See ya later.” Dennis quickly filled in Trinity's unspoken questions and promptly hung up.
“One of the first times he borrowed my car, he’d parked it with practically an empty tank. The next morning, heading in to work, we were late, and I made him push me the last few yards to the gas station.” Trinity explained, or well, maybe she just tried to avoid speaking about Dennis’ assumption of you staying over.
You hummed in acknowledgement, eyes glimmering with mischief. “So, Dr. Santos,” you drawled in a serious work tone, nudging her shoulder. “Why’s Dennis assuming us wanting to be alone tonight? Something you wanna share?” Her blush told you enough.
Trinity sputtered, eyes widening before she grabbed your glass of wine. Drinking your last few sips, she tried to find anything to say to not make it sound as assumptive. “I mentioned that you were the person I wanted to marry as a kid. I guess he assumes it’s still the case and goes both ways?” She tried, almost anxiously avoiding you. She placed the glass on the table, just to have something to do.
You grabbed her hand, grounding her immediately. “Trin, I knew I was into girls when we were kids, only I filed it away for later ‘cause I was too young for love.’ And in hindsight, I had the biggest crush on you. No one could ever beat the feelings I had for you. And that was fucking pathetic till this morning, or well, just now even.” You tucked some hair behind her ear, making her look at you.
“I guess that I’ve been in love with an angry loser all these years.” You declared playfully as your hand settled on her jaw. Her eyes widened as her mind caught up. Her eyes flicking between yours and your lips, you raised a brow challengingly. At that, her blush deepened, and she connected your lips.
After that there was a flurry of short kisses. Mostly closed-mouthed, conveying the want you have had for each other. Not quite lustful, but rather yearning to make up for lost time.
Her hands found your shoulder, your hip— anchoring herself like she was afraid you’d vanish if she let go. Like she was afraid this would turnout to be a dream. You smiled against her lips. Teasing her with open-mouthed kisses as you felt her grip on your hip tightening possessively.
“I’m not going anywhere, Trin,” You murmured against her lips, laughing as she grumbled, pulling you closer like she could fuse your bodies together. She moved to straddle you, deepening the kiss.
Her hands trailed up your sides, thumbs brushing the sides of your breasts. Her hands caressed down your arms, grabbing hold of your hands. She somewhat awkwardly moved to place your hands on her waist.
Your hands found themselves holding her ass, Trinity practically purring at the feeling.
“Hi guys!” Dennis called out from the entryway; your ears perked up at the call, but Trinity ignored it. Dennis walked over to the balcony doors, noting that it was the most lit.
“Hey!” Dennis said, stepping out onto the balcony. You pushed Trinity away, not wanting to be caught in the action. Embarrassment colors your cheeks, especially as Trinity growled at either the loss of your lips or Dennis’ presence.
“Hi Dennis.” You chirped with a cheery smile, patting her thigh to signal her to move.
“Perfect timing, Fuckleberry.” Trinity said with a roll of her eyes as she took your hint and slipped off you.
——
Having settled back on the bench on the balcony, as before. The three of you watched the fireworks as the last bit of sunlight had finally gone. Trinity was sat in the middle, having pulled you into her side as you sat down. Her arm was draped over your shoulder, holding you close. Your legs were slung over hers, with her free hand resting on your thigh.
“Don’t worry, Finn. I only sleep with people after the 3rd date, if I am serious about them.” You told Dennis as he eyed the two of you curiously, riffing off of Trinity’s nickname for the man. Looking over Trinity at Dennis.
“Aren’t you presumptive?” Trinity raised her brow at you.
“Am I now? Do you want to deny that your hand has been sliding up my thigh slowly since we’ve sat here with Dennis?” Trinity's eyes widened at your public claim. Not intending for Dennis to know what she had been doing, she blushed.
“Whose side are you on?” She playfully pushed you away and pulled you back immediately.
“Well, let’s see. I don’t know Dennis that well yet, so I still need to make a good impression. You, on the other hand, I think I’d have to try my hardest to get rid of you. Don’t I?” You grinned as you pressed a quick kiss to her neck before resting your head there.
——
Calling it a night at around 10 PM, all having to work in the morning. You and Trinity were clearing all glassware from the terrace and filling the dishwasher. “So do you want to sleep over?” Twinkling eyes looked at you with curiosity.
“Yeah, of course. But I wasn’t lying when I told Dennis what I did. No funny business. This isn’t a one-night stand, and you’re not getting special treatment for being you.” You state honestly, as you stepped closer to her. Leaning over her to put a wine glass in the dishwasher.
“I wouldn’t dream of crossing you. And who said I had any ulterior motive?” She questioned as her hand trailed down your back.
“Trin, you’ve been undressing me with your eyes since we kissed. And if Dennis hadn’t been next to us, your hands would have definitely drifted past a PG-13 place on my thigh, even if I called you out.” You smirked, straightening your back as she grinned at you, being caught. Enjoying how you read her so easily, she kissed your cheek: “Can’t help myself around you, baby.”
You hummed. “Sure thing, Babe. Let’s wrap this up and head to bed.” You shook your head at her frown at being denied kisses.
——
“So can you please tell me why Dennis is ‘Gay Mouse’ in your phone? Like, I just want to know the logic behind it.” You giggled as you headed to her room to get changed.
“Does he or does he not have a Stuart Little quality to him? And he caught and killed a rat, our first day in the Pitt. And then gay, cause he is. Or well, he’s bi or pan; I don’t care enough, honestly. Gay is an umbrella term, and it fits. He knows about it, and if he doesn’t like it, he’ll have to tell me. AAAnd he’s never brought anyone here, ever! He’s only had the widow, which was fully platonic before today, and whatever the fuck he has going with Robby.” She chuckled as she pushed you into her room. You let out a yelp at her shove, giggling as you landed on her bed.
“I see the Stuart Little, and I have to admit that. I also see ‘Gay Mouse’, I’m just curious how your brain works; all your nicknames make sense but are so left-field.” You laughed, trying to sit up.
“Sorry, gorgeous.” She smirked, straddling you with a grin. “Can’t teach brilliance.” She grabbed the hem of your shirt and tugged it over your head. You gave her a disapproving yet clearly enjoying smile.
“Just helping you undress, nothing else.” She excused herself as her hands slid up your abdomen, resting just below your boobs. You shook your head, a smile tugging at your lips. “Unbelievable.” Her lips found your fish tattoo, immediately working on leaving a mark there. The fish was tattooed for her, so she was going to make sure that everyone knew.
——
Dressed in an oversized shirt and shorts, Trinity lead you to the bathroom by hand. You looked at her, admiring the way she looked in her bedtime boxers and singlet.
“Sorry, Trin, you look so gay. In the best way, of course.” You laughed as she pulled you into the bathroom, locking the door behind you.
You raised your eyebrow at that, and she shook her head dismissively. “Huckleberry will join us otherwise; he doesn’t understand bathroom etiquette unless a toilet is involved. Even though he has his own bathroom…” She twirled you around. “And you, Rosy, look like my future wife. So it’s a win-win for both of us.”
“What color toothbrush you want?” She asked, bending in front of the sink cabinet. “Green, if you’ve got it,” you said, leaning against the sink.
She showed you the toothbrush prideful, eyes soft. “Still your favorite, huh?”
“Ever since that first day of kindergarten. Just like you.” You spoke quieter and more monotone than before. This caused Trinity to look up at you questioningly.
“Headache suddenly, sorry. Any Tylenol I can take?” You asked, squinting your eyes.
“Yeah, in my left nightstand. Let’s get those teeth brushed, and then we can get you some painkillers and sleep.” Trinity handed you the toothbrush, pasted and ready for you.
——
“I thought I should mention, that your pencil and butterfly eraser are in my left nightstand as well. They were my lucky charms for any and every serious exam I ever took.” The Filipina said as she handed you two Tylenol and a glass of water.
“Oh, wow. That’s so cute. Thanks.” You smiled at her gratefully, somehow feeling the security the pencil brought her. You got settled in her bed, Trinity switching off the lights.
“So what’s in your right nightstand? You emphasized it pretty strongly, and now I have to know.” You whispered into the dark room, feeling Trinity move closer to you, yet not close enough.
“Uhm… so… that’s where I store my sex toys… Dennis made the unfortunate mistake of not listening properly and checking the wrong drawer his first week here.” She explained a little awkwardly. You let out a small gasp. “But those are mine, and mine alone. Ehm—, never used with anyone. Those I keep in a box in my closet; I—we can throw those out if you want.” She quickly offered.
“We can take a look and take care of it another time.” You said sleepily as you pulled her to you. Your hand slipping familiarly in hers as you pulled her half on top of you.
“G’night, Trin.” You mumbled as you wormed your face into the crook of her neck. “Sleep tight, Rosy,” she murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple. “I’m so happy you’re mine, again.” She whispered as she closed her eyes.
———
The next morning Trinity’s alarm rang at 5.30, giving her over an hour to make it to PTMC. She turned around to snooze her alarm, then rolled back, feeling around the bed. She sat up, and her eyes shot open as she felt nothing but cold sheets. “It can’t have been a dream, it can’t.” She said to herself as she traced her fingers along her lips, where she could have sworn yours were less than 10 hours ago. Her panic-train of thought was broken by sounds coming from the kitchen: Whitaker laughing. An uncommon occurrence at this hour, Trinity had made it clear that before 6 the apartment should be silent.
—
She padded over to the living room. There she saw your backpack, letting out a quiet sigh of relief. Walking into the kitchen, she saw Dennis sitting at the small dining table and you standing by the counter. She beelined to you, wrapping her arms around you from behind. “Thank god,” she breathed a sigh of relief against your neck. “I was scared I’d dreamed you. I wanted to wake up with you in my arms—all warm, cosy, real, and mine.” She practically whined into your neck. You shook your head, turning around. You gave her a quick kiss, followed by a kiss on the nose.
“Next time, I promise. Headache and anxiety woke me up around 5. I took some more Tylenol, and when grabbing water, I found Dennis making coffee. So I suggested he’d make me coffee while I went to the diner I’d seen across the street to pick up breakfast. Dennis has waffles, and I got you blueberry pancakes; they used to be your favorite. Oh shit. Well, I have plain pancakes if you’d rather have those.” You offered, not having thought of the fact that her preferences could have changed over 20 years. You finished plating the breakfast, Trinity helped you carry the three plates to the table as Dennis poured you your coffees.
"Breakfast is perfect,” the black-haired woman admitted, stealing a bite of your pancake. "But next time? I’d rather wake up to you, even if I have to tie you to the bed.” She grinned menacingly.
“No doubt, for you. The grip you had on my left boob, my god. I think the indents are still there.” Trinity blushed, as did Dennis. “Really? Show me?” She said immediately, full of lust with a hint of care.
“Haha, funny. And give poor Finn a heart attack? Nah, you’ll have to settle for peeking down my shirt again, you perv.” You mock laughed, sticking your tongue out at her, causing all three of you to laugh.
——
A few hours into your shift, things were rolling smoothly, for the most part. Your headache was rolling back in, as the Tylenol has started to wear off. You rested your head against the cool material of the charting desks and let out a groan. Trinity noticed, practically dropping everything she was doing, and headed to you.
“Hi, baby, is the headache still bugging you?” She whispered, rubbing your back. You merely let out a struggled hum.
“Huckleberry, grab my girl some cold water and Tylenol from the lounge, please.” Trinity ordered, seeing Whitaker walk by seemingly not busy. Not wanting to leave you if she didn’t have to.
“Lesbians.” Ogilvie muttered to himself in annoyance. Trinity caught this and turned to him. “No—“ Dana barked out first, before being cut off.
“Mind your mouth, Ogilvie; we do not tolerate hate speech or discrimination in this ED. Dr. Al-Hashimi and Dana will act accordingly and easily remove a problematic MS4 before they do anything else. We are nothing for you to concern yourself with nor negatively talk about. Thank you.” Santos said it loud enough for most employees and some patients to overhear.
“Sorry, babe.” Trinity whispered to you as she pulled you closer to her. Your head rested against her stomach as she mindfully carded her fingers through your hair.
“Good job, kid.” Dana said, handing over the Tylenol and water. “Let me know if he or anyone bothers either of you. Though you may have to go talk to HR sooner rather than later…” She said protectively. “Ogilvie with me, and someone send Al-Hashimi after us, please!” She called out orders as she lead Ogilvie into the empty family room.
“Take a minute, babe; I’ll do a lap of both our patients and email HR for an appointment this week. I’ll find you.” Trinity decided, switching back to doctor mode after kissing the top of your head.
——
“Shit, already? Really? They’re together? I really have to stop getting into bets; I never win these stupid things.” Donnie groveled as Princess told him the public news of your relationship.
———
“Trin, why are people congratulating me on our engagement? Last I checked, we’d talked about this… We’ve only been together for a few months.” You called across the ER, Trinity paling at the accusation.
“Well, a patient called you hot and then asked me if you were single. I couldn’t help myself. And we are engaged,” she insisted, grinning. “Playground rules, remember? ‘If you love someone, you marry them.’ And I’ve loved you since I was five.” You rolled your eyes at her. “And we made a verbal agreement this is for the long haul.” she explained slowly as she trailed over to you. Her tone softened, trying to get all prying eyes off you.
“Oh okay, that’s good to hear. I was afraid someone spilled your proposal plans and someone overheard, or something. Cause you know I want our families to meet up again before we get the rings.” You exhaled with a loving smile as you grabbed her hands.
“Wow, you guys are asking parental permission, old school. I expected more modernity from you, mare.” Perlah chimed in from beside Princess, hanging over the nurses' station to eavesdrop. Trinity had taught you enough Tagalog to know that word was a friendly female term.
“Gooooo awaaaaaay, you two trolls.” Trinity shood in faux annoyance. “And not that it’s any of your business, but we’re doing that as a courtesy gesture. All of them can say no, and we'd still happily go get hitched. We’d just prefer to have them sponsor the ceremony so we can invite all of your snoopy asses.” Trinity explained with a glare.
“Honestly, we’ve been looking at venues and such —just to get a ballpark estimate!— And between paying off our student loans, our apartment, and our minimal R2 wages, it’s looking like town hall with just Finn.” you added on. Quick to exclaim that everything was theoretical, as you saw Princess light up.
“And you need Robby to be back, or at least in the neighborhood. You can’t not invite our work dad; he’d be so hurt.” Victoria joined in, rolling by on a stool.
——
“Okay, Whitaker, 1,375 dollars. What are you going to do with the money, and how is the apartment searching going?” Dana asked as she handed out his prize.
“Oh, I’m going to treat my roommates to a nice meal and then save the rest, I guess. No new apartment needed; Y/n makes up for it by doing sweet things every few days, and my rent is lower now that there are three of us living in a two-bedroom. And they got me fancy noise-canceling headphones as a gift when she moved in. They’re like big sisters to me, Y/n the sweet and caring one and Dee the snarky but loving one.” Dennis said with a lopsided grin, thinking of the love and care in your house.
----
Author’s note
Hey thanks for reading! This was my first written out fic in ages (since 2020). Also my first self insert fic, that was an interesting style to figure out. Not quite there yet… I guess we’ll see where we go.
Fun fact I had this plot, or well elementary school friends reuniting ages later etc, in my drafts since April 2025… Had a primary school reunion and have since reconnected with my then best friend :3
the pencil bit also happened to me, that ^photo^ is the actual pencil my friend gave me...
Let me know if you have any (stylistic) suggestions or if you want more or something else, I’ll see what I can do.
Again thanks a lot for taking the time to read my last weeks' passion project xx
Brendon Park + daughter! Reader. The fic where Park was a teen dad.
“This is Y/N, early 20s, female, coworker called 911 because she was in extreme abdominal pain. In Presbys catch but wanted to come here.”
All the words are kinda tunnel vision to you as the really nice paramedic, you think his name was Jason, wheels you in. Two doctors and a nurse come to your side, taking you out of the ambulances gurney and onto theirs.
One of the doctors, young and pretty pressed a stethoscope to your chest. “Hi Y/N I’m Dr Santos. Can you tell me a little bit about this belly pain?” She asked. You winced. “It’s bad. It’s in the bottom. Uh. Lower right quadrant.”
The nurse, an older blonde lady raised her eyebrows. “Lower right quadrant? You a nurse or something, honey?”
You groaned from the pain. “No my dad is- I want my dad. Can you call him?” You begged.
You watched her think for a second. “You asked to be here because your dad’s a doctor here? Who’s your dad honey I’ll get right on that.”
“Brendon Park. Ortho.” You gritted out.
You watched the two doctors exchange an expression of shock. “I’ll be right back.” The nurse promised, walking out to, hopefully, call your dad.
Dr Santos got right back to work.
“I’m gonna feel around your belly, okay? Can you tell me when the pain started?”
“Uh- about, like 2 hours ago?” You explained.
She nodded, continuing to feel around. Ask the normal questions. Pregnancy chances, medicinal history. Then she pressed down on your lower right side and you whimpered.
“Okay. I’ll be honest with you. Not the best spot, can be alot of things over there. Could be appendix, could be your ovary. Could be an intestinal block in the area. I’m gonna get you on line for a CAT scan and a sonogram of the area so we can take a look inside, alright? Until then I’m gonna have a nurse come draw some blood and we’ll go from there.” She explained.
You nodded through the pain.
She waved down a nurse walking past and in, ordering a long list of tests on blood.
And then she hesitated. “And uh. Dana’s probably trying to get a hold on your dad so we’ll send Dr Park right in when he gets here.” She promised.
You watched the nurses eyebrows climb.
You tanked her as she told you to feel free to use the call button any time, and left you with Perlah, as she introduced, to draw your blood.
You were left alone in head dizzying agony for about 3 minutes when your dad barreled past the curtain like a hurricane.
“Daddy” you whimpered, every dam breaking at the sight of your father, shrinking down into a little girl from the pain and the fear.
His face was riddled with anxiety as he rushed to your bedside, scooping you into his arms.
“I’m here peanut, daddy’s here.” He swore, pulling your torso into his arms where he sat himself behind you.
He let you cry, in pain and fear, let you cuddle and cling.
Just a little girl who needed her dad real bad.
“Ive got you. You’re safe. You’re gonna be okay princess.” He promised.
You tried to believe him.
“Tell me what’s going on” he asked, ever so softly.
“My stomach hurts. Down by my appendix” you explained. Never allowed to give your dad a lazy answer with a belly ache.
Worry flickered in his eyes. Could be a lot of things. Which he knew you knew.
“They do any tests yet?”
“Blood. I’m waiting for CT and then a sono” you explained painfully and he nodded. “I know to hurts. Save your energy. I’m gonna go break some heads-“ he began to threaten before someone knocked on the door.
Someone who looked at your dad in full shock.
“Hi I’m Anton I’m gonna take you down to your CAT scan” he introduced awkwardly.
You nodded as you tried to stand painfully.
Your dad wasn’t having it as he scooped you up.
“I got you honey. I got you. It’s okay.”
He deposited you in the waiting wheelchair carefully.
And then he fallowed you down to CT.
He was met with surprised looks at every turn, but he didn’t care. Not when his baby’s health was on the line.
He waited with crossed arms and a grumpy face in the CT booth as your test ran, wishing so deeply he could hold your hand through the shitty feeling of the contrast.
Watching your results with a keen eye.
Now he had a better Idea.
He didn’t say anything about it as they wheeled you back to your room, as he settled you back in bed.
He waited for Santos- to his dismay never the less by the way- to come in.
“Hey Y/N- oh. Hi Dr Park.” She froze at your dad’s presence.
He nodded for her to continue. She cleared her throat.
“So. Based on your CT it looks like you ruptured an ovarian cyst.” She explained.
Brendon knew that from the CT. Was deeply relieved that was all this was. A painful nuisance, but a routine surgery. And it didn’t look like any permanent damage was done to the organ itself, thank fucking god.
Which Santos explained as well.
“It does though look like it’ll need surgery to control the bleeding and repair” which Brendon had a feeling about, too. “I’m gonna put in a page to general surgery- Dr Park I assume you’d want me to name drop to put a flame under their asses.”
Brendon agreed. But shook his head.
“I already called in a favor, Emerson should be here soon”
“Chief of OBGYN Surgery Emerson” Dr Santos noted in surprise. “That would be the one. She owes me from her mom’s hip” Brendon chuckled.
“Only the best for my little girl.” Brendon insisted softly, kissing your head. “Gonna be just fine, Angel.” He swore.

Waiting for your surgery to end was torture for Brendon.
He never realized how horrible it was to be on the other side. Be the patients waiting family.
He was hell.
He was surely going to break something going crazy sitting like this. How long can it take? It’s laparoscopic.
After a while, someone sat down next to him.
In an empty fucking waiting room.
He was about to tell them off when he registered the presence handing him a large black coffee. “How you doing man?”
Robby.
“Could be fucking better” he bit. “Scared out of my fucking mind.”
Robby chuckled fondly. “Kids do that to you.”
Brendon could drink to that.
“23 years I’ve been going crazy with it. She’s all I fucking think about.” He wasn’t so much as complaining, just releasing.
Fatherhood.
“I didn’t know you had kids.” Robby offered.
“Just her.” Brendon corrected. “Just us.”
Robby nodded in understanding. No mom no siblings. Just you two.
“She’s a bit older than I’d have expected” Robby tested carefully.
“I was 17” Brendon supplied.
Robby whistled.
“Shit.”
Brendon nodded.
“Shit indeed. I fucked up. Her mom wanted nothing to do with it after she was born- can’t blame Carly she was a 16 year old girl herself- but uh, just us since day one. That’s a lie. My parents were fucking saints. Wouldn’t have gotten this far without years worth of babysitting. But she’s- she has been everything since the day I met her.” Brendon summarized.
“Fatherhood fulfills me in a way I never could have expected.” Brendon explained. Unprompted. “I’m okay being single. I never needed bars or parties in college. I got out of class and just wanted to go home and play with my daughter.” Brendon admitted.
He couldn’t remember what it had been like to not be a dad at this point. He was fucking 17, he was a kid himself when he had you. He’d been a dad now longer than he hadn’t been. It was the only adulthood he knew, being your dad. It’s always been him and you. He didn’t need anything else. Just his daughter. You were a product of a massive fuck up. And you were the best thing that ever happened to him.
He was shockingly tender when it came to the little girl no one knew he had.
College had been unique for him.
That last year and change of highschool was actually easier.
His mom, a retired nursery school teacher now, was saintly levels of helpful. Took you to work with her, and you fit right in. You were always such a grandmas girl, Brendon remembered fondly. Always picking flowers to bring home when you lived with his parents. Still saw her almost daily, spoke to her daily for sure.
When he went to college- commuting from home and working at his dad’s store part time- you were toddling around. Sometimes it was easier to just bring you to class. Started explaining his classes to you in ways your little mind understood. His young father soft side was endlessly charming to professors, and probably got him far. Fuck, it sure as hell got him scholarships.
And then med school.
Oh, fuck. Med school was tough.
But he knew, he knew you deserved a good life- a great life. He wanted to give you that. Even if it was gonna come a little late. By the time you were in higschool he’d be able to take you on fancy vacations and by the grace of god put you through college.
So he busted his ass. Studied hard. Became the best. Made him self stand out.
Kept his cards close to his chest. And that meant you. No one got to- needed to- know about the best part of his life. They could only use it against him.
So for your first few years of elementary school he proved though med school, and worked like a dog to make sure he could get a residency in Pittsburgh so you wouldn’t have to leave his family.
And by the time you were in middle school, he bought his own damn house.
You were just a baby. You didn’t really get it. Why it was so important. So huge. But it meant the world to him. An R3 buying a nice house for his daughter to call home.
And by your first year of highschool he was an attending. He made it. He was stable. He was set. You were set.
And you could go to college anywhere you wanted.
And of corse you fucking stayed at home anyway.
Kids.
Robby chuckled at the sentiment.
“She sounds like a great kid.”
Brendon nodded. “I don’t deserve her. No one deserves her. She’s the best kid anyone could ask for. She’s everything, man. Everything.” Brendon admitted.
Voice right and tears in his eyes.
“Nothing like this has ever happened to her before. No stitches. Never broke a bone. No allergic reactions. She’s just coasted and-“
He choked. “I’ve never had to worry about her before. Not more than waiting up for her to get home from a party or a concert or- I’ve never been scared for her.” Brendon explained, breathing heavy.
“Hey- hey.” Robby whispered. “Hey. She’s gonna be fine and you know that. This is nothing. She’s be fine.” Robby swore.
Brendon nodded wetly.
He felt Robby’s hand on his shoulder.
“Hey, I’m gonna stay here with you, okay? You’re not in this alone man.”
hi i love your blog so much, especially surgeon sandwich!! i literally reread through the whole tag everyday lol
what nicknames do you think the trio has for each other?
I’m glad you do!!!! This means so much to me!!!
Brendon gets the typical Bren. Emery did it first, and reader fell in line. Emery will probably give him a stupid nickname regularly in reference to things like crab boy or something equally banal.
Emery gets Em from Brendon and Emmy from peds reader.
Emery and Brendon aren’t huge on pet names with each other. Occasionally, when she sick or just run down Brendon will hit Emery with a honey. Likewise Emery seldom calls Brendon by anything but his name but he’ll occasionally get a babe kinda snappily.
Reader is always hard of corse.
I can see Emery dialing up the babydolls, the sweethearts. Brendon’s a bit more understated. Baby, sugar. Both love to address you with a dimulative.
"All because my head is full of poison
And my heart is full of doubt
I got toxins in my bloodstream
You tried so hard to suck out
—the cure, Olivia Rodrigo
summary: you’re the ray of sunshine and overly dependable smiling intern the night shift crew has been needing. But a certain attending begins noticing you might need more help than you let on.
wc: 11.7k (a short one sorry guys)
warnings: crippling perfectionism, high-key people pleasing, reader is bright and bubbly to compensate for how awful she feels day to day, one vomiting scene, service dom jack, santos is on nightshift bc i love her and i wanted her in this fic. trinity and dennis and reader r basically siblings, jack’s characterization in this is DEF andrew pope cody-esque panic attacks, mental health struggles, reader is an intern again but i swear it’s just cause i watch a lot of greys and interns r the only stage of medical career i know enough about to write semi-well T-T
acknowledgments: once again a round of applause for @wesandresons for the lovely gif, and @uzmacchiato and @cursed-carmine for the dividers!
a/n: i’m not rlly sure i like how this turned out but oh well @leeknowpegger i hope this keeps you company
masterlist
When you first get to the PTMC, Jack can’t decide what he thinks about you.
He vaguely remembers you— you’d done a rotation here, some time ago. One of the unfortunate ones who’d drawn the short stick and been stuck on the night shift. He has a hazy recollection of your face during an MVC, your jaw hard set and a permanent smile to your face. He vaguely remembers, at the time, the only thing he’d really though was:
Jesus, this kid needs to dial it back.
The sentiment, of course, remains the same when it’s handoff time, and Robby is telling him all about what an awful fucking day it’s been, and of course now he says “Oh, remember that med student you got stuck with awhile back? Smiley-face? You must’ve done something right, because she matched into the ED for her residency. She starts today.”
Not exactly the news an attending wants to hear right after the horror show the day has been so far. Especially when intern/baby resident in question is… charismatic.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Ellis says, her eyes trained on you as you soothe a crying teenager who just got wheeled in. “If you ask me, we could use someone who actually smiles. Bit too dark and dreary in here for my taste.”
“You like dark and dreary.”
She gives him an unimpressed raised eyebrow. “So? We can’t all be doing it. Like, we’ve got Shen, but his is more iced-coffee induced than actual smiling charm.”
“I can be charming when I want to be.”
“No, you can be flirty or suggestive. There’s a difference.”
Jack does not justify her response with one of his own, instead choosing to look down at his tablet and pretend to chart while he listens to how you’re interacting with the patient. The teenager seems to be calmed down, and the parents don't sound frantic or worried.
Maybe Ellis is right. Unfortunately, this tends to be the case fairly often.
He sighs and focuses on the chart he’s supposed to be doing and attempts to wipe his mind of bright smiles and glittering eyes.
—
The PTMC and Emergency Medicine in general was not, actually, your first choice. It wasn’t even your second, or your third.
First was surgical. Everybody wants to be surgical. You wanted surgical. It’s flashy, it pays well, and it’s cool as fuck. Plus, unlike some of your classmates, you actually have the stomach for it (one of the many things that eventually translated well to emergency medicine.)
Second was Ortho. Because bones are cool. Ortho surgeries are fun too, when they’re not arthroscopy after arthroscopy.
Third was any kind of unit like Burn or ICU. A high stress program that wouldn’t let you think, let you run on adrenaline all day.
But then you did your rotation in general surgery and absolutely fucking hated it.
Surgeons are assholes. Surgeons are uptight nerds who like to subject anyone they consider beneath them to cruel and unusual punishment.
Even in during the short duration of your rotation through surgery, it almost killed you. You could practically feel the light in your soul dimming at every pointed comment, every sharp correction, every barked insult and something or other cruel word.
And then there was the PTMC. The stupid ED that wasn’t supposed to fun, was supposed to be grueling and exhausting (especially since you’d gotten assigned to the night shift.) But instead of awful you got amazing, which sucked.
Seems counterintuitive, but it’s true.
You wanted to like surgery enough to power though. But not a single rotation after the ED even came close to measuring up. The speed, the action, the gore, and the kind but firm guiding direction from the attending’s and residents.
Matching into the PTMC was an event actually worth celebrating. As in, you decided to un-tense minutely and splurge on actual champagne that you drank in your apartment while dancing to your favorite music.
And now, you’re here. Determined to not fuck this up. To keep moving, keep going, and be a fucking excellent ED doctor.
Except your attending, Dr. Jack Abbot, one of the reasons you joined the ED in the first place, keeps giving you funny looks when he thinks you’re not looking.
You’re not sure if he’s aware that you know that he’s staring at you. You do have a wider than normal field of peripheral vision, so maybe he doesn’t know that you can still see him out of the corner of your eye?
Regardless of if he knows or not, it’s unnerving. Because he’s your boss. And you know he’s capable of being an incredible doctor and mentor, because you see it every single day.
Just not directed at you.
He’s not really mean, or standoffish, or anything like that, he’s just… not necessarily kind. Not in the way that you see him with the other residents on his service or even with you, during your rotation as a med student.
Hell, he’s nicer to Santos than he is to you.
“Did I like, say something to offend him and I don’t know?”
Trinity makes a face at you from over the edge of the monitor. “Isn’t that more my area of expertise?”
“No. You offend people on purpose.”
“True.”
You prop your head on your hands, resting your elbows on the counter above her. Your keycard, attached to your breast pocket via a red, heart-shaped badge reel is lovingly adorned with pink rhinestones and cute stickers. The pocket itself is filled with several glitter gel pens (and regular pens, just in case.)
“I just don’t get it. I’m nice, right?”
“Disturbingly so.”
“Exactly. The only thing I can think of is that I’ve messed up or something, but it’s Dr. Abbot. He’d tell me if I did. He doesn’t exactly hold back.”
“Do you really need me for this conversation?”
You level her with a look, but she just groans.
“Why do you even care? So what, one guy doesn’t like you, boohoo.”
“He’s not just some guy. He’s my attending. And you might’ve secured your spot here, but i’m all shiny and new. I can’t exactly earn people’s respect if our boss doesn’t like me.”
Trinity doesn’t immediately respond with a scathing remark, which usually means that you’ve made a valid point.
“Should I talk to him?”
She sighs. “I think you’re overreacting. You’ve only been here for like, two weeks? Three? He’ll probably calm down the more you work together.”
“Did he stare at you all weirdly when you first started?”
“Well, no, but that’s because I don’t suck at my job.”
Now it’s your turn to glare.
“Sorry. I guess you’re not completely hopeless.”
You roll your eyes. “Thanks, Trin.”
She scrunches her nose up at the nickname like you knew she would, because she hates it, which makes it one of the only weapons you have against her.
Trinity wasn’t as helpful as you’d hoped, and night shift means no Dana to ask for advice. There’s Dr. Ellis, but she’s pretty close to Dr. Abbot, which means there’s a high chance that whatever you ask her will make it back to him. You aren’t really close enough to Dr. Shen to ask him “Hey, how come Dr. Abbot stares at me when he thinks I’m not looking and isn’t as nice to me as he is to you guys?”
The question is stupid and kind of pathetic, so really, you shouldn’t be asking anybody, but you’ve always been crippled by an intense need to be well-liked. It feels like winning, and it feels good and safe. Safe is good. Safe is great.
Wanting the guy who's essentially your boss to like you is completely rational, right?
You just wish he’d tell you what you’re doing wrong, so you can fix it.
Also, it’s just driving you crazy.
Even if he just legitimately didn’t like you, and made that apparent, it’d be something. You could work with that. You could figure out what it was he didn't like via intense pattern recognitin and fix it. Problem solved!
But he isn't obvious about it. He behaves indifferent and detatched- like you could die tomorrow and he wouldn't care.
It’s the not knowing. If you could just ask him, if he could just give you an answer, then you’d know where you stood, and everything could be fine.
What changed? You want to beg, What happened after my med student rotation? Do you even remember that? What did I do? Where did I go wrong?
It eats away at you over the course of the week. It has been since you noticed, which was pretty much on day one. You don’t show this outwardly of course, because you’re pretty sure you can get through to him and level out the wrong-footedness you feel around him through stubborn determination. Surely, at some point your unwavering nature will win out and he’ll finally see there isn’t anything he needs to hate about you. This is an incredibly healthy mindset to move through life with.
The week closes with an MCI around 5pm, which is just everyone’s favorite thing in the world. The night shift gets called in, minus Trinity, who was already there working a double, and everyone sets in for the long haul. You do your best to focus on the patients and do not at all think about the ease and camaraderie between Mohan and Abbot, because that would be a very fucked up progression of priorities.
Eventually it’s all over— patients are stabilized, some aren’t. Overtime ends with phantom blood on your hands and being strong-armed into drinks in the park afterwards.
You feel awkward, because you don’t work with the day shift people that often, so you’re not really sure how best to be yourself and not come across as weird. Neither of your “safe” people (Trinity and Dennis) are present, so there’s no way in hell you’re going to be capable of relaxing.
You take the beer that’s tossed to you, even though you think beer is gross (why does it taste like that? Why do people enjoy it?) and sip on it excruciatingly slowly, trying to hide a grimace and occasionally chiming in with mentally rehearsed and carefully crafted jokes and comments.
It’s exhausting, and not at all how you wanted to spend your night after an MCI. In a dream world, you don’t have the social backbone of a wet paper bag, and you say no, and you go home to your house and shower, then watch one, maybe two episodes of a tv show, scroll through Pinterest, and then go the fuck to bed.
But for the low low price of much needed rest, you get to drink one of the most disgusting alcoholic beverages known to man and worry if everyone thinks you’re being weird! Yay!
Also. Side note. Minor comment. Little issue.
Jack Abbot is sitting next to you. Like, right next to you on the bench. Because he came late and it was the last spot open. So he’s just right there. Posture loose and open and not at all like he didn’t just help you try to save a girl your age who had the misfortune of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Like two hours ago your elbows weren’t brushing, elbow deep in a man’s organs, saving his life.
Jack, unlike you, looks comfortable to be at the park with everyone. He doesn’t look like he’s analyzing conversation to determine the best thing to say next.
Jack isn’t looking at everyone. He’s not looking at anyone. He’s looking at you.
You turn, give him a little smile.
Again.
Maybe he doesn’t know you can still see him out of the corner of your eye. (No, he’s a vet, he’d definitely also have wide peripheral vision. But maybe he thinks that you don’t have it, because you’re not a vet.)
(You’re probably thinking too much about the peripheral vision.)
Jack doesn’t stop staring at you. Instead, he reaches over to where your barely-drunk beer is in your hands, and says:
“Here, give me that.”
And then he just. Takes your beer. Straight out of your hands.
Jesus fucking fuck he so hates you.
—
“He took your beer?”
“Yes,” You groan from the kitchen island in Trinity’s apartment, “He said ‘here, give me that’ and then just took it. He didn’t say anything else to me for the rest of the night.”
She lets out a low whistle. “Maybe he doesn’t like you. What could you have possibly done to make him not like you?”
“I don’t know!”
“Well, you better fix it. Having your attending hate your guts will like, majorly suck.”
“I don’t know how to fix it. That’s what i’m over here for. To brainstorm.”
“I thought you were here to steal the cookies Huckleberry made?”
Dennis peeks his head up from the couch. “Wait, what?”
You wave a hand. “Semantics. Focus.”
“Okay,” Trinity taps a pencil on a notepad, “Have you tried sleeping with him?”
“He’s like, probably over twenty years older than me.”
“So? I know your type.”
You roll your eyes. “As if he’d go after me, Trin. He doesn’t like me.”
“Hate sex is a thing.”
“Name one time hate sex solved the hate part.”
She purses her lips. “Touché. What about like, baking him shit, like Huckleberry does for—“
“Shut up Trinity!”
You both snicker.
“No dice,” You sigh, “I can’t bake for shit. Recipes never have enough context. They’re never specific enough.”
“Two tablespoons of sugar isn’t specific enough for you?”
“You’re not helping.”
Trinity holds up her hands in mock surrender. “To be fair, I never agreed to help. I just said we’d both be here if you wanted to come over.”
“I think you should just ask him.” Dennis pipes up.
He shuffles off the couch and slides into the second chair at the kitchen island adjacent to you. “Dr. Abbot is a straightforward guy. He appreciates honesty. Doesn’t beat around the bush. I can’t imagine him being truly upset that you tried to fix a problem.”
“I want to, but that’s like. Too straightforward. What if—“
“Oh my god,” Trinity moans, “Just ask him. Or fuck him. Do something so I don’t have to hear about it anymore.”
You frown, opening your mouth to object, then close it with a sigh.
She’s right.
You have to just move on. Either deal with it or deal with it by… not dealing with it. Talk to him or don’t.
Easier said than done.
—
It takes two more shifts of unrequited awkwardness for you to finally reach your limit. At a certain point, probably when you almost snapped at him for hovering (doing his job) while you were trying to intubate a patient, you realize that you cannot, actually, just get through to him via stubborn determination.
Damn.
So when you have a second, you corner him in one of the quieter hallways. The conversation has the potential to be horrifically embarrassing and mortifying, so it’s best if there’s no audience.
“Do you have a minute, Dr. Abbot?”
He glances down at his watch, then crosses his arms and leans against the opposite wall.
He doesn’t talk (unnerving, annoying) and his sharp, ever analyzing gaze makes your skin prickle as you cross your hands behind your back and mirror his position, leaning against the wall.
He’s so irritating. He won’t even give you a fucking inch. There’s nothing to go on.
“Did I do something wrong?”
For the first time since you became a resident in the ED, he makes an expression: surprise.
“Why do you think you did something wrong?”
“Because you won’t fucking talk to me!” You hiss, absolutely fed up with Dr. Jack Abbot, “Half the time you only look at me when you think I won’t notice. You don’t talk to me unless it’s required for teaching, and even then, it’s short and stilted. I’ve seen how you interact with literally every other person who works here. I know you can be nice. You’re just not nice to me, and I’d like to know why.”
You pause. “And you took my beer!”
There’s a moment of silence, and then there’s a breathy, almost wheezing sound that takes you a minute to place.
He’s laughing.
Jack fucking Abbot starts laughing.
You honest to God want to kill him.
“Sorry,” He says, eyes sparkling with mirth and shoulders loose, “I can see how all of that can be taken negatively—“
“How else was I supposed to take that.”
Jack levels you with a look, and you shut your mouth. “But it was not my intention.”
He just stops speaking there, like that’s a perfectly adequate explanation and not at all vague and almost more disconcerting.
“So…,” You drawl, “What was your intention?”
Something interesting, a little more heated than just analytical sparks in his gaze, and he tilts his head, eyes flicking up and down your body.
Under the silence and scrutiny, you resist the urge to squirm in place, hands squeezing themselves in an effort to subdue the itch.
“You hate confrontation.”
Your chest feels like a cinder block just slammed onto it. “What?”
“You,” He levels a finger at your chest, “Hate confrontation. You hate it so much that you lie about yourself to people instead of saying things they might not like.”
You laugh nervously, voice high and reedy. “A lot of people do that. I don’t think that’s a crime.”
“It’s not. But it doesn’t exactly make me want to trust you with my residents. With my team.”
“You’re worried I’ll what? Get somebody in trouble? Do something shitty?”
“I’m worried that something is going to happen to you, and you won’t tell anyone about it.”
The hallway grows silent. In this distance there’s beeping, someone shouting orders, a child crying. But not in the five feet of space you, Jack, and the conversion currently occupies.
“Why do all of this?” You gesture vaguely to the space between you two, unwilling to be more specific. He does not deserve the itemized list you assembled in your head.
“I wanted to see if you’d confront me about it or not. Confirm my suspicions.”
“That’s—“ You wrinkle your nose, “Actually kind of shitty of you.”
Jack just hums.
“So what now? Did I prove myself to you?” Your tone is mocking.
He scoffs, “God, you really hate confrontation, don’t you?”
Your skin prickles again. “No.”
“Lying again.”
“Shut up.”
He knows how uncomfortable he’s making you. He’s doing it on purpose. And right then and there, you decide you don’t care what Jack Abbot thinks, because if Jack Abbot is going to be a self-assured asshole, Jack Abbot can go fuck himself.
Your pager going off saves you from verbalizing any of this, and with one last glare, you’re gone.
—
If Jack was an obnoxious lurker before, it doesn’t hold a damn candle to how he behaves now.
He’s just. Everywhere. Around every corner. Driving you crazy.
When you bring this up to Trinity, she looks at you like you’ve finally lost it.
Which. Okay. You probably have. But that’s beside the point! The point is…
…The point is that Jack Abbot is getting on your last nerve and you really don’t have any to spare. Life has been stomping all over the other ones, so the singular nerve Jack is stabbing with his annoying pointed looks and almost lingering touches and stupid little questions (“Hey, that was a rough one, are you alright?”) is just worn out. It doesn’t have anything left to give. You don’t have anything left to give.
But, like you were brought up to do, you keep right on giving. And working. And smiling.
Because it goes a little something like this: There’s no one to pick you up if you fall. You pick yourself up when you fall, and you’ve gotten pretty fucking good at it. All of your friends (read: Trinity and Dennis and maybe Mel) are doctors, which means you all have shitty work/life balance and no one would even be available if you called and said “Hey, every morning I lie awake and stare at the ceiling and convince myself to get up while listening to Hallelujah by Jeff Buckley, after which I will inevitably cry on the bus to work. Would you mind helping me with my laundry?”
Okay. Well. Trinity would probably show up if you asked because once she decides that you’re her friend she’s really intense about it (she’s a bit like a Doberman or some other dog like that, not that you would ever tell her) and Dennis probably would too, but only because he never says no when someone asks for help so it kind of just feels like you’re taking advantage of him. Mel is far too busy juggling being an ED doctor and caring for Becca for you to even think about asking her without feeling intense, soul crushing guilt.
So yeah. You don’t really have a best friend, unless one would count the singular romance book you’ve read so much the spine is completely fucked and the pages are yellow from years of travel and rereading. Counting any book as a best friend is probably very pathetic. But hey, don’t fix what isn’t broken.
So you have a system and a method and crying before and after work every single day is totally, completely normal, healthy, and sustainable. Probably even more so in the medical field, and especially since you’re a PGY1. Interns gotta suffer and all that jazz.
Jack Abbot does not need to make the suffering worse by existing near you constantly. Things are really honestly bad enough.
“Hey,” Trinity grabs your arm as you’re going by during a mellow shift, grip not tight enough to hurt but enough to be a bit past uncomfortable, especially for a girl not used to physical contact, “You good?”
‘No,’ You want to shout, collapsing on the floor in a heap of bones and tears, ‘I haven’t done laundry in so long that I’ve started wearing my cleanest dirty socks instead of washing more. I don’t have the energy to spend my days off doing anything productive, but every time I sleep instead of doing chores the anxiety eats me alive. I can’t sleep at night because the guilt makes me so nervous sometimes I throw up. Sometimes I don’t wash myself in the shower and I just stand in the water until it gets cold. Every day I wake up with the same headache, and then I take medicine for it, but by the time it’s gone I’m going to bed and then I wake up with it all over again. I think my liver is shot from over-the-counter medication usage. Everything hurts. I’m so tired.’
Trinity needs you to be okay. Trinity is too busy and under too much stress to worry about you. She needs you to be okay. Everyone needs you be okay.
“Mhm!” You nod, lips spread wide, “Pretty good day actually, all things considered.”
It’s not a total lie. The headache relief you’ve been taking religiously is kicking in faster than it usually does today.
Trinity scans your face, looking for signs of a lie, and she must find something (not shocking, it’s very hard to pretend that everything isn’t awful when Everything Is Really Awful) because her grip tightens minutely and she does that pursed lip thing she does when she’s worried and about to express it through anger or bitchiness.
“Don’t fuck with me. I don’t want to find out you’re like, doing drugs or something stupid like that. If you’re having a hard time—“
“Trin,” You interrupt, skin prickling uncomfortably as she implies that you’re not capable of handling things on your own, “If I need help, I know I can ask for it. And look,”
You tap your unbroken collection of glitter gel pens still intact in the front pocket of your scrubs. “It’s gotta be a good day. I still got my glitter.”
She wrinkles her nose, but drops your arm. “I don’t even know why you keep those. You can’t use them on like, anything. It’s against hospital policy.”
You shrug. “Glitter is a great motivator and mood elevator. Plus, kids love ‘em.”
You manage to feign something important coming up and duck out of the conversation and then, when the coast is clear, dart into one of the lesser used bathrooms and tuck yourself in the darkest stall.
Even in a hospital, toilet seats are disgusting, but you can’t quite summon any actual disgust as you plop down on the white porcelain, only lightly cracked, and cradle your exhausted head in your hands.
You have to keep going. There is no alternative. There is no other option.
Your chest feels tight and loose at the same time, and your skin feels clammy and wrong. Everything feels wrong. The lights are too bright and the material of your scrubs is scratchy and awful, and the longer you sit in the stall the more you want to throw up.
Someone knocks on the door before you get the chance to move down to your knees and start worshipping the porcelain altar. Assuming it to be Mel, who sometimes has a habit of showing up at the wrong time, you open the stall door to reveal none other than Jack Fucking Abbot.
You stare at him blankly for a few beats, too bewildered to feel sick. “You’re not allowed to be in here.”
“In the men’s bathroom?”
“This isn’t the men’s bathroom.”
“The sign on the door would say otherwise.”
Embarrassment brings the nausea back tenfold. You hold the stall door in a white knuckle grip to keep yourself upright and from hurling onto your boss.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry, I swear I didn’t do this on purpose—“
Jack raises an eyebrow, his hands folded behind his back. Military man, right.
“Clearly.”
You stumble forward. “I need to go—“
“Woah, down girl. I didn’t knock because I cared which toilet you use. You work here. Use whatever toilet you want. Preferably not the one in the attending’s lounge.”
“There’s an attending’s lounge?”
“No.” He grins, a devilish upturn to just the corner of his lips.
“Oh,” You pause, then catch up to the rest of what he said, “Then why’d you knock?”
“Cause it kind of sounded like you were dying in there, and I’d rather if you didn’t.”
“Why not?”
“The paperwork, for one. Two, Santos would probably shank me.”
“Ah.”
“Also,” He shrugs, “I’d miss you.”
You scoff. “No you wouldn’t.”
“I would.”
“You don’t like me. You don’t even trust me.”
Jack gets this pinched look on his face; his lips pull down, his brows furrow and he narrows his eyes, just a bit.
He opens his mouth to respond when the door bangs open.
Jack doesn’t even look up before he’s barking:
“Find another bathroom.”
“But I have to—“
“Find another bathroom or I’ll cut your dick off.”
The guy grumbles away, but Jack never takes his eyes off you. It’s unnerving— to be the sole focus of his attention.
You’re the first to break the now tense silence of the bathroom.
“That seemed a bit extreme.”
“I’m not a man who does things by halves.”
“No,” You sigh, “I suppose you’re not.”
Jack cocks his head to side, almost predatory. More methodical than anything. He looks at you— really looks at you. Shamelessly drags his eyes up your body, likely cataloguing every mystery bruise, frown line, eye bag, freckle, and all the million lines of exhaustion that seem etched on your very being, right down through the bones and marrow.
He sighs, crossing his arms before leaning back on the opposite wall of the bathroom.
“What am I going to do with you?”
His words instantly have you on edge, bristling at all the unsaid things behind his tone.
“I’m not something to be dealt with. I’m a person, not some fucking—“
“You’re like a stray cat,” He interrupts, “Always hissing. Do I need to win you over with treats? Should I start bringing canned tuna?”
“You’re an asshole.”
“And you’re drowning.”
Just like that, all the humor gets sucked from the room, replaced with the cold, sharp grip of reality. Suddenly exhausted by the weight of it all, you drop back down onto the toilet seat.
Jack gives you a few moments to respond, get angry, or defend yourself, but you don’t. He’s too good at reading you, it seems. What is there to say?
When you don’t speak, he does.
“Did you think no one would notice?”
“No one has.”
“Am I no one?”
You lean back, closing your eyes and awkwardly resting the back of your head against the wall and the back of the toilet.
“You’re nosy.”
If this were any other moment, any other scenario with any other person, you would never ever act so contrary. But you’re tired and Jack seems to bring out the worst in you.
He makes an amused huffing noise. “You’re good at what you do, I’ll give you that.”
“What, exactly, am I doing?”
“Pretending.”
You scoff. “Fuck off.”
“Come on, sweetheart. How much longer are you going to do this to yourself?”
You lift your head off the back of the toilet. “You act like I’m killing myself:”
“You are,” His inclined his head, “Just really slowly.”
You scrub a hand down your face.
“Look. I understand why you think you have to care, but you don’t. I’m just going through a rough patch. I’ll get through them like I always do. I’m not gonna crash and burn or endanger myself or do whatever it is you’re worried I’m going to do, okay? So you can leave me alone. I’m fine.”
Jack doesn’t get to respond, because the second the words are out of your mouth the nausea that’s been churning in your stomach since you made it to the bathroom rises all at once, and you barely have time to slide off the toilet and turn before you’re throwing up hard enough to almost choke.
The worst part is that you forgot to eat lunch so your stomach is woefully, painfully empty. You’re throwing up nothing but bile, throat burning and tears streaming down your face.
“Alright, come on,” A warm hand rubs soothing circles on your back, and if you weren’t busy hurling your guts out, you’d marvel at the feeling and juxtaposition between the Jack you know, who’s all cold indifference, and the Jack currently holding your hair out of your face while you vomit.
“Let it out,” He soothes, hand still rubbing, “Don’t fight it. It’ll be over soon.”
“I hate throwing up.” You choke, coughing and gasping.
“No one does. But you’ll feel better when it’s over.”
Over feels like it’s never going to come. But eventually your stomach stops clenching, you manage to stop heaving, and you’re slumped over the toilet, sucking down gulps of air, sweat beading on your forehead and the back of your neck.
“This,” You mumble in between gasps, “Means nothing.”
You can’t see Jack’s expression, but his response is so quiet you almost miss it.
“Okay.”
You can’t see his face, but you know this isn’t over.
—
Jack sends you home once you’re capable of standing on your own two feet without shaking like a newborn fawn.
(“You can’t send me home.”
“Yes I can. You’re not allowed to come back to work after throwing up in the bathroom.”
“We both know I’m not the only person to do it.”
“Yeah, but I haven’t caught the other people in the wrong bathroom and held their hair back while they vomited.”
“…”
“You only have two hours left anyway. Go home.”)
The problem lies in the fact that the buses aren’t running yet, which means that you can’t, actually, get home. Your house is an hour away on foot. An hour you’d normally be capable of walking, but your phone is almost dead, you’re exhausted, and you still feel a little weak because of the vomiting.
So after retrieving your things from your locker, you find yourself sitting on the little bench outside the PTMC, waiting for the minutes to tick by. If you didn’t bring at least one book with you everywhere you go in case of emergencies (like this one) you probably would have just walked into oncoming traffic.
It’s cold out and your jacket is cheap so you have to burrow into it, hood up to retain any semblance of warmth. It would be almost cozy —huddled in your jacket, watching the city go by, tucked into your favorite romance book— if the shift hadn’t gone the way it had and if a grueling bus ride and half mile walk didn’t await you once the buses finally start running. Waiting for you beyond that is just chores and an empty apartment.
Your fingers tighten on the edges of your book.
“Why the fuck are you still here?”
You jolt in place, cracking your neck over to the side and blinking blearily.
Jack. Again.
He makes an expectant face at you as if to say ‘Well?’ when you don’t answer immediately.
Your eyes dart back and forth nervously, even though you know you haven’t done anything wrong. “The buses aren’t running yet. It’s an hour walk to my house.”
Jack scrubs a hand down his face and curses under his breath.
“How long until your bus gets here?”
You check your phone. Shit. Only four percent left.
“And hour and a half. Maybe a little longer if it’s running behind more than usual.”
He seems put out by your answer, as if the bus’s heavily fluctuating schedule is of personal consequence and offense to him.
“Um,” You start, both uncomfortable at having been caught reading a romance book in public and at the general air of frustration Jack seems to be venting at the moment, “I’m fine. I have my book. I don’t mind waiting.”
Jack just sighs.
“Do you really think I’m just going to leave you out here, in the cold, after you threw up in the bathroom, to wait for the bus, for nearly two more hours?”
You wince. “Well, it doesn’t sound great when you put it like that.”
He works his jaw. “Have you eaten?”
“No…?”
He shakes his head.
“Come on. You’re coming with me.”
—
“I have to admit, this isn’t where I thought we were going.
Thirty minutes later finds you seated on the cracked vinyl seat of a booth in a cheap diner, staring at a menu and rationalizing spending your last $15 on what will probably be mediocre pancakes.
Jack is seated across from you, already two mugs of coffee —black, but oddly enough, decaf— and not even bothering to pretend to look at his menu. He either comes here often or doesn’t care to act like he isn’t staring at you.
Probably both.
“Where did you think we were going?”
Steam curls out of your own untouched mug of coffee —ordered for you by Jack, also unfortunately decaf— and you debate just getting up and running out of here.
Too bad you’re too exhausted to run anywhere. Jack’s probably banking on that.
“I don’t know,” You shrug, setting the menu down, “Maybe to Gloria’s office to write me up or something.”
“What would I even be writing you up for?”
“Disobeying direction? I’m sure you could come up with something.”
The waitress chooses that moment to appear, notepad in hand. “Are we ready to order?”
Jack rattles off his order, and then two sets of eyes turn to you expectantly. Before you can order the single fruit bowl you were planning on getting (the cheapest thing on the menu) Jack pipes up:
“Order whatever you actually want. Not whatever you think is cheapest or easiest.”
The waitress, a middle aged woman who has probably seen much worse than whatever the two of you have going on, just chuckles lightly under her breath.
You hesitantly list the item you’d been eyeing and thank the waitress.
It isn’t until after the menus have been taken and Jack’s coffee re-upped for the third time that you manage to courage to speak.
“You didn’t have to do this, you know.”
“I know.”
“No, I mean,” your fingers curl on the edge of the table, desperate for something to hold onto, “I can’t— It’ll be awhile until I can pay you back. I barely made rent this month.”
“Do you think I would take you to breakfast and then make you pay?”
“Yes…?”
“You’re not touching the bill, kid. I’m a gentleman.”
“Oh,” You didn’t really see that coming, “Okay.”
Jack gets a funny expression on his face, then resumes his drinking coffee and glancing out the window routine.
“So,” You say after a beat, “Was there something you wanted to talk about…?”
The silence just feels so awkward. It’s killing you.
He raises a brow. “Do you want to talk?”
“I’m asking you.”
“And I’m asking you what you want to do. What do you usually do when you come out to eat?”
“I don’t? Eating out is expensive, so. But when I do it’s usually by myself, so I end up just reading.”
Jack gestures to your bag beside you. “Don’t let me stop you.”
“What?”
“Read your book.”
“But that’s— isn’t that boring for you?”
He sets his mug down. “I didn’t bring you here because I wanted something from you. I brought you here because you had a shitty day and it seemed like you could use some cheering up. If reading makes you feel better, then do it.”
You have to look out the window to avoid his gaze. You don’t understand how your perfectly crafted facade just crumbles into fucking dust around him. How he manages to see right through you at every turn, how he manages to uncover every lie and every half truth.
“How did you even know I like diner food?”
“Because I pay attention to you.”
You finally look back over at him, arms folded across your chest; not really defensively, more like you’re trying to hold your entire body together by sheer force of will.
Jack’s lips twitch. Not really a smile, but almost. “You bring it up every time Santos wants to get food after a shift. She always says no, because she hates it, but it never stops you from suggesting it.”
It’s just one detail. One tiny, inconsequential detail that he’s apparently memorized and held onto because to him, it’s important. For some impossible to understand reason, he seems to care.
"Also," He shrugs, "I'd miss you."
You scoff. "No you wouldn't."
"I would."
“Do you hate me?”
Jack looks back at you, seemingly startled by the abrupt question.
“No.”
You take a deep, shuddering breath.
“Okay.”
—
“You did what?”
You wince from your spot lying face-down on Trinity’s couch.
“Not so loud, Trin. I have a headache.”
She ignores you, seated on the floor almost directly in front of you. “So you’ve gone from hating each other to going on a date?”
“It wasn’t a date,” You groan, “We spent almost the entire time in silence. I read my book and he stared out the window and did… whatever it is men like him do when they stare out the window.”
“Brooding,” Trinity says, “He paid. That means it’s a date.”
“No it doesn’t!”
It doesn't. It totally doesn't. Just because Jack said he doesn't hate you doesn't mean he likes you either. There are a lot of emotions in between hate and love. Like toleration, for example. Mild amusement. Exasperation. An appropriate amount of annoyance.
Trinity pokes you on the back of your head, having none of it.
"He likes you. Why else would he willingly hang out with one of us after work?"
"He goes out for drinks in the park sometimes." You mumble.
"Yeah, after an MCI."
What Trinity doesn't know is the events leading up to breakfast at the diner, because that would involve telling her about the whole throwing up from anxiety in the men's bathroom directly after a mini-panic attack because she confronted you about your unhealthy lifestyle (which all just sounds a lot worse than it is), so there isn't really a way to give her the kind of context necessary to get her off your back and dissuade her from her (insanely insane) belief that Jack likes you. Romantically.
"Trust me Trin, he was just being nice. Nothing romantic about it."
It was kind of romantic. Just eating surprisingly good food in the company of someone you don't need to pretend around, enjoying being in the company of another human being without worry or expectation.
Not that she needs to know that.
"Jack doesn't do nice. Have you seen him? What happened to the hating?"
You shrug. "You'll just have to ask him, because I don't know."
You do know. He told you. Explained it.
It doesn't make sense.
Trinity throws her hands in the air dramatically.
"Whatever. You two are impossible."
She finally withdraws, leaving you to wallow in your headache-induced misery by yourself on her couch.
Your phone vibrates on the floor next to you, and you groan, rolling further over to hide yourself in the crack of the couch, shunning the light like the reclusive vampire you are.
Your phone vibrates again.
“Dennis,” your voice is muffled by the couch cushion so it ends up sounding more like ‘denim’, “Can you please see who’s texting me and tell them to fuck off?”
Dennis, who was eating cereal at the tiny table near the kitchen when you first showed up fifteen minutes ago and has pointedly stayed silent throughout the entire exchange between you and Trinity, finally speaks.
“Your phone is two inches away from your hand.”
“I have a headache I don’t wanna look at the screen.”
You feel rather than actually see him roll his eyes, but then there’s the clink of a spoon against a bowl and the faint sound of socked —you’ve genuinely never seen him ever be barefoot under any circumstances, no matter what, he’s always wearing socks— feet as they make their way over to your temporary pit (couch) of despair.
There’s a quiet rustle as he picks up your phone off the floor.
“Oh.”
You whine, dramatic and upset. “What?”
“Um,” He grabs your shoulder, slowly rolling you over and away from the back of the couch, “It’s Jack?”
“What!?” You screech.
You throw yourself up, wincing as you immediately regret it when the pain in your head doubles, take a steadying breath to ignore it, and then grab the phone from Dennis’s outstretched hand.
You turn on the phone and— yep. Sure enough. A text from Jack, complete with the stupid picture of a dinosaur you made his profile picture. Because he’s old.
(It was funnier at the time.)
Somewhere behind you there’s a crash, and then the thump thump thump that can only mean a person running towards you at dangerous speeds for sock covered feet on cheap linoleum.
“Incoming,” Dennis mutters.
“Did I just hear that right?” Trinity gasps, nearly giving herself blunt force trauma via the back of the couch, “Did Jack just text you?”
“I don’t know!” You cry.
“How do you not know! Your phone is right in your fucking hands!”
“I’m tired! Stop yelling at me!”
“Guys!” Dennis shouts, holding up his hands, “I refuse to spend my day off listening to you two argue over the validity of romance with our attending. Give me the phone.”
He snatches the phone without waiting for a response, quickly typing in your password (if there was ever a moment you regret telling him in case of emergency…) and opening the text.
He makes an incredulous face at the phone before saying:
“He asked what you’re doing today.”
Trinity claps once. “Fucking called it!”
“Trinity!” Dennis snaps, before sighing and tapping at your keyboard, “I’m telling him that you have a headache and you’re at our place and to please not text again—“
“No!” You squeal, launching yourself off the couch, arms outstretched, but your legs tangle over each other and you fall and slam, gloriously and beautifully, face first into the coffee table.
“Oo!” Trinity winces, covering her mouth.
“Oh my god!” Dennis balks, “Are you okay?”
“Just give me the fucking phone.”
Peeling your face off, you grab the phone, squinting at the screen and ignoring the black spots in the corner of your vision.
hi, you type, I’m at Trinity and Dennis’s. Did you need something?
You hit send before you can talk yourself out of it.
“We,” You haul yourself to your feet and stagger over to the kitchen table, “Will never speak of this.”
“I definitely am. When I’m the maid of honor at your guys wedding, I’m gonna give a speech and be all ‘you guys, she gave herself a concussion the first time he texted—‘“
“There will be no wedding!”
“That’s just what you think.”
Your phone vibrates again, signaling a response.
Just wondering how you were doing. Surprised to hear you’re not holed up in your apartment reading something.
Ah, sexy old men and their correct grammar and punctuation when texting. Shouldn’t be endearing.
“What’s he saying?”
“Go away!”
You tap out a quick response.
Not today unfortunately lol I have a headache so no reading for me
Isn’t this the sixth day in a row you’ve had a headache? Should I give neuro a call?
You stomach flips.
nooo I’m fine i get them all the time
That’s not exactly reassuring.
I went to the doctor for them awhile ago apparently they’re normal
Who?
if I tell you, are you going to call him and make him send over my chart?
Yes.
Your heart is starting to pound a fluttering beat in your chest, and you hunch over your phone.
then i’m not telling you. it’s fine, really
they usually go away when i take over the counter stuff
So your plan is just to destroy your liver?
pretty much
We need to work on your planning skills.
we?
I’m not doing all the work.
Now stop looking at your phone. Drink some Gatorade and take a nap.
this is a resident apartment there’s no gatorade here just redbulls
Have either of them buy you one. I’ll pay whichever one it is later. Go to sleep. You need it.
You turn off your phone, shuffling back over to the couch and flopping down onto it.
“I’m taking a nap. Jack wants one of you to go buy me a Gatorade. He said he’d pay you back later.”
“He said what?”
—
You end up sleeping the entire day away, which should have screwed up your sleep schedule, but thankfully you live in a state of perpetual exhaustion and are fully capable of falling asleep anytime, anywhere, no matter how much you last sleep. It’s a gift.
Shockingly, the shift you work the next day is actually much easier to survive and your smiles aren’t nearly as forced. Go figure. Who knew that getting an appropriate amount of sleep would be so helpful?
“Somebody’s in a better mood today.” Jack mutters as you sidle up next to him under the board.
“I’m pretty sure I slept for like, fourteen straight hours. Thanks for the Gatorade, by the way. I woke up around hour three, chugged it, and then went back to sleep. No headache when I woke up!”
“Wonderful,” He drawls, “It’s almost like taking care of yourself is actually beneficial.”
“I take care of myself plenty.”
He casts you a sidelong glance, expression pinched.
“When was the last time you drank water without being prompted?”
“That’s different.”
“Okay,” He dips his head, “When was the last time you ever felt truly relaxed?”
You give him a beaming smile, so wide it hurts. “We’re not going to talk about this right now!”
“You started this conversation. I’m trying to do my job.”
You snort. “You’re waiting to see if someone else is going to take the sunburn guy.”
“Are you accusing an attending of cherry picking?”
“Of course not. Just observing, sir.”
Jack’s turned to look at you now, head tilted up, hands folded behind his back.
When you say sir, his eyes flick down to your lips, and then his jaw tightens.
The air suddenly becomes charged, the space between you two filled with something too electric to be air.
It smells like aftershave, hospital antiseptic, wanting, and something that’s distinctly masculine.
You look away first, swallowing hard past the sudden dryness of your mouth.
“You know,” You say, crossing your arms and looking up at the board, “Trinity thinks you like me. Romantically.”
“Mm.”
“I told her that was dumb,” You babble, “Obviously it’s not true, but. She won’t let it go, so if she says something, just ignore her. Or not. Whatever you want.”
“Why wouldn’t it be true?”
You whip your head around so fast you’re pretty sure something cracks. “What?”
“I mean,” Jack’s voice is gruff as he shrugs once, “Is that really so unrealistic?”
“Of course it is,” You sputter, “You don’t like me.”
“I’ve actually never said that. That was a conclusion you came to on your own. I distinctly recall telling you that I don’t hate you.”
“Just because you don’t hate me doesn’t mean that you like me, let alone— like that.”
Jack tilts his head, almost predatory, and all that sharp tension rushes straight back in.
“Like what?”
Something hot and dangerous is starting to unfurl in your chest, untethering from where it was previously lodged deep behind your ribs, out of sight, out of feeling.
“Code Blue en route, ETA two minutes.”
Jack jerks his head in the direction of the ambulance bay. “You gonna go get that?”
“Uh,” You’re pretty sure you’re stroking out, having a seizure, or something, because the only thing you’re capable of comprehending is the fact that Jack just not-so-subtly implied to actually liking you. Romantically.
“Get going then.”
You scurry away, hot all over and absolutely done with emotions in their entirety.
—
The rest of the week is hell on Earth. Perks of being in your twenties.
Things could be worse though!
Kind of.
It’s just that it’s been several days since Jack basically confirmed Trinity’s suspicions on romance and you can’t stop thinking about it. Obsessively.
It’s bad.
Bad enough that when Mel asked if there was any way you could cover her shift, you said yes.
“Okay,” Dennis stage-whispers as you’re downing your third coffee of the day, miserably charting at the nurses station, “I feel the need to ask how bad things can possibly be if you’re covering a day shift.”
“Mel asked.”
Dennis blinks incredulously. “You love Mel, but not enough to work a day shift voluntarily.”
“What exactly are you asking me here?”
“Did you and Jack hit a rough patch or something?”
“Keep your voice down!” You hiss, ducking your head as if you can hide from Princess and Perlah, “And for your information, no. We didn’t. I just wanted to do something nice for Mel.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“I don’t need you to believe me.”
Day-shift crawls on in a whirlwind of chaos and a level of dumb-fuckery that can only be achieved from the hours of 8 a.m to 8 p.m. As usual, the place is understaffed, overcrowded, and filled with a lingering sense of impending doom.
By the time night-shift starts filtering in, you’re ready to completely give up and start a new life a sheep rancher in New Zealand. It’s always been the plan if being a doctor didn’t work out.
Jack finds you in the locker room once the handoff is over, sitting on the little bench in the same position Dennis found you in earlier. Face in your hands, heels in your eyes, methodically counting breaths and wondering if that fluttering feeling in your chest is from caffeine consumption or sleep deprivation.
It’s fine. Your fine. Everything is fine.
“You don’t look too good.”
“I’m—“
“Don’t say you’re fine.”
“But I am,” You grit, “I just need a minute.”
“Okay.”
There’s the distinct sound of Jack’s slightly uneven footsteps, and then there’s a warm weight pressed against your side.
You take another shuddering breath that feels less like breathing and more like placing a single brick in a wobbly foundation.
“Shouldn’t you be out on the floor?”
“I don’t work tonight.”
You raise your head just enough to look at him. “You don’t? I thought I saw you on the schedule. Why are you here if you don’t work?”
Now that you’re looking at him and not starburst patterns on the back of your eyelids, you can see that he’s wearing casual clothes, not scrubs, and he doesn’t have his usual army-issue backpack with him.
“I got Shen to cover me. I came here for you.”
Your next breath in almost gets stuck in your chest, air struggling to move past that alive and wriggling thing that keeps moving every time Jack is around.
“What’d you do that for?”
The barest hints of a smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “Dennis called me. He said you’d need picking up after your shift.”
Shame, guilt, and embarrassment flood your veins, turning your blood into sickly-sweet poison that makes your stomach roll and twist.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry, I have no idea why he did that. You really didn’t have to drive all the way over here, I swear I didn’t tell him to call you or something like that—“
“I know you didn’t,” Jack soothes, voice a rumbly, smooth timber that washes over your permanently-frazzled nerves like a balm, “Which is why I came.”
“I don’t understand.”
Jack stands, pulling your bag and change of clothes out of your locker.
“I’m going to ask you a question, and I need you to be honest with me, so you don’t have to answer it again. Can you do that for me?”
You nod once.
“Words.”
“Uh— yeah. Yes.”
“Good.”
Thank god the locker room is empty— everyone’s either on the floor or already left for their homes.
He closes your locker down, shoulders your bag, and hands you your clothes.
“Is it easier for you to accept help when you don’t have to ask and don’t get the chance to say no?”
It sounds so pathetic, hearing it laid out like that. The ugly guts of you; cut open, laid bare, and marked for research. Exhibit A, the inside of the girl no one ever needed to worry about.
You don’t want to agree. You want to laugh it off, maybe run away from it. Sit up straight, wipe your face, take the bag from Jack and explain that this is all a big misunderstanding and you’re perfectly fine and he can stop worrying about you now.
“Yes.”
Jack doesn’t verbally acknowledge your response besides a single dip of his head, like he knows that if he does anything more it’ll turn your response into a confession and that’s just too vulnerable for the hospital locker room.
“I’ll drive you home.”
“I don’t mean to be this way, you know.”
The passenger seat of Jack’s car isn’t somewhere you’d ever imagined yourself being. Not even late at night or on the bus when you’re pretending to be someone else who’s better at chasing what they want.
“It stopped being intentional a long time ago,” your hands are fisted into the material of your sweatpants, nails digging into the fabric, “It was just the natural progression of things. I like being liked.”
What you don’t say, what becomes an unspoken truth that lingers in the air despite not being verbalized, is the survival aspect of it. Why and how a person fuses this kind of thing to their personality; to their life. The circumstances that makes the natural progression of things end it being better for everyone if you just don’t have needs.
“I know.”
“I know you know, I just… needed to tell you. Myself.”
It’s odd seeing Jack illuminated by streetlights instead of fluorescent overheads. It’s odd being able to watch his hand flex on the steering wheel, watching his forearm tense as he shifts gears in his old stick-shift.
“You like being told what to do.”
Your face heats, but you’re determined not to lose face now. Especially after managing to survive being emotionally flayed open, willingly, by him.
“It feels safe. If I know what yo— someone wants, then I can’t mess it up, and I can relax.”
You can practically see the gears turning in Jack’s mind.
“Makes sense.”
The rest of the drive is quiet, the silence only filled by the sounds of Pittsburgh around you and the gentle crackle of something from the radio turned down too low to hear.
And for the first time in longer than you can remember, you begin feeling something that approaches calm.
Jack doesn’t have any expectations. There isn’t any one particular way he wants you to act or expects you to behave like. There’s nothing he wants you to do.
So you do what you want to do.
You relax.
—
In the weeks following Jack driving you home, there is a quantifiable shift in behavior between the two of you.
He starts pulling back.
It strikes you as odd first, and your natural inclination is to pull back too— to guard the soft, vulnerable bits you’ve showed him in case he throws them back at you.
But then you realize what he’s doing.
Instead of telling you how to proceed on a case when you come to him for advice, he asks you questions and steers you to the answer. He holds back when he’s evaluating a case with you, patiently following your lead and only interjecting when necessary.
He’s making space for you try new things and learn without fear of rejection. Building your confidence bit by bit.
It feels more intimate than sex.
After much deliberation, screaming into your pillow, and Reddit forum searching for HR violations, you decide to get him a card. Because he’s actually been really kind and helpful and he makes you feel like you can actually survive residency.
“What’s this?”
“A thank you card.”
You’re staring at your shoes, eyes flicking up and down between Jack’s face and the floor.
“What for?”
“It says it in the card.”
You scurry away, attaching yourself to the closest patient to avoid seeing Jack’s face when he does finally open it.
But when you look back, he’s just staring at it, a small smile on his face.
—
It’s the card that does him in.
Jack hasn’t made his feelings for you a secret, despite your unwillingness to see him as anything other than standoffish in the beginning.
He came on too strong at first— that was his fault. He didn’t yet understand how imbedded your need ran and how long it’d been since anyone bothered to look deeper.
He’d hoped, at least, that you were letting Whitaker and Santos help, and though you let them closer than most, it was clear you still seemed intent on holding up yourself and everyone around you on your own.
But it wasn’t just that. It was the way you oozed kindness— like it was a byproduct of your existence. He watched you get so wrapped up in being the perfect resident, perfect friend, perfect person, that no one ever stopped to let you know how good you were just by being.
He hadn’t planned on developing feelings or anything of the sort. At first, you’d just been one of his residents. Smart and capable but lacking confidence in yourself to fully commit. Then there was that MCI, and drinks in the park afterwards where he’d painfully watched you sip a beer you clearly hated, and everything just clicked right into place.
He never intends to flirt with you. It just happens. He can’t help himself. He’s a weak fucking man when it comes to you.
And then you bring him a card. A fucking card. To thank him for doing his job as an attending, a job he should’ve been doing better from the start. It has an illustration of bananas on it and says “Thanks a bunch!”.
He knows he’s completely gone, then. He was capable of being in denial before, could delude himself into thinking that what he felt was casual, but the sight of you before him, hands nervously wringing, your glitter gel pens sparkling as they caught the light was just the final nail in the coffin.
He allows himself a modicum of flirting on a day to day basis, mostly because if he couldn’t tease that real smile out of you at least once per day, he’d lose his mind.
Sometimes he takes you back to the diner, especially on longer days where none of your smiles reach your eyes and you start obsessively uncapping and capping your gel pens.
Even though you think it “looks dumb” you’ve also taken to sitting shoulder to shoulder with him in the booth, and he pretends he can’t see you sneaking fries off his plate because he knows how much effort it takes you to ask him if you can sit with him instead of on the opposite side.
Then he starts driving you home during a string of bad weather after you start sneezing from walking in the rain everyday, but even after the storm passes and the weather clears up he still finds you at the lockers, every day, car keys in hand. No matter how many times he does it, you always look so happily surprised that he’s still offering.
As if he’s not wrapped around your finger.
One day, after things have been mellow for awhile, Whitaker calls him and says that neither he nor Trinity have seen you in three days and you called out of work.
So naturally, as a calm and collected man, he showed up to your house.
You’d answered the door after the third time he knocked (which was great, because he was gearing up to force the door open) and you just looked miserable. Your hair was a mess, you head blanket wrinkles imprinted onto your face, and your eyes were puffy.
“Jack?” You’d mumbled, squinting your eyes against the not very bright light in the hallway, “Why are you at my apartment?”
“No one’s heard from you in three days.”
You wince. “I swear I meant to text Trinity. I just have a bad headache.”
His fingers twitch towards a penlight he doesn’t have. “How bad?”
“I don’t know. Like a seven on the pain scale?”
“Jesus— I’m coming in.”
“Nooo,” You cry, but shuffle back from the door and put up very little fight as he ushers you to the couch.
Your apartment is….. exactly as messy as he’d imagined a resident who lives alone would be. For someone who doesn’t drink enough water, there are an incredible amount of beverage bottles and cans littered about.
“Do you have headache relief?”
You gesture to the kitchen. “Cabinet furthest to the left.”
While rifling through your very disorganized medicine cabinet, he spies an orange prescription bottle with your name on it, dated for the previous year.
“Why do you have a prescription for a high level antihistamine?”
“Stop snooping. It’s for my migraines.”
“You’ve had a prescription this entire time and you’ve been taking all that over the counter shit?”
“Stop being mad,” You mumble into the couch cushion, “My migraine meds put me to sleep, so I can’t take them when I’m working. Plus I don’t have any refills left so I save them for when it’s really bad.”
“You called out of work and haven’t left your apartment in three days and you don’t consider this bad?”
“Could be worse. Could be throwing up.”
He sighs. Sets the bottle on the counter, breathes in once, then lets it out slowly. Imagines all the ways he could murder whoever made you think suffering alone for three days is preferable to asking for help.
“I’m going to help you back to bed,” He starts, voice low as he rounds the couch, “And then you’re going to drink some electrolytes, have a snack, and take your meds. Okay?”
The migraine has clearly taken it out of you, because you put up zero fight as he manhandles you to your feet and helps you drag yourself back to your bed.
“M’ sorry my apartment is a mess. I was supposed to clean it.”
“I’m not judging, sweetheart,” He says, tucking the blankets up around you, lips twitching as you make grabby hands for a giant triceratops plushie that looks to be the size of your upper body. “I’m gonna make you a snack, so try to stay awake until I come back. Can you do that?”
“Mhm. I’ll try.”
“Good girl.”
He manages to find a cucumber in your fridge, cuts it into slices and then adds a few pieces of lunch meat for protein. Last but not least, he snags a bottle of blue Gatorade from your pantry.
(He only knows they were there because he bought them for you a few weeks ago.)
He doesn’t make you sit up to eat, but instead scoots you a little ways away from the edge of your bed so there’s space for the plate.
You slowly nibble your way through, taking little sips of Gatorade when he nudges the bottle into your hands.
You finish the cucumbers, eat most of the lunch meat, and drink half the Gatorade before burrowing back into the blankets and declaring yourself done.
“Can I have my sleep mask please? I think it’s on the floor under my nightstand?”
“Of course you can.”
After your face mask is on and the curtains closed, he gives you the correct dose of your meds and gently shuts the door to your bedroom.
He fires off a quick text to Whitaker (he doesn’t have Santos’s number) that says you’re fine, stuck in bed with a migraine, and that he’s handling it.
And then he gets to work.
Two hours later your apartment is clean, your laundry is started, and Jack’s relaxing on your couch, aimlessly watching the news.
He hears the door creak open but knows you hate feeling on the spot, so he keeps his gaze trained on the tv even as he hears the sound of you shuffling over to the couch.
And then you pause.
“Jack.”
“Yes?”
“Did you clean my apartment?”
He finally looks over to you, and when his gaze reaches your face his stomach drops.
You’re crying.
He hauls himself off the couch (he’s thankful that he put his leg back on a few minutes prior) and stops in front of you, arms twitching at his sides with the need to fix, help, to stop whatever it is that’s making you cry.
“What’s wrong? Did I overstep?”
“No,” You warble, voice wet, “I just haven’t had the time or energy to clean in here for so long, and it’s been stressing me out so bad I avoid staying here during my off days. It’s just really, really nice of you.”
You look at him, eyebrows pinched and eyes wide with worry, “I— I’m not sure how to repay you for all of this. I know you said going to the diner was fine, but this is— a lot.”
“Sweetheart,” He starts, bracing one hand on the side of your face, thumb deftly sweeping across your cheek and wiping away the quickly drying tears, “I’m not doing any of this because I expect you to repay me. I’m doing it because I care about you and I want to see you happy.”
You sniff hard. “This is a lot of work, though.”
“I like doing it. I like taking care of you.”
Another sniff. “It doesn’t seem very fun.”
“I told you. You’re like a cat. Had to coax you over and now look at you,” he thumb rubs circles over your cheekbone, “Practically purring.”
You wrinkle your nose. “I don’t know if I like this metaphor.”
“Get used to it.”
You sigh, dramatic and long.
“I suppose I’ll allow it.”
“Oh, you’ll allow it, huh.”
You fold your hands behind your back, rocking back and forth on your heels. “Yes. I’ll allow it.”
“Well, aren’t I lucky.”
Later, when you’re lying on the couch, two movies into what Jack thinks is an unofficial early 2000s rom-com marathon (your favorite genre) you turn to look up at him from your spot tucked into his side.
“This is romantic, right?”
He presses a lazy kiss to your forehead, because he knows how much you like physical affirmations as well as verbal ones.
“Yes.”
“You’re serious about this?”
“You need confirmation?”
“I’d rather have it in writing, but this will do for now.”
He huffs a breathy laugh, tucks you closer to his chest.
“I’ll put it in writing for you later.”
You hum, pleased, and snuggle back into him, letting out a content sigh.
baran who always has a hand on your back, guiding you. especially in public (imagining weekend farmer's market trips), she wants to keep you close.
baran who wants you to send pics of all your meals to make sure you're fueling yourself even when she's not there.
baran who puts her hands on your waist and moves you. needs to grab something from the cabinet while you're standing there? she comes up to, gently grips your hips, and gently nudges you. (she really just wants her hands on you 24/7)
baran who initiates a lot of contact. if you sit down further away on the couch she's grabbing your legs and pulling them into her lap. she pulls you on top of her in bed.
baran who is big on eye contact. envisioning you being upset and venting but not even looking in her general direction. she grabs your jaw and guides your gaze back towards her.
baran who sprinkles in praise pretty much whenever she talks to you
"good job, baby." "doing so well." etc etc
baran who helps you get ready. puts on your necklaces, straightens your shirt, fixes your collar, your smudged makeup, etc.
it’s hard to hide your pregnancy from your coworkers who are medical professionals. they see the signs as soon as you start presenting them, and it isn’t long before you’re forced to admit that you’re growing your own bundle of joy.
everyone’s too polite to ask who the father is and you’re grateful for that, but it’s during a particularly rough shift when you have to take a moment to yourself in the bathroom that dana finds you. she leans against the wall, giving you a gentle smile.
“you okay, kid?” she asks softly and you nod, even though you’re far from it. you know she can see right through you anyway, she’s always been able to read you like a book.
you shake your head, trying to blink back your tears, “just been a shitty day and the hormones aren’t helping.”
“no one’s gonna judge you if you go upstairs and see him, honey.”
“how did you…?” you trail off at the sight of dana’s knowing smile. of course she would know, she’s the heart of this place. she sees everyone and everything.
“been wondering how you tamed the shark for a while,” she admits. “but it makes sense. you look good together.”
you give her a smile of your own, “i thought he was gonna leave me when i told him about the baby, but i should’ve known he’d be full of surprises. he was more excited than me. even insisted i move into his place. i shouldn’t have doubted him.”
dana’s smile grows, “you head over heels, kid?”
“getting there,” you respond. “i know he can be a dick…”
“eh, most ortho surgeons are. we’re used to it.”
you chuckle at your friend.
“go see him,” she encourages you. “i’ll tell everyone you got called to see admin.”
when you get upstairs, you’re relieved to find out that brendon isn’t in surgery. you run into him in the hall, and he looks at you in concern.
“everything okay?” he asks, surprised you’re here.
“yes, fine,” you reassure him. “the baby’s fine. i just… i wanted to see you. i know, it’s dumb—“
“it isn’t dumb,” he pulls you towards him and you melt into his hold. “i always have time for you, and i have a rare half hour to take lunch. come on, let’s go find something edible from the cafeteria.”
he takes your hand in his, and asks you to tell him how your day is going. the next day, the ED spreads the newfound knowledge that you’re dating brendon park.
Dr Brendon Park is a man of science. A practitioner of medicine. A surgeon, and a good one at that.
Psychology, however, has always been above his pay grade.
This, this leaves him truly out of his element. He doesn’t like feeling out of his element, fish out of water. It goes against everything he is.
This problem of yours, the thing he doesn’t like to name exactly what it is, it’s a lot to him. It scares him, he knows the kill count it’s racked up, he’s seen it in broken bones that showed through skin long before, bones weakened by malnutrition to a bird like state. He knows what this is capable of. It terrifies him.
But if he feels out of control by it, he can only imagine how you feel? Living with this 24 hours a day 7 days a week for years.
If there’s one thing Brendon knows how to do well besides fix bones, however, it’s Dom. He’s a man of great pride. He needs to be the best at everything he does, an sex is just another thing.
If he lacks the medical training to take this burden off your shoulders, he can treat the symptoms other wise. Palliative approach.
Brendon knows when you need a firm hand, a soft hand, and hands off when it comes to this plague. He knows how to Dom you, so he’ll do that as good as he can.
He can order you around only so much until you’re reduced to a stressed ball of tears and hyperventilation. This is a slow battle. And he’ll stick around and fight it as long as it takes. But he knows when to push and when to stop.
Knows how to give you what you need when you need it.
Curled up to Brendon’s side on the couch watching TV, his tee shirt and your sweats on, it’s your usual home uniform. He’s very well behaved, every home your bra free tits press to his arm he keeps the knowledge to himself. Ignores how it drives him wild. He behaves. When you start to rub on his chest and stomach, kiss on his neck, he knows what you want. What you need. And that’s him. He doesn’t procrastinate to take you to bed. He’d never make his sweet bit do something so debasing as beg. Even if that’s just ask. (Sweet little girls don’t have to use their words. Daddy knows.)
When you get there, as he pulls off your panties with his teeth like the desperate creature he is, you ask him shyly if you can keep his shirt on tonight. Adding a shy please. As if he has any right to stop you. It’s not an unusual ask unfortunately. He accepts easily. “Of corse you can” he says in the gentlest voice he can muster. “But you know I think every inch of you is breathtaking, right?” He confirms. He knows on night like this you need a soft hand. Need him to rut into you slow and deep, mating press or prone bone. Hands sneaking up your shirt to carefully fondle those tits, kiss you deep and passionate and show you his love.
And he knows on other nights, when your glossy eyed from the torment in your head you need him to be hard. You need him to strip you bare with no room for disagreement or protest, tie you up, and make you listen to his endless praise of your perfect form as he fucks you to tears. Weather that’s from his cock or his words, he doesn’t ask. Maybe he’ll even write all the ways he loves you on your skin so you really learn.
“Can you make me dinner?” You asked with sweet doe eyes. “Of corse baby” he cooed. He was always happy when you let him cook. Let him take care of it. Turned off the voices in your head and let him make sure your body got what it needs.
Other times, he’ll see you go quiet and focused over a snack or a meal. Calculating in your head what you’d eaten that day. “Stop it.” He’ll say firmly. But he knows it’s not that easy. You can’t. Not just like that. You’re stuck in it now.
So he’ll grab you by the hair, kissing you hard and mean enough to totally push you off your train of thought, leave you gasping and mindless and confused as to how you got here after he pulls away. That’s okay.
You don’t even know what you were thinking about now, dazed and love sick.
“Finish your snack, baby.” He insisted sweetly.
Scales. Measuring tapes. All gone from your house.
Like they disappeared overnight.
And you’re not dumb enough to argue.
You’re out for a coffee.
An at first, when you order, he worries.
Becuase you like lattes.
But you order drips. Because they’re less calories.
But. You’ve been doing better. Not even ordering half sweet as much.
So he frowns when you order. A large drip.
He won’t tell you that you can’t have something. That would be counter productive. But why do you want that?
But then. Oh, then.
You walk to the counter, and not only do you use full fat cream, but for the first time in your relationship he sees you put in sugar.
in which you faint a work due to dehydration and your girlfriend is there to save the day.
warnings: fainting, dehydration, fluff, kisses
٠࣪⭑ ٠࣪⭑
You pull your coat off with a sleepy sigh, stuffing it inside the locker before clipping your badge to your scrubs and securing your pen on the breast pocket.
You’d find it weird to be so tired before even starting your shift if it weren’t for the long ones you’ve had the previous days. It’s been more than a tiring week and all you can think about is the day off you have tomorrow and how you’re going to enjoy it by spending the whole day in bed.
But for now you need to get yourself together and think about helping the people who need you without letting your fatigue affect your performance.
It’s hard to say if you’ve had time to do anything other than work and getting home exhausted, not doing more than showering and slipping under the covers of your bed. You’ve barely had time to talk to your own girlfriend, apart from the brief conversations about patients during a shift.
The relationship is new, enough for you to think about her every moment you get to be alone with your thoughts and for you to feel giddy at every text she sends.
You find yourself smiling at the thought, gently twisting the bracelet that she gave you and that you haven’t taken off since — a little reminder of her always with you.
“Why are you hiding here?” Cassie’s voice fills the silence and you can feel the grin on her lips without even glancing her way.
Her arms wrap around your waist, body pressed to your back as her hands lay smoothly across your stomach.
“Was just thinking about you.” You lean against her with ease, her chin coming to rest on your shoulder.
She hums, tracing her fingers over your scrubs before leaning to press her lips to your jaw in greeting, “No need to be thinking about me when im right here.”
Turning around in her arms, she doesn't seem to be interested in letting go anytime soon. You admire her for a second, bangs reaching just above her kind blue eyes and soft lips that scream to be kissed.
"Hey, pretty." Cassie brushes her nose on yours, squeezing your waist with her fingers.
"Hi." Your teeth take hold of your lower lips in nervous habit, still getting used to the feeling.
You take a quick glance around, pleased to find the hallway is empty. With confidence, your hands cup her face and you bring your lips to her. It's slightly clumsy with the feeling that someone will walk in any moment, but you don't have enough self control to let go.
A pleased hum makes it's way through her throat when you tilt her chin with your fingers, smiling against her lips as Cassie tugs at your shirt to pull you impossibly closer. You feel yourself relaxing against her, shoulders slumped and completely at her mercy.
You let her have the kiss for as long as she wants, having to hold back a whimper when she does pull back. But she doesn't leave you wanting for long, pressing two last pecks to your swollen lips.
"You look tired." She points with a slight frown.
"Gee thanks." You scoff with fake indignance, playing with the pieces of hair that fall from her messy braid.
The look she gives you is pointed, not a fan of the dismissiveness in your tone, "You know what i mean." She says gently, making you want to bury yourself in her arms and not let go until the shift is over.
"I'm okay, promise." You smile reassuringly, though the squint of your eyes mixed with the white bright light makes your head sting with a forming headache.
Cassie seems to want to retort, but she knows better than to do that. It's no use telling you to take it slow, so instead she nods uncertainly. "If you need a break you just tell me, yeah? I got your back."
You adjust the stethoscope around your neck, subconsciously avoiding her gaze but lifting your head in false confidence, "Mhm." She practically forces you to look her in the eye with a tilt of her head, holding your gaze for a moment more than necessary.
"We should get to work before Robby comes for us." You breath in hard.
"Yeah- you go ahead i'm just gonna get a coffee first." She grins and squeezes your bicep before moving to the break room. Your mouth waters slightly at the thought of a drink, but you shake your head and ignore it.
The day goes by slowly, patient after patient. You feel unusually hungry, even after having a protein bar while catching up on charting.
You’re on triage duty along with Joy, treating patients as fast as you can to get the waiting line smaller.
“Okay, next one.” Joy looks over at the ipad, “30 year old female, cut herself with a knife while making dinner - apparently nothing too serious.”
You rub at your temples as she speaks, words blurry against your ears as you try hard to pay attention to what she’s saying. She seems to notice your distressed look, glancing at you with a worried frown.
“Are you feeling okay? You’ve been weird for the whole day.” She states.
You clear your dry throat, “Yeah, of course. Just got distracted.” It earns you an unimpressed look, but you ignore it as you peak at the information on the screen, “Knife cut you said?”
You’re moving towards the patient as soon as she hums in affirmation, dismissing any comeback she might have.
“Hey, Miss Smith.” You introduce yourself and Joy, “Mind if i take a look at that?” You point to her arm that’s covered by some gauze.
“Yeah sure.” The patient gives you tight smile.
You examine the cut, “We’re going to need to give you a few stitches, but overall it’s not something to worry about.”
Pulling yourself up from the chair, your head immediately starts spinning in circles. You wince as quietly as you can, gripping the edges of the supply cart nearby to steady yourself.
“Are you okay?” The patient asks — and you almost laugh at the fact that you’re supposed to be asking that to her.
The words die in your throat as you try to get them out, dizziness overtaking your vision and balance.
“Hey, hey, i think you should sit down.” Joy steadies you with hands on your arms, but you try to brush her off in attempt of telling her you’re fine.
It turns out to be a bad idea, you trip on nothing and feel your body fall to the ground. Your vision whitens and your whole body is limp as you black out.
You’re quite sure you’re not out for long, because you wake up just as they’re pulling you into a gurney, Robby rushing towards you with concern. A groan leaves your mouth as your back lands on the softer surface, sore from the fall.
You hear Joy filling him in on what happened, frowning at the lights as they lead the gurney to an empty spot.
“Were you feeling dizzy?” He asks you, pressing the stethoscope against your chest.
You hum in response, slightly embarrassed by the whole thing.
“Any pain anywhere — chest or head?” He nods in relief when you shake your head.
“Have you had anything to eat or drink today?”
“Uhm- breakfast and a protein bar?” You croak with a hoarse voice.
Suddenly Cassie bursts through the curtains, rushing to your side with startled eyes, “What the hell happened?”
“She fainted at triage, not sure why yet but vitals look alright. Pulse a little fast but we’re keeping an eye on it.” He tries to reassure her, sensing the tension, “Could be low sugar or dehydration, i’m going to run some labs.”
Her nod comes automatically and your throat feels tight at the way she seems to be avoiding looking at you. You suddenly feel really bad for being stubborn about her worries earlier.
Cassie stays by your side as the attending figures out what’s wrong with you, not sparing you a word when a nurse comes in a while later to stick the IV needle in your arm.
It’s only when you’re both alone that she allows herself to sit on the chair beside your gurney, sighing heavily as she figures out what to say.
“I’m sorry.” You try your best not to fidget as you say.
She finally looks at you, shaking her head lovingly, “No- it’s okay. Not your fault.” She bites her lips in what you know by now is worry, “I should’ve known something was wrong this morning.”
You dread the way she seems to be blaming herself for your own recklessness, a sad smile on your lips as you flex your fingers to motivate her to hold your hand.
“Nobody’s fault but mine, baby.” You squeeze her hand reassuringly.
Cassie brings your knuckles to her lips, pressing a few soft kisses there, “Worried me big time.” Her eyes are wide and glassy as she speaks, rubbing at one of them with her free hand.
“Hey- i’m okay.” You sit up a bit, panicked by her distress over you, “I am now, at least.”
She chuckles at your attempt to cheer her up, rubbing the back of your hand with her thumb.
“My shift is over in about an hour.” She starts, giving you an idea of what she’s offering, “You should lay here while i finish up and then come to my house for the night- and tomorrow.”
“Cass… i really don’t need all of this.” You’re uncertain about letting her.
“Let me take care of you.” Her voice is impossibly soft, “Please?” And how can you say no to her puppy eyes?
“Guess i can’t say no to doctor’s orders.” You lean your head back.
“You really can’t.” She smiles victoriously.
Standing up with reluctance, Cassie leans in to press a kiss to your forehead and brushing a strand of hair that falls on your face, “I’ll be right back.”
You doze off with a content sigh, fingers wrapped around the bracelet on your wrist.
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