Synopsys: Four days without his wife, and Prince Valarr Targaryen is certain he is dying.
The court calls it excess. His brother calls it pathetic. Valarr calls it devotion.
And he intends to survive it. Probably.
Word count: 2.6k words
The sun had no right to be shining.
Valarr Targaryen knew this with every fiber of his being, the certainty of it settled deep in his bones as he lay sprawled across the vast, empty expanse of his marriage bed. Outside the windows of Maegor's Holdfast, the morning light spilled across Blackwater Bay in a display of golden indifference, painting the room in cheerful hues that made him want to scream.
It had been four days.
Four days since his wifeâhis sun, his moon, his very reason for drawing breathâhad climbed into a wheelhouse and rolled away from him, bound for whatever minor keep happened to be housing her brother and his excessively fertile wife. A daughter. They had produced a daughter, and apparently this was cause for such celebration that Y/N simply had to attend.
He understood this, theoretically. In the same way one understood that the sun would eventually set or that winter would someday come. He understood that sisters loved brothers and that new nieces were supposedly wonderful creatures worth traveling for. He understood all of this with his mind, which was a traitorous organ that had clearly never been in love.
His heart, howeverâhis poor, neglected, Y/N-less heartâunderstood nothing except that she was gone.
Valarr rolled onto his stomach and pressed his face into her pillow.
It still smelled like her.
He had forbidden the servants from changing the linens. They had looked at him strangely, which was absurd. Who wouldn't want to preserve the last traces of their wife's scent? The faint floral notes of whatever oil she used in her hair, the warm sweetness that was simply her, the way the fabric seemed to hold the memory of her cheek against itâ
A knock at the door.
"Go away," he said into the pillow.
"Your Grace, the King requests your presence at the small council meeting." It was his squire, a boy of twelve who sounded far too cheerful for someone whose master was clearly in mourning.
"I'm ill."
"You said that yesterday, Your Grace. And the day before."
"And I remain ill. It's a persistent illness. Very serious. Possibly fatal."
A pause. "Should I fetch a maester, Your Grace?"
Valarr considered this. A maester would poke at him and ask questions and inevitably conclude that he was suffering from nothing more than a severe case of missing his wife. Which was true, but also humiliating to have spoken aloud by a man in grey robes.
"No. Tell my grandfather I am... indisposed. With grief."
"Grief, Your Grace?"
"My wife is gone." He said this with such profound tragedy that the boy actually went silent for a moment.
"Ah. Yes. For... four days now, isn't it, Your Grace?"
"Four days, seventeen hours, andâ" He squinted at the window, trying to gauge the sun's position. "Approximately six and a half hours. Not that I'm counting."
"Of course not, Your Grace."
"The counting would imply that I have nothing better to do than track her absence, which I don'tâbecause she took my purpose in life with her when she left."
Another pause. Valarr imagined the boy standing in the corridor, shifting from foot to foot, wondering if the prince had finally lost his mind. He probably had. It didn't matter.
"Shall I bring you breakfast, Your Grace?"
"No."
"Lunch?"
"I said no."
"Dinner? Perhaps some wine? Bread? A boar? Anything at all?"
Valarr lifted his head just enough to glare at the door. "Do I sound hungry to you? Does a man whose heart has been ripped from his chest and carried away to some distant keep where he cannot reach it sound like he wants bread?"
The boy wisely retreated.
Alone again, Valarr flopped back onto the pillow and resumed his vigil of misery.
---
An hour laterâor perhaps three; time had lost all meaningâhe found himself in his chambers, seated at the desk where he had once, in a former life, attended to correspondence and other tedious duties. Now it served a far more important purpose.
He opened the locket.
It was a beautiful thing, commissioned three days ago from a goldsmith who had clearly thought him mad but was wise enough not to say so. The outside was simple enough, a smooth disc of gold that fit perfectly in his palm. But inside, nestled against the fine enamel work that had cost him a small fortune and the goldsmith's entire week, was her face.
Her face.
The painter had captured her perfectlyâthe curve of her smile, the warmth in her eyes, the way one eyebrow always lifted slightly when she was about to tease him. Valarr had described every detail with the precision of a maester cataloging a rare specimen, and the man had somehow managed to translate those fevered descriptions into art.
He kissed it.
Then he kissed it again.
Then he held it against his chest and stared at the wall, imagining that she was here, that she was laughing at him for being so dramatic, that she would wrap her arms around his neck and press her forehead to his and tell him that four days apart was nothing, that he was being ridiculous, that she loved him anyway.
He would take that. He would take her calling him ridiculous a thousand times over if it meant having her here.
The door opened.
"I told you I don't wantâ"
"Brother." It was Matarys, his younger brother, standing in the doorway with an expression of unholy amusement. "Still alive, I see. The servants were placing bets."
"Get out."
"I've come to save you from yourself." Matarys strode in as if he owned the place, flinging himself onto a chair with the careless grace of someone who had never known true suffering. "Four days, Valarr. Four. She'll be back in another fortnight, at most."
"A fortnight?" Valarr sat up so fast the locket swung wildly on its chain. "You said a sennight yesterday."
"I was being optimistic. Babies are unpredictable. Births take time. Celebrations take longer. You're looking at ten more days, minimum."
Ten more days.
Ten more days without her laugh, without her hand in his, without the way she hummed while she brushed her hair at night, withoutâ
"I'm going to die," he said flatly. "I'm going to expire from lack of her, and they'll find my body here, clutching this locket, and the maesters will write treatises about it. 'The First Recorded Case of Death by Wife-Absence.' They'll name it after me. Valarr's Malady."
Matarys snorted. "You're pathetic."
"I'm devoted. There's a difference."
"There really isn't." His brother leaned forward, expression shifting to something almost like concern. "Valarr, listen to me. You need to do something. Anything. You haven't left these chambers in daysâ"
"I left yesterday."
"To stand on the battlements and stare at the road south for three hours. That doesn't count."
"It counted to me."
Matarys pinched the bridge of his nose. "Father is worried. Grandfather is worried. Even Aerion looked mildly concerned, and he's usually too busy practicing his cruel smile to care about anyone's wellbeing. You're making a spectacle of yourself."
"Let them watch." Valarr touched the locket again, tracing the outline of her painted smile. "She is my wife. I love her. I am not ashamed to miss her."
"No one expects you not to miss her. We expect you to miss her like a normal person. Go to council meetings. Eat food. Bathe, for the love of all the gods, you're starting to smell like a stabled horse."
Valarr sniffed his own armpit. It was... not pleasant. But that was beside the point.
"The small council can function without me. Food is unnecessary without her to share it. And bathingâ" He paused, considering. "Would it be strange if I used her soaps?"
"Yes."
"They smell like her."
"I know. That's why it would be strange."
Valarr disagreed fundamentally with this assessment, but he was too tired to argue. He slumped back against the pillows, pulling the locket out to gaze at it once more. Her eyes. Her smile. The little mole near her left eyebrow that he kissed every morning without fail.
"She's so beautiful," he murmured.
"We know. You tell us constantly."
"Do you think she's thinking of me? Right now, at this moment? Do you think she misses me too?"
Matarys stood abruptly. "I'm leaving. I came to help, but I find I have no stomach for watching my brother dissolve into a puddle of sentiment. If you need me, don't find me."
The door closed behind him.
Valarr hardly noticed. He was too busy imagining her in some distant keep, holding her new niece, perhaps glancing toward the window and thinking of him. Perhaps touching her chest where a matching locketâbecause of course he'd had two made, one for each of them, so she could look at his face tooârested against her heart.
He hoped she was looking at it.
He hoped she missed him even half as much as he missed her.
Another knock.
"What?"
A servant entered, this one older and wiser to his moods. She carried a tray with bread and cheese and a cup of wine, which she set on the table without comment.
"Your Grace," she said, her tone carefully neutral. "The Princess Y/N's wheelhouse was spotted on the Rosby road an hour ago. Moving south. Away from the city."
Valarr's heart plummeted through the floor.
"Away?" He sat up, clutching the locket like a talisman. "Why would she be moving away? She's supposed to be moving toward me. The world is meant to bring her closer, not farther. That's the natural order of things."
"The messenger said the princess decided to accompany her brother's family part of the way to their next destination. She'll be delayed by another few days."
Another few days.
He was going to perish. Truly and completely. They would find him dead of yearning, his cold fingers still wrapped around her painted smile, and on his lips would be her name, and the singers would compose ballads about his devotion, andâ
The servant was still there, watching him with an expression that might have been pity.
"Leave the bread," he said weakly.
She left.
Valarr stared at the tray. The bread looked dry. The cheese looked plain. The wine looked like the kind that would make him maudlin rather than numb, and he was already so deep in maudlin that any further descent would require ropes and a guide.
He reached for the locket again.
Four more days. Possibly five. Possibly a whole sennight of additional Y/N-less existence stretching before him like an endless grey sea.
He could do this.
He could survive.
He had her locket. He had her pillow. He had the memory of her voice, which he replayed in his mind constantly, and the way she laughed, which he conjured up whenever the silence grew too loud.
He would be fine.
He would be fine.
---
He was not fine.
Three hours later, he had migrated to her solar, where he sat surrounded by her thingsâher books, her embroidery, her little pots of color for painting, her shawl still draped over the back of her chair. He held the shawl in his lap, stroking the soft wool, breathing in the fading scent of her.
"Y/N," he whispered to the empty room. "Y/N, Y/N, Y/N."
It helped, somehow. Saying her name. Keeping her present through sheer force of vocalization.
"You have to come back soon," he continued, addressing the shawl. "I'm running out of things to do. I've stared at the locket so much I might have worn a hole through the enamel. I've read every letter you ever wrote meâtwice. I've counted the floorboards in our bedchamber. There are forty-seven. Did you know that? I didn't know that. I know it now."
The shawl offered no response.
"I talked to your pillow this morning. Told it about my day. Which was nothing, because you weren't here, but I described the nothing in detail. The pillow was a good listener. Better than Matarys, certainly."
He sighed, slumping lower in the chair.
"Do you remember our wedding? Of course you do. But do you remember how I couldn't stop staring at you? How they had to nudge me to say my vows because I was too busy looking at your face? The septon thought I was nervous. I wasn't nervous. I was justâyou were so beautiful. You're always so beautiful. I'm not sure you understand how beautiful you are. I should tell you more often. I'll tell you every day when you come back. Every single day. Multiple times a day. You'll get tired of hearing it."
He paused, considering.
"No, you won't. You love me. You think I'm wonderful. You tell me that all the time, and I never get tired of it, so why would you get tired ofâ"
A knock. He was going to have words with whoever kept interrupting his mourning.
"Your Grace?" A different servant, this one young and nervous. "There's a raven. From the princess."
Valarr was on his feet before the sentence finished, crossing the room in three strides and snatching the tiny scroll from the servant's hand. He unrolled it with shaking fingers, devouring the words:
My love,
My good sister is recovered and the babe is healthy and beautiful. They have named her Valerya, after you. (I may have suggested it.) We will be delayed another few days as we travel with them toâ
He stopped reading.
They had named the baby after him.
A tiny girl, carrying a piece of his name. Because his wife had suggested it. Because his wife thought of him even while holding a newborn, even while surrounded by her own kin, even while separated by miles and miles of road.
He read the sentence again.
They have named her Valerya, after you.
"Your Grace?" The servant was still there, hovering uncertainly. "Is all well?"
Valarr looked up, and for the first time in four days, he smiled.
"All is well," he said. "All is very well. Tell the kitchens to prepare a feast. Tell my brother I'll be at council tomorrow. Tell my grandfather I've recovered from my illness."
The servant blinked. "You have, Your Grace?"
"I have." He pressed the letter to his chest, right over his heart, where the locket rested against his skin. "My wife has sent word. I am cured."
---
That night, he wrote her a letter.
It was very long. It contained approximately seventeen declarations of love, twelve descriptions of how much he missed her, three jokes that she probably wouldn't find funny but he hoped she would anyway, and a detailed account of his conversation with her pillow.
He did not mention the forty-seven floorboards. That seemed excessive even for him.
At the end, just before sealing it with wax, he added a postscript:
I have commissioned a third locket. This one will have two paintingsâone of you, one of meâside by side. So that when I look at you, I can also imagine you looking at me, and we can be looking at each other even when we're apart. I know it's not the same as having you here. But it's something.
Come home soon.
Your devoted husband,
Valarr
P.S. If you see this baby Valerya, tell her her uncle loves her already. Not as much as I love you. Nothing could be that much. But a respectable amount for a niece.
He sent it with the fastest raven in the rookery, then climbed into bedâher side, always her side nowâand fell asleep with the locket pressed to his lips and her name on his tongue.
Five more days.
He could survive five more days.
Probably.
---
Author's Note:
Normalize men being this pathetic about their wives. The dragons may be gone, but dramatic devotion should not be.
Aerion Targaryen x wife!reader - A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms
Summary: Aerion's lady wife keeps sneaking out of their bedchamber at night. Aerion is determined to find out why. Can be read as a oneshot. Can be read as a chapter in Growing Strong series. Set after Growing Familiar but before Deep in the Meadow.
Warnings: SMUT 18+ p in v, unprotected sex, obsessive behavior, breeding kink, power imbalance, talks about killing, Aerion has insane ideas. Dual pov?
The first months of your marriage to Aerion Targaryen, he bedded you every night without fail. It did not matter if you were tired from a day of riding or bored from hours of needlework or still irritated from some sharp word he had thrown at you over dinner. It did not matter if you drifted off before he even finished unlacing his breeches. Aerion Targaryen took what he wanted, and what he wanted, night after night, was you.
The first time you fell asleep before he came to bed, exhausted from a long day of travel, your body aching from the saddle, you woke to the feeling of his hands on your thighs, pushing your nightdress up to your waist. The room was dark, lit only by the dying embers in the hearth, and his silver hair gleamed like moonlight as he knelt between your legs.
"Aerion," you mumbled, still half-asleep. "What are you..."
"Hush." His fingers found your center, stroking with practiced patience. "Go back to sleep if you like. I will be quick."
You did not go back to sleep. You could not. His touch was too skilled, too knowing, drawing moisture from your body despite your exhaustion. When he finally pushed inside you, your back arched off bed and a broken moan escaped your lips.
"Shh," he breathed, his hips rocking in a slow, steady rhythm. "There you are. My sweet wife. My soft, warm, perfect wife. Just let me take what I need. You do not have to do anything."
And you did not. You lay there, drowsy and pliant, while he chased his pleasure in your body. His hands gripped your hips, tilting you to the angle he preferred, and his violet eyes were fixed on your face, watching every flicker of expression that crossed your features. When he finished, spilling inside you with a low groan, he pulled out slowly and pressed a kiss to your belly.
"A son," he murmured against your skin. "Give me a son, my sweet rose."
Then he gathered you against his chest, pulled the furs over you both, and fell asleep with his face buried in your hair.
This became your routine. Every night, without fail, Aerion took his pleasure from your body. And every night, you fell asleep immediately afterward, your body spent and satisfied, sleeping through until morning like a babe in a cradle.
He had to wake you each day by smacking your arse. A sharp, stinging slap that jolted you from sleep with a yelp and a flurry of tangled limbs.
"Aerion!" you protested, rubbing the smarting flesh. "That is not a proper way to wake one's wife."
"You do not wake to gentle words," he pointed out, already dressed and immaculate, his silver hair pulled back from his face. "I have tried. I have whispered endearments. I have kissed your brow. I have called your name a dozen times. You sleep like the dead, wife. Only pain rouses you."
"It is not pain. It is...surprise. And indecency."
"Call it what you like." He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead, brief and almost tender. "You are awake now. The day awaits. I have duties, and you have whatever it is you do when I am not bedding you."
You restrained yourself from glaring at him. He could only tolerate so many complaints until he turned insufferable in return. You had learnt to pick your battles. You had also learnt that if you slipped out of the role of the charming wife, the lovely lady Tyrell, instead of figuring out you had never wanted to play the part of his wife in the first place, he'd think you were deeply upset about this one particular thing and he'd fixate on it. So you rose, and you dressed, and you went about your day, and at night he came to you again.
Nothing deterred him. Not your moon blood, you had been mortified the first time, stammering apologies and trying to push him away, but he had only laughed.
"The wetness is different," he had said, his voice dark with fascination. "Hotter. Slicker. I like it." And he had taken you anyway, slower than usual, watching the evidence of your body paint his length with each withdrawal. Afterward, he had kissed your belly and wished for a son, same as always, utterly unbothered by the blood that stained the sheets.
Not even your fights deterred him. If anything, they made him more ravenous. The night you quarreled over some petty thing, you could not even remember what, some slight or sharp word that had spiraled into shouted accusations, you had retreated to your chambers expecting a night of cold silence. Instead, he had come to you with fire in his violet eyes, spun you around, bent you over the bed, and taken you from behind with a ferocity that left you gasping.
"You are all the more delicious when I am angry," he had panted against your ear, his hips slamming into you with bruising force. "My sweet rose. My infuriating, stubborn, impossible wife. I should hate you. I should cast you aside. Instead, I cannot stop wanting you. Cannot stop needing you. What have you done to me?"
You had no answer. You could barely form words, too consumed by the pleasure and pain of his possession. When he finished, he had pulled you upright against his chest, his arms wrapped around you, his face buried in your neck.
"I do not wish to fight," he had whispered, so quiet you almost did not hear. "I do not know how to stop. But I do not wish to fight with you."
And then, because he was Aerion and could not let tenderness stand unadorned, he had smacked your arse and sent you stumbling toward the bed. "Sleep. I will wake you in the morning."
You had fallen asleep within moments, as always, and slept through until his hand connected with your rear at dawn.
That was simply how things were for some time.
You began to build stamina. Your body, accustomed to his nightly attentions, no longer collapsed into exhausted slumber the moment he spent himself inside you. You still fell asleep before him, Aerion had always been a restless sleeper, prone to lying awake and staring at the canopy while his mind churned, but you no longer passed out like a candle snuffed.
One night, however, Aerion woke in the small hours of the morn and found the space beside him empty.
He assumed you had returned to your own chambers. It was not unusual, you kept your own rooms, as was proper for a lady of your station, though you spent nights in his bed. Perhaps you had needed something. A different gown. A book. A ribbon for your hair. He rolled over and went back to sleep.
But it happened again. And again. And again.
The third time, he mentioned it over breakfast. "You left last night."
You looked up from your plate, your brow furrowed. "Did I?"
"You did. I woke and you were gone. Did you need something from your chambers?"
You blinked, clearly confused. "I...do not recall. I must have been half-asleep. I am sorry if I disturbed you, husband."
He let it go. But the fourth time, and the fifth, and the sixth, he began to wonder.
"You left again," he said, his voice carefully neutral. "Three nights this week. Where do you go?"
"I have no idea what you are talking about." Your eyes were guileless, your expression genuinely bewildered. "I sleep through the night, my love. You know this. You are the one who complains about having to smack me awake each morning."
He studied your face for any sign of deception. He found none. But Aerion Targaryen had been raised in the Red Keep before Summerhall, had survived the viper's pit of court politics, had learned to see lies even when they wore the most innocent of faces. His wife was a Tyrell. She had been trained in deception since birth. If anyone could lie to him convincingly, it was her.
The suspicions only began to grow, curling through his mind like poison ivy. She was leaving his bed in the night. She claimed not to remember. Where was she going? What was she doing?
His mind, ever prone to darkness, supplied answers that made his stomach clench.
A lover. She was sneaking off to meet a lover. Some handsome knight, perhaps, or a lord's son with a pretty face and gentle manners. Someone who was not cruel and sharp and difficult. Someone who could give her soft words and tender touches instead of games and barbs and rough handling. He could not think about it without murderous rage. He could only imagine all the painful ways he would kill the man.
Not a lover, mayhaps, but conspirators. She was a Tyrell. The Tyrells had been loyal to the Targaryens during the Blackfyre Rebellion. Leo Tyrell won notable victories in the Reach against Daemon Blackfyre's supporters, though his forces were unable to gather quickly enough to arrive in time for the battle of the Redgrass field. But loyalties shifted with every harvest in the Reach. Perhaps she was meeting with agents of her house, passing along secrets, plotting against him. Perhaps their entire marriage had been a scheme from the beginning, a way to place a Tyrell close to the throne, close to Summerhall, close to his father Maekar.
Perhaps, and this thought hurt most of all, she simply did not truly love him. Perhaps she left his bed because she could not bear to lie beside him. Perhaps she waited until she thought he was asleep and then fled to her own chambers, where she could breathe freely without his suffocating presence.
Aerion did not sleep that night. He lay beside her, listening to her soft breathing, watching the gentle rise and fall of her chest. She looked peaceful in sleep. Innocent. Beautiful. When he finally drifted off, his dreams were troubled.
The next morning, he smacked her arse to wake her, same as always. She yelped and swatted at him, same as always. But when she smiled at him over breakfast, he found himself searching her face for signs of guilt, for evidence of betrayal. He found nothing. She was either innocent or a very, very good liar.
That night, he decided he would catch her.
He feigned normalcy. He unlaced her gown with practiced ease, as he always did. He kissed her throat and her breasts and the soft curve of her belly, as he always did. He took her slowly at first, then with increasing urgency, until she was gasping and clutching at his shoulders and crying out his name. Afterwards, he pressed his lips to her belly, just below her navel.
"A son," he murmured against her skin. A tradition by now, a ritual, his way of sayinga prayer. "Give me a son, my sweet rose. A strong son. A dragon."
He paused. Something caught in his throat, words he had rarely spoke aloud, words that terrified him more than any battle or tourney ever could.
"I love you," he whispered, so quiet that he was not sure she heard. "Even if it causes me pain to say it. Even if I cannot admit it when you are awake to hear. I love you, and I cannot...I cannot lose you. I cannot bear the thought of you slipping away in the night, going somewhere I cannot follow, seeking something I cannot give."
He fell silent. She did not stir. Her breathing was slow and even, her face peaceful in sleep.
He pretended to sleep. Hours passed. The candle burned down to a stub. The fire in the hearth faded to embers. Aerion lay still, his breathing deliberately slow, his eyes cracked open just enough to see the room in shades of grey and shadow.
In the deepest part of the night, she moved.
He watched through squinted eyes as she sat up slowly, her movements strangely fluid, almost mechanical. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and sat there for a long moment, utterly still. Then she rose, her bare feet silent on the stone floor. She found her slippers, felted wool, soft and quiet, and slid them on. She found her robe, a heavy thing of green velvet, and wrapped it around her shoulders.
She did not look at him. She left the bedchamber.
Aerion counted to ten, his heart pounding. Then he threw back the furs and followed.
He kept to the shadows. He had learned to move silently through corridors patrolled by guards and servants and spies. Trailing his wife through Summerhall was child's play.
She went first to her own chambers. Aerion's heart seized, this was it. She was meeting someone. A lover hidden in her rooms. A conspirator waiting in the dark.
But she did not stop. She passed through her chambers without pausing, movements unhurried, and continued through a side door that led to the gardens.
The gardens. Of course. A secret meeting among the roses. How fitting for a Tyrell.
Aerion followed, his jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached. The night air was cool and sweet, heavy with the scent of night-blooming flowers. Moonlight silvered the paths and the fountains and the carefully tended beds of roses, red and gold, the colors of his house and hers intertwined.
She walked. And walked. And walked.
No one met her. No shadow detached itself from the hedges. No whisper greeted her from the darkness. She simply walked. Around the fountain. Down the rose path. Past the marble bench where they sometimes sat together in the afternoons. Her steps were slow and aimless, her arms loose at her sides.
Aerion watched her for what felt like an eternity, his confusion mounting. What was she doing? Where was she going? Why was she... She turned a corner and nearly walked directly into a rose bush, its thorns gleaming in the moonlight. Aerion moved before he could think. He strode forward, caught her arm, and pulled her back from the thorns. She did not resist. She did not react at all.
"What are you doing?" he demanded, his voice too loud in the quiet garden. "Where are you going? Who are you meeting? Tell me now, wife, and I may yet show mercy..."
She did not answer. She did not even look at him. Her eyes were closed.
Aerion's words died in his throat. He stared at her face: peaceful, serene, utterly unaware of his presence. Her lips were moving, forming words too soft to hear. He leaned closer, his heart pounding for an entirely different reason now.
"...roses need pruning," she was mumbling, her voice distant and dreamy. "The red ones first. Grandmother always said red roses first. Then gold. Then the path to the fountain..."
She was not meeting a lover. She was not conspiring against him. She was not fleeing his bed because she could not bear to lie beside him. His poor, sweet wife was sleepwalking.
Relief crashed over him like a wave, so intense it left him dizzy. He stood there in the moonlit garden, holding his sleeping wife's arm, and laughed: a shaky, breathless sound that was half-sob.
But the relief faded quickly, replaced by a new and different fear.
She could have walked into that rose bush. She could have torn her skin on the thorns, could have bled into the garden soil while he lay sleeping in their bed, oblivious. She could have fallen into the fountain and drowned. She could have wandered out of the gardens entirely, into the darkness beyond, where anything might have happened to her.
She could have been hurt. She could have died. And he would have woken in the morning to an empty bed and no explanation.
His grip on her arm gentled. He stepped closer, sliding his hand down to clasp hers.
"Come," he said softly, though she could not hear him. "Come back to bed, my sweet rose. You are safe. I have you."
She did not respond, but she did not resist when he turned her gently and began to lead her back toward the castle. Her feet moved automatically, following his guidance, her face still peaceful and blank.
As they walked, Aerion's mind raced with plans.
He would have to lock the bedchamber doors at night to keep her safe. He would put the key somewhere she could not find while asleep. Under his pillow, perhaps. Or around his neck on a cord.
He would have to put away all sharp things. The letter opener on his desk. The small knife he used for cutting fruit. Her sewing scissors. Anything she might stumble upon in her dreaming wanderings.
He had heard, somewhere, that a wet cloth placed on the floor beside the bed could help wake sleepwalkers. The shock of cold on bare feet, jarring them from their dreams before they could wander far. He would have the servants place one on her side of the bed each night. He would check it himself before they slept.
He would protect her. He would keep her safe. He would not lose her to something as absurd as a sleepwalking accident.
They reached his bedchamber. He guided her inside, closed the door behind them, and made a mental note to have a new lock installed in the morning. A sturdy one. One she could not open without a key.
He led her to the bed and eased her down onto the bed. She went willingly, her body limp and pliant, already sinking back into deeper sleep. He lifted her legs onto the bed, arranged the furs over her, and stood looking down at her for a long moment.
Her face was peaceful. Beautiful. Utterly unaware of the terror she had put him through. He climbed into bed beside her and pulled her against his chest. She mumbled something unintelligible and burrowed closer, her hand fisting loosely in his nightshirt.
"I will keep you safe," he whispered into her hair. "I will do whatever I must. You will not wander where I cannot follow. You will not come to harm."
a/n: You can donate on Ko-fi, your support helps me write more: https://ko-fi.com/catbayunthestoryteller <3
a/n: This was a random fic but I missed Growing Strong!Aerion hehe. I had the last chapter of the series, named Valyrian Legacy, typed up. Then I realised it sucked so now I'm going to do it in a completely different format. I now understand how George R. R. Martin feels about finishing his book.
- sworn protector!gwayne hightower x targaryen!reader
synopsis. You drink wine that someone mixed with something that makes you desire touch more than all else. Touch from someone particular. You need his touch, or youâll die. Luckily, your sisterâthe queenâcan be quite the matchmaker.
contents. SMUT, no war au (rhaenyra is queen), reader is a targaryen princess and rhaenyra's younger sister, gwayne is her sworn protector, reader has fem anatomy and is addressed as a princess, sex pollen/fuck or die, mentions of suicide, oral (f!recieving), loss of virginity, unprotected sex, p in v, finger sucking, slight praise kink, not proofread
Your body burns.
No, it feels more like if your body was actually truly burning in a fire, perhaps from that of your dragon, as if youâd told it to rain flames upon you. You may consider that option if it comes down to it. If someone didnât touch you soon, you were going to explode.
Instead you were writhing and squirming on your bed in front of your own sisterâthe queenâand you would much rather be dead. She looks at you with that callous smirk, as if she thinks she knows something. Something you donât want to tell the maesters.
âIs it poison?â she questions Grand Maester Gerardys, her arms crossed on her chest.
He nods. âIt seems as so. We believe it is from the wine she drank at supper.â
âCanât you open a window?!â you yell with a cracking voice.
Silence fills the room after the outburst. Both Rhaenyra and Gerardys glance over. You do the same once you see a smile fall over her face, one she fails to bite back.
The windows are open.
âAll of the windows are open, princess,â Gerardys mumbles.
âYes, I can see that now, thank you.â Your head falls back onto the pillow, allowing your dampened hair to reconnect with your sweaty nape and back. âWill I die tonight, Gerardys?â you question, almost joking.
âNo, no, princess,â he says. âNot tonight.â
Your head shoots back up from its resting position. Rhaenyra is already looking at him, any sign of her former coyness erased from her features.
âIt seems the poison was mixed with the wine,â he begins. âTherefore, unless the culprit is found, it will be quite difficult to tell whatever was infused in the drink. And given your symptoms, unless somehow magically cured, there is not much I can do.â
âNot much you can do?â Rhaenyra exclaims, her arms now at her side.
Gerardys lowers his voice and steps closer to her. âNot unless you would like me to find a maegi.â
She takes one look over at you. You look full of fear, full of suffering, but most of allâfull of regret. âThat wont be necessary,â she mutters. âIf youâll let me speak to my sister alone?â
âOf course, your grace.â He leaves the room. Rhaenyra watches him go, not looking back until the door swings back shut.
She makes her way to your bedside so swiftly it was as if she was running. The screech of the chair she pulls to sit on hurts your ears more than any of the conversation you had just been put through. You wish your protector was here instead. He would be able to help you. He would have to help you.
âTell me,â she commands, already leaning forward, her hands folded in her lap.
You lift your body off the sheets, but they stick to you as you rise. âTell you what?â
âDonât play the fool. You know what Iâm referring to,â
âI donât.â
âYou do.â
âI donât, Your Grace.â
She scoffs out a laugh after that. Two of her fingers settle on the bridge of her nose. âYour condition is of your own volition. If you tell me what you drank, it will be easier for me to find a solution.â
You look at her. She isnât smiling. Thereâs no hidden agenda beneath her stoic expression, none of the small facial cues you spent your childhood learning to decipher. She truly wants to help you.
And your body feels like it could give out at any moment. No, you want it to give out at any moment. Youâre starting to feel nauseous.
Youâll do about anything to stop whatever you did to yourself.
You exhale a heavy breath. âYou mustnât tell anyone what I did.â
Rhaenyra lets herself crack a smile. âGods, sister, what did you do?â
âI am unwed. Undesired,â you mumble. âI thought it clever toâŚâ
âTo what?â Rhaenyra presses, leaning closer.
You sigh and cover your face with your hands. You mutter something so quiet you donât even hear it in your own ears.
âWhat did you say?â she asks softly.
âI had a potion brewed.â
Rhaenyra lets out a sharp breath through her nose. âOh, Gods, sisterââ
âYou donât understand! The Realmâs Delight, the most beautiful maiden in all of the Seven Kingdomsâyou could have anyone and anything you desire!â you argue. âIt isnât the same for me. Even if it were, I donât get to chooseââ
âIâve heard enough.â You finally remove your hands from your face, both now sheen with a layer of sweat as is the rest of your body. Rhaenyra is now standing at the edge of your bed, pacing back and forth. âWhen you had the potion brewed, did the alchemist tell you of any cure?â
âNoâŚâ you mumble.
âWell.â Rhaenyra sighs. She gazes over at you, but avoids your own. âI can presume what it is.â
You know what remains unsaid. It is torturous enough for your own sister to know of the humiliation youâve brought upon yourself. For her, the queen, to be made uncomfortable by the revelation? You get a sudden urge to throw yourself from the highest point of the Red Keep. It would cure all of the emotions swirling in your head.
The writhing starts all over again. The feeling makes you want to crawl out of your own body. In your peripheral, you can see Rhaenyra stop moving. She faces forward to look at you as you thrash around the mattress.
âI know what must be done,â she says. And she leaves the room.
You are left alone in your torture. Now seems about the best time to consider your future. You could jump from the window. It would be quick. Youâd be remembered as tragic. Never wed, without children, lonely, jumped from her bedroom window after being poisonedâRhaenyra would spread the word of poison. She wouldnât subject the public to the truth.
You suck in a breath as you rise from the bed, dragging your feet to the window. The air fanning on your face makes you hopeful for about fives seconds before the sun finally catches on your skin and shines over the moisture on your skin.
The ache in your body almost certifies that you wouldnât be able to hoist yourself onto the windowsill without some help.
Maybe your protector would help you. You could say you need more air. He certainly wouldnât help cure your self-inflicted debilitationâhe is too honorable. Noâheâs too insistent on protecting your honor to do anything to you.
The door swings open again.
Rhaenyra enters first. You watch her panic once she does not immediately spot you on the bed, then watch her settle once she finds you by the window. There is someone behind her.
The person unveils themself from the shadows.
It is your sworn shield and protector. Ser Gwayne Hightower.
He steps into the room, and it is like your legs turn to water. He notices this, and dashes across the room to wrap his arms around your waist, stabilizing you. Once you are brought back to your feet, you let out a moan. It is almost embarrassing, but you couldnât care less now.
Gwayne is touching you. Sometimes, the Gods do work in your favor. You slowly look up at him. He is already staring down at you, concerned at your condition, of courseâand probably confused as to why you just moaned when he touched youâand you place a hand on his shoulder. Your other arm wraps around his bicep.
âI shall leave you to it.â Rhaenyra is out of the room with a slam of the door before you can look over to acknowledge her. When you look back, Gwayne still has his gaze fixed on you.
The contact you share feels truly breathtaking, perhaps because it is. It does feel quite hard to take in any air. You find your body inching closer to his, desperate for closer proximity. You feel your nipples, hard under your smallclothes, brush against his gambeson. You let your head fall onto his sternum, and it is then that you realize what you are doing, and immediately push away.
You stumble back to the bed, sitting on its edge, and shame washes over you. Gwayne hasnât moved from his spot by the window. He still stares at you, however.
âMy princess.â He steps closer. You hold up a finger as if to tell him to stop, and he does. âI cannot bear to see you in this condition. I only wish to help.â
âHelp with what?â you breathe.
He remains silent.
âWhat exactly did Rhaenyra tell you?â you question.
Silence.
âTell me. I command it.â
His gaze shifts to the ground. âHer Grace informed me of your condition.â
âYou already knew of my condition. What else did she tell you?â
He looks back up at you. âShe revealed to me the nature of your condition. What exactly brought it on.â
âGods,â you mutter under your breath and squeeze your eyes shut. This cannot be real.
âHow it can be cured,â he adds.
Your brows tighten. You hope that when you open your eyes again, he will be gone, and this will all have been a figment of your imagination.
When you do so, you find that this is the realest he has ever been. Ser Gwayne of House Hightower, in all his glory. He glistens in the flare of the sun. His hair, usually a light brown, shimmers auburn in the light. It looks similar to his sisterâs in a certain light.
You can see the resemblance, him and his father. You would rather not, but it is there. He is certainly more alluring.
âI want to help you.â He takes a single step closer. âI need to help you.â
Your head is cocked to the side, though only out of exhaustion. It feels to heavy to carry yourself.
âWhen you swore yourself as my protector, I vowed that I would ask no service of you that might bring you dishonor. What do you reckon this is?â you scoff out a laugh, feeling the whole situation truly ironic.
âIt would not bring me dishonor if nobody discovers it.â His voice is low. He closes the window, then moves to close the other. âIn fact, I swore first to protect you from any and all harm. I believe that prevails over bringing me dishonor.â You watch him then as he travels to the door. The lock clicks shut, and the sound of it travels to your core.
Not only is he able, he is willing.
He turns back to you, and you lock eyes. His brows are turned upwards at the cornersâit is true, desperate concern etched onto his face. You can only imagine how disheveled you look.
You sigh, but it comes out as more of a moan, and let your head hang low.
Gwayne is across the room in a moment, kneeling down in front of you. He removes the gloves from his hands, settling them on the ground beside him, and then places his hands on your clothed thighs. The contact draws the linens slightly upwards. How you wish he would just slide them all the way up and just kiss your cunâ
You close your eyes and draw in a long breath.
âTell me what you need,â he purrs. Your eyes shoot back open, and his hands move to hold your hips. âI am yours.â
You want to. Gods, who are you kidding? You need to tell him, because he will do it, but you canât. The words freeze on your tongue. Where do you even start?
But he is knelt before you, almost pathetic in his attempt at a remedy, so eager on helping you.
Why must you tell him?
You grab the cloth at your thighs and curl your fingers enough times until it is bunched up near your crotch. All that prevents him from laying eyes on your bare cunt is closed legs. You let them spread, gruelingly slow, pushing Gwayneâs hands from your hips in the process.
He does not look away from your face. âTell me. Please,â he whimpers, letting his fingers graze the sides of your thighs.
You stammer, and squirm once more. âI need you to touch me,â you declare.
Gwayne nods once. âAs you wish.â
And he hoists your legs over his shoulders and his face inches closer and closer to your core until his lips latch onto your clit. And finally, for once since drinking the stupid wine, you feel bliss. Youâve never felt something like this before.
It surges through your body and your entire body twitches violently. Gwayne lifts his arms up and grips your hips back again, using the hold to tug your cunt farther into his mouth. He eats you like a man starved.
You did not realize of the noises you were making until you nearly screamed, letting your head fall back. Your hands snake into his hair, pulling his head closer to your core.
He releases your clit from his lips. âTastes so goodâmy princessââ his words fan over your damp slit, and he leans down to lick a thick stripe from bottom to top, collecting your arousal into onto his tongue. He swallows it with a loud gulp.
Your breath catches in your throat.
Gwayne continues his assault on your clit, sucking down hard. Your hips roll toward the allure of his lips. You are panting and gasping, hand bunching up his hair into your fist.
Heat flows through your entire body. It is a mix of the feeling you felt upon drinking that cursĂŠd wine and something incredible. True, pure ecstasy. You feel the blood of the dragon in you now. You understand it.
An unfamiliar ache begins to tighten in your lower stomach as he persists in lapping at your cunt. Nothing in your life has ever felt so good. You wonder if this is the true effect of the wine, or if it is just because it is your first timeâyou cannot really think about anything else. His tongue flattens and rolls against your clit and you choke on a moan.
Your muscles tense, your toes curl, and your heels dig into his back. His tongue presses and prods against you and he can feel it coming, the way your thighs tighten around him and shake and spasm.
Shudders wrack your body as you cum. He does not stop even when you do, even when your moans crescendo, his tongue still relentlessly ravishes your cunt even after you fall back onto the bed.
Finally, he lets go of your core with a wet pop.
It is then that you realize the burn has subsided. Relief washes over you momentarily.
But it returns as quickly as it went away. It flows through your body and you feel desperate for him once again.
He crawls up your body, caging you in between his arms, searching for something beneath your fucked-out expression.
âIt isnât enoughââ you declare, your breath labored.
âWhat do you require?â Gwayne rasps, using a hand to brush your hair off of your forehead. His touch wavers in concern when he realizes the scorch of your skin.
âI needââ you paw at his clothed cock. âYourââ
âMy what?â he pants.
âI need you inside,â you mutter.
Without a word, he begins shedding his garments. You were simply too dazed to admire it. Perhaps if there is a next timeâGods you hope there is a next timeâyouâll get to do exactly that.
He is crawling back over you in an instant, his body bare. You run your hands up his chest, dragging the ball of your hand over his sternum. His cock hits your pelvis.
Your smallclothes, practically wet at this point, Gwayne lifts slightly at your waist. âWould you like me to take this off?â he asks.
You nod lazily.
He shimmies the linen up your body. âSit up for a moment, sweet girl,â he instructs, and you obey.
They are finally, finally off, discarded somewhere across the room, and it feels much better being exposed than you expected it to be. There is no insecurity when you are with him. He just wants to help.
He grabs a pillow from off the head of the bed, lifting your hips up with a swift sleight of hand and shoving it under. âFor your comfort,â he clarifies.
His hand comes up to cradle your cheek, his elbow resting beside your shoulder, as his other hand reaches down to grip his cock.
You look into his eyes, trying to search for anything past pure devotion and adoration for what he sees before him, and failing. Your lips falter as they reach up to lock with his. He meets you halfway.
Your hand tangles in his hair, pressing his head down harder onto your wet lips. The kiss is unpracticed and messy. Has he done this before? With anyone else, you mean. You should ask once you finish.
Gwayne enters you in a slow thrust, inhaling the noise you make into his mouth. His hand, the one that was cradling your cheek, finds itself on the nape of your neck.
His lips depart from your own, and he presses his forehead against yours, looking down to watch his cock sink into your cunt. He withdraws and sinks in once more, just to see it again. And again. And again. Slowly, slowly, slowly, the torturous drag of his length into you.
Your lips are parted, throat singing moans so frequent youâd think you were performing for him. You know you are being too loud. It feels impossible to be anything but.
Those gorgeous blue eyes of his find their way back to yours. "Ohâfuck, look at you," he praises, no longer needing the arm that guided his cock into you to guide his cock into you, so he raises it up to your mouth.
His thumb glides over your teeth, and then pushes past them. You wrap a hand around his wrist and suck on the digit. Up and down, up and down, as if it were his cock. He almost freezes inside of you.
Your hand slides up his, grabbing his pointer and middle-finger, swapping his thumb out for them. You do the same to them, bobbing your head up and down, moaning around them, and Gwayne fucking whimpers.
He resumes his movements. His cock throbs, your walls wrapping around him, sucking him in like you were made for himâor more so he was made for you, because he was. He is your man. He will be your man until the day he dies.
His fingers leave your mouth, and your saliva connects to the pads of them. He takes them into his own mouth momentarily.
Your fingers dig into his shoulders, pulling his body down to connect to yours. His hand snakes between you, gripping your hardened nipple, earning a gasp from you.
âIâm yours, my princess,â he murmurs, drunk-like. âIâm yours.â And he presses his lips all down your neck, the trail all wet and sloppy.
Youâre clenching around him, body spasming from under his caging hold. You feel close to a similar sort of climax that you felt only once before, just then when his head was between your legs. With each slap of his skin against yours, you are screaming. He mutters things, most you canât quite catch, but theyâre all something like thatâs it, sweet girl, and let it out, my princess.
He uses his forearm to rise from the skin-to-skin contact you had forced him into. His fingers, desperate yet nimble, work themselves to the small of your back. The contact releases your skin from the suction of the pillowcase, and he lifts your hips up more with his arm now wrapped around them.
His pace quickens. You glance down, and nearly sob at the sight of him disappearing inside you.
âGwayne?â you look back up at him. Again, he is already staring back at you, ready and willing to fulfill your every need.
âYes, my princess?â he heaves.
âKiss me.â
As you wish, is he would have said, if it werenât for him immediately giving in to your wish. He kisses like he is eating you. Messy. His spit somehow finds itself all around your mouth. You don't notice that you do the same to him.
Your orgasm slams into you. It is a violent punch that knocks the wind out of youâyou think you see the Stranger reaching out to youâthen you feel Gwayne slow his movements and a thick liquid coat your insides. You babble incomprehensible speech as you ride it out.
âFuckââ you hear him mutter, and pull out quickly. He runs a finger up your slit, not considering the fact that you were still beyond sensitiveâyou jerk back at his touch, still trying to catch your breath.
It was like all air was running from you. It probably was. You violently pushed it back out with every small inhale of it.
You finally come to, and realize he has been repeating the words fuck, fuck, fuck, since he pulled out.
âWhatâs wrong?â you raise a hand to hold his cheek, bringing his attention back to you.
âYou donâtââ he pauses. And he sighs, squeezing his eyes shut. âI wasnât supposed to cum inside.â
Youâre still confused. âWhatâs the problem?â
âThat is how you get pregnant.â He lets out one last heavy sigh and then falls onto his back beside you.
You turn onto your side, resting your head on one of the arms he lies beneath your shoulder, and bringing a hand up to place it on his chest. His is still rising and falling as rapidly as yours is.
Your fingers trace your name onto his chest. He is none-the-wiser, but you still smirk at the action. Your man.
âWill you ask the maesters to brew me moon tea?â you mumble.
He brings his other hand to hold yours. âAs you wish.â
You chuckle breathily.
âAre youâare you cured?â he says, playing with your fingers.
âI suppose so.â You sigh. The need for him no longer thrums through you in the way that it did before.
Now you want him in a different way. A normal, human, potionless way. The way you wanted him before you drank that wineâyou thought it would make you seductive enough for him. It certainly worked, you assume.
In less than a minute, youâre beneath him again, his fingers pumping in and out of you.
ŕ¨ŕ§ pairing .á.á brendon park x resident!reader
ŕ¨ŕ§ summary .á.á dr. brendon park operated like most shark, always patrolling and returning to where he was familiar. he knew how to fix fractures and re-implant amputated limbs with confidence. he was a master in his professional craft. sociallyâbrendon didnât have that same skill, and when you moved to the night shift, the atmospheric change was something he couldnât stabilize like bones.
ŕ¨ŕ§ tags/warnings .á.á female reader, no use of y/n, no physical description, sexism/conflict in the workplace, pediatric/mass casualty cases, burnout, slow burn, grumpy/sunshine, competence kink, emotionally repressed brendon (he honestly needs therapy), power imbalance, this is just park realizing he fucked up and lowkey yearns for reader to notice him again lol
ŕ¨ŕ§ authors note .á.á here is the long awaited continuation! someone said something of a park pov and i couldn't resist it!! i hope this is a worthy part two (yall let me know honestly, okay?) i love brendon park y'all and i know you guys do too, so i really hope you guys like it (i have a validation kink)
ŕ¨ŕ§ word count .á.á 14.4 k
part one: find another soldier!
Brendon heard more than what he wanted to about the hospital and its staff. Even though staff were acutely aware when he was around (typically refraining from making obvious comments about him), he was still able to pick up a few things here and there.Â
Observations of potential flings and affairs between nurses and doctors. The âdramaâ that occurred within departmental staffâsome of them including married couples who challenge their vows by working together. The latest news on what residents royally screwed up or who had been reprimanded for forgetting protocol.Â
Brendon Park, who had the hearing of a shark, picked up those sociable conversations between colleagues. He always stood a comfortable distance from the parade, finding no satisfaction in bonding with people he was meant to work with. The absence of relation and sharing intimacy such as personal details didn't affect his work negatively, which was all that mattered to himÂ
He told himself he didn't care about any of it, even when he heard a thing or two about himself. Internally, he knew that was the absolute truth. There was no exception.Â
Until he passed by the nursing station where Sully, his chief resident, was speaking with Dr. Emmick, the night shift attending. The two were off to the side, speaking among themselves like the two had done so before. Sully held a digital chart in his hands, but his attention was on Dr. Emmick, casually slumped with her hands in her jacket pockets.
âSheâs doing perfectly on her own.â Dr. Emmick shrugged, a proud smile on her face. The relief that escaped Sully made something tick in Park. âI mentioned nominating her for chief resident next year. That just seemed to amp up her determination even more, if that was possible.â
âThat's not surprising. Sheâs always been miles above some of the other residents.â Sully responded with a buzzing smile. Brendon had resorted to stopping by the printer behind the station, pretending to be shuffling through pages he had already arranged. âSheâs managed to teach me a few things I plan to take with me.â
âIâm sure sheâll be sad to see you leave,â Dr. Emmick patted his shoulder, that softer smile she reserved for praises and quiet appreciations painting her face. Sully nodded along with her words. âBut, sheâs blossoming here. Before you know it, sheâll be running this place.â
âDr. Emmick,â Park cut through the conversation, standing from across the nursing station. He held up the papers in his hand, a curt nod in her direction.Â
She offered one more smile to Sully as she moved around the desk. Park didnât look over at her as the two merged to walk alongside each other. In the time Dr. Emmick had been at PTMC, she never once spent time alone with Brendon Park. The most solitude the two of them spent was when they had meetings, and even then, those events included other admin or members of the collective hospital boards they were in.Â
She figured out he was a lone shark when they first met, preferring to slip in and out the doors without so much of a âgood morningâ or âgood night.â
The least he could do was offer her a nod whenever they passed each other by hand-off.
Dr. Emmick walked with a small sway, too much energy for someone who spent the entire shift focused on an emergency reconstruction of a patient with an unstable pelvic ring fracture. Brendon sensed the small glances she sent him, and he sighed out through his nostrils, maintaining his aloof demeanor. If he acted normal, sheâd keep the curious questions to herself.
âWeâre only a few months shy from graduation again.â Emmick mentioned casually, maneuvering around some nurses passing by, offering small âexcuse me.â âDo you have anyone in mind for chief residents?â
Brendon barely flinched at the question, keeping his attention straight ahead. The two pushed through the first pair of double doors until they reached the nonclinical area of the surgical department, where his office along with the other chief surgeons and attending lounge was.Â
He snorted lightly, shaking his head. âAt the rate my residents are working, we may have to settle on one, if we both agree on someone.â
âThatâs a lot of responsibility for one resident,â Dr. Emmick snickered. She was aware what residents wanted the title, which came with the most attention from the attendings. All the other residents were their little ducks to watch, a true simulation of being an attending in a trauma-1 hospital.Â
Which came with the responsibility of their wrong-doings as much as their wins.Â
Emmick brushed her stray hairs behind her ear, âAnd if you can't settle on someone from the day-shift, Iâd hate to hear what you think of those in the night shift.â
âIâm assuming you're asking because you had someone in mind.â Brendon diverted smoothly, his tone even and rested. Despite the fact he knew exactly where she was reigning the conversation, he still held the detached perceptive look he had when he was making an objective judgment.
She hummed, advancing ahead of Park to scan her badge to enter the hospital-staff exclusive area. With a beep, the doors clicked open and Brendon stalked down first. When the door shut behind Emmick she stepped back to his side, âItâs someone we both have worked with extensively.â
When Brendon reached his office, he bowed his head slightly to hide the twitch in his nose. Once he sat at his desk, he had put back the stoic expression. Emmick shut the wooden door, pulling out a chair for her to sit across him. Both her hands folded onto her lap, legs crossed. The small twitch in the corner of her mouth all but confirmed his suspicion.
When your name escaped her mouth, he straightened his back. He was recalling the image of him sitting on his desk, your buzzing body standing in front of the door, waiting for the moment to escape. You had left and never looked back.
Once the switch was made official, Park wasn't expecting there to be a lapse in his day-to-day life. Itâs not like you had moved departments or hospitals. He would see you passing by the halls during hand-off, the back of your head or the familiar fleece jacket you sported in the eerily cold hospital; but there was a distance that didn't exist while you worked the dayshift.Â
Working under his command and his directive as his resident.Â
âWhat about her makes her ideal for the position?â Brendon questioned. The current quarterly review the two were meant to oversee before their meeting pushed aside.
The question was firm, like he was interviewing his colleague instead of searching for her opinion. She raised her eyebrows at him, an amused grin flashing back at him. âYou want my professional opinion?â
âObviously.â
âShe is a good mentor, has great instinct and initiative. She keeps a clinical perspective while under pressure.â Emmick listed out concisely, opting to appease the language Dr. Park preferred. He didnât care about the mush or the personable trait that made you stand out to him, even if Emmick felt those strengths were your greatest virtues. âAs a third-year resident, she is already doing the job of a chief resident, without the title.â
Brendon remained silent, pressing his lips into a thin line. The subtle movement of his jaw, an obvious tick, made it evident what he refused to put into words. He had doubts.
âThis observation is based on the last three months sheâs been on the night shift?â He clarified while crossing his arms over his chest. Through the sleeves of his scrubs, his muscles tightened, pulling the fabric tighter.
Emmick confirmed with one silent nod, eyeing Park from her chair. âAs well as the double and previous night shifts she has worked.â
âAnd you're confident in her abilities?â
The more questions he spewed, the more it resembled an interrogation. He was investigating a theory he was keeping to himself through the people who knew you, instead of addressing the source. In three months, it was clear that you were keeping a distance.
No one wanted to spend five minutes alone in a room with Park, let alone talk to him that long. In your case, you confronted him of the clear judgments he made of your work while under his supervision. The public displays of his criticism had pushed you into the deep end of a pool, and as you found an edge to climb off, you took the extra steps to never fall in that situation again.
If you had asked him, heâd describe it as running.
âYou arenât?" Emmick resounded incredulously, like it was unbelievable he thought contrary to popular belief.Â
âI think that in the majority of the three years Iâve witnessed her work, Iâve noticed moments requiring additional correction.â Brendon commented with no hesitation, as if he was waiting for the opportunity to let it out.
The frustration you caused when Mr. Stevenson suffered through compartment syndrome. The lack of awareness when you were run down through your double shifts. Even the lack of urgency when treating patients. It was all hindering your ability to be a perfect orthopedic surgeon.
âAll residents need to be corrected.â Emmick remarks with a humorous scoff. Park ticked his head to the side, displeased with her dismissing his objection. âIâm not saying sheâs perfect.â
âIt was implied strongly by your choice of words.â
âWell, in comparison to some of the other residents, sheâs damn near it.â Emmick cocked her head to the side, almost daring him to utter a word. Brendon kept his eyes on her, and all he saw were talons flared out, like a hawk ready to protect its nest.Â
Emmick had traits he respected in a colleague. Working together as attendings undertaking residents with shaky hands became a source of common ground. What divided them was their nonidentical ways of going about it. Emmick stuck her ground when Brendon might expostulate with gravity to the risks. She believed in a hand-on validating method. Brendon had to see it first to believe it.
âI thought maybe you might agree.â She mentioned casually, picking at a lint on her jacket sleeve.
Brendon nose twitched, leaning forward in his seat to rest his burly arms on the table. âWhy is that?â
âBecause I like to believe you couldnât possibly deny when a resident is good at their job.â Emmick narrowed her eyes at him, tempting to push him just close enough to the edge where heâd have to turn and face the issue.
What Brendon thought was nothing was something worth omitting. He could brood all heâd wanted, and most of his residents wouldnât blink a teary eye, but what he cursed Emmick over was her peculiar talent at observation.
âEspecially not a resident like her.â
He huffed out a sigh, almost cracking his resolve. This had to be a joke. âThe residents chosen for the chief position need to have earned my utmost trust. Itâs not a title handed prematurely.â
âLike Sullivan?â She asked skeptically, arms crossing over her chest as she leaned back in the chair.Â
Her steady stare dragged across every inch of his face. He didnât bother intimidating a colleague who had proven time and time again she wasnât to be messed with; even when people assumed she was too lax in comparison to him.Â
But, she had a nasty bite.Â
Brendon knew exactly what she was insinuating. Apart from Sullivan (who was personally chosen for the role by Park) his co-chief for night shift was also a man who (in Parks terms) got lucky from the process of elimination. Despite the fact Emmick mightâve argued the two female 4th year residents wouldâve made wonderful selections.
âLook, before you snarl your shark-teeth at me, let me say one thing.â She put up a hand to restrain his irritability right before they were meant to meet with administration.Â
When he mentioned nothing more, she sat up straight, leaning in closer like she might tell him a life-changing secret. âIf this is about her moving to night shift, that mightâve been my doing more than hers. No hard feelings, Brendon.â
âWhat do you mean?â He entertained, eyes turning into slits as he stared curiously. Like examining an amputation on the field.Â
âI told her I could use a resident with her skill.â She mentioned casually, like the concept was known by everyone. Brendon was aware of what Emmick thought of you, as much as the other resident did. She didnât hide her affection or pride with a firm guard as he did.Â
She shrugged, her smile upside. âI didnât think sheâd want to give up the chance to be taught by you, but here we are.â
Brendon's eyes moved down at the desk, feeling the oak from that night as he gripped the edge of his desk. He conformed to the idea his sudden dissatisfaction was from you standing over him, pointing blame for affecting your work. He was too hard, too malevolent, or contemptuous for your liking.
All the effort he put in was just him being too âproudâ and âarrogant.â He expected more from you, and he didnât need your honesty (as you had put it), to remind him that you weren't up to the plate.Â
âI still stand by the fact sheâs exceptional, and it would be a disservice if we didnât even consider her.â She concluded, with the firmness that came from working her way to where she was.
On the very few occasions that they spoke, Emmick had expressed small gratitude for the trust he had extended to her when she first transferred over. He didn't comprehend the need to âthankâ him. He assumed the hospital was hiring competent attendings to take over the hard work while teaching naive residents and interns.Â
So when he thought of you, as chief resident or an attending, the bill did not fit. Nobody just deserved the title. It was earned from hard work. You had yet to work hard enough to garner a standing ovation from him.Â
Philosophy wasnât Brendonâs strong suit. He didn't waste his time on debates, but he did have strong beliefs. Medicine was a rational practice. There were right and wrong things to do in a hospitalâas a surgeonâthat could put the lives of others in the balance. He was taught that lesson long ago, and when it came time for him to pass along his teachings, he made sure to drill it in all his residents.
âYour patient can die at any moment. Don't be the reason they donât make it.â was something he had reminded them time and time again. He didn't need to be pulled away from one life-saving surgery to futilely attempt another. His residents should be covering all bases, without serving any reminders.
He hadn't forgotten the occasions you had failed at that.
It was rookie mistakes unsuited for third year residents. When he enforced responsibilities, he expected stellar work in return. If the residents signed up for the work of orthopedic surgery, they should be held accountable for every action and inaction that they take. He expected them to enforce that upon themselves.Â
He had put that weight on you.Â
He was unapologetic for what he had done while you worked with him. It was all for the sake of the patients, himself, and you. Your work was a reflection of him, and if you couldn't figure out how to stand on your own two feet, how could anyone trust the training you had to save lives?
You had not seen it that way. Brendon shrugged it off in turn.
Maybe he was vindictive, waiting for Emmick to see the dangerous flaws he did. He expected Emmick to see it as he did, but she had other pillars in her teaching.
He saw it the way she smiled whenever you showed up around her. Brendon noticed it from inside patient rooms, behind nursing stations, and the few occasions you two were in the same space together. Emmick praised you with the same ease as breathing.Â
Everyone was aware how rare Dr. Park complimented anyone for his or her work. Marla Emmick operated oppositely.
Sheâd pat your shoulder, whisper something with that curled grin of hers, or give you a fist-bump as a supportive nod of your actions. Brendon rolled his eyes at it.
These werenât kindergartners who needed a gold star for accomplishing something required of their program. These were grown adults who needed to comprehend the intensity of their choices, their observations and evaluation of patients, and the importance of knowing what they were doing as much as showing up to do it.
He was trying to make competent surgeons capable of saving fragile human life and he would do that at the expense of feeding the âsharkâ persona everyone saw. Cold-hearted, detached, and mean.
Even while you were under the supervision of Emmick, he still tried to figure out whether you had learned anything from the time you spent with him. He needed to see whether Emmick was right about her observation.
Park was making his way to the patient waiting in the pre-op wing. He stalked around, looking for the small group of residents making their rounds. He nodded at Annette, the charge nurse, as she pointed over to patient room three. When he made his way to the room, he saw the collective group of residents standing at the foot of the bed. He stood by the doorway, listening to the hand-off Reddy, the senior residents for the night, conducted.
Frank Giles, a 65-year-old, needing a total hip replacement after a nasty fall in his home, sat on the bed. He was cracking jokes with the residents, who seem to go along with it.
He was looking around the crowd, in search of someone specific. Frowning, he looked at Dr. Reddy, âWhere is that one doctor? Sheâs the one who spoke with me when they first admitted me.â
Reddy furrowed his brows, glancing up from the device in his hand. He paused for a moment before speaking your name. It rang bells in Mr. Giles face as his smile widened, âWould it be too much to ask if she could do the operation?â
Sully smiled sincerely, standing center at the foot of the bed. âHer shift ends soon, unfortunately. But knowing her, she will likely check in with you tonight once youâre resting up in post-op.â
Mr. Giles conformed to the idea, despite the fact his smile was nearly as bright as before. âGood friend of hers, I assume?â
With a flustered grin, Sully nodded. âRoommates. Given the amount of time we spent together, I would hope we are.â
A belly laugh filled the room, and Mr. Giles identified with something Sully said. The endearing look on his face made it clear to Brendon, watching the old man examine Sully like he were someone familiar. âReminded of my late wife and I.â
Brendon could make out a quiet condolence from Sully. Before Mr. Giles could go on a tangent, Sully smoothly transitioned the conversation into pre-op protocol. Reddy jumped in easily, going over the diagnosis.Â
He nodded along to what Reddy explained about the procedure assigned to Sully. After a couple of questions, the residents paid their farewell and filed out in a line.Â
Park stood back, waiting for the senior residents to emerge from the room. When his chief resident noticed Park, he gave him a silent tut of his chin. He fell in line beside him, silencing the quiet conversation between Sully and his co-chief resident.
âWhere is Dr. Emmick?â Park asked without invitation. The question was directed to Dr. Reddy, who lifted his brows in response.
Park expectantly looked at him with hooded eyes. He shook himself from the daze, âShe got stuck in a complex acetabular reconstruction. 3 hours and counting.â
âAlone?â Park followed up, eyes darting in front of him as he counted the back of the resident's head.Â
He knew exactly who was missing. He didnât need to specify where his curiosity lied.
âNo,â Sully jumped in, glancing at Park from beside him. Despite the fact they were about the same height, he still towered over the senior resident. He then said your name with a smile, âDr. Emmick managed to rope her into a possible ten-hour surgery. Although, I doubt she wouldâve said no to it.âÂ
âBetter her than me.â Reddy had mumbled under his breath, presuming his comment could be omitted from Park the Shark.
âAs a fourth-year resident, it should be you.â Park swiftly remarked, barely jerking his head to look at Reddy. He did extend his arm to Sully, silently taking the device in order to sneak a look at the operation details. âHow do you intend to make up for your lack of exposure in a different hospital? By choking up the minute youâre standing over a patient with everything at stake?â
Reddy's wide eyes panicked and landed on Sully, hoping the person supposedly in his corner would save him. Sully gave him a menial headshake, refusing to intervene. Reddy sighed in defeat, shoulders sagging. âIt was a joke.â
Park didnât elaborate more on the matter as he glared at him from the corner of his eye. As he opened the operation details, he read about the patient suffering a work-accident. Based on the intake details and initial imaging once in the ER, it was an unfavorable surgery to hop on while almost done with a 12-hour shift. With a both column fracture involved, you two were bound to be stuck there for ten hours.
Before Park could rip Reddy apart even more, he excused himself to debrief about a patient in post-op. Instead of joining the group, Park stopped by the nursing station, investigating the details of the case further. Of course, Emmick would choose her most prized resident to join the surgery.Â
However, Brendon couldnât help but wonder whether you agreed for the experience and bragging rights that came from being selected over your senior resident only.
Sully stood in front of him, hands in his pocket while glancing between his fellow residents in the patient room and his attending. He leaned back on his heels, âI heard the patient was in a pretty bad state when he came in. Dr. Emmick might be stuck in there a while, if you needed her.â
Park huffed out a sigh, shaking his head slightly. With your absence, he was able to gauge what type of doctor Sully would turn out to be. He was the same ambitious and focused resident he always was, even without you to support him through every surgery.
Whether he wanted to or not, he had asked Park for a recommendation letter for an attending position he planned to take at a trauma-1 hospital in Chicago.Â
Brendon never embellished the truthâwhether personally or professionally. There was no way he would lie on a rec letter for a resident, no matter how much they relied on it for a position anywhere. But, he hated to admit, Dr. Sullivan had managed to push Park to add some flourish to the letter.
âMaybe this is out of place, but I know talks about chief residents are being held around this time.â Sully leaned in casually, still keeping his focus mostly on Reddy and the other residents. They both could hear enough from outside the room. âDo you mind if I give you my opinion as their predecessor?â
Park lifted his gaze up, hooded eyes staring back at Sully, who waited patiently for a response. Looking bored, Park sighed, âSomething tells me youâre going to give it to me regardless.â
Sully chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck casually. He shrugged, âI want to make sure you and Dr. Emmick consider everything to make the right choice, not that you need me to do that.â
Remaining silent, Park stared blankly at Sully. After a beat, he understood Park wasnât going to welcome the suggestion verbally. That was beneath him. Sully leaned onto the nursing station, eyes focused on Dr. Park. âI donât want you to think this is some plug just because sheâs my roommate or because weâre close.â
Brendon didnât need any more explanation as to who he was referring to. The utterance of your name from him was something he was starting to dread after the last conversation with Emmick. Sully stared skeptically at Park, trying to read into the stoic demeanor he had all the time. âShe is a good surgeon, and as her chief resident, I do believe she could fulfill the position with ease.â
âAre you sure sheâll survive without you?â Park questioned, his eyes now narrowed on Sully. It wasnât the type of concern Emmick wouldâve shown him. It was a mockery of what Sully just expressed. The everlasting doubt in his resident still understands the work. He didnât agree, but he didnât vocalize it yet either.
Sully cocked his head to the side, âI donât doubt it. The real question is if Iâm going to survive without her. I got too comfortable having her around, I guess.â
Brendon saw the slight tenderness in his eye. Something soft he didnât get to see every day between him and you. He could almost sense your presence while you were holed away in an OR. The way patients asked for you with the same affection theyâd search for a comrade. He was aware of what the residents thought of you, often turning to you to save them from a sinking boat.Â
It was like they knew youâd throw them a life preserver, unlike the harsh suggestion to âfigure it outâ on their own like Park would do.
âThe lease of our apartment is already under her name. She is set for next year.â Sully mentioned coolly. Park hated small talk, but he found it odd within himself to hesitate with cutting the conversation short. He stared with the same blank expression at Sully, completely unsure what to do with that information.
Sully chuckled, âIf she werenât set on staying, I would drag her over with me.â
Brendon forehead creased in the center and his jaw clenched, similarly to when attending a consultation in the ER. A solid focus on trying to capture every detail of a patientâs leg, arm, or other joint susceptible to needing care under his department.Â
He never questioned where a resident went once they were done with their program. They all couldnât stay here, and the ones that attempted found it hard to continue with the pressure pushed by âPark the Shark.â Even if there were a resident whom he deemed sufficient to fill an attending position, heâd never advocate on their behalf.
Brendon didnât get where he was by accepting a hand-out from anyone.
âIâm still going to hold her a place over there just in case.â Sully continued, still hanging around Park like there was more to discuss.Â
Park caught the residents leaving the room, walking over to another a couple of doors down. His eyes followed their movement, barely blinking when he looked back at Sully, questioning glare. âShouldnât you be doing hand-offs with the rest?â
Sully didnât look over his shoulder, or show any attempt to attend to his duties. There wasnât even a hint of hesitation, not even when he saw the glare from Park, staring him up and down. He was a man determined to do a job Brendon saw no point in. âIâm telling you this because Iâd hate for you to come to the realization how critical her contribution to this hospital is until itâs too late.â
Brendon grinded his jaw slightly. Had Sully conspired with Emmick to shove you down his throat? Or maybe this was a lousy attempt at your end to get an apology out of him. Park didnât relinquish. He didnât care how much people argued the contrary, he refused to give in on what people may think was âbestâ for his department.Â
âYou may not need her, but that doesnât eliminate her worth around here.â Sully stated with firmness.
From the hardened stare of his resident, Brendon knew exactly what Sully was referring to. He didnât doubt that youâd share the hostility brewing between him and you. It wasnât exactly a secret. Park would not shy away from exposing a resident for their wrong doings.
What he was starting to notice was the courage of certain residents willing to put their foot down on what they saw was unjust.
They handed him the short end of the stick during his residency and med-school years. His teachers and attendings didnât make it easy, and they certainly wouldnât have tolerated being advised by residents like you and Sully.
Instead of picking a fight, he chose the silence. It was early in the morning to dig into Sully. Heâd chosen to wait into swatting him around like a shark with its fin. It took another minute for Sully to realize Park the Shark was opting to glare at him, inserting dominance until he got the hint.Â
Park handed him the device back. Sully took it without question, swiftly turning to head in the direction the residents disappeared. Standing firm in place, he watched the cloud of plum scrubs move around the post-op floor.Â
He knew exactly which ones would cry over his directive before the start of their next year. Who would hesitate and second-guess themselves the next time they answered a consultation. He could acutely guess who would be eaten alive by the other attendings across different departments. If they couldnât handle the likes of Robby or Walsh, then he saw them quitting sooner rather than later.
Yet, you didnât fit that image, physically or metaphorically.Â
You, who was off doing a surgery only he trusted senior staff on, were ambitiously seeking to make yourself indispensable. There was no need when you had staff like Emmick and Sully in your corner, even the dreadful surgical attendings like Walsh were jabbing at Park to âease upâ on the only resident able to keep up with him.
He heard it all and up until now, it never made sense to âease upâ on his residents. It was far from his natural instinct to push until they finally figured to pull themselves up, even as he had control of the rope. You had managed to deny him that pleasure, opting to climb the side of the cliff with your bare hands.Â
Now, he was left watching and waiting, with the rope still in his hand.
When Brendon heard about the opening of OR 5, cleaned up after the complex acetabular reconstruction, it was past noon. He was doing the afternoon check in with Annette, and he hadnât realized how late the surgery ended.
There was no sight of you or Emmick. He would not have assumed either of you were going to stay longer than necessary once charting was done. It was a difficult procedure based on the pre-operative details. The day had been lulled by a scheduled base itinerary that the residents could handle with limited supervision. He had time to spend, and he was analyzing the patients chart as if he was going to scrub in for surgery.
It was obsessive, but the compulsion to understand every surgery in the department he commanded, was a given.
He happened to be going around the post-op ward. Checking in with residents as patients moved out of surgery to observation or were discharged or transferred elsewhere. As he was passing by the room in the far corner, he heard a familiar belly laugh. Unrestrained and engrossed in whatever made him laugh.Â
Brendon peeked his head first, checking in through the window. Mr. Giles sat on the bed, glancing to his left with a toothy grin. The surgery had been done in a few hours, and although heâd probably feel better sleeping the entire procedure off, he had his own form of treatment.
He was staring fondly at a female visitor. It was hard to make out who they were from their face, but the silhouette was too familiar. He noted the black backpack sitting beside the chair, pulled close to the bedside. It wasnât until the voice started laughing along with Mr. Giles that it clicked.
âI swear, Iâve never seen anyone slip so animatedly as then.â You breathed out, the laugh subsiding into giggles as you tried to catch your breath.Â
Stopping beside the filler of the wall between both rooms, he crossed his arms. Without realizing, he was inclining his ear closer to listen. You sighed out dramatically, âHeâs not the most graceful, but he can suture up nerves and tissue even with his eyes closed.â
âSo, how come heâs leaving?â Mr. Giles questioned, interested in the explanation. He cleared his croaky throat.
There was a beat of silence, and from the corner of his eye, Brendon noticed how you shrugged. âHe doesnât see himself staying here. This was always temporary compared to where he wanted to be.â
âAnd how about you?â Mr. Giles proposed, smiling again. âYouâre pretty good at what you do. Where do you want to be?âÂ
You hummed, nervously laughing after as you tried deflecting the comment. Too humble to know when to just take the compliment. âI havenât decided yet. Dr. Sullivan has invited me to join him once my residency is over, but I still have a year to figure that out.â
âDonât wait too long.â Mr. Giles advised in the antiquated fashion Brendonâs parents did to him.Â
Marriage. Kids. Retirement plans; personal-life-milestones Brendon put aside. He didnât have to think about that while focusing on his career. As long as he could continue to be the chief orthopedic surgeon at PTMC, his life was as fulfilled as he felt it could be. He didnât need personal distractions to keep him occupied.Â
âSometimes, the things that are good for us are the things we let go.â Mr. Giles warned, turning his head to look up at the ceiling. âIf I had taken my own advice, I wouldâve married my wife before going to the Marines. I was lucky enough she came to find me once her first marriage ended.â
Brendon glanced down at the watch positioned on the inside of his wrist. It was past one and he didnât need the liability of restless residents staying around past their bedtime. He advanced towards the patientâs door, one hand braced on the frame of the open sliding door.Â
He spoke your name briskly, title and surname firm into the air. You turned towards the door of the room, eyebrows raised to your hairline. Staring at you with heavyset eyes, he saw the casualness of your attire. Plum scrubs more than likely in the dispenser, changed into relaxed jeans, a grey t-shirt, wrapped in your fleece jacket.Â
Rotating from the hip, you put on a tight lip smile. âDr. Park. Did you need to check in with Mr. Giles?â
âNo,â The firm definition of his arm around the sleeves of his scrub tightened, gripping tighter to the frame. âIâm here to make sure all my staff is where they need to be.â
With the pronunciation of his possession over the day shift, you heard the message clearly. Facing Mr. Giles, your body relaxed with the revelation of his soft expression. With one hand stretched, you patted his hand lying flat on the bed. âI will check on you tonight.â
He scoffed, the corner of his lip curling up. âSo soon? You just canât stay away from this place, huh?â
While reaching down to slip on your backpack, you smiled coyly. You pushed the chair back to the corner, and once back by Mr. Giles bedside; you paused with your hands in your jacket pockets. âWhat can I say, I love what I do. Rest up, Frank.â
Making your way out the room, Brendon pulled his arm back, stepping aside to give you an undisturbed exit. The air that hit him as you were passing by was colder than the fuzziness between you and Mr. Giles. Brendon still found himself venturing in the same direction as you.
âIf youâre looking for Dr. Emmick, I last heard she was speaking with the wife of the steel-yard worker.â You directed to Park walking behind you. As you turned the corner, walking in the direction of the elevator, he was still behind you.Â
âHow did the surgery go?â He asked with no change in the equilibrium of his tone.
You sighed, shaking your head. âHeâs in the ICU. Apart from the fracture and the reconstruction, he suffered major trauma to his internal organs. Spleen was compromised, and Dr. Walsh removed a part of his kidney.â
The way you noted all the information was robotic. It was like having an automated voice read the chart. If he had wanted the differential diagnosis of the patient, he wouldnât have asked. His eyes lingered on the back of your head, suddenly determined to leave the hospital as rapidly as possible. As if your pit stop to see Mr. Giles wasnât the true reason you had delayed leaving.
Instead of heading straight for the elevators, you derailed into the residents lounge, slipping in and letting the door fall behind you. Park, with the reflexes from his childhood, pushed the door back with his palm. Inside the lights were dimmed, and you walked over to the fridge, as if you were utterly alone in the room.
âHow come you were pulled to assist?â Brendon ruminated, eyes narrowed at you.
When you stood back up straight, you had an energy drink in your hand. The crack of the seal echoed and you shrugged while sipping the beverage. He awaited a verbal response. Some nonsensical explanation for an answer you had no way of knowing.
You took a couple of steps, in his direction, before stopping. He didn't move from the path to the door. With wide eyes and an awkward tight lip smile, you rocked on your feet. âIs there something else you needed to know about the patient, Dr. Park?â
The question wasnât proposed because you wanted the conversation to continue. If it was the only way for you to be able to leave the confined space, you would; but you make it practical. About the patient care and the workload, the night shift was leaving the day shift. Nothing of the sort that related personally to you and him.Â
He knew with the scheduled double shift you were blocked for must have been a dread. If the current direction this conversation was heading was any clue, he could see the double shift being the last thing you want to do.
Working for 24 hoursâhalf of them stuck with the attending you shunned from your education. Brendon was anticipating some form of retaliation. Letting your professionalism turn to spite. Lying in wait to see whether youâd give him the same treatment you felt you unjustly earned from him.
âTypically a fourth-year resident would perform or assist the procedure.â Park responded, completely guiding the conversation in the opposite direction.
You didnât remove your eyes from him. They were glassy, and the way your lids would flutter ever so slightly, weary. With your lips sealed, you slowly nodded your head, as if remembering for the future. Donât get used to this treatment. Itâs not meant to last.
âI responded to the consultation and it was Dr. Emmickâs directive to have me on the surgical team.â You plainly renounced. This antagonistic approach was doing nothing in his favor. From the way you kept looking at him with the blank expression, he had more luck talking to a wall. âIt was a learning opportunity.â
Brendon curtly nodded once, flexing his jaw as his teeth pressed against each other. Firmer than before. How were you supposed to be âequalsâ if you could barely speak words to him?
âI have to go home. I work another shift tonight.âÂ
Silently, you maneuvered around his body. As he felt your arm come up against his, he finally retracted himself. You only opened the door wide enough to slip your body, letting partial light from the hospital peek in the ambient lounge.Â
Brendonâs hand reached for the handle, pulling it open wider. You glanced up when you noticed the door leave your grasp. You spun around once stepping out the room, eyeing Brendon peculiarly.Â
He stood opposite of you, shoulder tall and pulled back. He nodded once more, âSee you next week for day shift.â
Brendon prided himself on the control he had. The influence in his department that allowed him to rule over his residents prevented health violations and potential lawsuits from knocking on his door. It saved him from unprecedented headaches. The less likely he was to have an unplanned meeting with Admin, the better.Â
That idea was expanded to his residents. He deemed it efficient to harbor the tenacity his attending preached. If they put on a mile with an inch, they could potentially save someoneâs quality of life.
That is a lot harder said than done when patients werenât easily agreeable to their plan of care.
Which was the only reason Brendon was tenser with pediatric cases. With more parties involved with the care, there was more time dedicated to explaining operative procedures and post-op care. Everything was done for the consideration of the children, but Brendon didnât understand that type of reliance.
Being a single man in his early forties, he had yet to figure out that stage of his life. There was no personal life with a wife or children waiting for him outside the hospital doors. So his approach was practical when explaining, but it was failing him at the moment.
A 12-year-old girl was trembling in fear, tears staining her cheeks, while sitting on the hospital bed. Her parents were sitting beside her, and after Brendon thought they might be able to proceed with the open reduction and internal fixation, they were pulling out with the consent forms before them.Â
âWe just donât feel as comfortable as we did before. I mean, how do we know the probability of the risks?â The father reasoned, similar in build as Brendon, one arm filled with tattoos. He twisted at the hip, as one hand held the smaller one of his daughter, while facing Brendon.
He shouldnât have sent Jones to sign the consent forms.
âWe donât have precise numbers, but most children recover well.â Brendonâs concise answer was honest, not medically malicious. He couldn't provide them false hope. That was a lawsuit waiting to happen.
âBut, could she develop this growth plate injury the other doctor mentioned?â The mother questioned, leaning forward in the chair. Her eyes were sunken from the exhaustion, and despite the fact, they had only been there for three hours, the hospital air and lights were draining the youth in her.Â
âSo we arenât even sure if she will be able to dance, let alone move normally?â She continued with a shaky breath.
He was totally going to rip Jones a new one.
Before Brendon could make a feasible attempt to remedy their concerns, they all heard a knock come from the door.
You peeked your head in, one hand braced on the door you slid open. Your eyes landed on the couple and their daughter, and as if you immediately sensed the tension in the room, you smiled apologetically. âIâm sorry to interrupt, but I need to borrow Dr. Park for a moment.â
When your attention moved to Park, he let out a heavy sigh, one raised eyebrows in your direction. What is it?
The subtle shake of your head, Not in here.
Brendon grabbed the device the parents put at the edge of the girls bed. The father stood up, wiping his hands on his black denim jeans. âWe will need more time to think about this, anyway.â
âLet the nurse know when youâre ready.â Brendon curtly responded.
You opened the door wider, stepping back to let him through. Closing it gently once he stepped out, you spared the family a soft smile. You both walked away from the glass, over to the nursing station. Brendon put down the device, âWhat is it?â
âER needs a consult.â You informed him immediately. He put his hands on his hips, turning to the patient's room.
When he glanced at you, he noted the army green scrub cap, beige stars littered around it. It seemed new. He shrugged his shoulders, lips pursed. âWhy hasnât anyone gone down?â
âBryant did.â You affirmed, shaking your head as you scoffed. âDr. Robby must be in a mood because he sent him up immediately. I just happened to catch him groveling when I left the OR.â
His eyes wandered up to drink in your nurtured appearance. Despite the last shift you worked being night shifts, you managed to come rejuvenated for the day. This was no longer the shift you mastered, but you appeared the same as before.Â
Except Park knew things were different. Unexplainable, but it was messing with the âcontrolâ he had within himself and in his habitat.
When you came in for hand off, you joked with the night shift. Hugged and laughed along with whatever funny patient interaction they had that night. When you came around Emmick, sheâd check in with you, tease you about the change of schedule.Â
Once Park came around to collect all the residents, he caught the slight wink she sent you when you both looked in his direction. Like the two of you had always spent your residency as close friends.Â
âSo, how come you're here telling me this?â
You chuckled, grinning subtly. âItâs better than having to hear about you ruining another resident's spirit.â
The knowing look in your eye that twinkled before you looked away didnât go amiss. That was shady, but something told him thatâs exactly what you meant to do. Even if he couldnât admit it, you were intentional with your action.Â
You looked back over your shoulder to pre-op room 6. âWas that the girl with the Salter-Harris fracture?â
Park hummed, shifting on his feet. You had noticed the patient from looks alone. The only time you couldâve heard of the patient was from nurses when they transferred her up from the ER, before participating in the rotator cuff repair. You had the faintest idea of who she was, but you were aware from when you walked in.
âSeemed tense.â You noted cautiously, eyeing Park from his face alone. It was like you were trying to angle out his response without words. You had been able to read any room you had entered, which is why he believed in practicality.
No need to play different parts every time you enter a room.
He looked down at you. You mimicked his posture, less weight on your shoulder, appearing casual. âBlame Jones. Heâs freaked the patient out, and now the parents are hesitant to sign the consent forms.â
He scowled and there was a beat of silence.Â
âIs there any way I can help?â
The question was assertive. You werenât planning to be overlooked, and you needed an answer. You weren't going to walk away without an answer. It was the drive he kept alluding you were missing. Whatever pushed you into wrapping your soul around another was showing up more in this two-minute conversation than before.
The private check-in that Brendon had never acknowledged as you were looking out for a colleague (as much as a supervisor) was an âactâ that disappeared in three-months. In that time, you had erased the previous routine and rapport with him, and started new. Brendon knew it was taking everything in your power to restrain yourself from doting on him as much as anyone else you worked with.
He was also acutely aware you didnât stray away from what mattered most to you. Professionally or personally.
Brendon reasoned. This was genuine, but the way your steely eyes waited expectantly, it felt like looking in a mirror. He was sure the residents recognized the impersonal stares from the countless times he stared down at them. He didn't hide the fact he was displeased, stressed, or irritated with an outcome.
No one wanted to be the one sent to bother him during those moments. You had dared to step up to the plate in place of an intern.
âWhy not answer the consultation?â Brendon fixated on the fact you heard of the consultation and preferred coming to him personally to let him know. You hadn't responded to it, nor were you aware there was a consultation to see until a few minutes ago.
You cocked your head to the side, playfully rolling your eyes. âIâd rather not get on Dr. Robbyâs bad side.â
Fair, he supposed. You set boundaries with your own attending. He couldn't say he was shocked youâd do so easily with someone who wasnât directly your supervisor. The slight stretch of his neck managed to pull at the muscles down to his shoulders, and the dread of the patient in room 6 was getting to him.
Before Brendon could assign you to some scheduled surgery to busy yourself, you pointed your thumb back to the room. âI will talk to the parents. It is best that they make a decision soon before the girl takes a turn for the worse.â
He was left with no choice but to stiffly agree with you. The careful steps you were taking backwards put immense distance again. âYou better head down to the ED before Robby rips you a new one.â
The smooth turn you made flipped a switch. You sanitized before knocking the door. When you opened it, he could make out the faint sound of you greeting them properly while introducing yourself . He could see you smiling all over again. It wasn't just the bed-side manner you put for patients, but the authentic side of you that was patient and illumining.Â
Brendon buffered for a minute, waiting to see whether youâd come out, deferring to the idea of appealing to their psychological needs. After what felt like minutes, you hadnât come out at all. No inkling of a potential departure.Â
Daring to fight against the curve, Brendon stalked close enough to peek in the room from the window. To any nurses or doctors passing by, he was the leader taking mental notes of what was happening in his area of control.Â
He saw your figure first from the angle. You were sitting on a chair, nodding along to something the girl was saying. Beside her, the parents were grasping onto her hands, while the 12-year-old patient let tears roll down her eyes.
You were on the mothers opposite side, listening intently like any other adult patient. Yet, this patient was comfortable being a frightened 12-year-of girl. The father jumped in, speaking at you with more elaboration as his hands moved.Â
The transition was simple, still empathetic and understanding as they explained in detail what they couldnât tell Park standing in the room. You spoke slowly and steady, much more available to sit and reflect on every aspect of a surgery you had done before.
When Brendon assumed time was escaping him, you werenât fighting nearly as desperately as he was. He was endeavoring to make it worth his while. You were working at the pace that suited the patient under your care.Â
While being young and having better neuroplasticity than him, you were malleable with every experience. You were adapting to every interaction with patients and coworkersâwhich explained why you were unrecognizable in an element Brendon Park had no intervention in.Â
No control over a habitat you were reigning with your mind and fortifying with your heart.Â
And after answering the consult from a brooding Robby and booking an OR, he found you sitting in the dictation room, typing away. You had lost the scrub cap, letting your hair be free. You hadnât moved when he walked in, as if you had been expecting him to look for you.
He was looking down at the consent forms, initial and signed by the parents.Â
âHow did you manage to get them to consent?â Brendon queried. He stood at the door, holding the device up.Â
There was a small hum to fill in the silence of the room. He awaited there, like you had the knowledge of the Holy Grailâwaiting for you to bestow upon him the privilege of knowing.Â
Standing in front of anyone, heâd feel like an idiot. Standing in front of you, he was trying to get to know what everyone else saw. The missing piece to his elaborate puzzle with a decades work into.Â
You lazily lifted your head, briefly confused until you realized what he was alluding to. Shrugging your shoulders and leaning back in the chair, you sighed. âI just sat there and spoke to them.â
âThe parents and the girl had questions they felt Jones didnât address.â You clarified, simplifying the previous trouble Brendon was having.
You made it sound like the antiquated practice had somehow been lost between consultation and transfer to the surgical floor. âThey just wanted to have a conversation instead of being mandated to agree with the surgery.Â
Standing up, you wandered over to the coffee pot with a mug already in hand. Pouring the liquid, your light breathing was calm. You werenât rattled by emotionally distraught parents and frightened girls.Â
The same way standing up against him came out as if you had done it before.Â
The coffee pot clicks back on the machine. You carefully moved around, grabbing sugar packets and powered creamer. âThey knew it was necessary, but it didn't stop them from feeling scared.âÂ
âItâs all for the benefit of their child.â Brendon responded. You were a doctor. He was aware you knew that. It was a reflex. It was the practical answer.
It shouldâve been a no-brainer. For you and for the parents. No parent should neglect or delay care necessary, especially if the odds of them being mobile without the procedure was at risk.Â
You stared at him with wide eyes, before chuckling. âThey know that, Dr. Park.â
With the stare of your eyes, you were communicating what you werenât going to put in words for him. Theyâre still human and afraid. It was redundant considering Park had scolded you for such. You werenât going to bother with explaining yourself anymore.Â
âI also spoke with Jones about appropriate verbiage when getting consent from patients, specifically in pediatric cases.â You informed, holding the mug in two hands while
heading back to your workstation.Â
He shook his head, squeezing his teeth together until they rubbed. You stuck a hand out, halting whatever tangent he was going to start. âNot everyoneâs preferred method of criticism is from Park the Shark.â
The small grin on your face while you typed didnât agitate him as much as it wouldâve from anyone else. Walsh wouldâve earned a scowl. He mightâve glared at Emmick from the corner of his eye, with a strained stretch of his neck. Garcia knew better than to poke the Shark when she saw him send the senior resident out of the OR as a second year.Â
And while he thought he had sunken his teeth deep enough to be able to pull you from making grave mistakes, you had slithered from his grasp. You had him chasing your tail in a trail that would end with him going to the depths of the dark ocean.
âSome of us learn differently. Thereâs nothing wrong with that.â You casually mentioned, clicking around on the computer and typing. âThe point is we learn to do better next time, right?â
When his brain registered you were talking with him, he huffed out a breath, tempted to let the corner of his mouth curve. He picked up the subliminal message. You were becoming braver with your jab; and even while you pretended not to be overtly interested in to stare him in the eyes, you were making precise stabs.Â
Before he could push the conversation further, there was a beep. You both glanced down at each other's pagers and the small scrape of your chair against the floor followed. You breezed past him without a second thought, leaving him in the wake of your sunshine. Even with the glumness of his personality, you were shining the darkest of places. He was inches from touching the sunlight, but some cloud always obscured it.
Brendon looked at the door click shut and he saw the same cloud shutting his limited sunlight once again.
âAll non-emergent surgeries will be rescheduled. We need to focus on OR turnover to be quick. Some of these patients may not be able to wait five minutes.â Brendon instructed precisely, staring at the patient board over the nursing station. His arms folded over his chest, musing in thought.Â
âMy nurses know what theyâre doing, Dr. Park.â Annette joked, frameless glasses sitting on her nose as she stared down at her device. Her fingers moved eagerly to start moving the scheduled times of the current list of patients.
Brendon shook his head with a small hum. He heard the clacking of shoes down the hall and his head followed the noise. Emmick was typing rapidly on her phone, while approaching him. âWhat is the current count?â
â17 including children, right now. It can change soon.â Annette responded, glancing at Emmick who stood close to them.
Emmick sighed, pocketing her phone. She shook her head as she saw a couple of the residents rushing by to reach out to loved ones and run to the bathroom before they were buried in their work. A multi-vehicle pileup on the interstate, including an 18-wheel truck. Once the mass size of the gasoline truck flipped over, the rest of the cars followed, and the casualties were increasing by the second.
âHave you reached out to the rest?â Brendon asked, turning to Emmick.
She stiffly nodded, interlocking both her hands behind her head. âIâve debriefed with the residents in the lounge. A couple of them will be going over 24 hours on their feet.â
He knew exactly who was supposed to be done with a double shift. That didnât stop them from their responsibilities. They knew medical emergencies occurred at all hours, and anyoneâs life could hang in the balance. Their job was to react to the trauma at hand and do everything in their power to stop the emergency.
As on cue, you were coming around the corner with Sully by your side. He was handing you a paper cup, probably filled with coffee, to push you through the unexpected extension of your shift. Despite this being your third consecutive shift, you were synchronized with Sullyâs steps. He was light and energized, and with each sip of coffee, you were pacing yourself to reach the same determination.
When Sully found the two attendings standing in the small circle, he smiled casually, as if a car pileup was an everyday occurrence. âResidents are getting in their last moments of freedom. Let us know where you want us, Captain.â
âTrauma down stairs will determine priority. Dr. Emmick will run point with Garcia.â Brendon informed, tutting his chin to his colleague.
âLovely.â
Emmick rolled her eyes, dropping her hands to her hips. Brendon briefly ignored the annoyance with a slight glare. âI will assign you all to cases as they come in.âÂ
Sully and you both nodded to Brendonâs command. Emmick bumped your arm with her elbow. âWant to help me downstairs? Could use the second pair of eyes.â
âIâm going to need all R4 and R3âs in the OR.â Brendon intervened, glancing between the two of you through his hooded eyes. âI wonât have to check the work of the interns.â
Emmick narrowed her eyes while she pursed her lips. To the two residents in question, it would seem like Emmick was challenging the decision. It wasnât rare that on occasion the two attendings would butt heads, like hammer-head sharks fighting for their space. But to Brendon, this was a jest. One more feather in her cap about how well she knew him while barely speaking to her.
âFair point.â Was all Emmick mustered, suppressing the small grin on her face.
When Brendon looked over at you, there wasnât any deflation of his prerogative. You werenât visibly upset as you were focused. While still taking sips of your coffee, you were simply listening to the instruction. He could safely assume you were high-strung, from the small shift of your feet and your eyes to the group of your supervisors and friends. You didnât let your face show it.
âWill you be able to manage?â Brendon questioned in your direction.
Humming, you furrowed your brows at the question. He crossed his arms, âIâm going to need you to be alert. Sometimes youâre going to have to work through the fatigue for the sake of patient-care.â
The statement wasnât wrong. It was an observation any rational teacher would warn their student. Accepting to work at a trauma-1 hospital brought the exhaustive workload. If he was going to trust any of the residents to demonstrate leadership and initiative, it was a moment like this to prove it.Â
He noticed the hesitant eyes from Sully and Emmick, caught off guard from the warning. You nodded once, ignoring the uncertainty for your closest work-partners. âI understand, Dr. Park.â
Satisfied enough with that answer, he looked back to Annette who was watching the interaction carefully while speaking on her spectralink phone. She muttered small replies before hanging up. âAmbulances are 7 minutes out.â
âThatâs my cue.â Emmick announced, clapping her hands together. She placed a gentle hand on your shoulder, sending you a small wink. âSee you once the dust settles.â
Brendon scoffed, shaking his head. Emmick began her tread backwards, pointing a finger at Brendon. âDonâtâ go biting any of my residentâs head off!â
Sully snickered, covering his mouth with a hand and with the two of you standing in front of him, he didnât see that task as impossible. He motioned his hands outward. âGet your nerves out before either of you kill a patient.â
You pushed a smiling Sully in the direction that Emmick went down, your free hand resting lightly on the back of his arm as you guided him away. He was mimicking an aggressive bite, chomping his teeth at you. Retracting your head, you laughed, eyes crinkling into little slivers.Â
The energy changed two hours later. With the surgical unit bustling with all the possible staff available, his residents were no longer smiling or kiddingâcovered in blood stained gowns, dispersed between the 25 operating rooms. Brendon stepped out of OR 17, doffing the gloves he was wearing. When he walked down the hallway, he noted another door slide open farther down.
You stepped out, hands on your hips as you sighed. When you looked in his direction, he was already heading towards you. âWhat do you have?â
âBilateral wrist and humeral shaft fracture with a radial nerve injury. Put in plates and screws.â You sanitized your hands, rubbing vicariously through every side. Motioning your head to the ER you just exited, you sighed. âMay is closing up.â
The double doors down the hallways clicked open. Turning both your heads at the sound, a patient was being wheeled in with a small group of doctors and nurses surrounding the head of the bed. Brendon recognized the vascular surgeon, Greg Norton tying up his scrub cap. He greeted Brendon with a grin, hands landing on the bed railing. âPark, ready to make mincemeat with this poor fellow?â
When the bed came up towards where you both stood, you had moved beside Brendon, hands on your hips as you stared down at the patient. He noticed the quizzical look in your eye, staring at the lower extremities. âI wonât be scrubbing in.â
You turned to look at him as Dr. Norton furrowed his brows, his grin faltering. âWhat? Donât tell me youâre going to send me one of your pups?â
Looking down at you, there was a moment of doubt, like you couldnât believe Park was actually looking at you. âPossible posterior wall acetabular fracture with hip dislocation. Emmick called beforehand about it.â
âWhat did imaging show?â You questioned, already honing into your diagnostic skill. Your eyes shifted around his face, and your mind was moving at an incredible speed attributed to the neuroplasticity you sharpened.
âCome on, Park.â Dr. Norton interrupted, leaning forward as to cut into the silent digression of the case. His thick New England accent bounced off the walls with the heightened volume he always spoke at. Brendon crossed his arms as he reluctantly glared at the older, fuller man. Dr. Norton then looked towards you, nose scrunched slightly. âWhat are you, sweetheart? R3?â
âIâve done this procedure before.â Your calm voice still gives way for the displeasure of his dismissal.Â
It wasnât disappointment, it was anger. Despite being 20 years his junior, you maintained a sense of composure for your age. Some might have acted ferociously. Brendon knew there were attendings that would not have kept up appearances for the sake of respect in the workplace.
Dr. Norton snorted, shaking his head. âNothing against you, honey, but this procedure is made for meticulous hands. I donât need the trouble of some shaky, doe-eye resident screwing this manâs possibility of walking.â
Brendon's own disbelief didnât seem as animated as yours, widening your eyes while tilting your head to the side. Dr. Norton had been around since before Brendon joined the hospital. He always poked at the fact Brendon didnât smile for a doctor with ârazor sharpâ teeth. He thought Dr. Brendon Park was as animalistic as people described him to be, heâd flaunt it.
Before you could proceed by jumping into a pit of fire, Brendon crossed his arm, squaring his shoulders. âDr. Norton, I assign the cases, and if you have a problem with that you can take it up with me after my resident performs the surgery.â
Dr. Norton snarled, lifting his top lip to his nose. He looked at you before smacking his lips. With the menial glare from Brendon, he could see his ego visibly deflate. If he wanted him to show his teeth, he should have asked nicely.
âYou ready?â Dr. Norton grumbled, motioning his head to one of the ORâs down the hallway. He was turning his father away from Brendon and avoiding your gaze, as if you had ripped his jugular.Â
Offering a polite nod, you took a step back, still staring at him. âI will meet you there after looking at the imaging, Dr. Norton.â
Dr. Norton grumbled, signaling for the nurses to continue down the hall to the OR. Brendon stood there, eyeing Dr. Norton as he passed, burly arms crossed to intimidate with his physicality as much as his personality. When the doors to OR 22 closed behind the transfer team, Brendon finally turned to face you, who was staring up at him with a deadpanned expression. âI didnât want you defending me.â
Brendon pressed his lips in a thing line. You didnât deny that you needed it. Dr. Norton didnât know how to talk to his female colleagues, and his brusque manners didnât rub people the right way, regardless. You had worked with him before, under Brendonâs guide, which left you in the limelight compared to center stage.
The overcasting shadow of his reputation protected you from the scrutiny. While stranded at sea, you had to find your own anchor to throw.
âI wasnât.â Was all he plainly said.
He wasnât defending you. He was defending your knowledge. Had you been Jones or Reddy, he wouldnât have jumped so eagerly. There were weaknesses in all his residents, some more than others, but you had been the exception in most areas. Even if it didnât come at first, it came from work. You could not have survived up to 27 hours of traumatic repairs if you had not put sweat and tears into getting it right.
âYou better hurry and scrub in.â Brendon advised, cocking his head to the side. Go look at the images and prove to him heâs wrong. Prove to me youâve got this.
With less visible friction, you walked around Brendon, heading in the direction of the double doors. You walked with the power of someone prepared for the challenge. When Brendon turned around, he noticed another figure had joined the hallway, having exited OR 2.Â
Sully stood outside the door, speaking at you quietly. He furrowed his brows, hands on his hips as he saw you walk away. You nodded in response to his question, pushing the door open with you back and slipping through gracefully.
Brendon sighed, walking down the hall and nodding to Sully in acknowledgment. âYou done? I have a couple of open-tibia fractures that wonât heal on their own.â
Buffering for a moment, Sully complied with a small smile. He turned back to the door, forehead pinched as he tried deciphering the scene. Park, you, and Dr. Norton. From the small snort, he had picked up all the clues necessary to make a bold assumption. It didnât help Norton spoke with the volume of twenty people.
âThank you, Dr. Park.â Sully gently grinned; slyly leaning forward as he suggestively spoke.
The word rang in his ear repeatedly: You may not need her, but that doesnât eliminate her worth around here. Sully was assuming Brendon thought the hospital couldnât utilize your brilliance. That the hospital didnât need surgeons with exemplary bedside manner that matched their skills in an operating room; or that he couldnât use someone he could trust at this very moment to dedicate themselves in a surgery he trusted himself to do.Â
In typical Brendon fashion, he stared at Sully, lips in a tight line that strengthened his jaw and cheeks even more. Sully pushed the limits by still standing before him and that distressed him more than he liked. He didnât know whether it was the fact that Sully had thanked him something he saw as unnatural, or the fact you had yet again dismissed his efforts others would consider valiant.Â
He didnât want to be a hero of any sort (not that you needed it, he was starting to realize). You could snarl just as nasty as him, but it wasnât your preferred method of survivingâbecause you werenât just surviving your residency. The formulated relationships with your co-residents, attendings, and patients were your life mission, apart from learning to improve someoneâs life while living their worst day.
The vulnerability that he considered not outfitted for the workplace led to how you operated. Your life, the patients, even the residents you helped when they just were not there yet.
Brendon didnât see the future as optimistically as you, and when the shattering reality came of how it could look different to what he was used to know, it did break his stride. The built of momentum between you and himâhis correction and your fear of fucking it upâwas his everyday routine. Not to minimize you, but to build the tools to survive.
Of course, the method didnât work. And he stupidly realized he was attempting to survive on his own like a shark in a tank.
It was a hard lesson you were teaching him while baiting him. He was rolling his neck around trying to compose himself. âI donât know what youâre talking about.â
âRight.â Sully responded, raising his chin higher as he squared his shoulders. The same self-satisfied grin gracing his youthful features. He watched for any unwelcoming passersby before leaning in. âBetter you than me. I mightâve socked the guy.â
Brendon's lips twitched, and he looked at Sully thoughtfully. He definitely had the build. He had seen him work out at the gym across the street from time to time. âYou wouldn't have.â
âFor her? Yeah.â Sully confirmed breathy as he scoffed from the disbelief. âLike I said Dr. Park, she could survive without me, but I don't think I couldâve made it without her.â
âI don't take lightly when people dismiss her.â Sully stuffed his hands in his scrub pockets, shuffling briefly like the admission was something too vulnerable. For a conversation with Dr. Park? It was a revelation that went beyond professional bounds.
You had taught Sully a thing or two about being attuned with your inner spiritsâand if that meant warding away what ate the center of itâthere was worthiness in the cause. Park saw the deep resemblance in the now stoic impression on Sullyâs face. Bold and Brendon couldn't ignore it.
Sully took careful steps backwards, arms falling to his side. âSo, thanks, Dr. Park.â
âIâll book the OR.â Brendon announced walking out of Trauma 2 in ER. He ripped off the gloves he was wearing, tossing him in a nearby waste bin. It was an ironic day to get into a motorcycle accident while the interstate was still being cleared from the debris of the MVA in the morning.Â
What more could you expect from a 21-year-old boy whose frontal lobe still had not developed.
It was almost 2 and the majority of the patients that came in during the accident had been moved to the post-surgical unit or the ICU while waiting for follow up surgery for open wounds. The surgical department had cleared half of its staff that stayed overnight or pulled the spontaneous shift. Those still on the clock were dragging their feet and it was taking everything in him not to bite. When the night shift residents were able to leave, they were also zombies walking.
All, except one. When he got up to the surgical floor, he walked into the viewing room, where their charge nurse could gauge operations with the camera live streaming it all. He could see OR 22 running up to 8 hours of operation time. He mostly was staring at the different scrub caps to distinguish all the involved staff.Â
The only one missing was a green cap.
âAre they finishing it up?â Brendon questioned, turning to Annette sitting at one of the open tables, typing into the device.
She hummed, head still lowered. âOrtho is done with the reconstruction. Vascular and trauma is finishing up.â
Brendon nodded curtly before heading back out the room. The surgery couldnât have been too complicated if you were done in roughly 7 hours. He had slipped in once as he continued assigning residents to the incoming patients. You had stayed stuck there for the majority of it, and Brendon didnât feel the need to come in after that.
His immediate thought was to check the dictation room. If you were still lingering, youâd probably be trying to finish up work you had, which meant charting. To his luck, when he peeked through the window on the door, he found you hunched over a computer. The same station you sat at the last week he had spoken to you.Â
Inhaling a sharp breath, he twisted the door open, and the click caught your attention. Lifting your head and eyebrows simultaneously at the direction of the door, your body visibly jolted. He knew you were awake enough to orally translate your notes, but your body kept succumbing to the sleep it needed.Â
âHow was the surgery?â Brendon questioned, approaching the desk with his hands in his scrub pockets. With the height advantage, he had a clear view of the desk. You had a paper cup of black coffee, an open energy drink, and a small bottle of ibuprofen.
Straightening you back as a way to stretch your body, you shrugged. âWent better than expected.â
âDid Norton give you any grief?â Brendon followed up, not taking his eye off the obvious display of you recklessly messing with your bodyâs melatonin. From the look of it, you didnât have anything of substance to run off.Â
You gently twirled your wrist to reboot your dexterity and putting down the microphone in your hand gave you the break your body needed to lean back in the chair. The question caught you off-guard, leaving your mouth open, while your brain lacked the reflex to come up with a response.
âHe was fine. Didnât talk much unless he was bragging about his NFL athlete son to the nurses.â The small scowl on your face made him bite back the laugh he wanted to let out.
He heard the stories. The accolades he made about a son who mostly sat on the bench. He couldnât remember the last time they had even aired his face on anything bigger than a phone screen. Brendon crossed his arms, the slight cure of his lips gave him away. âHe's the 2nd running back on a good day, at best.â
You bit your bottom lip, shaking your head lightly. âHave you told him that?â
âAlmost.â`
The loopy grin on your face made you look cuter, as Emmick or Walsh might describe it. He was aware what staff liked you for your personality and which other liked you for something other than work-appropriate. In an objective sense, none of them were wrong, nor did it concern him or HR yet. Your hands rubbed the back of your neck, easing it from side to side. âApart from that, he is a respectable surgeon. He just lacks the social cues to elevate him to a standard that I could befriend.â
Brendon arms crossed over his chest. When he looked away, he was starting to see there were some lessons you felt he needed reminding of. Brendon had casual friends, people from college or med school he kept in touch with enough to be invited to weddings. He didnât plan trips to see them across the country, but he thought being mutual on social media made up for that.
When in comparison to you, he did fall flat of the mark. You had the charisma that engaged everyone, and no one forgot your name because of it.Â
In no way was it to save face for anything you may lack. It was your greatest strength, which as healers earned more respect that skill did.
You let out a choppy yawn, attempting to hide it before it just came out altogether. He cocked his head to one side, tightening his stance. âYouâre exhaustedâ
âNo, I'm fine.â You corrected him. He could not help to think that if Emmick were standing here, you would be more subject to her compassion than his no-nonsense tone. âI have charting to get done.â
âWhich you are barely awake for.â Brendon pointed out.
The sigh that escaped you paired with the glare of your bloodshot eyes confirmed it all for him. You were past your limits, and there was no reason to prove you were capable of heaving the heavy load. Not to Brendonâs eyes.Â
He watched you reach for the energy drink and before you could take a sip, it was pulled from your loose grasp. You stuttered, sitting up taller while staring accusatory to Brendon, holding the now relatively small can in his hand. Before you could utter a word, he leaned over to grab the cup of coffee with the other. âYou donât need this. Youâre frying the melatonin in your brain telling you to go home.â
âI am needed here.â
He scoffed, turning his back to you as he found a way to keep the caffeinated drinks from your reach. He opted to put it on a nearby counter, leaning back into it with feet crossed to hide the mere temptation of sight.
âIf I did need you, Iâd need you to stay awake and alert.â Brendon grasped the edge of the counter underhanded, flexing the muscles in his biceps. âRight now you are neither of those things.â
Sagging in the chair turned to face him, your computer with the dictation notes still open abandoned, you frowned. âYou could use the help.â
âNo, I need you to go home.â Brendon emphasized his stare glued to your tired body. You didnât have the precision to walk in a straight-line let alone cut into someone and know the difference between each ligament in a fractured tibia. It wasnât an undercut. He wasnât even sure it was out of pity. It was the rational thing to do for both you and him. âI can't work if I'm concerned about the moment you come down from the adrenaline of everything else.â
âYouâve been working over 30 hours straight. Either go home or sleep in the on-call room until Sullivan is out, but I don't want to see you in any OR, understood?â He questioned the way a parent might give an ultimatum to their preteen.
With those options presented to you on a platter and not some vicious stab of his displeasure of your character, you came to your senses. âYouâre right. It was stupid.â
âItâs the exhaustion.â Brendon huffed out, standing from the counter. He turned his back to you and dug in one of the cabinets.
âIs Park the Shark making an excuse for his resident?â You mused and he could imagine the dopey grin on your face.Â
âYouâre my resident now?â Brendon questioned back, shutting the cupboard while hiding the item he grabbed in his wide fist. He glared at you through his eyelashes. It wasnât nearly as fierce as Park the Shark could be.
âHonorary resident, depending on how I feel.â You joked, while craning your head back the closer he approached you.
The bags under your eyes were deserved. Not in a derogatory sense to put you down for your appearance, but because it felt like a badge you could brandish. The hard work you put while he pushed his thumb into your back, grinding your gears until you saw the same perspective from ten-feet above the ground, and you stood on your toes to match. It was an effort he could recognize in few residents.
Except not all dare yank him down to see it from their eyes. You had all but grabbed him from the collar and shook him. With dignity and pride to recognize yourself for something more than the surgical âpipsqueak,â you humbled him.
That wasnât an easy feat, and Brendon hadn't even snarled his teeth.Â
He held out his one curled hand, a protein bar in a plastic wrapper facing you. When you look back up at him, lips curled inwards and eyebrows curved in confusion, he sighed. He rolled his eyes, âEat something. Youâve had enough caffeine to kill your heart two times over.â
Skeptically, you took the protein bar in your hand and muttered a small âthanks.â Slowly peeling the wrapper apart, you took a generous bite. He stepped away, stalking around from behind, still making sure you were chewing properly the only piece of nutrients youâve had in hours.Â
After sufficiently breaking down the food and digesting it down your esophagus, you spun your chair around, catching Brendon before he approached the door. âI appreciate your endorsement, by the way. With Dr. Norton.â
He looked at you from over his shoulder, before turning his body to get a better look. You nodded appreciatively. âI probably didn't deserve it, but I couldn't have entered that OR without some of your help.â
The cheeky smile on your face made him narrow his eyes humorously at you. He twitched his nose to hide the smile that wanted to break. If there was anything you were good at besides completely reconstructing the stability in someoneâs hips, it was pecking at him with a double edge sword. Â
âIf the patient makes a full recovery, Dr. Norton wonât have anything to complain about then.â He shrugged. It was a safe response. One that didn't compromise the stone-cold persona.Â
He knew you thanked him because you meant it, but also because he had already extended one hand to pull you back towards him. One step closer to reimagining what you both thought couldn't align.
âNot to be cocky, but Iâm sure he will.â You said softly, the opposite of bold and pretentious. You hopped back on the computer, rapidly typing and clicking around on the screen.Â
Brendon snorted, enjoying the bona fide assurance. Itâs the only reason he hasn't loiter or probe the medical judgment you made in the OR. Even with the pressure boiling like a cooker pot, you had earned the space to own the operation room he typically did with years of experience.Â
âI better not see you in my OR.â Brendon looked at you pointedly. âNot until your next shift.â
Now leaning in the chair, with your free hand, you lazily saluted to him. You brought up the protein bar and chewed lazily through another bite. He cocked his head to the side, awaiting a serious response from a third year resident.Â
âI promise, Dr. Park.â You added, reaching down for your backpack. With raised eyebrows, you wait for him to move along, proving he was satisfied with the response.Â
He looked you up and down once more before heading for the door again. With his hand on the door knob, he heard the shuffling of the chair and your bag. He opened the door and stopped when you called his name one more time.Â
With the sound of your voice, he pressed his back against the door, keeping it open while turning his head once more. You were approaching him, backpack hanging low as you trudged it. Slipping in between him and the space he held open with his body, he had to crane his neck down to watch the top of your head travel past him.
âHave a good rest of your shift, and Iâll see you around, Dr. Park.â There was a faint smile on your face as you started walking backward, still looking at him.
He stayed frozen holding the door, half his body stepping out into the hallway. You spun gracefully, fiddling with the wrapper of the protein bar. He believed the words, because they came tenderly from your lips. The easy steps of your walk communicated what you didn't say with the words. He was one step closer to getting in your good graces, and he rubbed away the stiffness in his jaw as he bit back the grin.
Warning: This is my interpretation of Parkâs character, considering the 30 seconds of screen time he got. No medical knowledge from the writer. slightly suggestive?
Summary: Brendon Park feels like heâs being haunted by a pretty girl in scrubs who seems to always show up when he needs her.
Chapter Summary: Cue the Nick Jonas hit from 2015
Part 13 | Masterlist
ââââââââââââââ
Dr. Park hated when he was called for consults for the emergency department. He had more pressing matters at hand. His downstairs coworkers were supposed to be competent. Did the attendings not go to medical school like he did? It was ridiculous.
He was going to put it off until an hour of paging and the third phone call, to see if they really did need him. But then you insisted, so he found himself dragging his body to the emergency department.
He took the stairs instead of the elevator. Just to make a point of how much he hated being removed from his sacred OR bubble. He even counted his steps so it would take longer.
As Park got closer to the ED front desk, he spotted Robby leaning against it. He seemed to be in deep conversation with what seemed like the charge nurse. For someone who kept pestering him to come downstairs, Robby was unprepared. Just chit-chatting away. He heard a snippet of the conversation as he got closer.
âShe is?â The blonde woman at the desk exclaimed.
âYeah, Sunny asked me. Of course I said yes,â he looked up from his conversation to meet Parkâs eyes. âPark, right here.â Robby gestured towards the room and Park followed him.
Robby kept it short, thankfully. The residents and med students barely spoke to him. Most kept their heads down. Terrified of even looking in Parkâs direction.
Just how he liked it.
Park walked out of the room with Robby right behind him.
âIâll book an ORâ Park said over his shoulder as he stuck out his hand for the disinfectant.
âGreat. Thank you, Park.â Robby walked away quickly, eager to end the conversation.
Park didnât mind Robby that much. At least, he kept his head down and was aware of how Park liked to work. Robby also got him an interesting case today. Heâd never had an issue with him, really.
As Park passed by the front desk, the charge nurse caught his eye and waved him over. He never really spoke to her before but he nodded at her in acknowledgement as he got closer.
He read her name on her badge. Dana.
âPlease tell Sunny to come pick up her stuff. She forgot last time.â
Park frowned at her. âWho?â
âSunny. Your nurse right now,â she answered like it was obvious.
He racked through his brain for recognition. Was she sure she was talking to the right doctor? He shook his head, still confused.
Dana rolled her eyes and slowly said your name. âSheâs left the tray here for almost a week. Iâd tell her myself but I canât catch her these days. Please tell her.â
Park nodded at her and flattened his mouth, walking away slowly.
Sunny?
What idiot gave you such a stupid nickname? You were a generally happy person, but it was too on the nose. He much preferred his secret nickname for you, Ghost Girl.There was a story there at least. One you werenât fully aware of, but he never forgot about it. Your persistent presence wouldnât allow him to.
While so immersed into his thoughts, he almost bumped into one of the other nurses of the ED.
âOh, sorry.â She apologized and stared at him wide-eyed. He started to walk away but still caught her whispering too loudly to another nurse next to her.
âWhoâs that?â
âThatâs Dr. Park. Thatâs who Sunnyâs working with right now.â
Park almost crashed into a gurney when he heard those words.
Robbyâs favorite nurse?
His steps went quicker as he walked out of the ED. His shoulders felt stiff and he exhaled loudly from his nose. An inexplicable feeling was sinking in his chest.
Robbyâs favorite nurse?
Since when? You had never even mentioned Robby before. Out of all your stories, he was never a character in them. No memory or interaction with him was ever detailed either. Not from your mouth to his ears.
Connecting the dots to earlier, he recalled hearing Robby say that you asked him something and he said yes.
What could you possibly be discussing with Robby that you couldnât discuss with Park? You already talked his ear off. What was one more question? He could handle it.
He took the elevators this time, he didnât want to spend any more time downstairs anyway.
Now that the diversion was over, Park had to return to the schedule at hand. He had to speak to the nurse about scheduling the OR for the patient. Patientâs chest, abdomen and pelvis had been cleared. Robby said - fucking Robinavitch.
Robbyâs favorite nurse?
As if you were property that could be claimed. You were a human being, for fuckâs sake. Who did Robby think he was?
The elevator dinged as it arrived on his floor and the doors opened. Pushing away the thoughts and going back on schedule, he stepped out.
With quick steps he tried again. He had to schedule an OR for the patient with -
You were laughing. He recognized your laugh before he even saw you.
You were leaning against the wall near the whiteboard as you twirled a marker in your hands. A couple of residents and a nurse were laughing with you at whatever you had said.
Park veered towards the front desk to get the patient on schedule and check what was open. As he rattled off the details, his eyes kept drifting back to you. You were smiling and nodding, talking animatedly as ever.
He wrapped up the conversation and walked towards you and the laughter around you.
âThe guy almost stabbed my eye,â you laughed. âThatâs still not the worst that happened in the ED.
You were almost stabbed? Jesus Christ. He would bet it was somehow Robbyâs fault.
âOne time -â you stopped as your audience visibly stiffened at Parkâs presence passing by and quietly dispersed away.
You waved at Park and turned around towards the white board. Uncapped the marker and started writing on the board. He called your name and you turned back around.
âYeah?â
He had questions, concerns and tormented thoughts. What he wanted to say specifically? He still didnât know. He went with the safe response, instead.
âThe charge nurse downstairs. She said you left your dessert tray,â he explained slowly.
You nodded, âright! Iâll go later. Weâre busy up here right now.â
He nodded back, âBe ready for the next one.â
You beamed at him as you set the marker down and walked away. His chest felt less constricted.
He turned to the white board. You had written a new question.
âWould you rather work with someone who sings a lot or talks a lot?â
There was an obvious answer for him. You.
He forced the earlier thoughts away and mentally clocked back in to work.
ââââââ-
Dr. Park had slept surprisingly well. He pushed the thoughts away by rationalizing it all. You were working with him right now. He didnât⌠hate working with you. Your company wasnât unpleasant. Maybe there was still a small part of him that feared having to ever deal with an incompetent nurse again and he couldnât go through that again.
He caught you outside the hospital, the next morning before your shift. You were standing in the parking lot. Seemingly staring at the sky. He approached you slowly and saw visible stress on your face.
This was new.
Park got closer and you didnât even glance at him. Didnât greet him either. He tried to look at whatever you were looking at. The view?
He should make sure you werenât sleepwalking from exhaustion. He waved a hand in front of your eye sight
âStop,â you gently pushed his hand away. âI got one more minute left.â You stared intensely at the sky.
âOne more minute left of what?â He asked, still trying to find what you were looking at.
âSupposedly this soccer player said he stared at the sun everyday early in the morning for 10 minutes.â
âUh-huh,â Park hummed.
âAnd itâs supposed to be like a meditation thing. You know, recharge my spiritual battery and cosmic energyâŚâ you explained, full focus on the sun still.
âThat sounds scientific,â Park said sarcastically. âHow the hell are you a nurse again?â
You laughed and the corners of your eyes creased. The sun shined right on your face as you did.
Sunny. He felt physically ill.
âI like my job,â you shrugged.
âEven the getting stabbed part?â He couldnât help but ask. Yesterdayâs thoughts coming right back to the forefront of his mind.
You smiled while staring at the sky, âyou heard me?â
âIt becomes a concern when you mention stabbing in a hospital,â
âWell I didnât get stabbed. I almostâ you emphasized, âgot stabbed in my eye but security got him before he did some damage.â You shook your head. âIt happens, you move on to the next patient,â you refused to meet his gaze. It was odd to him to not meet your eyes as you spoke.
âThe attending. Whatâs his name?â He tried to press. âRobby? He didnât send you home?â
You snorted âI got my head checked but there was no need to go home. I was fine. I worked a double and everything .â
So, it was Robbyâs fault. Calls you his favorite and he canât even protect you.
Was that how Robby ran his ED? And was that why you were Robbyâs favorite nurse? Because you worked yourself to the point of exhaustion and sleep deprivation.
Knowing how the ED worked, you were probably being asked to do stupid tasks, like helping people with the flu or stomachaches. Thatâs probably why Robby liked you. You probably happily did your job despite the tasks. Park had been a witness to it for the past weeks.
You were too smart to be working in a place like the ED. Downstairs, your talents would be wasted. Upstairs, your talents shined.
You were saving limbs with him. Next to him. Whatever.
Your phoneâs alarm went off and you reached for it. Turning off the alarm, you extended your arms balancing yourself. âWoah.â
âWhat?â
âI donât think it worked. Iâm seeing spots,â your warm hand gripped onto his forearm. He steadied you, his eyes scanned your body for harm.
âYou were right, doc,â a mischievous smile formed on your face. âThat wasnât scientific. I should get my degree revoked. I canât be a nurse anymore,â you laughed at your own joke as you let go of his arm. His arm felt cold again.
He shook his head and looked down, you joked too much sometimes. It worried him.
âYouâre gonna have to guide me to the pen and paper. Iâm gonna have to turn in my letter of resignation,â you joked and finally turned to look at him.
He narrowed his eyes at you. Like hell you would.
If it was up to him, youâd stay as his nurse permanently. Or at least on the OR floor, where he was sure your skills were being put to use appropriately.
Heâd keep an eye out for job listings, thatâs for sure. And provide a glowing recommendation if he had to.
It was just a normal morning.
An overworked, emotionally exhausted single father snapping at his daughter.
A stubborn, defensive teenage daughter snapping back.
Three words that should have never gone unsaid remaining unspoken.
Just a normal morning - until a boy brought a rifle to school.
Part 1 | Part 2
Words: 10,3k
Content: School shooting, Hurt/Comfort, Gun violence, injury, single dad!Robby, Reader!daughter, No major character death, suicidal ideation (it's Robby after all)
No use of Y/N
Read on Ao3 or below the cut:
A/N: I know nothing about medicine, so if you do, please squint at the medical bs I wrote based on sleep-deprived research and ended up sounding halfway decent to me :D
Jack burst through the doors of the ambulance bay. The wheels of the gurney he pushed along at a merciless, break-neck pace squeaked under the assault. A shrill, high-pitched tone that his brain latched onto because thinking about the girl bleeding out beneath his fingertips was just too cruel-
Robby shouted your name.
A sound made up of guttural heartache and pure, unfiltered, raw grief.
Jack had never seen the man run so fast. He almost collided with the gurney. His trembling hands found your face, brushing away sweat-drenched strands of hair sticking to your skin and wiping tears off your cheeks while his own tears dropped down on you.
âShe grappled for a gun with the shooter.â Jack hissed through teeth clenched so tightly he was surprised they hadnât shattered yet.
Baran rushed into the trauma room, listening intently to the report of the paramedics while Jack stopped just outside the trauma room doors, grabbing Robby less than gently to hold him back.
Jack's hands were covered in your blood. There hadnât been time for gloves.
âSheâs my daughter!â Robby snarled, trying to tear free.
âExactly!â Jack hissed back. âYou canât treat family! I didnât stop you when you worked on Jake's girlfriend, when I should have! I knew I should have, but I didnât, and look what it did to you! I am not going to let you do this to yourself! Baranâs got her, Robby!â
Robby deflated. The fear of the day demanded its tribute as he sagged against Jack. Dana brought over a chair for him. He sat there, long limbs folded awkwardly, more reminiscent of a wet tissue than the usually so headstrong man Jack knew.
Once Jack was convinced he would get up again to rush into the trauma room the second he turned his back, Ahmad standing on the side ready to step in should he try to anyway, Jack took Dana aside.
He stared at his bloody hands - your blood. Jack had to squeeze his eyes shut against the thought and the nausea it came with - and set his helmet aside.
âRobby jr got her nipples pierced."
âWhat?â
Jack gestured for Dana to not interrupt him. He could barely string two thoughts together, he didnât need interruptions or distractions right now.
âRobby doesnât know. He doesnât need to find out like this.â
âWhen did she- How do you know?â
Jack shot her an exhausted, wry smirk. âBecause the kind of piercer who accepts the obviously fake ID of a sixteen-year-old isnât the kind you want to do your piercing. It got infected. She asked me for help. Just- he doesnât need to find out like this, and she⌠daughters deserve to have some secrets from their fathers, no? Just- sheâll feel horrible enough once sheâs better and realises sheâs been naked in the ER. Just- can you take them out for her?â
He found a chair and dragged it over to Robby, too exhausted even to pick it up. He slumped down next to his best friend and watched the coordinated chaos of the trauma room.
âThe asshole who shot her is dead.â He said coldly. No emotion coloured his voice. He had no regrets. âI shot him.â
âGood.â Robby replied.
They sat next to each other, outside the trauma room theyâd ruled for the past twenty-odd years as the new attending they'd known for less than three months fought for your life, forced onto the sidelines because suddenly their love for you had become a liability.
âWhat are you doing here?â
âWorking.â Robby huffed without looking up from his tablet. There was a gaping, bleeding hole in his chest where his heart used to be - where you used to be.
âWeâve got it under control, Michael.â
He bristled at the sound of his given name off Danaâs lips.
âGo be with my daughter.â
âAnd how, pray tell, am I supposed to be with her when she is lying in a goddamn OR while Garcia is cutting into her, huh?! Because three fucking bullets-â Robby slammed his hands down on the counter and hung his head, desperately trying to force some air into his lungs.
He felt like you were already gone.
Like you had already died but the universe in its endless cruelty was just dragging this out. Perhaps it was punishment for everything Robby had ever done wrong in his life. For all his weaknesses and shortcomings.
Youâre just like your mother!
The words echoed through his head again and again and again. An endless loop of torment custom-tailored for him. His own personal hell.
Baran had to shock your heart twice. You were given twenty units of whole blood. Esme was still cleaning your trauma room. Robby couldnât bring himself to look at it.
He looked up at Dana, who wore her disapproving mom-face that always unnerved Robby.
âIâm about as useful as a limp dick up there, Dana.â He rasped, pleading silently with the charge nurse to not call Jack, who had left to debrief with his SWAT team who were still at the school. Another wave of patients had arrived while Robby paced the waiting room upstairs, being slowly driven crazy by his own spiralling thoughts and the feeling of your necklace in his hand.
The chaplain had tried to talk to him. Jefferson tried to talk to him. Dylan sat with him for a while, but Robby sent him away to help Kiara, who was still with the families of the students and staff in the cafeteria.
âThe last critical patient just went up.â Dana said after a moment of silent consideration. âWeâre still giving oxygen and fluid to some kids as we observe them, but no more GSWs.â
Robby nodded. His eyes were glassy, his gaze distant. Dana lowered her clipboard.
âWhy donât you sit with her friends?â
He shook his head. âAnd tell them what, Dana? I- I- There is nothing I can do. My daughter may be dying right now, and thereâs nothing I-â He buried his face against his arm, fighting to not let the sobs bubbling up in his throat fall from his lips.
âYou donât have to do anything right now, Robby.â Dana said firmly. âYour daughter is in critical condition. You arenât her doctor, and you donât have to be one right now. You can just be her dad.â
âI should have said it.â He croaked, his voice finally failing him.
âSaid what?â
Robby wiped his eyes roughly, berating himself in his head for ever letting them leave his eyes, and straightened up. âDoesnât matter. It doesnât fucking matter anymore.â
âSheâs not dead, Robby.â
He forced a bitter, tight-lipped smile and walked away without another word. What did Dana know?
Youâd been doomed the moment you had been born, and Robby held you in his arms for the first time.
Robby didnât get to keep the people he loved.
Garcia found him an hour later, doing CPR on a college student in the same trauma room youâd been coded in. The same trauma room where Baran broke your ribs trying to keep you alive. Where Langdon cut into you. Where Crus shoved a tube into your chest and your blood splattered onto the ground.
âShould you be working?â She asked with that derisive, sneering tone Robby couldnât stand when it was directed at him. He didnât stop giving compressions. Didnât talk.
He didnât want to look at Garcia.
If he didnât look at her, if he didnât slow down or stop, she couldnât drag him to the family room and tell him the news. And if she didnât tell him the news, then a part of him could continue to delude himself into thinking everything was fine.
You were just at home. You were doing your homework or cooking or lounging on the sofa with one of your projects you had rarely ever finished since you taught yourself how to crochet during Covid.
His grandmother would have loved to see you with her old crochet hooks⌠how dear they were to you, how dear all her handcraft tools wereâŚ
Robby had forgotten to add Jack into his consideration. With all the detached effectiveness of a soldier, Jack, who still wore his tactical clothes albeit without the body armour (clothes soaked in your blood. His babyâs blood. His little girlâs blood), he had Baran taking over and was steering Robby towards the family room.
He relented only because he knew Jack was not above throwing him over his shoulder.
The ER watched, as if Robby was a condemned man being led to the gallows.
âShe was too unstable to tolerate the anaesthesia for long.â Garcia began as soon as the door closed, sparing Robby the humiliation of asking him to sit - something they both knew he would not be doing. âWe managed to fix the biggest bleeders for now. Her intestine was nicked, but we got that taken care of and washed out her abdomen. We started her on a full course of antibiotics. Her right kidney took some more damage. We donât yet know if she will lose it, but we are carefully optimistic. The third bullet miraculously missed all major organs and blood vessels. We could remove all three. We didnât close her up at this time. We want to give her 24 to 48 hours to rest and hopefully stabilise further before we go back in for the beauty treatment. Sheâs in the surgical ICU now and as stable as we can hope for at this time.â
Some of the tension Garcia always held herself with eased. She didnât go soft, exactly - Robby doubted Garcia was even capable of that, but she softened ever so slightly around the edges.
âSheâs a real fighter, Robby. Iâve seen patients pull through worse. And sheâs young. Teens always bounce back quicker than adults.â
Jack asked a few follow-up questions, about the surgery and her care from here on out until the next surgery, all the questions Robby should ask but couldnât.
Not that he absorbed any of the information.
His torture would continue.Â
That was all he could take away from this.
The universe had decided he had not suffered enough. It would continue to dangle you in front of him like a carrot, waiting for the right moment, the moment he allowed himself to hope before tearing you away right when it would hurt most.
âWhere are you going?â Jack held Robby back when he tried to follow Garcia.
âI have patients.â
âYou donât.â Jack hissed. âYou have your daughter-â
âDonât make me.â Robby pleaded through a broken sob. He could not bring himself to look at Jack. He stared at the dried patch of blood on his pants and pretended it wasnât yours. âDonât make me sit there and watch her die.â He pressed his lips together to trap the next sob already crawling up his throat.
âShe isnât dying.â
A bitter laugh broke through Robbyâs defences.
âShe is not dying, Michael!â Jack placed his hand over the side of Robbyâs neck and forced him to look up. âSheâs not. You heard Garcia. Sheâs a fighter. And she needs her dad right now.â
âI canât.â
âBut you will.â Jack said firmly. âBecause she is your daughter and youâve always done what you could to be there for her. You never stopped when things got difficult. You wonât start now. I wonât let you.â
The walk towards the elevator felt like marching through hip-high molasses. The elevator was too tight, too quiet and yet far too loud. The hallway into the SICU, past the nursesâ station where pitying looks already waited for Robby, seemed endless. A nurse whose face he did not see through the fog clouding his brain brought him a chair so he could sit next to your bed.Â
You were drowning in tubes and IV lines.Â
His little girl.
He could barely stand to look at the tube coming from your mouth, knowing just how far that shit went down your throat to reach your lungs.
His sweet, innocent little baby.
Emergency medicine was brutal and barbaric, and he never, never thought heâd one day have to look at you and be punished with the knowledge of just how much trauma you were put through in the name of saving you.
And for what?
They would not save you, he knew, he felt it in his bones, so what was this all for? Why were they putting you through all this agony when he already knew it was all for nought?
Robby reached for your pale hand resting on top of the blanket and cradled it in his, careful, terrified of hurting you despite knowing exactly how he could touch and manipulate your body without causing harm. He ran his thumb over your knuckles, back and forth, eyes locked onto the sight of your small hand disappearing beneath his own.
Someone cleaned the blood off your skin.
You looked so delicate and small⌠so terribly fragile, and he didnât know how to handle any of it. Jack sat down next to him, seemingly fighting with the same wave of suffocating emotions. He put his hand on Robbyâs knee and gave it a little squeeze - maybe to ground Robby, maybe to ground himself. He couldnât tell.Â
Maybe Jack couldnât either.
The machines breathing for you whirred. Monitors beeped. Fluids ran through the IV lines and into your body.
Robby tried not to look at your abdomen, tried not to think about the gauze shoved into your body cavity and the medical-grade plastic wrap keeping your intestines from bulging from your body. His little girl, cut open like a pig about to be butchered and haphazardly wrapped in plastic wrap like you were some leftover deli sandwich while machines kept your body alive because you were not strong enough to do it yourself.
How long until he would have to pull the plug like he had to for Adamson?
How long would the universe torture him with this sight this time around?
âSheâs a fighter.â Jack whispered, voice raw and quiet, lacking all its usual strength and perhaps that terrified Robby most of all. âSheâll pull through.â He put his free arm around Robbyâs shoulder, who simply sagged into the warmth of the embrace, head tilting to the side and coming to rest on Jackâs shoulder. He brushed a fleeting kiss to Robbyâs temple.
âSheâll pull through.â
Robby wondered idly what the greater torture was, his hopelessness, or Jackâs hopeâŚ
Perhaps it was witnessing his hope knowing it was futile and wasted, because you were doomed to be loved by Robby and Robby never got to keep those he loved.Â
He wondered how long it would take the universe to take Jack from him as wellâŚ
Jack had fallen asleep. Running towards the sound of gunfire and death demanded its tribute after a while, even for one Jack Abbot, Robby supposed.
The SICU quieted down further with the setting sun.
Visitation hours had ended a long time ago, but not a single nurse had made any effort to send Robby or Jack home.
The dim light illuminating the nursesâ station fell through the glass separating your room from the hallway. The machines you were hooked up to beeped and whirred, a ceaseless ambient noise that made it impossible to ever forget just how close to death you were.
Robby tried not to look at your body. He tried not to think about how vulnerable and exposed you were under the blanket, your torso cut open and only held together with plastic wrap.
Your skin looked pallid, ghostly already despite the machines forcing your body to stay alive a little while longer, even through all the trauma it had to endure and would continue to be put through.
âI love you.â Robby whispered and carefully, terrified or hurting you, smoothed down the blanket over your chest. âI love you for everything you are. I love your mischief and the grey hairs youâve caused me, and I love your courage, your heart, and all your kindnessâŚâ
A nurse walked by your door. He didnât look into your room. Nobody could look at Robby. As if heâd become something terrible, something infectious. As if looking at him would make his misfortune spread to others.
He could not blame them.
âThank you for being- being all that you have been. For coming into my life when I needed you most. For being the only light at the end of the tunnel I could see most days. Thank you for existing and loving me despite everything.â
Robby hadnât been able to do this with Adamson. Between a lack of time and the atmosphere of the improvised Covid ward, he just didn't have the chance - though that was just an excuse.
He didnât have the strength to say goodbye to his mentor.
He was a coward.
But you deserved better.
âForgive me for not being a better father.â He lifted your hand off the bed and pressed his trembling lips to your cool knuckles. âI forgive you for leaving me.â
You were back on the operating table two days later. Two days of sitting in a corner of your room like a wraith, waiting. Robby felt as if someone had hollowed him out. He was an empty shell keeping vigil over the remains of his daughter.Â
A body he could barely recognise as yours at this point.
He managed to ask a nurse for a hairbrush late during his first night at your side. He carefully brushed the knots and tangles out of your hair and braided it loosely. ICU patients with longer hair often suffered from severe matting after a stay, and you liked your hair so much⌠you were seventeen, of course you did.
He would not claim it was an act of hope. He didnât have any, just fatherly affections that suddenly had no place to go anymore.
Like phantom pains leading to muscle spasms.
He couldnât control it, couldnât stop it, couldnât make his treacherous, failing body realise that this - this thing lying in the ICU bed - wasnât you.
Not anymore.
You were gone or about to be, but his muscles remembered caring for you, doting on you, and they refused to stop.
He adjusted your blankets and made sure your socks were neat, brushed the hair from your face. He ran his knuckle over your cheek in a feather-light touch while whispering soothing and encouraging words you probably couldnât hear anyway.
Social workers and chaplains kept pestering them, but Robby eventually learnt ignoring them led to such uncomfortable silence they usually left.
Kiara and Dylan were more persistent, but not by much.
Only Dana and Jack he couldnât drive away.
Robby sat in a corner of the surgical waiting room with a cup of shitty hospital coffee in his cold hands, his feet drawn up on the uncomfortable plastic chair in a way that made his lower back sting and stared blankly at the wall.
Your friends were here, waiting with him and yet giving him space.
Just two units trapped in the limbo that was hospital waiting rooms.
Robby remembered sitting in one of these sterile, cold, empty rooms when he was a kid, after his grandmother had a heart attack. The nurses were nice, bringing him snacks and drinks and just being there with him without making him perform his fear and grief for it to be taken seriously. His grandmother was fine, but the end result never quite made the hours in the waiting room hurt less.
Robby had lost bits and pieces of him along the way before.
The five-year-old boy who died on his first shift in New Orleans, so worried about getting in trouble until the second his little heart gave out, took a big chunk. You hadnât been born yet then - you hadnât even been a thought Robby played with in the dead of night without ever allowing himself to really want.
If you had already existed, Robby was sure that death would have broken him.
Every patient he lost since, every patient he couldnât help, every case of domestic abuse where the victim went home with their abuser despite everything he tried to get them help, every patient suffering from substance abuse disorder he couldnât get to go to rehab - he had worked at PTMC long enough now to see them all coming back, one by one, dropping like flies - took a piece of him with them.
His grandmother dying. Your mother leaving. Messing up with Janey.
Everything carved chunks out of him until Robby was a moth-eaten tapestry of misery he barely recognised when he looked in the mirror in the morning.
You were the best part of his life.
The only part that still made sense besides the medicine, and as he sat in the quiet, suffocating waiting room, Robby could not even make sense of that. It ran through his head endlessly, treatment courses and numbers and tracking the progression of the operation in his head, unable to stop his mind from picturing you laying on that table - alone, naked, vulnerable - and he couldnât stop picturing all the hands that would be inside you, the surgeon, fellows, residents, interns observing from the sideline while his whole life lay beneath their eyes, cracked open like a goddamn lobster.
He barely felt the tear rolling down his cheek and disappearing in his beard. He held onto the cup in his hands as if it were a lifeline and didnât look up when the waiting room slowly started to fill at shift change.
Jack and Dana sat down on either side of him. Perlah and Princess, Jesse, Donny, Ahmad.
All the people who watched you grow up between stretchers and toys built out of tongue suppressors and cotton balls - some of which had been keeping watch over central for almost a decade now.Â
They had all come to watch you die with him.
You had to learn to be independent far too quickly.Â
Another thing he owed you an apology for.
Robby tried his best, he knew he did, even if he doubted it was never enough, but when the Pitt was drowning, he couldnât just leave because he had a kid. You learnt to sleep on the couch in the breakroom or the on-call rooms even when the ER around you was drowning in noise. You helped Dana pass out sandwiches or juice to patients waiting for hours. You sat with lonely seniors and listened to their stories, or asked them to read your books with you. You played with the kids of patients. You sat on Doc Adamsonâs shoulders and bossed him around.
Monty loved you.
He loved you as if you were his granddaughter, and Robby would never forget how you sobbed when Robby had to tell you he died. He was staying away from you as much as he could at home, always wearing a mask in shared spaces and otherwise keeping to his bedroom and ensuite bathroom. He was terrified of seeing you end up in the Pitt, of you getting sick.
Robby had lost much of his faith over the years, but he hoped wherever the thing that made a human more than a meat sack filled with organs went after the body stopped working⌠he hoped Monty would look after you.
Not that youâd be alone for long.
When she dies, donât you dare talk me down from the edge, heâd told Jack two days ago, who merely looked at Robby with those sad puppy eyes Robby could never endure looking at long.
He knew Jack would have his ass on a 72-hour hold the second something happened to you.
Waiting had never felt so unbearable.
At first, Robby thought his mind was playing tricks on him. He could not even remember the last time he had a proper nightâs sleep, much less a nap not taken while sitting in the chair next to you with his back bent awkwardly and his head resting on the mattress next to your hand.
He could only stare, blinking as if to chase away the hallucination that attached itself to his retinas, but the more he came to himself, the more he realised he wasnât imagining things.
You were waking up.
You were waking up!
âShhâŚâ Robby was out of his chair, and by your side so quickly he knocked the piece of uncomfortable furniture over. âItâs okay, sheifale. Iâm here. You have a tube in your throat to help you breathe. I know it hurts, but just try to relax and not fight it.â He brushed the hair from your face, both of his hands framing your head, fingertips hovering just above your skin, barely touching you.
âI know, I knowâŚâ He whispered and wiped a tear from the corner of your eye with his thumb. âOh, my brave girl⌠itâs okay. Itâll be okay. Iâm here. Youâre okay. Donât speak- wait, let me get you a pen.â
He couldnât begin to imagine how terrifying it must be to wake up with a foreign object in your throat, to have a machine breathe for you even when you were conscious, not be able to speak or advocate for yourself.
âHere.â Robby carefully closed your fingers around a pen and held the little notepad for you. You struggled at first to find enough strength to drag the pen across the paper, but after a couple of attempts you managed to scrawl out a barely legible you stink.
âMayn gonif.â Robby chastised you affectionately, biting back his tears. He didnât want to fall apart in front of you, not when you were being so strong and brave. âSomeone had to go and get herself shot, excuse me if personal hygiene wasnât my priority.â
You scribbled again. Robby had to fish his glasses out of his pocket before the strain on his eyes left him with a headache he really didnât need right now.
Iâm sorry.
âYou have nothing to apologise for, princess.â
I love you.
Tears burnt in the back of Robbyâs throat.
âI love you too. I love you so much. So much, sheifale.â Robby swallowed a thick, pathetic sob and bent down to press a gentle kiss against your forehead. He wiped away more tears slipping from your eyes.
The pen scraped across the paper.
Scared.
âI know.â Robby whispered and smoothed down the blanket across your chest. âI know. Me too. Itâs okay. Youâre safe now. Itâll be okay now.â
Hurts.
He felt his heart shattering in his chest and had to close his eyes to fight off the wave of emotions crashing into you.
âIâll get a nurse. Weâll set you up with a morphine pump you can control yourself, yes? Is it okay if I leave for a second? Blink twice for yes.â
You blinked twice. Robby could tell you were already getting tired and struggled to make your muscles move.
âIâll be right back, princess.â
He rushed out of the room and towards the nursesâ station. He wanted to be back by your side before you fell asleep again. He loomed behind the nurses, technicians and doctors coming in to assess you with crossed arms, scrutinising every motion, every little way they touched you, ready to jump in should he feel like they were not careful enough with his little girl.
You were given a VidaTalk to communicate and a morphine pump, the remote placed directly in your hand. You pressed down on the button immediately, and he felt his heart break a little bit more. You were in pain. You were in pain, and he could do nothing to take it away.
âLooks like I finally found the topic for my college admissions essay.â The robotic voice of the VidaTalk announced into the whirring and beeping of all the monitors and machines surrounding you. Your eyes were tired, but Robby saw that mischievous sparkle in them that always lit up your eyes when you smiled.
âLetâs focus on you getting better first, sweetheart.â
âI thought you were going to write about your personal hero, Uncle Jack!â Jack appeared in the door, a crooked grin plastered across his lips. âLook at you⌠I donât think you need any of these doctors anymore, huh? Lookinâ strong.â
âLame.â
âIf you can give me cheek then youâre feeling better for sure.â
Your finger tapped rapidly against the touch screen. âI feel like a tank ran me over. Can this thing swear? Fuck.â
Your eyes sparkled.
âHow about we cut back on the swearing and get some rest?â Robby said softly.
"Party Pooper."
A low chuckle bubbled up in his throat despite himself. The sound felt foreign in his mouth. Heâd already surrendered to never feeling it again, and now here you were, looking at him, talking back even if you couldnât talk - things could still go wrong. One little complication could still tear you away from him, but how could he let himself think about your demise for a single second while you were messing around with your godfather, as if you hadnât been fighting for your life every day for two weeks?
âIâm tired.â
âThatâs normal.â Robby murmured and ran his knuckle over your cheek. âYour body is using all its energy for your recovery, there isnât much left over for insulting your old man with a tablet.â
âIâm sorry I was a bitch, Dad.â
âShh, donât say that. Itâs not true. It was just- it was just a silly fight. Letâs just leave that in the past, yes? How would you put it? It was never that deep?â
âEw.â
Robby scowled at you, but its effect was severely undermined by the pure, unadulterated joy crinkling the corners of his eyes.
âIâm the one who owes you an apology. It was awful of me to say that to you. Iâd like to say that I didnât mean to hurt you, but I honestly donât know. Iâve been pretty messed up.â
âI forgive you, Dad. I love you.â
âYou do remind me of your mom.â He whispered. Your brows dipped, forming an angry crease between them. Robby smoothed it down with his thumb immediately. âPeople arenât black and white, princess. What she did is unforgivable, and Iâll never stop wishing that she talked to me instead of just running away and putting you in such danger. But before that⌠unhappiness and despair that drove her to do something so horrible, she was also a woman who would have cackled at you putting violet syrup in my coffee as revenge. She would have adored your sense of humour and your courage and the strong, unapologetic young woman you are becoming. She is a part of you⌠all her good sides are in you, just as you have to live with all my bad sides.â
âYouâre not bad.â The monitorâs emotionlessness was only offset by the hurt in your eyes. âIâm proud to be your daughter.â
Robby swallowed down another rush of tears gathering on his waterline. âIâm proud to have you as my daughter, sweetheart.â
âWill you promise me to go home when Iâm asleep?â
âNah, Iâm staying right here.â
âPlease, Dad. You have to take care of yourself too, not just others.â
His shoulders dropped. âOkay. Okay, I promise.â He said because he could not bear to argue with you, not when he could see how much you struggled to just stay awake. He knew you wouldn't back down anyway.
âShower, sleeping in a real bed for at least eight hours and eating a proper meal, Dad.â
âWhen did you become the parent, huh?â
âWeâve always taken care of each other.â
The expression in your eyes made him falter.
âOkay okay. I promise. Whatever you say.â
âWill you stay until Iâm asleep?â
âYes.â Robby pressed a kiss to your forehead. âI love you, sheifale.â He kept stroking your hair, standing over you while your eyes started to slowly fall shut, not moving an inch until you were deep asleep.
Robby went home.Â
He didn't want to, but what was he going to do? Break his promise to his little girl?
He washed the hospital grime and fear-sweat off his body, drowning out the smell of antiseptic embedded deep into his skin by now in Old Spice and tried not to cry.
Crying in the shower. How pathetic would that be?
He did cry.Â
Dry, silent, heaving sobs that shook his whole body, a mixture of all that he didnât let himself feel while keeping vigil over you and stone-cold sober relief.
He checked his phone as soon as he was out of the shower. Jack sent him an update every ten minutes. A picture of you and your latest vitals. Jack understood Robby wouldnât have been able to leave without knowing someone was watching over you the same way he would have been watching over you.
He pulled one of the mini lasagnas you cooked in bulk and froze in aluminium dishes for easy dinners out of the freezer. While that was in the oven, he gathered some things from the apartment. The SICU had strict rules, and you wouldnât be allowed to have any plushies or blankets from home, not yet, but he could bring you some pictures, the charger for your phone, your spare earbuds since he had no idea where your main pair was now.Â
Entering your room and being greeted by your familiar scent drove new tears into his eyes. The body spray you used that morning still hung in the air, and the crop top you'd gotten into a fight over lay crumpled on the bed.
He picked it up gingerly, meaning to fold and tuck it away in your wardrobe, but he ended up sitting on the edge of your bed, clutching the piece of fabric to his chest as he cried.
The timer for the lasagna sounded through the empty apartment, and Robby almost didn't manage to get up.
He also packed your Nintendo Switch. You would be tired and barely able to stay awake for longer than a few minutes at a time in the coming days, but that would change, eventually.
He hoped it would.
He checked his phone again and ate in silence.
In silence and alone.
No phone being shoved in his face, far too close for his ageing eyes to make out anything more than blurry colours - because youâve waited all day to show you this video, Dad. Just for that one video to devolve into twenty, and Robby started worrying just how much time you spent on TikTok. No bordering-on-snide back and forth between you two that always ended with you doubling over in laughter. It was usually the first time after a shift that Robby felt like he was not drowning. Seeing you happy and bubbly, chewing his ear off with all that youâve waited all day to tell him⌠it was the only joy he had in life. The greatest joy he had.
You were the only reason he didnât go on that three-month-long motorcycle trip heâd been thinking about, the one where heâd just drive until his luck ran out, but how could Robby challenge his luck to run out when you were back in Pittsburgh, staying with Jack while you waited for him to come back?
Some days, Robby thought youâd probably be better off without him. Jack would take care of you, he knew that. You loved Jack. Jack had figured out a way that got him out of the darkness that had its claws embedded so deeply in Robby he sometimes wondered if heâd ever see light again - but then he came home and was greeted by you singing along to one of Robbyâs old mixtapes from college while making dinner in the kitchenâŚ
Robby was a selfish, greedy man.
Robby wanted to be a part of your life, of your joy and happiness, and he wanted to see your smile when you spotted him in the doorway every day, and he wanted the way you jumped into his arms despite the fact you were inching towards maturity and Robby towards the grave - at least that was what his aching bones and bad back were telling him.
He knew he would only drag you down. He knew he had nothing to offer you but sad smiles he no longer felt reverberating in his chest, and he knew didnât reach his eyes anymore.
But he was selfish.
So he stuck around and you⌠well, you had nowhere else to go, did you? Robbyâs mother had disappeared decades ago. His grandmother was dead. You had never met your maternal grandparents. Maybe once you went to college you would realise you had no reason to be around Robby anymore. That he was a mess. That you could do better.
Robby knew you deserved better.
He didnât think heâd be able to find any sleep, and he didnât in his own bed. He tossed and turned, his mind assaulting him with the memory of you coding, of your blood on the ER floor, of the sounds of your ribs breaking he didnât hear through the thick doors of the trauma room but still heard because heâd heard it a thousand times.
His desperation brought him back to your room. He knew he couldnât go back to the hospital yet. Heâd promised you heâd sleep. He curled up in your bed like the pathetic old man he was, clutching your pillow that smelled like your shampoo and that overnight keratin treatment you made him shell out far too much money for every time it ran out to his chest. He stared at the picture frame on your nightstand through teary eyes. It showed you huddled in a towel, your hair hidden beneath the towel, sitting on Robbyâs lap in the backyard of Jackâs old house, the one he sold when his wife died. You were holding a popsicle that was melting down your fingers and grinned at the camera in that endearing grimace-smiling all six-year-olds did when asked to smile for the camera.
You were so littleâŚ
Robby looked at the picture and every time he closed his eyes, he saw you in the SICU, tube down your throat, feeding tube in your nose, old blood stuck in your hair, so pale as if you were already deadâŚ
You recovered.
Within a day of you waking up, your medical team had you on your feet and walking. It was painful, it was exhausting and difficult, and Robby hated to see you struggle and the tears of humiliation clinging to your lashes as your team held your arms and encouraged you to move your feet.
It was brutal.
But, and the doctor part of his brain understood and supported this no matter how the side that was your father loathed the whole process, awake ICUs had shown significant increases in recovery rates and decreases in complications associated with the deep sedation most intubated patients were under in most of the country. There was no medical indication for you to be sedated, so you werenât. You were still on a ventilator for now, but you were awake and walking.
Early mobility kept postoperative complications down, reduced the risks of blood clots and preserved muscle function.
Robby kept telling himself all the advantages, repeating them like a mantra in his head while desperately trying not to think about how much the effort you were taking looked like pure torture from the outsideâŚ
Days passed. Timelines for common complications rolled by without touching you. Milestones were reached.
But you were always tired. You were in pain and uncomfortable, and the reality of all that had happened to you slowly started to sink in - Robby could tell by the haunted expression that had slipped into your eyes.
Physically you were improving, but mentally⌠Robby could tell you were struggling.
Your medical team concluded that your level of consciousness was enough for you to protect your airway, and your spontaneous breathing tests came back promising.
Robby was wholly unfamiliar with the role of the family member during an extubation, but he tried his best when your doctor prepped you for extubation.
âDad, you can sit right here and hold your daughterâs hand.â He said, addressing Robby as he would any other father of a patient. As Robby had done a million times, but today it felt wrong to hear the word Dad addressed to him in a voice that was not yours.
It had been so long since he heard your voiceâŚ
Heâd been listening to old voice messages you sent him when he missed your presence at home too much. He was so pathetic, but right now Robby didnât even care. He sat on the chair assigned to him and held your hand, smiling at you with as much silent encouragement as he could muster. You squeezed his hand when the tube was pulled from your throat. You coughed, and tears rolled down your cheeks. Robby held his breath, eyes flicking wildly back and forth between your face and your stats on the monitor. Your oxygen levels fell slightly while you coughed and tried not to choke on your secretions. A nurse was at your side right away to help by using the wall suction to get rid of most of it, giving you some time to adjust having the tube out before handling that yourself.
âYouâre doing great, sweetheart.â Robby murmured and pressed a soft kiss to your knuckles.
âHi, dad.â You croaked, voice raw and quiet, and you winced as soon as you spoke.
âItâs okay, sheifale. Your throat will hurt for a bit while it and your voice box recover from the inflammation the intubation caused. Itâll go away in a few days.â
âThirsty.â You murmured. Robby noticed you were already struggling to keep your eyes open.
âYou are getting fluids through your IVs and the feeding tube.â Your doctor explained. âBut many patients report a feeling of intense thirst after extubation. You may sip some water, just tiny sips though.â
âIs that safe?â Robby asked.
âYes. Weâll have a Speech-Language Pathologist come by to assess her swallowing function so we can determine whether it is safe to remove the feeding tube and have her feed herself, but research has shown that sipping water works best to reduce the sensation of thirst after extubation with no ill effects to recovery. We prioritise patient comfort in these cases over the older doctrines of mandatory fasting periods after extubation.â
Robby nodded. He trusted your doctorâs judgement. Robby intubated and extubated plenty of patients, but he didnât usually get in contact with long-term ICU patients, nor was he well versed in the more recent research discoveries in the field.
Many liked to call emergency physicians butchers, but when literally fighting for lives, Robby gladly did everything he could - even if it wasnât pretty. Your medical team was focused on different concerns.
They left after a moment of monitoring your breathing and oxygen levels. Robby held the ugly hospital-issued off-pink plastic cup in his hand and brought the straw to your lips, watching you take a cautious sip.
âJust a small sip, baby.â
âI heard the doctor.â You huffed.
âI know.â Robby smoothed your hair down and shot you an apologetic smile. âYou know how I get. Let me fuss over you. It puts my mind at ease.â
You huffed again, but Robby saw the smile you tried to hide from him. It made his chest feel lighter to see it, to see your face without the tube and the tube holder obstructing it. Compared to that, the transnasal feeding tube almost didnât stand out.
âYou feeling okay?â
You nodded weakly.
âShall I read some more?â
âPlease.â
Robby picked up the book heâd been reading to you from time to time during your stay from the nightstand and searched for a bookmark. It was your favourite book from when you were a child. Robby doubted your choice had been a coincidence, despite the book never leaving your shelf in the years since. The last time these pages had been turned, Robby sat in bed with you, your little body curled up against him.
Heâd gladly do anything he could to bring you any comfort he could in these times.
You fell asleep before he could finish even a single chapter. He tucked the bookmark between those pages but kept reading anyway.
His eyes, though, never stayed off your stats for long.
Robby missed your transfer from the ICU to the regular ward.
Your medical team had been discussing it for a while. You were improving. You still had a long way ahead of you but⌠somewhere along the way Robby stopped thinking about your death.
He still sometimes woke up in the middle of the night, most of which he still spent in the hospital despite your attempts to make him go home, in a cold sweat, startling from a nightmare where things had taken a much worse turn.
You were talking to Caleb twice a week since youâd been extubated.Â
Things got dark. It was Jack who noticed that it had gotten too dark. That you crossed the line of grappling with what had happened to you into much more unsteady territory. Not that you could be blamed for it. What you had been through⌠no child should have to go through any of that.
Talking seemed to help you, but your smiles stayed a little too forced, your eyes a little too distant. That was when Caleb advised antidepressants. Robby closed off. He didnât want to hear any of it. You were fine. You were struggling, yes, but how could anyone blame you for that? Youâd been shot at school by a boy you were trying to help and spent hours running around the school, tearing yourself apart to help save as many people as you could. You starved off death with some gauze and stone-cold determination.
That was no reason to stuff you full of meds!
You were fine.
But you werenât.
You werenât, and, as Jack and Caleb pointed out, medication was just another support pillar they could offer to help you on your journey to come to terms with your new reality. It was no different than antibiotics, pain meds or physical therapy.
And just because a geriatric patient was still mobile did not mean Robby wouldnât also prescribe them blood thinners to further help prevent blood clotsâŚ
You had lost so much that day, much more than had become apparent right away. You didnât lose your kidney, but a not insignificant part of your innocence had been completely shattered. The whole magnitude of the trauma that day, almost dying, and the strenuous recovery process had handed you was only just beginning to crawl to the surface.
The massive scar stretching all the way from the top of your sternum down to your pubic bone and the three smaller, round scars where the bullets entered your body would be with you for the rest of your life. Youâd be reminded of what happened every time you took a shower, every time you wanted to wear a bikini, every time your shirts had a slightly lower necklineâŚ
Robby didnât want to, but he owed it to you to explore why he had that reaction to Calebâs suggestion. He was a doctor. He should not still be so affected by outdated prejudice regarding mental health, especially in this time they were living in, where the discourse about mental health was as alive as never before.
He agreed to give his consent should you want to take the meds.
The entire time youâve been in the hospital, Robby had been thinking how heâd do everything to help you and if the meds could help you deal with your dark thoughts, with the anxiety and sleep problems, the nightmares then⌠well, how could he justify denying you that?
Caleb reassured him theyâd reassess your need for them every six months. There was a good chance you wouldnât need them for the rest of your life. You didnât have chronic depression. Your whole world had been turned upside down, and you need⌠you just needed some help finding ways to cope with your new reality.
You spoke a lot with Jack. Robby tried not to be jealous. He had no reason to be. Jack was your godfather. Jack had been in a war zone. Jack lost his leg. Jack spent months in the hospital. Jack could relate to this new part of you that Robby didnât even know.
There was a new part of you, one that your father didnât knowâŚ
You were moved to the regular ward while Robby was at the mall, picking up a new book and a couple of video games youâd asked for. He was actually standing in a store looking at gaming laptops, considering getting you one of those since you wouldnât be able to play on your computer at home - heâd bring the thing into the hospital, but Gloria would never let that happen - and he knew there were some games you liked that you couldnât play on the Switch, when he got your text.
It was a selfie of you in your new room.
Freedom at last!, youâd captioned it, followed by a request for your favourite meal. The ICU had strict rules regarding everything family members brought in from the outside, one of which was no outside food. Youâd been stuck with unsalted hospital food after your feeding tube was removed, and youâd been begging to have it back in because the liquid diet was still better than the disgraceful meal plan from the hospital.
You can have whatever you want, he replied. Anything you want from home?
You sent a list - of course you did - that ended with donât touch my nightstand in all caps, and Robby debated whether he wanted to know what that was about.
He decided the content of a seventeen-year-old girlâs nightstand was between herself and the nightstand.
Robby finished his shopping and went home to gather some comfortable clothes for you, the quilt from his grandma you kept in your bed, a few of your most cherished plushies, some toiletries and a pair of slippers before picking up your requested meal and driving back to the hospital.
He found your room already occupied by your friends. They hadnât been allowed into the ICU due to visitor limitations. Dwayne was still on crutches, but Robby knew they had all gone back to school a week ago.
Garcia had hit the nail on the head - teens bounced back faster than adults. It truly was inspiring to see how much the four of you refused to let this tragedy destroy you. Between talking about the memorial service the school held for the officer, the teacher, and the two students who died, you were discussing your plans for college and the summer. Dwayne got cocky about how the captain of the cheerleading team agreed to go to prom with him and Mira and Oliver exchanged shy glances.
âI donât know about prom.â You huffed and tugged at the front of your button-down pyjama top. The dressing of your surgical scar peeked out at the top. âNot with this ugly thing.â
âScars are cool.â Dwayne mumbled around the entire pack of Skittles he dumped into his mouth.
Robby couldnât help the smile tugging on his lips.
âMr R!â Mira was the first to notice him.
âHello kids.â Robby deposited the bag he packed on the bed next to you and brushed a kiss to your forehead. âHello, sheifale.â
It made him very happy to know you had found the kind of friends who would drop everything at a momentâs notice to get to the hospital just because youâd finally be transferred to a ward where they could visit you.
Robby settled on the chair Dwayne vacated when your friends said their goodbye and cleared out of the room. He unpacked the food he brought and listened to you fill him in on all the latest gossip your friends had brought from school, the cute puppy video you saw online and the ward gossip you picked up on from the nurses.
Robby could not imagine a place where heâd rather be.
Robby found himself growing increasingly fed up with his own struggles. He was sick and tired of feeling like an empty shell. He was sick and tired of feeling like everything sucked all the time and would never get better.Â
He was sick of hating the day, every day, before it had even begun.
He watched you get better, despite having had to go back in for surgery once youâd stabilised to put permanent fixes in place where Garcia had only had time for quick patches.
He watched that haunted expression fade, a little more every day. He watched the antidepressants take effect and some of your old self returning to you. You tackled the full cafeteria during the lunch rush with your therapist, just sitting in the chaos and trying to endure it as your anxiety skyrocketed. When that went well, you moved on to the ER, then the waiting room, and from there you even managed to brave the park outside the hospital.
Robby was so endlessly proud of you, but at the same time a nasty, terrible part of him despised that you got better while he was still stuck, still trapped in his own bullshit as if it were tar slowly dragging him under.
And for the first time since Jack handed him the business card of his therapist a few days after PittFest, Robby picked up his phone.
Dana cackled.
Her laughter cut through the low buzz of ER madness and made Robby lift his head. His glasses sat low on his nose to prevent them from fogging up in the humid air being blasted through the department by the shitty air conditioning unit.
âWhatâs that about.â
âMy daughter just sent me a TikTok.â Dana turned around to hand him her phone. Robby needed a moment to make sense of the video playing on the screen. In bold, white lettering written across the screen it declared filming my dad every time he uses hand sanitizer. The video started playing, showing Robby coming out of different rooms of the ED or stepping up to one of the many counters, rubbing his hands together. You, in your endless boredom as you called it, had apparently spent an afternoon following Robby with a camera - and he hadnât even noticed. Every time he held his hand under a dispenser, you zoomed in on him.
âYou went viral.â
âThis?â Robby questioned with a raised brow. âThis thing went viral?â He looked at the number beneath the little heart in the corner. âJee-sus.â
Dana was still laughing.
âWhat the fuck even is this?â
âAh,â Jack grinned as he stepped up next to Robby, catching a glance at Danaâs phone. âYou found Robby jrâs project.â
âHer what?â
âGo on the profile, sheâs been making all sorts of videos. The hospital honestly should hire her as social media manager. The people love The Pitt.â Jack tapped on the profile. You really had called it The Pitt. Oh, Gloria would hate it.
On the profile were a series of silly videos like the hand sanitizer one, filming Jack doing tricks in a wheelchair, asking staff around the ER for their secret talents, a montage of Javadiâs best shocked expressions, Whitaker âlooking like a sad, wet puppyâ as youâd titled the video.
But it was more than that.
You did an interview with Dana, asking her how long sheâd been working at the Pitt, why she went into health care, why she stuck around despite all the challenges, what she loved about the job and one thing she wished the world knew about her profession. Youâd done the same interview with a couple of people - Jack among them - but also medics, Esme, Lupe, Antoine, and at least one of their techs. You gave Kiara and Dylan a chance to talk about the help available for people that most didnât know about.
You interviewed homeless people, asking them about their lives, showing that they were human, that most of them had lived a whole life before something terrible happened and made them fall through the cracks.
One video stuck out. In it, you talked about what the ER meant to you personally. You talked about all the days youâd spent here when you were little, how much Robby had sacrificed to raise you. You talked about Adamson and the time you lost your tooth because you and Jake were playing chase and you slipped, knocking your mouth against a counter. You showed off the tongue-suppressor toys you built as a little girl, and Robby still kept around, almost a decade later. You talked about how you were almost born right here in the ER, on the way to the elevators, because Robby, in his panic at your motherâs water breaking, couldnât find the car keys. How inspiring it had been to grow up around so many people who dedicated their lives to being there for people on the worst day of their lives, who shouldered the trauma and heartbreak of it all just so people wouldnât have to be alone in their hour of need.
âThis is where I almost died.â You said on the video as you walked into the trauma room. You flipped the camera around and smiled sadly. âNobody likes going to the hospital, and Iâm slowly losing my mind being stuck here too, I want to go home. I want none of this to have ever happened, but no matter what happened - this is home. My home away from home⌠and these people are my family. Iâve spent so many Thanksgivings and Hanukkahs and birthdays with them. I donât have solutions for all of the things that are going wrong in the healthcare system, but if youâre in Pittsburgh and something happens to you, and you end up at the Pitt, you can trust that my family is going to take care of your family.â
Robby found himself fighting back tears, just for the video to scroll away automatically and the next one starting. You were following Robby with your camera again, zoomed in on him while nature sounds played.
âHere we see-â You said in your best approximation of David Attenborough. â-a common exhausted, overworked, burnt-out health care worker in his natural habitat.âÂ
Robby burst out laughing. You panned your camera over to Jack, who was standing next to you. âThis is the existential crisis variant of the overworked, burnt-out healthcare worker.â
Jack made a peace sign with his fingers. âI got over the existential crisis.â
âDid you though?â
âRascal.â
Jack put his hand on Robbyâs shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze. âSheâs doing good.â
âYeah.â Robby murmured, watching you chase after Jack in a wheelchair. You stood no chance of course. Jack had much more practice than you, but you were laughing, that shrieking high-pitched laugh that was so you and so real and for the first time since the shooting, Robby looked at you and saw the person you were before all of this shit.
But trauma was a conniving, resourceful bitch.
âAre you worried about her getting discharged today?â
Robby shook his head. âNot as much as Iâm worried about everything else. Sheâs been struggling with going outside. Her therapist took her to a store, and she started crying and almost had an anxiety attack.â
âWhich isnât surprising with what sheâs gone through, but sheâs not ready to give up on her life just because some asshole decided bringing a rifle to school was the solution for all his problems. She handled that shit, brother. Yeah, it didnât go how she hoped it would, but she used her skills, and she calmed down again and ended up buying a bunch of snacks to bring back to her room, and she'll be stronger for it. She did good. Healing isnât linear.â
That was the exact same thing Jackâs therapist told Robby during their last session together. A weekly occurrence at this point.
âI know.â
Jack kept staring at him.
Robby sighed. âShe wants to go back to school once sheâs cleared.â
âOkay.â
Robby glared at Jack. âOkay? Itâs not! Itâs far from okay, man!â
âShe doesnât want to let this set her back. She wants to graduate with her friends.â Jack shrugged. âSheâs starting with half days, right?â
âFor now.â
âI think itâs good. Donât get me wrong, I donât like thinking about her going back to school either, not after what happened, but she deserves to move on. She deserves closure. And she deserves to reclaim the school for herself. She doesnât want this tragedy and the trauma to win.â Jack slapped Robby on the shoulder and shot him a crooked grin. âGo on, finish up here and take our girl home. Iâm sure Robby jr is looking forward to finally sitting on the sofa and forcing you to watch one of her shows again.â
Robby chuckled. âProbably.â
He too was looking forward to it, and to many, many more evenings like that to comeâŚ
The End
The forbidden sequel (mind the warnings, 18+ content)
summary: itâs day one of the âto do listâ to get your number back: park does pilates. (wc: 1.0k)
pairing: brendon park / f!reader
content: humour. pilates princess!reader. grumpy x sunshine. pilates class (no exercise mentioned bc i have never done it before) park is self-assured that pilates is a walk in the park. (1) new nickname added to the roster.
Brendon Park prided himself on almost always being correct on a wide array of topics. This stretched from his prestigious work as an Orthopaedic surgeon, to personal opinions on subjects that didnât always bleed into his workâdespite it being his whole life.Â
His knowledge was sought after in a place like the PTMC. Park the Shark was a household name in one of the many hospitals dotted around Pittsburgh, purely down to his learned expertise on human anatomy.Â
So, it came from left field when he had been utterly wrong about Pilates.Â
Being a man of honourâand a slight incline to do whatever you wanted him to doâPark managed to upkeep his promise to arrive at the Pilates studio you had punched into his calendar the afternoon prior, when he had sauntered into the Pitt with the hopes of a second chance at your number; only to be met with a âto doâ list for the week that could be seen as squeamish to a man of his repertoire.Â
At this point, parked in a half empty car park in the tightest underwear he could find in his scrummage of his neatly organised underwear drawer, and a loose pair of basketball shorts paired with a basic white tee that was more for your visual pleasureâand the hopes to cut the âto doâ list in half by selling his bodyâBrendon Park wasnât even doing this for the love of the game.Â
He was doing it for you.Â
Plus, how hard could Pilates truly be?Â
It looked like some light and fluffy fairy-bullshit to someone like Park the Shark, who lifted weights so heavy that his eyes would be bloodshot by the end of the intense workout. Besides, he watched a handful of Instagram reels of the intended workout he was subjecting himself to, and it was safe to say; Park snorted.Â
You met him outside the front of the building, and Park came to two conclusions as you gleefully bounded up to him.
1.) Heâd never lose you in a crowd because you had enough keychains on your car keys to make your own version of jingly sirens. And, 2.) Your ass looked even better in a Pilates outfit than the usual scrubs attire you adorned when he saw you.Â
You gave him a warm look, âI said you donât have to whore yourself out for my phone number, Shark.â fingers point to the t-shirt clinging to his carved muscles, âThis is slutty. I love it.âÂ
âI donât think Iâll accept that compliment.â Park responds coolly, even with his heart thumping against his chest with all this personal time he was getting with you. He doesnât say much more until youâve entered the building, âWhat is the duration of this class?â he asks once youâve walked past the door he held open for you.Â
âAbout an hour?â you think, âItâs pretty hardcore. We can get coffee after, theyâve got their own stationâsort of a life saver.âÂ
âUh-huh.â Park says, border-lining sarcastic and it makes you lift a brow in response.Â
You smile at another attendee before speaking again, âAm I sensing some mockery, Sharky?â you look up at him easily towering over you as you walk, âBecause Iâd dial it down, riiight about now.â you lilt.Â
âIâm not mocking your hobby, sweetheart,â Park defends honestly. The last thing he wanted was for you to think heâd ever scrape the barrel of humour and throw a negative connotation over an activity you enjoyedâhowever, it didnât prevent him from believing there was zero requirement for a caffeine hit after a fluffy workout.
You approach the room the class was being held in. Dimly lit with an ambient sunset lamp that created a pretty, soft glow of an orange hue on the back wall; Park, naturally, takes up the rear as you saunter in to disrupt the serenity with your fifty keychains.Â
(Holy shit. Was he perverse in thinking he would like to walk behind you forever?)Â
You throw a radiant smile over your shoulder, âAlright. Letâs see if you are calling me sweetheart after this.âÂ
Park scoffs, âIâm just stating that, for someone like me, this canât be hard.âÂ
Wrong.Â
Brendon Park had met his match in that Pilates class.Â
His shirt was saturated from exertion, and he quickly came to the realisation that wearing a white t-shirt was simply premature naivety that he justâŚwouldnât sweat that much in an hour. The cotton fabric clung to his muscles and was less white and more his shade of nude. The hair that had been in its usual styleâsomething he took longer to do in the mirror this morningâwas completely undone; curls beginning to coil from the dampness at his scalp.Â
The Pilates instructor seemingly decided that, that particular class would be rendered to severe, military style punishment that had Brendon Parkâs body folded in ways that had him thinking that his sturdy bones may snap.Â
He had read somewhere; not to eat before class. So, he did anyway. (And, regretted the 6AM eggs and protein shake instantaneously.)Â
The worst part? You werenât suffering near as much as he was.Â
Sweat beaded your hairline, and your chest did rise and fall at a quicker pace than a leisurely stroll would have done; it was just that you werenât doubled over on the bright pink matt you had brought along.Â
âIâd pat your back,â you start when Park cements his forehead to his borrowed matt from the class, âBut, youâre next level sweaty. No offence.âÂ
Park slowly raises from his spot, eyes scrunching shut from the ache in his torso. He peels one eye open to stare at you, âHow do you still look that beautiful?â he asks in a sharp tone, lifting the hem of his shirt to wipe at his drenched face.Â
Your eyes drop to his exposed flesh and then back up before he notices, âItâs a burden. Truly.âÂ
âFuck, sweetheart.â Park huffs out and drops his head back.
Stomach erupting with warmth at the nickname, you grin, âWhat?âÂ
Hooked - Dr. Brendon âThe Sharkâ Park x Reader
Summary: After transferring to the Pitt in the middle of your fellowship, you manage to impress PTMC's meanest surgeon with your bubbly confidence, leading to you both catching feelings.
Tags/Notes: fluffy fluff, silly trope time, idiots in love, grumpy/sunshine, misunderstanding trope, kiss cam trope, getting together, cutesy feminine reader, kind of an airhead outside of medicine, also described as short sorry tall baddies, praise kink, oral (m), fingering (f), size kink, piv, riding/cowgirl, mini hitachi, doggy style, headlock during sex uwu, biting, dacryphilia, multiple orgasms, creampie, D/s if you squint, aftercare
Content: medical (and hockey) inaccuracies out the wazoo, canon-typical
A/N: Â that mean doctor has bewitched me and i actually had so much fucking fun writing this fic
Word Count: 14.2k
While you finish preparing your patient presentation for the incoming orthopedic surgeon consult on the case youâve been working all day, Dennis Whitaker, whoâs been assisting you, groans under his breath as he catches an imposing figure approaching. âFuck, our consultâs the Shark.â
âOf course it is.â Shen, whoâs been in the corner half-supervising you since he completely trusts your work as a fellow, tells Whitaker, âThis kind of damage? He eats up cases like this. The Sharkâs never gonna let someone else-â
You turn to both of them, hold up a hand to shut them up, and ask, âWho?â
âDr. Brendon Park,â Shen explains like heâs telling you about an upcoming horror movie. âHeâs the head orthopedic surgeon.â
âHavenât met him yet,â you reply. Drawbacks of circumstances forcing you to change hospitals in the middle of your fellowship; you donât know the whole team like you did back in your residency. With a final few glances through your dayâs meticulous work, you wrinkle your brows and check, âI thought Torres was head of orthopedic surgery.â
âNo, sheâs the nice orthopedic surgeon. The Shark only deigns to come to what he calls âthe butcher shopâ for juicy cases.â Shen shakes his head and says, âIâm gonna dip before he gets down here. Iâll grab Robby to supervise.â
âYouâre leaving? Why?â
âPark can actually stand Robby.â Shen shrugs and tosses his gloves in the trash. âI made the mistake of suggesting an amputation when it was possible to salvage a limb and the Sharkâs always down my throat when we work together now.â
âHow long ago was that?â
âThree years.â Shen pushes the door open and says before heading over to the hub to grab Robby, âThat thing youâve heard about sharks having three-second memories? Not accurate. PTMCâs Shark never forgets. Donât fuck up your first impression.â
Your wide eyes turn to Whitaker. âWell, that was comforting.â
Jesse, whoâs been supporting you on and off when you needed more hands than just Whitakerâs, tries to offer, âParkâs not so bad.â
âYeah, because youâre a nurse,â Whitaker replies. âHe likes nurses. Respects them. Itâs other doctors he thinks are stupid.â
You screw up your face with confidence and nod sharply. âThen I wonât be stupid.â
âGood luck with that,â a deep, clear voice says behind you. You turn and nearly bump into the center of a very broad chest. Very broad. With matching biceps and traps threatening at the fabric of his blue scrubs. Heâs easily a whole head taller than you. And his face. Oh. Good face. Lots of masculine, rugged angles. Itâs not that the ED is lacking in arm candy, but most of the doctors down here arenât soâŚbiteable. Youâre fighting not to ogle as his voice draws your eyes back up to his mouth. Which is a nice mouth. Under a nice nose. And a heavy brow with pretty blue eyes so sharp you feel a little light-headed under their intensity. âYouâre new.â
Robby slips into the room behind him and hugs the wall, posture much straighter than youâve seen. He doesnât look scared the way Whitaker does, but thereâs a clear expectation about what the interactionâs going to be: Efficient, intense, clear. Robby says bluntly, âNew fellow. Recent relocation.â
Parkâs eyes narrow, taking in your pink shoelaces, perfectly applied makeup (including shimmery gloss) despite being elbows deep in the shift, and the pastel-heart-patterned long sleeve beneath your scrubs. âWe havenât met.â
You take one quick, deep breath and remind yourself thereâs no reason to be scared. You donât play hospital politics like the residents. Youâre a fellow, a real goddamn doctor. This is your case. Your save. Youâve got it. So you introduce yourself with a friendly smile and explain, âI started here last month. Just havenât had a big sexy skeletal trauma to dangle in front of you until today.â
Park cracks what almost appears to be a smirk. Committing your name and your pretty face to memory, he says, âWelcome to the team, pipsqueak. Try not to butcher any bones and weâll get along fine.â
âNo problem.â You bounce slightly on your feet. âShall we get started here?â
His chin cocks slightly to one side. Youâre not shrinking. Not bashful. Youâre smiling. Thatâs rare. He doesnât mind. Arms crossed over that massive chest, he orders, eyes sweeping the room, âTell me what weâve got.â
Whitaker looks to Robby. Robby looks to you. You nod and list off, âMr. Jacob Westman, thirty-seven-year-old green energy tower technician, brought in by ambulance after falling from an electrical tower. Freak accident. Alert and responsive on arrival but no sensation in lower extremities. Lead doctor on the case â thatâs me; Iâve been point for Mr. Westman all day â chose to sedate for pain management and stabilization once significant spinal injuries were identified. The most severe salvageable damage is in the cervical and thoracic, but I donât necessarily agree with the interpretation from the ortho radiologist that-â Robby clears his throat to stop you there. Sheepishly, you finish, âVitals are within safe range for operation to correct cervical and thoracic fractures and dislocations."
Robby offers, âSo essentially, the approach is-â
âHold on.â Park looks up from the chart and focuses squarely on you. âWhat did the radiologist say? Why did you stop there?â
You glance over at Robby, whoâs shaking his head with pleading eyes. But itâs your case. Youâre the one who gave up your lunch break to pore over the imaging. So you let your eyes rove back to Dr. Parkâs and tell him firmly, âYour radiologist feels that the lumbar injuries causing Mr. Westmanâs paralysis are completely inoperable through traditional methods. I was advised to defer to his opinion.â
Brows furrowed, he eyes you seriously. AlmostâŚamused. Like heâs watching a puppy try a new trick. âWhatâs your opinion, doctor?â
Behind Park, you see Whitaker shake his head and grimace like youâve just signed your own death certificate. Even Jesse is gripping his clipboard a little more tightly.
âI suggested that, even though it may be riskier, a series of nerve grafts and transfers could return the patientâs ability to walk.â Your voice lowers a bit and you try not to let your wobbly âbleeding heart baby doctorâ voice come out. âMr. Westman is a highly-trained, highly-educated specialist in a type of engineering only a handful of people in the country can do. Work thatâs absolutely critical for the development of renewable energy sources. When I was going over everything with his wife, Jenna, she told me that he loves his job more than life itself. That he would risk everything to regain use of his legs.â You swallow hard and pinch back tears. Itâs something that always annoys you; whenever you really, really care about something, you start to cry. Eyes averted, you wrap up, âI know that the kind of procedure Iâm suggesting would be much longer and much riskier on several levels and that itâs not at all my place to-â
Park shakes his head and cuts you off, âShow me the scans.â
You quickly brush past him to the nearby screen and blow up the images.
Dr. Park lets out a low whistle as he flips through the X-Rays, head tilted slightly as he gives the scans his full attention. He asks you a handful of questions and you answer them as best you can, all the eyes in the room burning the back of your head. You watch the wheels turning behind Parkâs eyes; this is his passion, his favorite thing, his reason to wake up. You love seeing people in that state where all theyâre thinking about is what they do best.
Finally, he turns to you and says, âI donât care what your title at this hospital is. If a goddamn janitor can propose a valid surgical approach for an âinoperableâ injury, I want to hear it. Complex spinal reconstruction with multiple fusions, laminectomy, discectomyâŚfuck, âjust-about-everything-ectomy.â Plus nerve transfer. Now thatâs sexy. I like it.â Before Robby can thank him for taking over, Park looks you up and down â just a little slow to be completely professional â and asks, âPipsqueak, you wanna assist?â
You stand up straighter and turn your attention to Robby with wide, hopeful eyes. Looking nothing short of shocked, he nods and does a âsure, why not?â type of gesture. You give a big, adorable grin and say, âYeah, that would be awesome. Iâve always wanted to see autograft harvesting and transfer firsthand.â
Whitaker shakes his head and mutters, âFreak.â
âGo to the bathroom, eat a snack, and scrub for OR three,â Park tells you, ignoring everyone else. As you nod eagerly and excuse yourself, he slaps Robby on the back hard enough to make him stagger and mutters, âCongrats, Mike, you finally matched a competent fellow.â
Dumbfounded, Robby just says, âAh, thanks.â
Coming out of the surgery thirteen hours later, youâre glowing like you havenât been awake for thirty-four hours in a row. Following tight on his heels, youâre practically skipping as you beam, âDr. Park, that was so amazing. I canât thank you enough for the opportunity.â
âYouâre good,â he says simply, walking through the halls of the surgical wing like he owns the place. âGreat calls like that deserve great rewards. Wouldâve given you a gold star sticker, but Iâm not as soft as Robinavitch.â
âI wish Robby gave out stickers,â you reply wistfully. âThat might actually convince me to stay here after my fellowship is up.â
Youâre about to say something else when Park turns around and puts one baseball-glove-sized hand on your shoulder. âUnless you want to see my dick on our first day working together, you should probably stay on that side of this particular door.â
You startle backwards as you realize heâs pushing into the menâs room. âOh my god. Iâm so sorry; I sometimes kinda space out when Iâm excited.â
Park lets out a laugh. An honest-to-god laugh.
He has a handsome smile.
Even though your face is now about a thousand degrees, you still nibble your lower lip, grin, and call through the door, âBy the way, itâs technically our second day working together since that was an overnight surgery.â
Parkâs amused, loud voice hollers back, âGo home and get some sleep, pipsqueak.â
When you clock in for your next shift two days later, Dana waves you over right after youâre done putting your things away. She says, âThereâs something in your mailbox, if youâd believe it.â
âReally?â You worry a hangnail on your thumb. âDonât tell me Iâm getting served or something.â
âYou? Come on, youâre Miss Bedside Manner USA.â She nods over to the doctorâs lounge and explains, âItâs from ortho. Something about that surgery you sat in on last week.â
âHuh, okay. Thanks for letting me know.â
You scurry off to your mailbox, which youâve only even looked at once, the day you started. Theyâre a relic from the days of fax machines and printers. Inside your cubby is a blank, hospital-issue envelope. Upper left corner: Brendon Park, MD, FAAOS. In the middle, in his scratchy handwriting: Pipsqueak. With your lips pursed in curiosity, you rip the top of the envelope and remove the contents.
Inside a folded piece of notebook paper, thereâs a card-sized sticker sheet with eight big, cutesy stickers on it. A happy sun, baby ducks, a strawberry, a stuffed bunny. All things sweet and girly. The theme is white, baby pink, sky blue, and light yellow, the same colors as the heart-patterned shirt youâd been wearing under your scrubs. In between the big stickers, a few pastel stars serve as filler.
With a little squeal, you unfold the note and read. Couldnât find one with a gold star. Close enough. Good job. Happy youâre here.
Underneath, heâs drawn a tiny shark in lieu of a signature.
You melt â just a little.
Riding the elevator up after your lunch break, itâs kind of embarrassing how much your heart is pounding. Youâre really not supposed to be doing this. Itâs a total violation of protocol â not the sort that would get you in real HR trouble, but definitely the kind that could permanently piss someone off.
But you do it anyway. You gently knock on Dr. Parkâs door after checking with the ortho receptionist that heâs in. He makes a sort of grunting sound that you interpret as âyes, what?â Pushing the door open just enough to slip into the opening, you say, âHi, Dr. Park. Robby asked me to page ortho down for a follow-up on the Westman case, but I thought it would be nice to ask you directly so that they could have consistency of-â When Park doesnât even look at you, eyes staring intently at the file on his computer, you shrink into the doorway and shake your head. âSorry; thatâs silly. Iâll get back downstairs and send a page like I shouldâve to stop annoying you.â
His eyes flick to yours for half a second. His eyebrows go together almost imperceptibly. âYouâre not annoying me.â
âOh. Thanks.â You bite your lower lip and stare at your shoes for a moment. Purple sneakers today, Park notices. Matching the lavender polka dots on your long sleeves. âSo, yeah, if you have time today to come down and check his repeat images with me, that would be really amazing. Iâm working until six, so no rush. No pressure. I know youâre really busy. And I can definitely just ask Torres if you-â
âIâll do it,â he interrupts urgently. âDonât ask Torres. Or anyone else. Iâve got it.â Then he adds, hasty, âPatient outcomes improve when they have a consistent care team. Youâre right about that. You can come get me about Mr. Westman whenever you need to.â
At that, you absolutely beam. His eyes go to your lips. Your cupidâs bow and the way it stretches when you smile. A pretty smile, he thinks. Really pretty. You glow, âOkay, perfect, I will. Thank you.â
You linger for a second, one hand on the doorknob as you debate whether or not to say something. He hasnât returned to his computer screen, eyes just roaming around the room and occasionally spending a second on you, so you take it as an invitation.
âI also wanted to, um, to say thanks for the stickers, by the way.â You lift your water bottle and show him the doodle-style pink star youâd picked out to grace it among your collection. âI really like them.â
âGood.â Heâs tempted to lie, say it was someone elseâs idea, act like he found them somewhere in the hospital, but he canât when heâs looking at your delighted schoolgirl smile. âSaw them at Target and thought of you. It was nice to work with someone soâŚcompetent.â You swear thereâs a slight blush in his cheeks, but it must be a trick of the light. It must be. Then he clears his throat and adds, âIâll come down to see you- for Mr. Westmanâs follow-up in an hour, alright? I have to finish this report and my dyslexiaâs fucking killing me today.â
Physically unable to stop yourself from being helpful, you offer, âI could type it up for you, if you want.â
âI didnât mean to tell you that,â he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. âYou have this disarming thing about you. Itâs jarring.â
âUm, thanks?â You tilt your head like a puppy. âAre you not supposed to talk about it or something?â
He shrugs, definitely blushing now and pretending not to be, and replies, âPeople hear their doctor has a learning disability and get a little antsy. So if you donât mind, keep that to yourself.â
âNo problem, Dr. Park, Iâm the picture of discretion,â you assure him seriously. But then you keep spilling out, âBut, yâknow, I actually read this study from the Royal College of Surgeons that showed people with dyslexia make better surgeons than their peers because of their well-developed spatial reasoning skills, attention to detail, and problem-solving ability â not to mention the resilience and creativity that inherently come from- Aaaand Iâm word vomiting. Shoot. Sorry. Itâs- itâs chronic, my word vomit. I see a specialist.â
He raises an eyebrow in amusement. âDo you now?â
âYup. My likelihood of remission is incredibly low. Lifelong struggle, really.â You swallow hard and tell him gently, âUm, I had this undergrad student I tutored. He was in biology â pre-med â but he didnât think he could do it because he was dyslexic. So I did a bunch of research and presented it to him. Iâm not, like, one of those cool photographic memory people who remember every study on earth or something.â
âPeople with photographic memories freak me out,â he says with a chuckle. You wonder if youâre the only person in the ED whoâs heard him laugh. More than once, even. Then he says something that actually does manage to shock you: âIâd love the help, if you have time.â
âYay!â You do this little bouncing thing that makes his head spin. âIâm still on my lunch, so I have a few minutes.â
Voice sounding almost protective, he checks, âDid you eat?â
âYeah, of course. But I get bored if I donât have anything to do after my leftovers.â You scooch around his desk and slide between him and the computer, your perky ass directly in his face. With your fingers hovering over his keyboard, you lilt, âAlright, big man, what are we writing?â
It takes Park fifteen seconds to recalibrate, ten of those seconds spent memorizing the way he can see the outline of your tiny thong when you lean forward slightly, the fabric of your scrubs taut over your ass. Then he hastily stands up and puts himself behind the chair, his nosy dick safe from being seen, and says, âWhy donât you take my spot? Youâll be more comfortable.â
You shrug and sit down, throwing your head way back to look up at him with perfect, sweet blowjob eyes. âWhatever you say, Shark.â
The next time Parkâs in the ED, his crush on you is completely and totally solidified. Itâs horrifying, the way the feeling swirls around his stomach and makes his cheeks hot. Itâs not a feeling thatâs ever dared encounter him in the workplace and, honestly, not in a hell of a long time outside of it, either.
Itâs because youâve got Ogilvie backed up against a wall, your pointed finger in the center of his chest. Heâs a head taller than you, even slouching, but youâre dwarfing him with your energy. Parkâs never seen you so brutally animated, eyebrows knitted together and posture perfectly straight. He lingers a bit too close, hugging the corner so he can listen and watch.
Ogilvieâs hands are up in the air, waving, frustrated. âI didnât do anything wrong! All I did was-â
âOh my god, how many times do I have to tell you to shut up and listen to me?â With your feet planted firmly in your white sneakers with red laces and your arms crossed in your cherry-printed sleeves, you go on, âI get that Iâm a woman. I get that Iâm short and cute and girly. I get that you think youâre godâs gift to medicine.â
âI donât think Iâm-â
âI wasnât done. I get that you struggle to respect me. Idiotic men often do. But let me make one thing abundantly clear: You are a slug of a man-child, James. You leave a trail of slime behind yourself in the form of problems everyone else needs to clean up, you hide whenever things get hard, and you need to blot the oil from your T-zone so youâre less shiny. And invest in a frizz-control shampoo.â While Park stifles a snorting laugh, you go on with the most pointed, cruel voice heâs ever heard from a woman so painfully adorable, âIf you ever speak to me like that again, you will envy the corpses you practice on. All you will do clinically is change infected necrotic dressings and disimpact bowels and every other moment of your day will be dedicated to administrative scut so monotonous it makes your vision blurry. I will ask to have you on my service every day just so I can torture you until you question your entire career path. Do we have an understanding?â
Ogilvie is too stunned to speak for thirty seconds straight. Then he swallows and stammers out, âYes, doctor. I- I understand.â
You nod tightly and add, âIâd like an apology now.â
âIâm sorry,â he says right away. It sounds more afraid than earnest, but thatâll get the job done. âI shouldnât have spoken to you the way I did.â
âGood. I forgive you.â Then you give him a warm, friendly smile and a pat on the head that you have to rock up onto your toes to execute fully. âNow letâs get back to Mrs. Andrews so you can get another lumbar puncture under your belt before your next evaluation, alright?â
Ogilvie manages to get out, âThanks,â before you turn around and lead him back to the ED. He looks like a scolded toddler, lip pouted and cheeks red, while you have that familiar unshakeable pep in your step.
And Brendon Park is smitten.
The next week, as youâre sending off a list of prescriptions, you hear Langdonâs voice from the other side of the ED. âSharkbait, get over here!â
You turn toward Langdon and point at yourself. âMe?â
His eyes are big and begging. âYeah, câmon, I need you.â
âI have work to do, Frank.â
âPlease?â He clasps his hands in front of his chest like a prayer. âParkâs going to kill me when he sees the state of these ribs.â
Exasperated, you cut back, âWhat the hell does that have to do with me?â
âYouâre Sharkbait,â he replies, mimicking your expression. âWhen youâre in the room, heâs less of a dick.â
Several craving any time with Brendon, you roll your eyes and stomp over, telling him, âIâll give you five minutes. Get me up to speed.â
He runs through the patient history with you while you gently palpate the chest.
âJesus Christ,â you breathe as you feel the myriad of fractures all over the ribcage and sternum. âLUCAS?â
âOn an elderly osteoporosis patient. Dumbass firefighter meatheads.â He shakes his head and mutters, âItâs basically a bag of bone soup in there.â
âSounds promising,â Park announces, always knowing when to cut into a conversation. When he sees you, he sighs in relief, âPipsqueak, thank god youâre on this, too. I donât have the patience for dealing with Ken on my own today.â
As Langdon talks to Park with you just sort of standing there as an emotion diffuser, Santos and Whitaker watch in wonder from the hub.
Trinity, whose last interaction with the Shark ended with him saying she should switch to a career with no skeletons involved, scoffs and murmurs, âWhy hasnât he ripped her head off? Sheâs brand new; she doesnât know how to placate him.â
âHer aura powers are unknown to us,â Whitaker mutters back. âShe has some kind of sorcery ability incomprehensible to the masses.â
âI mean, she has nice tits,â Trinity reasons. âSheâs smart. Made some good calls in front of him.â
Whitaker argues, âBaranâs brilliant and has great tits. He called her an imbecile last week.â
Amused, Trinity raises her eyebrows. âYou think Dr. Al-Hashimi has great tits?â
âNot the point.â A minute later, Park leaves the room with a smile in your direction. You swish over to the hub to grab a new chart and Dennis asks, âWhatâs the deal with you and the Shark?â
Humming gently, you ask him absently, âWhat do you mean?â
Trinity cuts in to reply for them both, âWell, I mean, he likes you. Are you two fucking?â
Your eyes startle wide at the idea â tantalizing but impossibly far away. Park is so wildly out of your league you can barely entertain the thought. âWhat? No! Of course not. Brendonâs not as bad as you guys think. You just have to get to know him.â
Trinity mouths to Whitaker, Brendon?
Whitaker shrugs, baffled, and then muses as the three of you watch Park head toward the OR, âI didnât realize that was a possibility.â
You chuckle and tease, âMaybe try being a better doctor next time?â
âBrutal, Sharkbait. Brutal.â
That weekend, the Pittsburgh Penguins hosts its annual Medical Worker Appreciation Night. Because Danaâs been nominated as a spotlighted nurse, the hospital sprung for discounted tickets in the name of staff morale.
Robby shepherds you and the other newer ED staff whoâd gotten their hands on a ticket down to the PTMC section. When he checks seats, pointing everyone in the right direction, he frowns at yours. âKid, do you wanna trade spots with me?â
Your brows furrow. âWhat? Why?â
âLook.â
Your eyes follow Robbyâs pointing chin. At the end of the long row, Parkâs perched on the edge of his seat, staring down the players doing warmups. Heâs wearing a black Penguins hoodie, a black Penguins hat, and a pair of jeans that his meaty thighs battle for dominance with. Youâve never seen him outside of scrubs and itâs becoming a problem very quickly. You shrug and tell Robby, âI donât mind.â
âYou sure?â
âWe get along great, actually.â
âThat explains the new nickname,â he chuckles under his breath. âI figured it was because youâre a sacrificial lamb.â
Park catches your eyes and waves you over, his lips flirting with the concept of a smile. He canât bear to say it out loud, can barely even tolerate the thought in his own head, but heâd looked over the seating chart on the HR receptionistâs computer and basically threatened Ogilvieâs life to switch with him (and then swore him to secrecy on similar conditions).
You plop down next to him and nudge him in the bicep. âHi, Bren, I didnât think you came to things like this.â
Bren. Nobodyâs used a nickname besides âSharkâ for him in decades. He shrugs like his heart rate isnât picking up at the way your arm has to touch his because of how broad he is. âItâs hockey.â
âItâs team bonding,â you tease. âYou hate bonding. And teams that arenât sports.â
âBut I like free Pens tickets,â he replies simply. Then he notices your outfit. Youâre wearing pants, at least â leggings, because fuck him, he figures â but your arms are agonizingly bare from the elbows down, your yellow tee not doing much to protect your skin. He frowns and asks, âDid you bring a jacket or something? Youâre gonna freeze to death in here.â
You shake your head. âItâs not that cold; Iâll be okay.â
âGive it a period.â
âIâm not on my- Oh. Theyâre called periods in hockey?â
Biting back a mean joke because of your sweet, innocent eyes, he says, âYeah. Periods. Three twenty-minute periods with intermissions between.
âYouâre gonna have to explain everything to me,â you say as you stare at the different parts of the stadium. âIâm not from a hockey town.â
âI donât mind,â he admits after a second. He adds carefully, âI never get to talk hockey outside of work.â
âNo gym buddies to gab with?â
âNo gym buddies,â he confirms.
âThatâs shocking, considering the biceps of it all.â And the pecs you would honestly motorboat. And the big veiny hands. And the thick thighs you could bounce on for hours. You swallow hard, thankful you donât have a dick to give away your thoughts. âAre you one of those douchey guys who puts in his AirPods and focuses on his form in the mirror? Oh my god, do you film yourself so you can make sure you-â
âOkay, okay, thatâs enough,â he laughs, raising his hands in defeat. âYouâve got me pegged, sweetheart. I have to be strong because I crack femurs all day. And you have to focus on form if you want to get strong and donât want to get hurt.â
âSo no time for gym buddies.â You lilt, sweet and easy, âMaybe you can show me some time. I could use a little more muscle and a little less-â
âNo, you definitely donât need âlessâ anything,â he protests way too quickly as his mouth goes dry. He can barely tolerate the sight of you in leggings this close to him; heâd burst a blood vessel if you were in bike shorts and a sports bra like his brain immediately supplies. With his neck going splotchy pink, he course corrects, âLifting isnât about losing weight or visible muscle. Itâs about building practical strength.â
And your body is fucking perfect. If you wanted to change it out of insecurity, heâd drop to his knees and kiss your feet until you realized you shouldnât change a thing. Your thighs are just the right thickness, your ass downright juicy, your stomach spectacularly soft, your breasts-
Park sucks in a sharp, deep breath and shakes out the thoughts. âIâm gonna grab something to eat before the game starts. Can I get you anything?â
After a second of thinking, you ask sweetly, âDo they have cheese fries?â
âThey have every disgusting, greasy sports food you could ever want,â he confirms. âIâll be right back with some goodies.â
You occupy yourself by playing social butterfly, introducing yourself to everyone you havenât had a chance to meet yet. When Park returns, he takes a second to admire you running around spreading your sunshine. Then you return to his side and squeal when you see a mountain of loaded cheese fries that make your mouth water in the best way.
Before sitting down to share them with you, Park shoves a folded garment into your arms. âPut this on. I wonât be able to focus on the game if youâre shivering next to me the whole time.â
âAw, Bren, thank you.â Your voice borders on a whimper as you unfold the classic lacer pullover, black with yellow and tan bars around the lower hem and arms, the iconic penguin himself at the center of the chest. âJust let me know how much I owe you for it â at least for half.â
He rolls his eyes. âShut up; itâs a gift.â
âOkay, thank you so much, thatâs so sweet, but the suggestion to shut up is incredibly offensive given I disclosed my word vomit diagnosis to you,â you reply seriously, glaring at him.
Park clutches his chest and tells you, âI apologize for making light of your vulnerability with me.â
âI forgive you because of the cheese fries.â You examine the back of the thick, cozy hoodie and observe, âCrosby. Is he your favorite? Or just the cheapest sweater?â
Park smirks (itâs the most expensive sweater) and replies, âSid the Kid. Best player Pittsburghâs ever had. Best player in the league, if you ask anyone with a brain. Rumor has it heâs retiring soon; I think thatâll be my first true heartbreak.â
You balk at the idea. âYouâve never had your heart broken? I get my heart broken ten times a month.â
He raises his eyebrows. âYou go on that many dates?â
âNo, no, no, no dates,â you quickly reply. Too quickly. A little desperately. âBut it breaks my heart when I see sad puppy commercials or old people eating alone at restaurants or trailers for romantic dramas at the movies. One time I cried because I could only find one of my favorite socks. I tried and I tried but the second one was justâŚgone. I couldnât look at the single one without getting so sad it was hard to-â
âTeam introductionâs starting, then the national anthem,â he interrupts gently. Reluctantly. Like heâs actually invested in your rambling. âPut a lid on the word vomit for ten minutes and Iâm all yours for a full sock eulogy.â
You giggle and salute as the whole stadium stands. âYes, sir.â
He rolls his shoulders and pretends that doesnât go straight to his dick. When you cheer extra loud for Sidney Crosby as he skates to center, jumping a tiny bit like your smile is too big to hold in your body, Park damn near swoons. He wants to sling his arm around your waist and pull you into him, to kiss the top of your head, to, fuck, put you on his shoulders and parade you around or something. He canât even name everything he wants to do with and to and for you. Itâs agony.
Once the game starts, Park takes care to make sure you understand whatâs going on. âThatâs Ovechkin. Youâre gonna see one hell of a game. Heâs Crosbyâs biggest rival.â
âSo we hate him,â you reply obediently. âGot it.â
He smiles at you and confirms, âYeah, we hate him. Mostly because heâs really fucking good.â
You nudge him with your shoulder and tease, âThatâs why people hate you, so itâs good company.â
He barks out a laugh. âIs that why?â
âThat or because you never show off that handsome smile.â
With a pout, he counters, âI smile plenty.â
âHe said, frowning.â
âIâll smile when the Pens win,â he promises.
But, despite his best efforts, he does, actually, get caught smiling before the end of the game. In a big, obnoxious way. After the end of the second period, with the game tied 1-1, you watch the kiss cam flying around the arena with dopey heart eyes so precious Brendon canât rip his eyes away from you. Itâs too cute of an expression not to memorize.
You donât notice heâs staring, too wrapped up in loving to see people in love, until his face lights up the big screen. Youâre so shocked that you donât process just how bright and intent his eyes are, his lips soft and slightly upturned, everything about his expression and posture screaming âgod, sheâs beautiful, isnât she?â Itâs the kind of expression kiss cam operators gravitate toward; only men who adore their girls look like that.
Before he can even truly realize that itâs you and him on screen, his eyes widening, you grab him and plant a big fat shimmery lip gloss kiss on his cheek. Then you grin, following it up by blowing a kiss and winking to the camera.
And Brendon Park smiles wide enough to power the whole arena, the apples of his cheek glowing neon pink and he drops his eyes and shakes his head in delight.
The video is immediately saved and sent to the ED group chat by none other than Trinity Santos, naturally. One of the nurses proceeds to forward it to the nurses chat, where it makes its way to the ortho chat. By the time the camera even pans away, the moment has been forever cemented in PTMC history as the first time Park the Shark has smiled earnestly â innocently, even â in front of his coworkers.
Only the whoops, cheers, and laughs from your nearby ED coworkers drops him back onto earth from cloud nine. Park frowns as he rubs his cheek with a napkin, pouting, âYou got lipgloss on my face.â
âWhat was I supposed to do?â You gesture to Trinity and Whitaker, who are pumping their fists in their air victoriously. âLeave my adoring fans hanging?â
With a sheepish wave in their direction to get them to fuck off, he mutters, âI think youâve permanently damaged my tough guy reputation.â
But you just reply in a sing-sony voice, âYou didnât have to blush.â
âInvoluntary response to relevant stimulus.â
âWhatever you say, big guy.â
If heâs honest with himself, his smile isnât half as bright when the Penguins win an hour later. It only warms back up to critical heat when you wrap him in a hug, gleefully jumping up and down as the puck hits the net right as the buzzer goes off. Heâd kiss you for real if you werenât surrounded by the PTMC staff.
Still, with your arms around the back of his neck, he canât resist doing something. So he keeps it simple and asks, âItâs been a while since those cheese fries; want to grab dinner with me?â
When you say yes, his heart sings.
After the hockey game, thereâs a definite shift in your friendship with Brendon. Itâs more playful. Less guarded. The two of you grab dinner together after your shifts whenever Park doesnât have a late surgery and, if you miss out on dinner, he insists on coffee in the morning. He tells you about his personal life and you do the same, not that itâs hard on your end. Gradually, you start to notice the differences that everyone else in the ED picked up on months and months ago. The way his face goes from hardened to soft when he sees you entering a room. The way his texts have emojis instead of periods. The way he accepts your hugs instead of turning them into handshakes.
Right when youâve gotten up your confidence to actually ask him out, you overhear him and Robby talking in hushed tones inside Parkâs office. The doorâs cracked and youâd come up specifically to ask him to go out with you in a few days on Saturday because you both actually have a weekend off.
With an X-Ray in hand, Robby pushes, âAre you sure you canât do the revision yourself on Sunday? I know youâre not scheduled to be here, but the family trusts you now, and it might be-â
âI told you, man, Iâm surprising my girlfriend on Sunday. Iâve been sitting on these ballet tickets for weeks already and I donât do shit like that,â Park tells him sternly. No room for argument. âYouâre in good hands with Torres; sheâs as good as me any day â maybe better since people actually like her.â
You donât wait for Robbyâs response. Losing your ability to breathe, you scamper to the nearby staircase and start stamping your way down to the ED. Your heart shatters into a thousand pieces. No, a million. They fall down the stairs like glass, so heavy youâre surprised you canât hear them echoing.
Stopping just shy of the ED entrance, you tuck yourself away underneath the staircase to catch your breath, trying not to let yourself cry. Parkâs just one of those guys, you figure. Guys with ultra-secure girlfriends who donât care if they have female friends who drool all over their biceps. Guys who donât mention their ultra-secure girlfriends because they know what they have at home and they probably donât even realize youâre flirting because theyâre so enamored with their great, successful, probably gorgeous girlfriend who knows exactly what sheâs doing in bed and always satisfies him and-
There are the tears.
Feelings of inadequacy and sadness well up and spill over. Itâs hard to keep your sniffles and sobs quiet enough not to draw attention when all you want is to ugly sob over a tub of ice cream and your favorite movie. Only one more hour in your shift. You can make it. Right?
Upstairs, you hear the door squeak open and heavy footsteps traipse down toward you. Familiar footsteps. Of course. He probably saw you running away from his office and is coming to find you because you have the luck of a worm after a rainstorm.
When Park comes closer, he spots your elbow sticking out from behind the staircase. Hiding. Youâre still crying, unable to stop yourself until you get it all out. Silently, yes, but with puffy eyes and tiny whimpers and sniffles that escape every once in a while. Tucked up underneath the staircase, you blot at your cheeks with the sleeve of your daisy-patterned turtleneck.
Rage devours Brendonâs insides. He beelines for you and demands with a level of anger in his eyes youâve never seen before, âWhatâs wrong? Did someone make you cry?â
âNo, no, Iâm fine.â You try a shaky smile and wipe your face again even though more tears just fall in their wake. âJust, um, Iâm on my period and Iâm emotional.â
Which isnât not true. Itâs the last day or two and you are emotional. Itâs definitely not helping the situation. Parkâs a little taken aback you admitted that so freely, but heâs a doctor, dammit, so he doesnât let it faze him. Instead he offers, âOkay, well, um, do you, ah, do you need anything? I have some ibuprofen in my office if-â
You start crying harder, ugly sobs now at how nice heâs being when he just unintentionally and unknowingly turned you into a 12-year-old girl having her first heartbreak.
Park stammers, unsure how to deal with this situation. âOkay, ah, maybe just a hug, then?â
You nod ardently and he pulls you close with his strong arms. You nestle your face in his chest and breathe deep. If this is the closest youâre gonna get to having him, youâre gonna milk it for all itâs worth. With your nose pressed to his muscles as you start to calm down, you whimper, âYou smell really good.â
Still tentative, Brendon murmurs, âItâs Dior. My mom bought it for me.â
Then you start crying even more.
That night, after making some lazy excuse to Brendon for why you canât get dinner like usual, you curl up on your couch and vow to set some darn boundaries with the guy. Youâre only going to get yourself hurt if you indulge in dinners and coffees and stolen gazes and elevator conversations. So you put his messages on silent, only returning them when you actually have a second instead of carving out time. You make a point of ducking into other rooms when you know heâs coming down for a consult, ignoring the desperate calls for Sharkbait from your hapless coworkers.
And by the time youâre clocked out on Friday night, you almost feel better about the situation. Well, thatâs a lie. You actually donât feel better at all. If anything, you feel much, much worse because you donât have your best friend to hang out with anymore. Youâre going to have to resort to drinks with the Pittlings if you donât find another attending soon.
But at least you have the weekend to wallow.
Walking to your bus stop with Celine Dion blasting in your ears, you try to focus on the pretty sunset and the wins of the shift instead of letting your brain drift to-
Fuck.
Brendonâs standing at your bus stop with his stance wide and his arms crossed like a bodyguard, forearms looking extra delectable in the sunset. Heâs not a hallucination from your lovesick mind nor a hologram designed to trip you up on the way home.
You scurry up to him with averted eyes and ask, âWhat are you doing here? You drive a Rolls-Royce.â
âYeah, and that Spectre is my damn baby, but you take the bus when youâre ignoring my offer for rides. So here I am.â His eyes drill through your forehead and your resolve. âCan we talk now?â
Weakly, you mutter back, âMy bus is in five minutes.â
âYouâre not taking the bus. Iâm driving you.â The firmness of his voice makes your knees wobble. He nods over his shoulder toward the small park next to the hospital. âWeâre talking. Come on.â
Then he takes your hand â you want to throw up â and leads you through the park entrance to a shaded spot under a tree where the light makes his chiseled features agonizingly beautiful. Like a fucking Roman marble sculpture. He doesnât wait for you to say anything, instead taking charge and launching in, âWhatâs going on with you? Why have you been ignoring me the last few days? If I did something to hurt you, tell me and Iâll fix it. I know Iâm a dumbass about the feelings stuff sometimes, a lot of the time, but Iâm not going to mess shit up with you, so you have to let me know what I need to do better.â
âYou havenât done anything wrong,â you whimper. You hate how pathetic you sound. How downtrodden and heartbroken. But Brendon looks hurt, too, which makes you feel ten times as bad. So you rush out a hasty version of the truth, âI came up to your office on Wednesday to ask you on a date this weekend, but then- then I heard you telling Robby about your girlfriend who youâre surprising on Sunday and it just, like, crushed me so bad even though I know it was so silly for me to think Iâd ever have a chance with someone like you in the first place since youâre this sexy strong surgeon and Iâm so not but I thought maybe in the last couple months-â
âWoah, pipsqueak, hey.â Brendon cups your cheek in his hand to cut you off once the shock of your words wears off. âWhat the hell are you talking about?â
Unable to meet his eyes, you start to feel the tears coming. Dammit. You stare at your pink sneakers â the same ones you were wearing when the two of you met, you realize â and let them fall to the ground. After a minute, you manage to admit, âI just- I donât think I can be this close to you if you have a girlfriend. Itâs great that sheâs so cool about you having female friends, but Iâm just so sensitive and I know thatâs not your fault but-â
âHold on.â Brendon places both hands on your shoulders, staring at you like youâre an alien making first contact. Baffled beyond his wildest dreams, he explains slowly, âYouâre my girlfriend.â
Between sniffles and shaky breaths, you whimper out, unable to process anything, âHuh?â
âMy girlfriend. Who Iâm surprising on Sunday. That would be you.â
Now itâs your turn to go catatonic, eyes wide and shimmery. âWhat are you talking about?â
âI asked you out to dinner after the hockey game,â he tells you, exasperated in the cutest way youâve ever seen. Like youâre dumb but like maybe heâs also dumb. âI paid for your dinner. I insisted you get dessert. The whole thing. And we- Sweetheart, what do you think all the dinners we eat together are? Why else would I always be inviting you for coffee? Why would I always pay? I donât just dump a couple hundred bucks a week on casual coworkers.â
Starting to feel silly instead of sad, you cover your laugh and protest, âI donât know; I thought you were being friendly! You make $500,000 a year; you should be paying for all your friendsâ coffees!â
â$650,000, actually, I have a sub-specialty in pediatric surgery,â he replies as though you wouldnât drop your panties right here in the park. âMore importantly, I am the least friendly person in the entire hospital. Maybe the entire city.â He runs a hand through his hair and replies a bit bashfully, âI kind of figured you like that about me or we wouldnât be dating.â
The last two months recontextualize in your head in rapid succession. Little moments appear lit up by neon lights that blare, HEY DUMBASS! Brendon tied your shoes last week instead of telling you they were loose, dropping down on his knees right outside the ED where anyone could see just to make sure you wouldnât trip. He always takes your backpack from your shoulders before walking you to the parking garage and opening the door of his gorgeous navy blue sedan for you. Even the way he looked at you at the hockey game.
God, youâre an idiot.
With your lips parted and your eyes rapidly blinking, you come up with a new protest: âYouâve never even tried to kiss me, Brendon. What the fuck? You should be kissing me all the time! You couldâve been jumping my bones ever since the hockey game; that wouldâve made things pretty clear to me!â
âJumping your bones?â He suppresses a laugh since youâre still flustered. He just kind of scoffs and explains with a shrug, âI guess Iâm still old-school about that. A gentleman. I wasnât picking up signals that you wanted me to, yâknow, make a big move. Figured we should take it slow. I mean, youâre new to Pittsburgh, youâve had some big life changes. And I have a history of being too, ah, too intense for some women. I didnât want to mess that up with you.â
âThatâs actually really sweet, Bren,â you reply, sniffling back tears. Waving a hand in front of your face to cool down your burning cheeks, you pinch your eyebrows together and point out, âOkay, well, then we never did, like, a âwhat are we?â talk.â
âThatâs because Iâm 38 years old,â he replies bluntly. âWhen Iâm with my woman, she has my full attention. My devotion. Everything. I donât need to have that talk.â
My woman. The phrase makes you feel kinda bubbly like soda. You smack him on the chest and poke him, âClearly you do, dummy!â
After you nudge him, Park catches your hand in his, fingers enveloping yours. Fuck, his hands are so big and sturdy. Then his eyes soften and he kisses your fingers. He leans down slightly to make better eye contact. âOkay, Iâll have that talk if you want it.â Crystal clear, blue eyes positively sparkling with amusement and adoration, he asks, âWould you like to be my very, very official girlfriend?â
You let out an absolute squeal. Itâs delighted and silly and so cute his stomach turns. God, how did a girl like you get your claws in him? When you throw your arms around his neck and he spins you around, he doesnât care why or how. He just cares that the first words out of your mouth are, âYes, of course, obviously.â You nuzzle into the crook of his shoulder, feet barely touching the ground, and murmur against his ear, âThis is my favorite night ever.â
âYouâve got me wrapped around your finger, princess,â he assures as he sets you down on your own balance. Then he holds your face in his palm and finally bends down to kiss you properly.
But you stop him with your pointer finger in his lips, his eyes widening. âNo, no, no, I canât have our first kiss be when Iâm all puffy and snotty from crying.â
He gives a pretend growl but concedes, âFair enough. Whatever you want. Câmon, letâs get you home.â
Before he turns away, though, you step on your very tippy toes (and then some) and kiss his forehead before asking so sweetly, âHow about you come over tomorrow? I know we already have plans Sunday â by the way, I really love the ballet, so good job â but maybe we should have a first date that I know is a first date beforehand?â
âYeah, of course,â he replies wistfully, still feeling your lips on his skin. On his thick fucking skull. âIâll go anywhere you ask me.â
Like you asked, Brendon knocks on your door at 3PM sharp. You promised to entertain him and make him dinner and he could absolutely care less about any of the details beyond getting to be with you like he craves. Heâd agonized over what to wear to an embarrassing extent, nearly caving and texting his mother for her approval. But that would be a fate worse than death, so he settles on dark jeans rolled at the ankle and a black tee because a little old lady told him he looked hunky when he wore them to the pharmacy a few weeks ago.
You answer the door wearing nothing but the oversized Penguins sweater he bought you, a pair of panties he can barely see under it, and knee-high socks.
Parkâs pupils dilate.
In that one look, you can finally see why they call him Shark. Heâs a predator latching onto you, ready to devour you alive. You take a step back and he steps forward like youâre pulling him by a string attached to his gut. He doesnât even notice himself closing and locking the door, too fixated on the expanse of your legs and the Pittsburgh Penguins logo on your chest. He tentatively puts one hand on your waist and sighs reverently, âYup, this is the singular sexiest thing Iâve ever seen.â
You look away from him, bashful under his praise: âWell, yâknow, I wanted to surprise my boyfriend since heâs planning on surprising me tomorrow.â Then your attempt at a sultry voice goes away and is replaced by your usual glittery one when you see that heâs carrying a bouquet of pastel pink, soft orange, and angel white gerberas in the hand not touching you. âBrenny, did you get me flowers?â
âBrennyâ might be too far, but he canât bear to tell you that. You could call him anything and heâd accept it. He lifts the flowers up and offers them to you. âUm, yes. Is that still romantic or is it really, really lame now?â
âStill romantic,â you assure him with misty eyes, taking the bouquet and skipping away toward the kitchen.
Brendon toes off his shoes and follows you into the house, not surprised to find the place decked out in pastel colors and soft fabrics and dreamy artwork. You dig through your cabinets to find a porcelain vase you thrifted years ago and arrange the flowers inside of it.
As you place them on the windowsill, you give him a soft gaze, softer than any heâs been on the receiving side of. âThis is the sweetest thing any manâs ever done for me.â
Brendon pulls you into a warm embrace, holding your chin with his thumb and forefinger, and says, âBaby, youâre about to have your bar raised, because flowers are the least you deserve.â When your lips part into a shy smile, he asks, âCan I kiss you now?â
You nod eagerly and rock up onto your toes, tilting your chin to get as close to him as possible. Brendonâs gentle, boyish smile makes your heart pound in your throat in the moments before he closes the gap. He takes a second to admire the slopes of your face when youâre gazing up at him like he means something.
And then he kisses you.
Itâs eager and bright, the way you kiss after prom night. You have to fight not to smile when he holds your face between both hands, so much desire in his touch that you can feel his resolve to take it slow with you melting away.
Suddenly, at the sound of you giggling for only a second, Brendonâs arms loop around your back. Before you know it, heâs lifting you off your feet and spinning you around. You hop up, knowing heâll catch you, and lock your legs around his hips. When you feel his smooth, cold belt buckle against your panties, you gasp out a moan at the contact.
Brendon chuckles and buries his forehead in the crook of your neck. He groans quietly, âBaby, you canât make all those little sounds or youâre gonna kill me.â
Breathless, you tease back, âThen you definitely canât call me baby.â
He smirks, kisses you again, and asks in a lower and more pointed voice, âWhereâs your bedroom, baby?â
âItâs right upstairs; if you wanna put me down, I can-â
He shakes his head and keeps you balanced firmly in his arms, walking back toward the staircase. âNo point in having these muscles if my girl ever has to touch the ground again.â
As he carries you up the stairs so easily that youâre turning into a person made more of giggles than anything else, you ask him, âAre you gonna carry me around from patient to patient forever?â
âIf thatâs what you want,â he replies with a laugh as he pushes through your bedroom door. Guiding you down onto the bed, which youâve meticulously made, Brendon murmurs against the pulse point just beneath your ear, âIâll give you everything you want, kitten.â
At the tender pet name, you canât help but moan, encouraging him to touch you as he pins you to the bed just by virtue of how big his body is. He pulls back and gazes down at you so gently. Your heartbeat is slow again, comfortable, safe, but the heat between your legs is undeniable.
Brendon lowers himself down to kiss you once more. The energy between you shifts in that kiss, like heâs become painfully aware of being in your bedroom, your body pliant beneath him, your eyes full of trust and adoration he hasnât experienced in years. His kiss is slow and sweet and simple. He shifts onto his side so one of his hands can cradle your cheek while the other gingerly takes your waist. You can tell heâs being painfully careful with you, his gentle touch revealing a certain level of fear â that heâll hurt you or break you or scare you off.
So you reach forward and twine your fingers in the short hair at the base of his neck, gently scratching his scalp, and press your body against his. One leg thrown over his hip so that he can feel the heat of your barely clothed cunt. You arch your back and wiggle a tiny bit so that his hand almost has to move to your ass. He chuckles into the kiss and that makes you whimper. But he doesnât do more, doesnât grab or push or demand.
You pull back an inch, stare at him seriously, and murmur, âYouâre not gonna break me, Bren.â
Mischief flickers in his blue eyes. He knows perfectly well what youâre asking, even if heâs tentative to give it to you. âWhat are you trying to say, sweetheart? Use your words.â
Mimicking his own voice, you bat your lashes and offer, âWhatâs the point in having those muscles if you donât throw your girl around a little? Câmon, Shark, I know youâre not a shy lover.â You sit up just enough to reach down and lift the hockey sweater up and over your head. Underneath, youâve got a black lace unlined bra, filled out only by the weight of your breasts, and itâs absolutely sinful. âTouch me like you mean it.â
âJesus fucking Christ, this is one hell of a surprise,â he rasps as he grabs your tits through the fabric, a rough sting buzzing through your body. The sight of his hands against the lace flips the switch in his mind and heâs hunting for blood in the water. âI didnât know you owned anything black.â
As he pinches your nipples, mean and certain, the fabric of the lace adding a scratchy friction, you gasp, âItâs a special occasion.â
âYeah?â His hands run down toward your thighs, kneading the thickness of your waist and hips with a greed that approaches true obsession. You lose the ability to think when he bends down and bites the side of your waist, his teeth quickly becoming less and less gentle as your moans get louder and louder. âWhatâs so special?â
You can only whimper as he roughly manhandles you upwards so that he can unhook your bra, using only one hand. Fucking surgeons. All you can think about is what else those hands of his can do. Youâve noticed how thick his fingers are a million times and now you might actually get to feel them the way you want.
Brendon can see the lust laid bare over you, chest rising and falling faster, eyes wide and waiting, skin prickled with goosebumps. Hooking his fingers beneath the edges of your panties and pulling them down, he teases, âOut of words now, pretty girl?â
You take five seconds to breathe, swallow hard, and order, âTake your clothes off.â
He throws his head back and grins. âGood choice of words.â
While you prop yourself on your elbows for a better view, Brendon steps off the bed and tugs his shirt off first. He even does that thing buff guys do where he pulls it off by the back, his arm muscles offensively large as he reveals his abs. His muscles are less defined than they are sturdy, built not like an Abercrombie model but more like a lumberjack or, yâknow, a fridge. The way his obliques cut down into his hips is downright pornographic.
You let out a long breath. âJesus fucking Christ.â
Perfectly and completely aware, he gives you a hunky grin. âWhat? Something wrong?â
You bite your lower lip and physically try to stop yourself from staring, but you just keep failing. Because heâs your boyfriend. Sitting on the edge of the bed now, gradually drawing closer to him like a magnet, you attempt to tease, âAre you always this much of a cocky bastard about your hot bod?â
âMy hot bod?â His hands go to his belt and he slowly removes it. Then, once heâs stepped out of his jeans and youâre blinded by the outline of his, yes, proportionally long and thick cock against his black boxer briefs, he says, âYeah, I always am.â
Eyes greedily drinking down every inch of his body and imagining all the ways you could play with it, you manage to mumble out, âYou should be.â
God, he even makes taking off his underwear hot. It must be those damn thighs. Or the everything else. With your eyes trained squarely on his fat cock, mouth actually watering, Brendon steps toward and lifts your chin. âLike what you see, princess?â
With that same confident smirk on his lips, he takes your small hand and wraps it around his shaft. Suddenly you get the whole âbeer-can-sized-dickâ thing youâve read in way too much erotica because you canât close your hand around his girth. âOh.â
âWhat? Bigger than you thought? You intimidated?â
âHoney, I think everyone youâve ever met knows you have a big dick.â Your eyes flick up to his playfully. âAnd Iâm definitely not intimidated.â
âReally?â
âYouâve never intimidated me. Not like you do everyone else.â
âYeah, thatâs why Iâm so into you.â As you smile coyly, Brendon thrusts between your fingers, watching every miniscule change in your expression â which is rapidly growing less patient. He cups your cheek with his hand and asks, âWant a taste?â
You open your mouth. Obedient, immediate. When his tip touches your tongue, you eagerly lap up a sticky drop of precum and then take him between your lips. Brendon has to grip your headboard hard to tolerate the sight of you sucking him with such a precious, adoring, sweet look in your eyes. It feels like youâre thanking him with your mouth, making the prettiest damn noises for him to memorize and play on repeat.
When you lift your hand to gently tug and roll his balls, Brendon hangs his head and groans, loud and low, gravelly in a way that tickles the back of your mind. âFuck, baby, thatâs- thatâs perfect.â Your happy hum in reply makes his toes curl into the carpet. âJesus, you drive me crazy, you know that? Iâve never been this obsessed with someone.â
You pull off him and beam, lips shiny and slightly swollen now. âReally?â
Brendon pushes you back on the bed and crawls on top of you, easily maneuvering you so that your headâs back on the pillows and his hands are on either side of your face. He kisses you hard, claiming, and says, âItâs actually become a huge problem for me. Youâre all I can think about.â
You giggle breathlessly and ask, âIs that a complaint?â
âMmm. Thereâs that little laugh of yours. Thatâs how you got me,â he groans before kissing you again. âI made some stupid goddamn joke during surgery and the whole team was exhausted but you laughed. Just like that. And I was done for.â
You cover your face, embarrassed and delighted all at once, and remember, âThen I said you have a cutting-edge sense of humor.â
âAnd I thought that was funny,â he goes on with a fond chuckle. His hands have never stopped roaming over your body, playing with your breasts or digging into your hips. âYouâre so gorgeous and perfect I thought that was funny. You donât even realize how deep youâve got your hooks in me, baby.â
Biting your lip, you try to come up with something to say to match his sudden deep sweetness, but he stops you from being able to think at all. His lips drag down your neck, biting and kissing in equal measure until youâre squirming and bucking under him. Then, just beneath your ear, he growls, âCan I leave marks?â
The sound you make is nothing short of pathetic. You clutch the back of his head, tugging his hair a bit to push his teeth against your neck, and whine, âPlease.â
âYeah?â Heâs grinning, now, but he canât bear to let you see. âWant the whole world to know youâre mine now?â You whimper and nod, tilting your head to the side to give him better access. He murmurs, âGood girl.â
Fuck, youâre soaked.
As Brendon sucks hard over your pulse, branding you with the dark shape of his kiss, his right hand goes between your legs, pushing them apart. Two of his thick fingers dip between your folds to collect your wetness before smearing it over your clit. âAll this for me? Youâre easy to work up.â
You laugh and tuck your forehead into his bicep. âAre you surprised?â
âNot even a little,â he chuckles. Making sure to kiss you and hold you as his fingers work firm circles around your clit, Brendon purrs, âIâve thought about all the sounds you must make a thousand times. How you must be so enthusiastic to be a good girl. Youâre so easy for me to read; I knew I could get you off better than anyone else.â
You nod against his arm and moan when he finds just the right tempo on your clit, his fingers ridiculously skilled. âJust like that.â
âWhatever you need, sweet girl,â he assures, listening to you and keeping his fingers exactly the way they are. Methodical.
âBrendon,â you gasp as your pussy pulses wantingly around nothing, âI really need you to fuck me.â
âI love the enthusiasm, kitten, but Iâm not gonna hurt you,â he replies simply. Reluctantly. Thereâs a tenderness to his voice that shouldnât fit with his harsh attitude and masculine features, but it does. Itâs him, beneath everything he shows the rest of the world. He drops down between your legs and nuzzles loving kisses over your sensitive inner thighs, worshipping into your skin, âIf Iâm gonna fuck you to sleep tonight, then I canât leave you sore from the first time. Let me make you cum before Iâm inside you, kitten. Can you be good and do that?â
With your eyebrows knitted together and sweat on your brow, you nod and whine, âIâll try.â
âThatâs all I ask,â he tells you. Itâs insane that a man being offensively cocky with all those smirks and chuckles is so hot. He leans back, sitting between your legs, and begins to plunge his fingers inside of you. Just his two middle fingers have to be as thick as any dildo youâve used before. He bends at the waist so he can keep biting and sucking on your body, the most brutal on your nipples but sure to get ample coverage over your waist and stomach and hips. When he feels you clamping down tight around him, the pleasure so much you canât come up with any response besides your bodyâs natural reactions, he teases lightly, âCareful, baby, my hands are my livelihood.â
Eyes large and glassy, you breathe, âSorry about that.â
Brendonâs thumb goes to your clit and your walls tighten again. This time, he doesnât tease you. He works your clit intently, trying to find what heâd found before, and doesnât rest until heâs right there. Your delicious gasp gives him all the cue he needs. With his thumb flat and firm, he rubs your clit in time with his fingers curling back toward himself. His eyes focus on your expression, each detail, and heâs addicted to your every sound and twitch.
âThere you go,â he praises while your pussy tightens up slowly, threatening to snap into sparkles. âThatâs right. Just trust me. All I want is to make you feel good.
Your orgasm bursts like waves against a hull, building and building until it crashes over you, rocking your gravity and stealing your breath. Brendonâs there with you through it, his blue eyes a lighthouse, his stupid smirk your shore. His free hand holds you down by the hip as he lets you enjoy the fluttery aftershocks, not quite forcing you into overstimulation but not letting up until youâve had as much as you can take.
When youâre finally completely breathless and satiated, Brendon slowly withdraws his fingers and then licks them clean. He leans down for a moment and laps at your inner thighs, tasting your tart juices and salty skin. Your hips buck instinctively when he presses one tiny kiss to your clit and then laughs at your reaction, breath ghosting down your hot cunt. With his slick-wet hand, he fists his cock and asks, âHow do you want me, sweetheart?â
You take a few seconds to think and admire the view before asking, âCan I ride you? Whenever Iâve fantasized about us having sex, thatâs what Iâm doing.â
âYou can do literally whatever you want to me, baby,â he reminds you as he reclines on the bed next to you. He steals one more kiss from you before you start moving to your knees, collecting your balance. âWhat exactly do you fantasize about?â
âWell, I donât know if youâve noticed,â you reply as you climb into his lap, hands going straight to grabbing his pecs with your nails digging deliciously into the flesh, âbut you have these giant fucking tits Iâd like to fondle.â Then, as he laughs, you rub your sloppy cunt up and down his shaft, watching his eyes close and hearing his breath go shaky with lust. âI wanna see your arms when you hold onto my hips and thrust up into me. Wanna feel how strong your thighs are underneath me.â
Brendon shakes his head and snickers, âWow, I had no idea how much you were going to objectify my muscles.â
âShut up; yes, you did.â
You roll your eyes and sink down on him, nice and slow, savoring the way he has to resist slamming up to meet you.
He groans, hands finding purchase on the curve of your waist, âYeah, youâre right.â
Youâre completely forgotten how to talk. The stretch of him is divine. Everything youâd imagined and then some. You have to be careful not to get too eager too fast because his length is definitely enough to bruise your cervix if you arenât gentle with yourself while your pussy adjusts to him. Which is sad, considering the only thing youâve ever wanted in life all of a sudden is to bounce on Park the Sharkâs huge cock until you pass out.
Instead, you slowly rock back and forth, your hands flush on his pecs, with your eyes pinched shut and your mouth falling open. Brendon reaches up to hold your chin, forcing you to open your eyes, and checks softly, âToo much? We can slow down and-â
âShut up,â you order breathily. He smiles, puts his hands behind his head a moment, and enjoys the view of you being a tiny bit bossy. âFeels so fucking good, I promise. Not too much. Just- just- Jesus.â
âWell, they do say he was hung.â
Your laugh is addictively adorable, sounding almost sleepy from the enormous effort of acclimating to him. âYouâre so awful.â
Dragging his hands down and resting them on your ass, he coos back, âAnd youâre sooooo into it.â
When he gives you a quick upward thrust, your response turns into a squeak, âYeah.â
From there, Brendon helps you out. He knows heâs not exactly an easy man to take in this position â beyond the size of his cock, his thighs and glutes are so well-developed that your knees donât even reach the mattress on either side of his hips â so he holds you in place and rolls his hips up into yours, slow and precise.
Once he can tell youâre getting comfortable, breaths easy and moans tumbling out again, he murmurs, âHow about you touch yourself?â
Eyebrows knitted together, you sigh, âAlready so much, Bren.â
Purposefully missing the point, he sighs back, âI guess I can do it for you, princess.â
When his thumb goes to your clit, your nails dig into his chest. Mean pink half moons rise in their wake, but you canât stop yourself â and he doesnât mind. So stretched out, your pussy pulses more than it clamps down, each contraction a fluttery thing thatâs somehow more intense than the last. Heâs grinning to himself as he feels your orgasm approaching fast. Youâre so relaxed with him that he can control your pleasure with the ease of a decades-long lover. Heâs going to have to teach you to be less trusting, maybe teach you to fight, but right now all he wants is for you to yield to him completely.
You cum with a long, drawn-out whine, sweat shiny on your hairline, and Brendon has to take over completely as your thighs twitch and falter. Itâs impossible to hold yourself up through the roiling pleasure that overtakes you in a deluge. Your wetness drips down his balls and onto your bed and youâre not sure youâve ever been this soaked from how much a partnerâs turned you on and worked you up.
âAw, my sweet baby,â he purrs as you fight to stay upright, your thighs burning for relief in the wake of your second orgasm, âtrying so hard to keep up.â
While you let out tiny, cute whimpers, Brendon pulls out slowly and stands up, ignoring your complaining whine at the lack of contact. He goes to your bedside table and muses, âLetâs see what we have here.â Your cheeks burn as he thumbs through your admittedly maybe-too-ample sex toy collection. Taking out your baby blue silicone mini wand, Brendon grins. âHot, young, single doctor â knew Iâd find some goodies in here.â
Youâre totally gone by now, anything but your desire to be with him gone out the window, and he can tell. Itâs his favorite thing in the world. When he says, âget on your knees for me,â your brain is so mush for him that you do it without a single thought or word, presenting your ass beautifully with a placid smile on your lips.
Brendon yanks your hips back so that he can stand at the foot of your bed â which means he can use all his strength to handle you. Lining up the thick, angry red tip, he tenderly rubs your ass and says, âTell me if you want more.â
All you can do is nod. Usually heâd press you for words just to hear you beg, but the eye contact you make is full of so much pleading that thereâs no need for further clarity. You really are so sensitive; there are tears of pleasure and need brimming at your waterline.
âDonât worry that sweet little head of yours,â he practically growls as his cock slowly fills you deeper than heâd been able to get without being in total control, âIâm gonna take care of you, princess. Gonna keep this pretty pussy stuffed. Gonna make sure you get everything you need. I promise.â
Gripping your pillow tight as you once again adjust to his thickness, you nod and sniffle, âThank you, Bren.â
âThere she is,â he teases as he starts to slam into you. Each time he bottoms out, it comes with a weak, needy cry. âThatâs my sensitive girl. Love that about you.â
âThat Iâm a crybaby?â
He picks up speed at the word and all it means to him. Youâre never prettier than with tears running down your cheeks, making your eyes shiny and your lips wobbly. âYou know how much of a confidence boost it is making you cry because of how good you feel?â
âReally?â
âYeah, princess, I fucking love it.â Brendon flicks the vibrating wand onto its lowest setting and reaching one huge arm around your body to press it to your clit. Your corresponding moan turns into a screaming sob, loud and messy and violently sexy. Itâs completely overwhelming and consuming. The way your face contorts from the intensity sends Brendonâs thrusts into overdrive, almost putting all his force into it now. As sweat falls from his forehead onto your back, he urges, âLet it out. Let it all out for me. I wanna hear how good Iâm making you feel.â
And you weep.
The catharsis of his cock christening you takes over. Youâve cried during sex before, yeah (of course), but this is different. It feels like pure relief and connection. Your mind is totally present in your body, feeling every single place of contact where Brendonâs sweating skin slides against yours. The vibrator between your legs is making you shake in his arms, but you trust him to hold you up, to give you what you need, to take you through exactly what he wants to give you.
âCâmon, honey, focus, you can do one more, I promise,â Brendon grunts when he starts to feel your pussy weakly squeezing him again. He didnât think he could get you to this point your first time together, but, if he can, heâs not going to stop.
He leans over your body, mounting you now, primal and animalistic, and wraps his elbow around your neck. The gesture pulls your cunt tight to him and snaps your head back, forcing you to take a deep breath that lights your brain up. Tears slip constantly out of your eyes and Brendonâs drunk on the sniffles and whimpers and moans that choke out of your thickened throat. You drunkenly kiss his arm as it muffles over your mouth.
Then you bite him.
Brendonâs hips stutter and his balls tighten up. You bite him again and again. And youâre not screwing around with it. Your teeth are ravenous on his flush, cutting in nearly enough to draw blood. Youâre so thoughtless that youâre just going for whateverâs been put in front of your mouth; itâs irrelevant that itâs your boyfriendâs flesh.
âThere it is,â Brendon groans, the pain of your bites sending him spiraling out into a new height of pleasure. âI can feel it coming on. Donât you dare hold back, baby. Show me how much you can take. Give me another one and Iâll fill you up. I know whatâs what you want, isnât it?â
You nod without releasing his arm from your mouth. Drool spills from the sides of your lips, mixing with your tears, and youâre hurtling into the orgasm more than itâs welling up within you. The thought that really does it, though, isnât Brendonâs encouragement or the vibrator unrelentingly stimulating your clit. No. Itâs the idea that Brendonâs going to cum inside of you. Even on birth control, itâs a sign that heâs claiming you completely, making you his, being totally naked with you in every sense.
Bliss blows your brains out like a volcano finally giving into the pressure. Brendon holds you tight against him with his free hand, so tight that his thrusts are short and deep. The final few, he grinds into you, totally enveloped in your cunt, letting himself feel each millimeter as it grabs down on him and milks it out. When his cum coats your walls, both of you collapse onto the bed into gasping breaths.
Brendon kisses and kisses your shoulders while he goes soft inside of your pussy, gently pulling your chew toy away and shaking it out because it fucking kills in the most satisfying way possible. He makes a mental note to buy himself a long-sleeve to wear to work as he admires the egregious display of total horny thoughtlessness from the cutesy, angelic doctor.
He sits up and then murmurs, rubbing your back softly, âIâm gonna carry you to the bathroom to get you cleaned up, okay?â
You nod lazily, eyes half-lidded. You make no effort to help him, which only makes him smile to himself and shake his head. Heâd do anything for you already. Cradling you like a baby, he pushes open the bathroom door with his foot and hits the light with his elbow. Heâs absolutely done for. Setting you down on the toilet, he orders, âGo pee, baby. No UTIs allowed.â
Under normal circumstances, you definitely wouldnât be able to pee in front of your boyfriend and you would definitely be mortified by the mere thought. But youâre so relaxed. Your whole brain is like a nice cozy hot tub, warm and bubbly and nothing to worry about. So you do as he instructs without question, some part of your brain acknowledging that heâs correct.
Brendon leans down on his knees, a posture that would be condescending in most situations but is nothing but adoring right now, and suggests, âNow, you said you were gonna cook, but how does delivery on my tab sound? We can get pizza.â
You give a hazy smile and nod. âThatâs so nice, Brenny.â
âWeâre gonna have to talk about that nickname,â he chuckles, booping the tip of your nose.
You pout out your lower lip. âIâm gonna call you whatever I want.â
âYeah, alright, tough guy.â
âMmm.â You lean up to kiss him. âGood boy.â
Brendon laughs and then stands up to fiddle with the handles of your shower until heâs happy with the temperature. Then he guides you to your feet and brings you under the water, not too hot or too cold on your over-sensitive skin. Youâre glad you went for the house with the rain shower when you moved, both of you fitting comfortably beneath the stream at the same time. For a while, he just holds you, hands roaming up and down your back, as he kisses the top of your head.
âYouâre so beautiful,â he murmurs quietly, barely audible above the running water. âYouâre gonna turn me into such a softie.â
You giggle, âOr youâre gonna make me a big mean gym bro.â
Brendon shakes his head and reaches for your shampoo. âMaybe we stick to our current roles.â
âI think they suit us,â you agree as he squirts some into his palm and orders you to turn around. With his fingers working devotion into your scalp, you hum gently under your breath and trust him to hold you up. During the course of the shower, you gradually come back to life. Once youâre sudsing his abs with your lufah, maybe being a touch too thorough by going over every spot with your hands, you lilt, âYou fucked my brains out. I didnât know that was actually a thing.â
âI did set a high bar for myself,â he concedes with a self-satisfied laugh, âbut Iâm guessing itâs only gonna get better from here.â
You stand on your toes and kiss him. âDoes this mean weâre doing paperwork when we go back to the hospital?â
âI love paperwork,â he tells you, mock serious. He chuckles and whistles, âMy first time to HR for something besides another doctor filing a complaint because I hurt their precious feelings by ensuring my patients get the highest quality care possible.â
âBig bad scary Park the Shark,â you agree as you turn off the water. You gently brush his cheek and coo, âMy softie.â
Brendon rolls his eyes affectionately, shakes out his hair, and steps out, grabbing a towel and wrapping you up in it before taking one for himself. With a towel hanging low on his hips, heâs scrumptious enough to have your mind wandering toward round two even though your body wouldnât even consider cooperating for a few more hours.
You head over to the mirror for your moisturizer and catch a glimpse of yourself with clear eyes for the first time since your sex brain turned off. Looking at the myriad of bite marks littered over your body, the flesh swollen and indented, you laugh, âJesus, now I know why they call you Shark.â
âYeah?â Park bares his left forearm to you, the one that had been in your face while he destroyed your cunt, to show off an absolute minefield of neon pink bites, some deep enough that theyâre bruising already. Your eyes widen with guilt, but he quickly yanks you close and kisses you hard, nothing but lust and gratitude on his lips. He nips your neck and teases, âTheyâre gonna have to start calling you Sharkette.â
synopsisRobby wants to take you- his beautiful wife- on a romantic get away, he forgets about the knuckleheads that means leaving at home
warningskids, robby is a dad in this, you are a mom, language, smut-ish (pentration) hospital stuff, bone breaking etc
author notewasn't i so original with the names? my genius frightens even me sometimes. this is a short little thing I just had in my head and really wanted to write. if you're not into kid fics i apologise, really this was just an excuse to write something featuring a version of john carter again. I have lots and lots and lots of pitt drafts and thank you for requests!! I am slowly getting through them:)
the pitt masterlist. another Robby fic!
The smell of wood and coffee drifted to you as Robby nudged open the door with his boot, grunting slightly at the weight of the bags he carried that you'd offered to help him with but hadn't even got a reply as Robby slung one under arm, taking the other two in hand and walking past you with a smirk.
âHome sweet home,â he said.
The cabin was small and hidden away from the city. It was miles away from the hospital and any roads to hide the noise of wailing sirens.
Peace. That's what this getaway was about, taking you somewhere the two of you could live as a young couple, un-disturbed. It was about the only thing that had gotten Robby through the last tough weeks of work. All the blood and death and bathroom breaks of locking himself in stools to silently cry was all so he could come home to you and his family in one piece.
Now, he could shred every responsibility that didn't include being your husband and that wasn't a responsibility. More an honour.
Robby looked down at you with a smile, expecting to see one back. Instead, you were looking down at your phone. âSweetheart, what are you doing?â
âI'm just checking in with the kids.â
He groaned and grabbed your phone, throwing it ahead into the cabin. It landed somewhere soft on the rug. âThey'll be fine, they're what? Twenty something?â
You laughed and stepped closer into his circle of heat, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and drawing yourself closer. âLook at you, pretending not to know your kids ages.â
Robby dropped the bags, snapping his arms around your waist and holding you up. âWhat can I say? I'm loving... attentive...â
His beard scratched up and down your neck as he littered slow kisses there.
âShould I carry you through the doorway? Like when we were married?â Robby wasn't exactly encouraged by the idea with your laughter shaking in your chest.
âI don't think your back can handle that, old man.â
His brows rose up, tongue poking the inside of his cheek and you bit back a smirk. He couldn't help but think how sexy you looked, even after kids and marriage you never failed to stop looking beautiful.
And Robby had never found being called old sexier.
âWell,â he grunted, lifting you further till your toes were scraping the floor. âHow about you go up to that bedroom and I show you just what this old man can do?â
âDad's gonna kill me... Dad's gonna kill me.â
Noah watched his brother, John, pace the small hospital room. For such a tiny pace he was making good job at trekking miles. âRelax, at least we're in a hospital,â he said. âThat way they can shock you back to life.â
âSo he can kill me all over again!â John hit his forehead with the palm of his hand, the smack bouncing around the walls.
Their sister, Casey, laughed on the bed.
She was taking all this surprisingly well considering it was her arm broken and limply lying in her lap.
The brothers looked to her as if remembering she was there. Like she wasn't the reason they were there. Well- technically it was John's fault. Because he was older and he was supposed to be looking after Casey. He should have been the one watching her on the trampoline. Should have seen how she fell on her arm and a sickening crack followed.
To her credit, Casey didn't cry.
Instead she let out a string of curse words that would make a sailor shudder.
Noah didn't know which is dad would hate more: the cast she'll inevitably be put in or the words she'd some how picked up.
âHow're you feeling?â John asked, sitting on the edge of the bed.
âHungry,â she said, pulling out the puppy dog eyes and pout that only a six year old could do effectively.
âCan't eat I'm afraid, not till we've got that arm looked at.â
âWill I need stitches?â
Noah let out one loud, ha! âWorse!â
Casey shrieked.
âNoah!â John lectured.
âWhat? I'm being honest! Honestly is the best policy.â
âNot when it scares her!â
âI'm not scared,â said Casey, momentarily misplacing her broken arm as she tried to flail them around only to end up teary eyed at the pain.
John shuffled closer to her side in panic, throwing an arm around her shoulder and comforting her. âIt's okay, oh, it's okay.â
âI want daddy!â
John and Noah looked at each other, gulping.
It had been a total of four hours. Four hours they'd been gone and already things had gone wrong! The drive up to their cabin alone was five so they'd maybe only had three hours of relaxation. That was enough, right?
For months their dad had drilled it into them he was taking their mother away for an anniversary he had to work three months ago. This was the only time off together your schedules could work out. After all, PCMT didn't run steady without the attending and nurse.
We'll be gone three days, their dad told them, sitting the two brothers a year apart down. Carter will be busy at Presby so I need you two to look after Casey, alright? John you're eighteen, you're in charge.
Noah had never been happier to be younger.
It was all amusing to him really, besides the fact his sister was hurt- obviously.
âI want daddy too,â Noah laughed.
John paled.
Suddenly the door flew open and just when Noah thought it might have been a doctor they'd never seen, or Abbot or Dana, it only got worse.
Carter rushed in, white lab coat billowing a second behind him. Their dad thought it was tacky and dumb (med students haven't worn them since the 90s, he'd said) but their mom thought Carter looked handsome so- the doting mommy's boy he was- Carter always wore it.
Noah rolled his eyes.
âHey, hey, what's going on here?â he rushed over to Casey, pressing a kiss to her forehead and petting down her hair. âYou okay? She okay?â
âShe's fine,â said John, standing from the bed.
âMy arm hurts,â whined Casey.
âI'll give you ten bucks to say nothing,â said John.
Casey made a dramatic move in holding in her words.
John should have done it for five.
Carter looked around the room like he was wholly confused even if he was in his second year of med school in Presby and was accustom to the look of a hospital room. âWhere's her chart? Has she been looked at? Has Dana been in?â
âNo, I got us in on the down low,â said Noah, standing from his chair.
Carter hovered over the computer, trying to find a way to log in that didn't mean hacking into the system. âThe down low?â
John reached his other side. âI bribed Donnie to get us a room.â
âWhy would you do that?â
âSo they don't call mom and dad!â
âThey're not here?â Carter asked, a furrow between his brows.
âNo, they're up at the cabin,â said John.
âTheir romantic getaway, you remember that?â asked Noah.
Carter's expression dropped. âThat was today?â
âYeah that was today, where have you been living?â said Noah, knowing his brother lived in the second biggest room of the house and had been pretty much vacant from it with his studies. Noah had took to invading the room at any chance.
John rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. âWe called you cause... you know, you're a doctor.â
âWell, no, I'm a med student,â said Carter, though briefly the word 'doctor' had gone to his head. And ego.
âBut you're so good at it,â encouraged Noah, thumping their eldest brother on the chest and fixing his crooked stethoscope. âWhat better time will you have to put your skills to good use then to help our sister?â
The three looked back to Casey who was watching them, blinking.
âHow's your pain on a scale of one to ten, Casey? One being no pain at all, ten being horrible, terrible, worst pain of your life?â asked Carter, keeping his voice as light and brotherly as possible.
Casey looked to John.
He sighed. âYou can talk, Casey.â
She thought about it for a second. âA seven?â
Carter cursed under his breath.
John and Noah shared a look, knowing who to blame Casey's exclamations on. âYou can order labs,â said John.
âYeah, get her a scan or something,â added Noah.
Carter laughed them off. âI can't, I don't work here!â
John put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. âOf course you can, you're a Robinavitch.â
âHey,â said Santos, approaching the nurses station as if in a daze. âI'm like totally not crazy and I totally don't miss the guy or anything but I swear I just saw a younger version of Robby walk in here.â
âWhat?â Javadi laughed.
Whitaker nodded along, as if he'd expected it. âYou must really miss the guy, huh?â
Santos rolled her eyes. âNo, Jesus that's not it. I just mean Robby's literal doppelganger just walked in, white lab coat and all.â
Dana didn't make it a habit to listen into gossip... sometimes she couldn't help it. She lingered at the nurses counter, listening with one ear to everything else around her in case there was an actual emergency.
âReally, where?â Javadi asked.
âHey! You three!â Dana called, snapping her fingers as she approached the three, peering at them over her glasses. âWe got beds to empty, people to see, let's move it!â
The three were resigned to do their job, as so many usually were, but Dana watched them go, ensuring they were all going to three separate locations but not before she caught Trinity leaning into Javadi, whispering in her ear an exam room where this mysterious young Robby was hid in.
Dana wondered but not for long as she found the room with not one, not two but four Robinavitch children inside.
A grin formed. It was always good to see them, especially since she'd been seeing them since they were babies, having held each one of them in her arms and held each of their hands as they started to walk. Sometimes they still needed the hand.
Carter, John and Noah's backs were to the door, the three standing over the bed in clear thought if their folded arms and tense backs were anything to go by, so like their father they were.
Casey Robinavitch, the youngest of the set, was first to spot her, smiling wide. âD! D!â
âWell look what the cat dragged in!â she celebrated.
Casey did what she could to move but Dana was there at her side, embracing her and helping her back down onto the bed.
The boys were less enthusaticaly.
âHey, Dana,â John said quietly.
Carter was by far his father's son in looks. The same sloped nose and brown eyes. Dressed up as a doctor he looked even more the part. It freaked Dana sometimes, like having the ghost of young and cocky Michael Robinavitch hovering around the place.
John and Carter- still alike their father- had a bit more of you in them. In their smile and eyes. Casey too.
âWhat the hell's going on here, you miss me that much you invaded the place, huh?â she asked though she could tell by all three of the boys looking worried and Casey sitting still that there was some reason to have been here.
âIt looks like Casey broke her arm,â said Carter, brushing back his hair. âA simple Distal Radius fracture.â
âYou got all that without a scan? Presby must be teaching you something,â she teased.
Carter blushed.
Dana cast her gaze to the quiet John and Noah. âWhich one of you supposed to be looking after my girl here anyway?â
They both pointed at each other.
Dana shook her head and rolled her eyes before focusing ahead to Casey. âOkay, honey, you hungry? I keep a stash of candy in my draw, you want a piece?â
She nodded enthusaticaly.
âBut she'll need surgery for her arm, she can't eat,â said Carter.
âEven I knew that,â added John.
âYeah well the OR's a little backed up,â said Dana with a pat to Casey's knee. She stood up and drew the curtain around them, closing them in. âWe had an accident and there's a long que.â
She didn't want to get in the specifics of crash that involved all the OR's time but Carter approached her.
âAnything I can do?â he asked.
Dana smiled. She had to say, it was good to see the kids that were made from her favourite attending and nurse. âNo, kid. You stay here with your family, I'll handle everything.â
âWhat's with the curtain?â asked Noah.
âAre we grounded?â
âYou're all a bit of a celebrity around here, the new residents and med students don't know you guys exist, heck they only realised your parents were married after Huckleberry caught them in the lounge.â
âEw,â said John.
âCaught them what?â asked Casey, full of child like innocence.
The boys looked to Dana in amusement.
âDoing things adults shouldn't do at work,â she said.
Casey wasn't satisfied. âLike what?â
âYou can ask them when they get here.â
âYou're not gonna call them, are you?â asked John, adam's apple moving in his swallow.
âHave to kid, sorry! I'll get Princess to take you to X-ray, sound good?â she asked Casey, knowing Princess was her favourite (other than herself of course) because she was better at braiding than both her parents.
John fell into his seat, hunched over. In comfort, Carter clamped a hand on his shoulder.
Dana left the family, shaking her head and trying to hide her smile. She'd pushed you and Robby to go away, trusting that the three boys you held in such high esteem would handle looking over one small girl who really wasn't that much trouble.
She hated to be proved wrong.
Hated even more she had to interrupt the two of you after she'd had to watch the sultry looks passed between the two of you and stop the two of you from disappearing together into rare empty beds and store rooms.
Dana called you first, shaking her head while she did.
âRobby!â
He groaned into your neck, his arms caging in your head as he moved in and out of you with a rapid pace. Sweat covered both your bodies from the long-awaited sex he planned to drag out. âMy god,â he groaned.
Your nails scratched down his back leaving angry welts in your place. He licked lazily at your neck, moaning and groaning at the taste.
The both of you were as loud as you liked, without kids barging in to say they couldn't find the remote or wanting to know what was for dinner. The cabin stood alone with only trees as its companion so you could be as loud as you liked.
He'd had you coming on his mouth and fingers- then once more for luck- before he finally found himself home in you and that was how it felt, coming home.
Your back arched into him as his hips met yours. âMichael... Michael...â
You could feel him grin into your neck. âGonna come again? Come on my cock, jus how I like.â
Robby found your lips and kissed you openly, all teeth and tongue. His breathing was laboured, his lips a hungry mess. His hips drove in more and more, his groaning louder, face scrunched in concentration to last.
âPlease, Michael, please,â you whined against his lips.
Robby licked at your lips, nodding-
Suddenly there was a loud ringing and vibration against the wood off the bedside table where you'd left your phone.
Robby groaned but not in pleasure. As his lips pulled away from yours you turned to look at your phone. âIgnore it, ignore it,â he begged, cupping your cheek to move you to look at him again.
You let him kiss you, let him distract you with his tongue as he drove his cock in and out quicker, desperate to chase your high.
âOh god, hurgh, fuck!â
Your phone still rung and his grip hardened on your face.
âCould be... could be the kids...â you uttered.
âThey're fine, they're fine-â
But you couldn't help but stretch, under the feign of pleasure you arched up and grabbed your phone, turning it face up.
âJesus-â Robby grunted but stilled inside of you, impossibly close.
Hospital. Work. Calling.
âJesus-â he chuckled dryly. âHasn't even been a day.â
Before you could even think about answering it Robby snatched it from your hand and threw it half way across the room.
âRobby!â you laughed.
Your arms wrapped back around him and drew him in, legs going around his waist as his cock continued his work.
âJack, thank god!â Dana gasped when she spotted the night attending making his way in. He greeted her with a bag already over his shoulder, giving her a brief hug.
âHey, got your message, what's going on?â he asked, brows knitted together in worry.
It was a last ditch attempt. Dana had called you a handful of times from the hospital phone and her own. She'd tried Robby and been sent straight to voice mail. Nothing. She couldn't exactly blame the two of you, it was supposed to be a holiday.
None of the kids were willing to be the one to make the call and other than tackle them to get a phone Jack was the last result.
âGot a family situation, the parents won't pick up,â she explained.
âWhat kind of family-â
Dana led him into the exam room.
Casey was sitting in the bed, her arm up in a sling with a pizza box in her lap. Next to her Noah was cosied on the bed while John and Carter were on each side of the bed, chairs pulled him and pizza slices in hands.
âUncle Jack!â Casey cheered.
The boys at least looked happier to see him than they had Dana. They knew if Jack was here it meant they couldn't get in contact with either you or their dead.
âWhat's this? A pizza party and I wasn't invited?â he said, setting down his bag and heading for Casey, checking in on her first.
âWhat's this? Where's the pizza come from?â asked Dana.
âThey were hungry, I ordered,â said Carter.
âAnd surgery for her arm?â
Carter chocked down the last of his pizza. His doctors coat was still sat on his shoulders but his tie was lose around his neck and several pens were missing from his pocket. âThe OR's backed up, you said that, you gave her a lollipop!â
Dana tried her best efforts to be mad on behalf of Robby but it didn't work. Robby could maybe be mad at the boys if he had the right too but Casey he could never seem find to be angry with. A daddy's girl through and through.
âHey, Carter, how's Presby?â asked Jack, all the while testing the pain with Casey.
âGood, it's er, it's good,â he said. âI told them there was a family emergency.â
There was only one reason Carter had gone to Presby and that was to keep work and home away from each other. He couldn't be a student under his dad and mom.
âSo you er-â Noah started. âCouldn't get through to mom or dad, huh?â
There was an un-denying gleam of joy at that.
âNo, we couldn't,â said Dana. âBut we're gonna keep trying.â
Carter crossed his arms over his chest as if he were the concerned doctor and not the worried older brother. âWe need their permission for the surgery, what happens to her arm if it's not put right soon?â
âWell good news is I can pull weight in the OR, though we'll have to wait for the pizza to go down,â said Jack, taking a bite from the slice Casey held in hand. She laughed. âWhat colour we thinking? Pink? Red? Black?â
âCan I have three colours?â she asked.
Jack shrugged. âI'll put the request in.â
âWhy aren't they answering? Maybe they're asleep?â said John.
Noah smirked. âOr maybe they're enjoying their free time.â
Jack shot him an unamused look.
âI meant playing games!â he defended.
âLike twister?â asked Casey.
Carter looked away, scratching the back of his head as Dana hid her smirk along with him.
âYeah, twister.â
You'd managed to escape the clutch's of Robby, managing to throw his shirt on and get to the kitchen for a glass of water. Your legs had been shaky in the sort of delicious way you'd missed.
It was dark out, the small orange glow of the lights around the cabin lighting your way as you downed half your drink.
The wooden floor creaked behind you. The curve of Robby's belly met your back.
His hands wound under his shirt on your body, fondling your hips. âI thought the point of a get away was no clothes allowed.â
You bit your lip, gently setting down your glass of water. âAnd if I turn around are you going to be following that rule?â
Robby chuckled into your skin. His lips found your neck again, kissing over the bruises he'd left from before. It started slow, the sort that reminded you of your first time before his teeth met your skin and nipped. His hands got further up your skin, running over the curves of your body. âWhy don't you look and find out?â
The idea of Robby in all his beauty had you salivating at the mouth and lower parts when a vibration alerted the two of you.
Robby groaned again, the both of you finding his phone left in his pants pocket crumpled on the floor.
It seemed you'd been in a hurry to get them off.
âThe thing keeps going!â
Robby was naked, and it distracted you all through the walk to get his pants, fishing for his phone. Not that he cared, he only finished your glass of water.
Your hormones were going crazy, begging you to climb your husband like a tree but you still managed to answer the phone. âMichael's phone.â
âJesus what's it take to get you to pick up a phone!â Dana said in a way of greeting.
âOh, hi Dana, how are you? Sorry, we were... busy.â
âYeah busy my ass, listen you guys need to come back.â
âWhy, what's happening?â
Robby heard the worry in your voice and turned to look over his shoulder.
âYour kids are here, Casey's hurt.â
âSo let me get this straight: You're letting Jack sign your cast first, then Carter, then John, then me!â gasped Noah.
The family had made themselves at home at in the small room, Casey in the bed like the queen of the castle though even queens needed sleep.
Carter was watching his sister come in and out of sleep while John stayed close to her side, stroking back her hair. They'd put her in the list for the OR, it was backed up enough that by the time she got in her eating wouldn't have been a problem. In three more hours he'd have to get back to Presby and carry on a shift. He should've used the time for napping but found the hospital chairs not so comfy.
Casey nodded, as if proud.
âIt's John's fault and he gets to sign it before me!â
âHe didn't steal my favourite crayons!â she said.
Jack raised his brows at Noah. âCrayons?â
Noah stuttered with all the eyes on him. âI was taking notes.â
âIn crayons?â asked Jack.
âColour helps you retain information! Look it up!â
There was a gang of laughter before the doors burst open.
Robby was first into the scene and you were close behind.
âDad!â said Casey.
âHey, sweetie,â he greeted, by-passing everyone else in the room to press a kiss to her forehead, keeping a hand on her fine arm. âWhat the hell happened?â he asked to the room.
John and Noah fell into your side, trying to be safe there away from the wrath of their father. âShe- she was on the trampoline and she fell, broke her wrist.â
âDistal fracture,â corrected Carter.
âWhy weren't you looking out for her?â Robby asked as he took Jack's stethoscope from around his neck, pressing it to her chest as if there could be something wrong and as if they hadn't already checked.
âI-I turned my back for a second,â said John.
âIt's okay,â you said, stroking back John's air just a little.
You walked past the boys, greeting Carter quickly before you set on the edge of Casey's bed. Your daughter had your eyes. âHey honey, how are you feeling?â
Robby gave her another kiss on the forehead before stepping away and letting Jack- the closest thing the kids had to an uncle- take his place. There was a small wave of his hand and the boys- even Carter- fell into step. âSo tell me why not even five hours into the trip with your mother we're called back in because you let your sister get hurt?â
âHe didn't let her get hurt, dad,â Noah defended. âIt could've happened whether or not John was watching her.â
Robby's hands ran up and over his face, pulling at the lines of age and worry. Deep down he knew that was true and the boys knew he knew that. It didn't change that Casey had been hurt and ended up in the hospital. If it had been one of them- Carter, John or Noah- Robby and you would have drove with the same speed.
âOkay, okay,â Robby nodded. âAnd who let her have pizza when she's in line for the OR?â
John and Noah turned to Carter.
Robby frowned. âAre they teaching you anything at Presby?â
âDana said the OR was backed up!â
âDon't drag me into this kid!â called Dana from the open door and over the crowd that had formed.
On second look Robby spotted Whitaker, Javadi, King and Santos at the door with Samira- all of who knew you and Robby well, knew you had a flirty thing going on yet had no idea the life you'd shared and continued to create behind the scene.
Next to them stood Langdon, the one holding the door open for them all to see. The one that did know and had even played a hand in Casey's birth.
âHoly shit,â said Whitaker.
âYou have kids?â asked Javadi. âLike actual, real-life off springs?â
Carter frowned, looking from the crowd to you. âWhy do they seem so surprised at that?â
You smiled, leaning your head on Casey's as she babbled about the accident and everyone she wanted to sign her cast (including barbie herself). âWell, we didn't really mention the whole kids part.â
âSo nobody knew we existed?â asked Noah, offended. âWhat happened to pride and joy?â
âWhat happened to pain in my ass?â said Robby, lovingly. At least, Carter thought it came off that way. âOkay- yes, yes,â he said addressing the crowd. âWe have kids, we didn't say anything because well frankly it was none of your buisness-â
âI knew I saw a younger Robby!â said Santos. Her phone was in hand and clicking with the sound of a picture of the room- specifically Carter-before anyone could stop her.
âIt's not like I don't have my hands full with you lot already,â Robby mumbled, rubbing at his temples. âBut yes, we have four beautiful children, anything else?â
There was a clear of a throat. Surprisingly not from the crowd of doctors but from behind him. From you.
âWhat?â asked Robby.
You gave him a pointed look.
He'd said four kids. Had he got it wrong? Somewhere along the lines it did get hard to keep track of them all. Who had exams when, who was in line to follow in their footsteps in practising medicine, who wanted a dog for christmas, etc.
Just in case, Robby did a head count, counting his kids off on his fingers: Casey, Noah, John, Carter. Casey, Noah-
It wasn't till he looked at you and saw your hand lingering over your stomach that he realised.
He thought back to the wine you'd declined at dinner last week, to the morning sickness you'd tried to hide from him, to the way you said there were things to talk about when you had a chance alone. After four, Robby should have been good at spotting the signs.
Five children it would appear.
âCongratulations, brother,â Jack was first to say, smiling in amusement that you'd caught your husband so off guard. Again.
John and Noah were next in clapping him on the back before attending to you in the same celebrations.
Robby took it all red in the cheeks as Santos started to clap behind him, Whitaker following un-sure a beat behind her.
âJesus, dad, can you keep it in your pants for once,â joked Carter, standing at his full height next to him.
Robby shrugged, arms folding over his chest. âTakes two.â
Noah frowned. âEw.â
Casey, the poor girl with the broken wrist, wasn't sure what was going on. âTakes two to what?â
The room fell silent. You pursed your lips, looking to Robby for some explanation.
Carter patted his dad on the back, slipping out of the room.
John smirked. âYeah, dad, takes two to what?â
Robby glared. âSon, lets talk about your grounding.â
Dr. Brendon Park x AFAB!female!reader; ex!Robby x AFAB!female!reader (but like they aren't anything)
Summary: In the midst of Robby's downward spiral, he ended your relationship and proceeded to be immature and treat you poorly. After time, healing, and reflection, you find yourself believing in something, or someone, again. Only this time, itâs with Brendon Park. This fuels Robby's lashing out at people as he finally gets his karma. Inspired by the Chappell Roan song 𩷠This is going to be the first part of at least two, if not three part fic. I'll see where the story takes me!
CW: minimally edited/reviewed, discussion of depression, explicit language, breakup so angsty but also lots of comfort, reader has hair, suggestive language/scenes so MDNI, making out (mwah!), like not smut but almost, reluctant(?) proximity
WC: 3.9k
A/N: this isn't meant to be a complete dunk on Robby because he deserves healing and happiness too but that doesn't excuse the way he treated his staff! This was lowk inspired by me being peeved that Noah Wyle refuses to give us a night shift season and said that its primarily mothers going to the ER at night and its "boring." My friend's husband who is a night shift ER doctor would beg to differ. Anyway! Hope you enjoy. Also thank you for 76 followers!!!
It shouldn't have been a shock to you, not really. You'd just never thought that Robby would do this to you. He knew that kicking you out when you had nowhere to go was cruel but he did it anyway. As a resident, you were making crumbs while under a crushing amount of medical school debt. Thatâs why you were sniffling in the stairwell; overwhelmed, upset, and scared. Maybe you could pull a Whitaker and live in the hospitalâŚ. what the fuck had your life come to?
Overcome with more emotion, a new wave of tears rolled down your cheeks. You tried, unsuccessfully, to sob silently but to no avail. You wished more than anything you could cry at home but you didn't even have one of those anymore. Suddenly, a door above you opened and heavy footsteps were headed your way. You quickly wiped away your tears and prayed to every deity possible to make it look like you hadnât just been crying. All too soon, you were peering up at Dr. Brendon Park, who had stopped moving the moment he saw you. Great. The least sympathetic person in the entire hospital walks in on this pitiful scene. He'd probably lose any respect he might have had for you just given the state you were in.
He stared down at you and slowly continued to approach. âWhat happened?â
You really didn't want to share the sordid details of your breakup with the Shark. Naturally, a fib fell from your lips. âNothing.... I just, um, I have really intense allergies.â
He stared at you, silent, not even entertaining your obvious lie. Anyone could tell youâd been crying your eyes out because your eyes were watery, red, and your whole face was puffy.
Much to your surprise, he lowered himself on the stairs to take a seat next to you. This time when he spoke, he used a softer voice and asked, âare you ok?â You really werenât expecting that. Which is how you found yourself sobbing again, but this time, into Parkâs chest, wetting his scrubs with tears and snot. Park absentmindedly rubbed your back while you were calming down. It was grounding and soothing -- it felt nice.
You both sat in silence for a little longer before you finally spoke up. You figured he deserved a little explanation since his scrubs were ruined for maybe the rest of his shift. Plus, he didn't have to comfort you. He could have just as easily ignored you and went on his merry way. You wouldn't have even held it against him.
You cleared your throat and with shaky breath, you explained, âRobby, uh, robby just broke up with me and told me to get my stuff out of his place by tomorrow night. It would be fine if I had a place to crash but Iâll figure it out. Iâm just⌠really fucking sad and mad at myself for letting this happen. I knew it was going to end soon, I just didn't think.... I'd hoped he wouldn't do something like this.â
You didnât see it, still buried in the warmth of Brendonâs chest but his jaw clenched at your admission. What stupid asshole breaks up with their girlfriend at work and kicks her out?
âIf youâre going to be mad at anyone, be mad at Robinavitch. Thatâs beyond fucked up.â
You werenât sure why but that made you laugh. Maybe it was mania setting in or the ridiculousness of the situation but it was suddenly very funny to you. Your laughter bubbled up out of you, uncontrollable and bright. You still couldn't see his face, but he was smiling a bit to himself at the sound, grateful you had a momentary reprieve in sadness to laugh.
Brendon started to stroke your hair as you laughed and asked, âwhatâs so funny?â
Turning your head to look up at him, you said, âI just never thought the Shark would be the one to comfort me.â
He gave the slightest smile and said, âhey, Iâm full of surprises.â Finally extricating yourself from him, you replied, "yeah, I guess so. Thanks by the way." Before you could start to get up, his warm hand gently wrapped around your wrist, stopping you in your tracks.
"You can crash at mine if you'd like. I have a guest room."
You were sure your eyes were as wide as saucers. The Shark was offering his home to you? Were you dreaming?
"Yeah, that would be--," unable to help yourself, you asked him the obvious question, "why? Why would you offer your place, you don't know me very well and you're comforting me as I'm a wreck and I ruined your shirt--"
Brendon swiftly cut you off as he heard emotion rising in your voice again, threatening to bubble over. He looked you square in the eyes and said, "because that's what you need."
You were speechless. Who knew Park the Shark could be so kind? You rushed forward and slammed into his chest, wrapping your arms around him in a tight hug.
"Thank you so much!" Before he could respond or even hug you back, your pager went off and you ran out of the stairwell and back to work.
After your shift from hell, Trinity, Javadi, and Whitaker all provided moral and physical support by helping you gather your things from Robby's. Luckily (or depressingly), all you had were clothes, toiletries, books, your laptop, a few trinkets, and a couple random kitchen items, which all fit in the back of Javadi's car with room to spare. At least Robby hadn't come home while you emptied his place of the evidence you ever existed in it. Needless to say, you were choking back tears all over again.
Once the car was packed, you stared at the outside of his house for maybe the last time. Reality sunk in again and your mind swirled with aching thoughts. It was an end of an era, of a relationship, of a life with someone you loved. How could it be taken away so quickly and without remorse or concern for you? Your friends must have noticed you were on the verge of tears because you were quickly wrapped in a bear hug from all three of them. It wasn't like you guys to not bicker and tease -- you must have been in a really bad spot to garner harmony and support from the group. Once more, you allowed yourself to let go, lose yourself in your sadness, and cried into the hug, shaking and exhausted.
With a teary smile, you pulled away and said, "let's go see the Shark's lair."
Javadi laughed and said, "yeah, I still can't believe he offered to let you stay with him."
"Me either. But beggars can't be choosers."
Trinity sent a smirk your way. "Oh please, I think if you had another option you'd still chose to stay with Park, what with the fuck-me-eyes you give him during consults."
Your mouth dropped open. "I do NOT give him fuck-me-eyes!" Trinity simply kept her smirk plastered to her face and muttered under her breath, "whatever you say."
Truthfully, you did find the surgeon attractive. Come on, you clearly had a thing for older men. But he was.... something else with his imposing stature, mean stare, and big fucking muscles. But until now, you hadn't really thought about it all too much. He was eye-candy, off-limits while you were in a relationship. But now, you found yourself very much not single.
Huffing, you pushed the absurd idea out of your mind. The man was offering a place to stay -- it was against so many morals to be sexualizing the poor guy. You'd respect him and his home and absolutely wouldn't think about him that way.
Yeah fucking right.
The first hours at Brendon's was... awkward to say the least. Neither of you were sure how to interact with the other or move in the now shared space. Currently, you were sitting on the guest bed, attempting to scrounge up some courage to go back downstairs. You couldn't stay in your bedroom forever, no matter how tempting hiding away was.
Before you could stop yourself, you got to your feet and made your way downstairs. The closer you got to the kitchen, the stronger a wonderful aroma of garlic and olive oil became. Brendon was preparing something, you weren't sure what, but it smelled fucking delicious. Your stomach grumbled, effectively announcing your presence to him.
Brendon turned, and much to your mortification, said, "I'd ask if you were hungry but I think I know the answer to that." You dropped his gaze in shyness, unable to figure out how to respond. You should be grateful, and of course you were, that he was allowing you to stay and offering you dinner after what was arguably one of the worst shifts of your life. You couldn't help but feel burdensome and once that was added to your already full plate of emotions, you weren't sure what to do with yourself.
Noticing your internal distress, Brendon's brows knitted together in concern. Setting the spatula down, he completely turned to face you. "Hey, I didn't mean anything by that --"
Before he could get further into an absolutely unnecessary apology, you interrupted him, saying, "no, no, please don't apologize. I just, I feel like such a burden right now and I don't know when I'll be able to get out of your hair and I just feel bad that you're letting me stay and now you're making dinner. I feel useless and burdensome I guess." Wow. You weren't expecting this radical honesty to pour out of you, but clearly, you couldn't help it. It had been a long day and it was simply too tiring to try to jump through the hoops of deciding what to share and what not to share.
"You're not a burden. I offered to let you stay and I'm offering food because I want to -- I don't do things I don't want to do. I'm a surgeon, I'm not hurting for cash." Blunt, but true. He owned a gorgeous brownstone that would have Architecture Digest salivating at the opportunity to film. Natural light poured into the kitchen and because the sun was setting, it bathed everything in a beautiful orange hue.
Feeling a bit more comfortable, you truly took in his place. It was impeccably clean (of course) and thoughtfully decorated. Brendon watched you take in your surroundings, oblivious to his assessing gaze and clear desire to know what you thought of it etched on his face.
You smiled as you spotted some family pictures on his wall. It was sort of odd to see him smiling in the picture since it was so different to his intense no-bullshit vibe at work. "Woah, you have a huge family." You turned to look at him and he had his back to you once more, back to stirring whatever was in the saucepan.
"Yeah. I'm grateful for them, especially my sisters."
You hummed in response, continuing to browse but very much filing that piece of information away. A man with sisters tended to be such a green flag. God, you were like a dog with a damn bone. Your relationship with Robby hadn't even been truly over for more than 10 hours and here you were, noticing Brendon. But if you were honest, your relationship with Robby had been dead for a long time. He'd stopped giving affection long ago and foolishly, you stayed, clinging to the tattered remnants of what used to make you happy. There was a part of you that couldn't help it: you were a lover girl through and through, even at times to your detriment. You knew that the relationship was on life support, you'd basically been his emotional punching bag, but still. you hoped for better. Like a fucking fool.
As you mentally chastised yourself and got lost in your relationship rumination, Park's voice cut through the air again. "The two of them actually designed my place."
"No kidding. Gosh, they're talented. You'll have to tell them my compliments to the chef."
He chuckled and said, "they know it too. They actually co-own an interior design business. I'm lucky they put this place together for me." Fondness and affection seeped through his voice, obvious and unhidden. In one fell swoop, Park had completely undone the idea you had of him in your head. You'd unfairly characterized him as an unfeeling ortho bro, which he clearly was not. Maybe it was better or easier for him to be intense at work. After all, a great deal of responsibility and expectations fell to him.
Wanting to broach the subject of your stay again, you said, "so about my staying here...." Park turned around and gave you his attention, which felt heavy and set your nerves on fire.
"Yes?" Oh. He really wasn't going to make this easy. Upon seeing you floundering, he expanded on his short response, "I need you to use words and ask what you want."
His command, the sureness of his tone, made your thighs clench together. Jesus fucking CHRIST get a hold of yourself. You hoped with every cell in your body he didn't clock that reaction.
"I just mean, I'm not sure how long it will take for me to find a place I can afford that is safe and close enough to the hospital. Of course if you need me out of here by a certain time, I'll go. I just wanted to know if you had a timeline."
"No. It takes how long it takes. And you don't need to rush. You should be in a nice, safe, convenient, and affordable apartment. Don't worry about how long it takes." You let out a breath you didn't know you were holding in. You felt relieved and reassured, which is honestly better than you felt even this morning, pre-breakup.
"Ok, soup's on. I made my grandma's minestrone." Brandon handed you a bowl full of steaming food and you knew it was going to hit so different just based on the smell and the family recipe of it all.
"I -- thank you." You were filled with emotion again and god, you wanted to stop crying in front of him and stop crying period, but he was just being so nice and caring. You knew you wanted to repay him somehow, eventually, but you didn't know what that would look like. No one had ever been so selfless and kind to you, especially someone who barely knew you.
You both tucked into your dinner and as expected, the minestrone was amazing. It was truly a comfort dish for you in this moment. Wanting to lighten the mood, mainly your mood, you said, "a surgeon, a cook, and a shoulder to cry on? What can't you do?"
He gave you a smile and replied, "like I said, I'm full of surprises." Now you knew that you would keep stumbling on these surprises, uncovering who he really was, transforming the way you saw Brendon Park.
After three weeks, you'd entered into a sort of routine with him, where you'd trade off chores. At first, Brendon vehemently protested, saying you were his guest and shouldnât have to help, which you met with your own claims against being a freeloader. Reluctantly, he started to let you help prepare meals and clean. But grocery shopping... well that was a dual task. It was sickeningly domestic and even more disgustingly, you'd come to enjoy it. It was a sacred time with Brendon, where he was relaxed and sometimes teasing, which you ate up and relished. You enjoyed it so much you didn't even think about how you'd never done this with Robby until you were in the cereal aisle and Brendon put in your honey-nut Cheerios without needing to confirm you wanted them. It dawned on you how strange it felt to be... noticed. That really sucked to realize because of all the people who should pay attention and remember things about you, you'd expect it to have been your boyfriend.
After that, you couldn't help but continue to compare living with Brendon vs Robby. With Robby, everyday tasks were never shared. You'd actually preferred it that way because it felt natural with him and it seemed efficient at the very least. But with Brendon, even if it wasn't your night to cook, you were in the kitchen, keeping him company. Sometimes you two didn't talk; you simply fell into a comfortable silence and rhythm. Of course, you weren't in a relationship with Brendon but it felt so much simpler and lighter than mundane tasks with Robby. You didn't feel like you were constantly trying to please him or gauge how he was reacting to something. No. Brendon was blunt, honest, and didnât like to play guessing games. It was incredibly refreshing.
At times, you felt guilty for how much you enjoyed staying with Brendon and seeing this unguarded, intimate version of him. The constant comparison between him and Robby didn't help either because no matter what it was, Brendon was always coming out on top. Fuck. This couldn't be healthy. You shouldn't want him, hell, you shouldn't even be thinking of him this way. Shame curled in your chest, sharp and demanding. You needed to get out of his house and fast.
As soon as you could, you opened your laptop to look at apartment listings while Brendon put away the groceries. You were spread out on the couch, pinching the bridge of your nose as you scrolled Zillow. So far, anything remotely in your price range was either in a questionable part of the city or too far from the hospital to be considered a reasonable commute. Park walked into the living room and sat next to your head, peering over you to look at the listings.
"Can't live there, that's where half the GSW victims come from."
Huffing, you complained, "I know, its hopeless to try to find a place on resident salary. I need to look into housing assistance or something."
Brendon hummed in response and you continued your efforts, in vain, to try to find an apartment. Absentmindedly, he started to play with your hair and it felt.... really fucking nice. You weren't sure when the two of you crossed the threshold to such comfortability but his casual touches and attention were more than welcome.
"I can ask my sisters if they know anything about that, they have a lot of connections with relators and landlords because of their business. And not slumlords, local landlords who are the most ideal form of landlord you can get."
You leaned your head back to look at him and said, "that would be really great, thank you so much."
Halfheartedly, you resumed your scrolling and he continued to play with your hair, which was making your heart beat out of your chest. Clearing his throat, he said, "you don't need to keep thanking me for everything."
Sitting up, you turned to face him on the couch. "I'll stop thanking you when you stop giving me reasons to be grateful."
Smirking he shot back, "is that a challenge for me to be an asshole?"
"Well, don't challenge my manners."
The air was charged with tension and now your heart was truly thumping in your chest so hard, you were convinced he could hear it. His beautiful blue eyes were sharp and alert but also two shades darker than normal. He licked his lips and your eyes hungrily tracked the movement. When you locked eyes again, you knew, god, you knew that he caught you.
"Wouldn't dream of it sweetheart."
When did you two get so close? You could practically feel his body heat radiating off of him. Your knees were touching and even that burned. You felt like a teenage girl again, like she was with her crush, alone for the first time. What's worse is that he seemed annoyingly, unfairly calm. He was relaxed into the couch, breathing completely normally. The only indication that he was affected were his eyes, which were now low and lidded.
You brought your hand to cup his jaw, feeling the stubble and savoring its friction against your skin. Your eyes traced his face, taking him in. To your delight, he had the faintest blush on his cheeks and you felt like the cat that got the cream. You felt like you were in a trance, a fog of desire that dictated what you did.
"I never thought I'd see the Shark blush."
Something dangerous flashed in his eyes at your teasing. You felt pretty pleased with yourself, rendering him into a blushing mess. Little did you know, you'd only have the upper hand for about two more seconds. Brendon nuzzled his face into your hand and kissed your wrist, pulling a gasp from you. Then he leaned ever so close to your face, lips brushing along your jaw, so, so, so close yet so achingly far from where you wanted them.
"Yeah? Well lucky you." He had the self-assured tone you'd heard from him so many times but now, it was making your thighs push together. Impatiently, you moved your head to finally capture his lips in a kiss. It started off gentle and exploratory, but soon enough, he had weaved a hand into the nape of your neck, pulling your head back to deepen the kiss with better access. You couldn't help it, you fucking moaned. He devoured the sound; devoured you. He was kissing the life out of you and you fucking loved it.
When you pulled away for some air, he chased your lips. Before he could reach you, you decided to climb into his lap. He groaned as your hips met his and placed his hands on your waist, squeezing you there oh so nicely. Your hands were everywhere, on his shoulders, then his chest, messing up his hair, and then gripping his biceps.
Neither of you knew how much time passed. You were lost in the moment, lost in him -- how he felt, smelled, and touched. You were no stranger to kissing, clearly, but... it was safe to say no one had kissed you like this before. You weren't sure if you could remember your name. The only thing you were sure of was that Brendon Park was taking you apart at the seams and you were only too happy to let him do so.
"Please, please, please..." You could hardly recognize your whiny voice and you weren't even sure what you were begging for.
"What, baby, what?" God, he was so sweet.
"I need you."
"You have me."
"No I need more of you."
At that, he cupped your jaw holding you away from him to look you in the eyes. "Are you sure?"
And because he always gifted you his honesty and bluntness, you knew you needed to return the favor. "I've never been more sure of anything. Yes."
"Fuck." It sounded like it was punched out of him, like he was in disbelief with what was happening. He gave you another sweet kiss and then he was pulling you up and leading you to his bedroom.
the lights are all out, and youâre laying in bed with a sleepy brendon park. you havenât been able to fall asleep yet, even though heâs tracing nonsense against your back. you ask him to talk, knowing that hearing his voice is the quickest way to settle your mind.
he huffs. because of course he will, whatever you want, but he doesnât have anything about his day that he really wants to talk about. the OR was slow.
âokay. come here,â he says, adjusting you so that you fit better against his chest. his palm cradles the back of your head, and you feel his fingers against your skull.
âyour occipital,â he says, carefully pressing against the bone. âsagittal suture here⌠somewhere.â
âvery sexy.â
âhush.â
he maps out the parietal bone, your zygomatic process, the slope of your mandible, naming each bone as he goes.
you laugh, somewhere along the way, probably at the temporal process. âyou canât name all of my bones.â
his fingers still. âyou asked me to talk,â he says. âiâm talking. and yes, i can.â
you roll your eyes, quieting so that he can continue what he started. his fingers poke at your cervical vertebrae (âatlas,â he tells you at C1). he brushes over your clavicle; it tickles.
âscapula,â he murmurs.
you glance up to see that his eyes are closed. heâs mapping you by touch alone, face relaxed. his hair is freshly washed, missing the gel that normally keeps it out of his face during the work day.
your mind says touch, but the weight of his hand gliding across your skin keeps you still.
âfirst rib.â a feather-light touch. âtrue ribs, one through seven.â he pauses against each one. âfalse ribs. eight to twelve.â his voice rumbles through his chest, against your ear. âfloating ribs.â
youâre not sure how far he gets in naming bones; you fall asleep somewhere between iliac crest and greater trochanter.
⤡ michael robinavitch x fem! resident! reader || 4.8k
synopsis. Robby tells himself he's paying attention because you're his resident. The explanation gets harder to defend with time.
warnings. attending/resident relationship, mutual pining, workplace romance, age gap, explicit sexual content, protected sexual intercourse.
The trauma bay smelled like antiseptic and the end of things, and you were at the sink, back to him, hands under the tap, humming.
He'd clocked it forty-three minutes ago. Done absolutely nothing useful with the information since.
Robby kept his eyes on the chart. He was, objectively, a man capable of extraordinary focus under extraordinary pressure â this had been proven, repeatedly, in rooms far worse than this one â and yet here he was, reading the same line about magnesium levels for the fourth time because you were humming something without any apparent awareness of his existence.Â
That was the thing that got him, if he was being precise about it. The total lack of awareness. Like you were alone in the room. Like the fact of him standing eight feet away was information your nervous system had simply not received and wasn't particularly interested in processing.
"Are you signing off on Martinez or are you planning to stand there all night?"
You turned around. Hands still wet. "Her oxygen sat's been stable for two hours. I was doing one last check." You reached for a paper towel, unhurried. "Good evening."
"It's nearly midnight."
"Good evening, Dr. Robinavitch."
He did not look up. He was very deliberate about not looking up. "Paperwork first. Pleasantries second. Order of operations."
"I'll keep that in mind." Perfectly pleasant. Not a trace of sarcasm. Impervious. Like being curt with you was something that happened to other people and simply bounced off you. He'd watched it happen across an entire shift â residents trying to one-up each other and you deflecting it with some mild observation about coffee going cold, a nurse coming at you frazzled and leaving calmer, and him, standing at the nurses' station, doing the thing where he read the same line four times.
He watched you cross the bay to get the chart, moving through the wreckage of twelve hours like you had a fundamental dispute with the idea that any of it had been hard.
He looked back at the magnesium levels. They remained uninteresting. Across the bay, you turned off the tap and the humming stopped, and somehow that was worse â the sudden awareness of its absence, the way the room rearranged itself around the quiet.
Robby set the chart down. Picked it back up. Read the magnesium levels a fifth time.
He'd been an asshole. He was aware of this with the specific clarity of someone who knew and had decided, at some point, that knowing was sufficient.
It hadn't started that way. He'd been neutral in the beginning, the way he was with most residents â professionally indifferent, appropriately demanding, nothing beyond. And then somewhere between you explaining to a thirty-seven-year-old construction worker why he needed to stay still and not, in your words, be a hero about the needle, because you'd dealt with actual heroes today and they had all, uniformly, behaved themselves â something had shifted. Slowly. The kind of shift where you don't notice until the geography's already changed and you're standing somewhere you didn't plan to be. And by the time he'd noticed, the only thing he knew how to do was be curt about it.
The curt had escalated. He corrected your charting when it didn't need correcting. He'd sent you to the Mathers consult â a three-hour admit, the kind that hollowed a person out â and watched you handle it with the patient attentiveness of someone who didn't know there was another option. He'd told himself it was assessment. He'd told himself a lot of things.
Then was the supply closet.
Pediatric case. Bad, in the quiet way. He'd delivered the news himself and sent everyone back to their stations and gone to chart it, and he couldn't find you anywhere. He checked the on-call room. Then, following some dim instinct he chose not to examine, he tried the supply closet.
You were on the floor, back against the IV bag shelf, knees pulled up, crying.
He stood in the doorway. Thought about leaving.
You looked up. And then â immediately, the reflex of it â you said "I'm sorry" and started to wipe your face. Then you tried to smile at him. Eyes wet, nose red, and you assembled a smile. Like you'd built one in advance for whoever came through the door so they wouldn't have to deal with the crying. Like you'd gotten efficient at this.
That ate at him. He couldn't name it more precisely. Something about the apologizing, and then immediately the smile, in that order, bothered him in a way he didn't have a word for.
He stepped inside and let the door close. "You don't need to be back out in thirty seconds."
"It's unprofessional."
"You're a resident. First one?" He meant the loss. You understood, nodded once. "Then it's biology. Not a failing."
He wasn't good at this. He knew that. There was a box of tissues on the shelf nearest him and he handed it to you, because it was the only object in reach that might approximate the gesture of offering something, and you looked at it and then laughed â barely, a wet sound, but a real one.
"That's not what Iâ" he started.
"No, I know." You took one anyway, turned it over in your hands. "Thank you."
He stood there another minute. Couldn't leave. Watched you put yourself back together the way you apparently did everything â methodically, without drama, heel of your hand to your eye, one slow breath, and then back. Like a person who had practice.
He went back to his charts and was sharp with two nurses and a second-year before he'd made it to the bay, and didn't connect the two things until weeks later.
Then was the case of the blueberry muffins. In a container with a lid that didn't close properly, and every time there was one sitting on the counter near the coffee maker, and every time an attending found their way over within twenty minutes. He'd eaten four of them across separate occasions. He never planned to acknowledge this.
You hummed when you were focused. A different song every shift, always half-familiar, always just past where he could name it. It was maddening in a way that defied professional articulation.
Every patient remembered your name. Not just remembered â asked for you specifically, used it. He'd had a seventy-three-year-old man with a hairline hip fracture ask him to send back "the nice one, who explained the scan thing." He'd known immediately. He'd sent you. He'd told himself this was about patient outcomes.
He started cataloguing things. Unconsciously, the way you develop a reflex. The way you always sat down to explain a diagnosis â never stood over them. The fact that you took notes by hand on rounds and had told him, unprompted, early on, as if expecting to be corrected, that you retained it better that way. He hadn't corrected it. The snack bars you kept in your coat pocket and distributed to nurses around hour eight without making anything of it. The way you said thank you to orderlies. The way you phrased bad news â he'd noticed the phrasing, catalogued it, thought about it.
He had no use for any of this information. He kept it anyway.
There was a morning, somewhere in the middle of all of it, when he'd been post-call and running on three hours and you'd appeared at the nurses' station with coffee you handed to him before he'd asked, or looked like he needed it, or given any outward indication whatsoever that he was capable of human wants.
"How did you know I take it black?" he said.
"I didn't." You were already walking away. "I just figured if you were you, you probably didn't want anything done to it."
He'd stood there for a moment with the coffee in his hand.
He'd been annoyed about it. The presumption of it, the casual intimacy of the gesture, the fact that you'd got him right. He'd been annoyed about it right up until the moment he'd taken a sip and thought, with a clarity that three hours of sleep had done nothing to dull, that he was in actual trouble.
The Torres chart hand-off happened on a Tuesday. You came up behind him at the nurses' station and he smelled the muffins before you'd said anything.
"Torres hand-off. She's been stable since fourteen hundred hours, no fever. I flagged a note about the blood pressure trend â it's within normal, I just wanted to document I'd been watching it."
"I can read."
"I know you can read." Still pleasant. "She also wants me to tell you you have a nice voice."
"She's seventy-one and on morphine."
"She said it before the morphine." You set the chart down. "There's a muffin on the counter."
He took the chart and didn't look up, and he stood there for a moment after you'd gone and thought, with some irritation, that he'd been tracking Torres's blood pressure every two hours all shift. He hadn't flagged it. He fixed the formatting error at the top of page two â not because it was egregious, it wasn't â and didn't tell you about it. He told himself this was efficiency and moved on before he could disagree with himself.
Jack waited until the lounge was empty. In retrospect, Robby should have taken that as a warning.
They were both doing charts. Fourteen minutes of workable silence, which was the best kind, and then Jack said without looking up, "Kowalski was at the nurses' station again."
Robby said nothing.
"Third time this week. Ortho. No clinical reason to be down here three times in a week." A pause. "He keeps asking about her."
"Her who?"
"Your her."
"She's not â she's a resident. She's on shift."
"That's not what he's asking." Jack closed his laptop. That was always the tell â the deliberate setting-aside, the signal that you were in a conversation now, predetermined. He looked at Robby with the patience of a man who has decided to wait you out. "You want to say anything about that?"
"I don't have anything to say about Kowalski."
"No. But you've been short with her."
"I'm short with everyone."
"Not the same short." Jack leaned back. "You corrected her on a splint she did correctly. I checked afterward."
Robby set his pen down. Picked it back up. "I don't know what you want me to say."
"I don't want you to say anything." Jack opened his laptop again. Closed it. "You know what I think?"
"No. But I suspect you're going toâ"
"I think you've been so busy being her attending that you forgot she's going to leave and be someone else's problem in about eight months." A pause. "And I think that bothers you."
Robby looked at the coffee. Then the chart. Then some middle distance between the two.
"He's going to ask her to dinner. Kowalski."
The coffee in Robby's mug was still warm. He looked at it.
"Let him," he said.
Jack made a sound that wasn't quite a laugh. "Sure," he said, and opened the laptop for the last time.
He went to the attending lounge because it was past two in the morning and he needed somewhere to sit that wasn't the nurses' station, and you happened to be there when he opened the door.
Asleep in the chair by the window. Your chart was still open in your lap. Pen loosely between your fingers. At some point, the sleep had simply won.
He stood in the doorway for a moment.
There was a warmth in his chest that was entirely inconvenient and he looked at it sideways, the way you look at something too bright. You'd been here since seven that morning. He knew this without meaning to know it â knew which admits you'd taken, what you'd ordered for the woman in bay three, that you'd eaten something from the vending machine at fourteen hundred because you'd complained about it to Dana with the mournfulness of someone deeply wronged by a sandwich. He'd started logging your schedule without any conscious decision to do so. That was a recent development he hadn't examined closely.
He should go to the couch. Do his own charts.
He stood there another moment. You looked cold. He picked up the green blanket â the ones you sometimes used, which he had no reason knowing â and draped it over your body. Tucked under your feet for good measure.Â
Then he stepped back and eased the door shut, very quietly, and stood under the fluorescent light of the hallway, and thought:Â oh.
The acknowledgment of something he'd been refusing to file anywhere useful for long enough that the refusal had become its own noise. Oh. Right. He understood now why Jack had closed his laptop.
He was reviewing a discharge summary in the corridor, and you stepped out of the lounge with the green blanket under your arm and walked directly into his eyeline. He wasn't staring. Sure, he wasn't.Â
"Were you out here when I fell asleep?"
"Yep."Â
"You didn't sleep?"
"I checked the lounge. You were in there."
"That's not an answer."
He'd underestimated you in that specific way, in the beginning â the quiet refusal to be redirected. You did it without any sharpness, without confrontation, like you'd noticed it and decided not to. It surprised him the first time. It had never stopped surprising him, exactly.
"I didn't want to wake you," he said.
You stopped. Something crossed your face that he couldn't quite catch the shape of. "That was actually very considerate of you."
"You sound surprised."
"A little." You tucked the blanket more firmly under your arm. "You've been different lately."
"I'm professionally consistent."
"Dr. Robinavitch." Very patient. "I watched you make a first-year cry over a documentation error."
"His documentation was wrong."
"Mine had a formatting error on the Torres file. Page two. You didn't say anything."
He said nothing.
"You fixed it yourself." Still not accusing â just noticing. "I saw the edit timestamp."
The corridor was quiet. A monitor beeped down the hall in its steady automated note.
"You didn't have to do that," you said. Softer now. "I would've caught it."
"I know you would have."
A pause. You were looking at him with that look â the curious one, the one that felt like you were trying to work something out carefully, without making a production of it. Like he was a thing worth figuring out. Like you'd decided to be patient about it.
He found he had nothing useful to say to any of that. You opened your mouth and he thought for a second you were going to say something that would require him to respond in kind, and he wasn't ready for that, not in a corridor at three in the morning with the green blanket under your arm and his chest doing what it was doing.
"Get some sleep," he said. "In an actual bed. Not a chair."
"Are you worried about me?"
"I'm concerned with your clinical function tomorrow if you're running on four hours in aâ"
"Robby."
Just his name. Without the professional buffer of the title, and the way you said it â quiet, slightly tentative, like you were testing whether it was allowedâ
"The blanket," you said. "In the lounge. Was that you?"
He looked at you.
You looked back, and there was nothing confrontational in it, nothing probing, just â curious, and underneath that, something that was almost gentle. Waiting.
"Go to sleep," he said, and walked back toward the bay.
He didn't quite remember, in the moment, how you got here.
That was a lie. He remembered exactly â you'd followed him into the on-call room with a consult chart, and you'd asked him something, and he'd turned around and you were closer than he'd expected, and the chart had ended up on the floor, and something that had been accumulating for a long time finally hit a pressure it couldn't sustain.
You'd kissed him first. Barely. More like you'd tipped toward him and he'd closed the remaining distance, which meant they were equally responsible, and he was prepared to argue this point at length.
Now your back was against the on-call room door and you were looking at him like he was slightly terrifying and very interesting, which was, objectively, the most appealing combination of expressions he'd seen in some time.
"Are weâ"
"Yes."
"Okay." A breath. "Okay."
"Stop saying okay."
"What am I supposed to say?"
He pressed his mouth to the side of your neck and held it there â not moving, just breathing you in â until you went very still under him. He felt your pulse against his lips. He stayed there until you made a sound, small, involuntary, the sound of someone trying not to make a sound and losing the effort.
"Something more useful," he said against your skin.
Your hands found his collar. Fisted into it without quite pulling. "What do you want me to say?"
He pulled back enough to look at you. Already undone, and he'd barely started â the flush high on your throat, the way you were holding his shirt like it was the only fixed object in the room. Something settled in him that he recognised, distantly, as the opposite of the thing that had been sitting in his chest for months.
"Tell me what you want," he said.
You looked at him. Then sideways. Then back, with something stubborn in it underneath the flush. "You."
"More specific."
"Robbyâ"
"Dr. Robinavitch," he said, and watched your face cycle through several things.
"You cannot possibly be serious."
"I'm always serious." He undid the first button of your scrubs. "More specific."
Your breath came out uneven. "I want you to touch me."
"I am touching you."
"You know what Iâ" The thought didn't complete. He undid the second button and whatever you'd been about to say dissolved. "I want your hands on me. Properly."
"Properly," he said. "There you go."
He walked you back to the narrow bed and sat you on the edge of it. Then stood there for a moment â just looked. He had spent a professionally inadvisable amount of time not looking at you, deliberately, as a sustained practice, and he was going to allow himself a moment now that the situation had changed.
You looked back. Flushed, lower lip caught between your teeth.
He got your scrub top off, then the undershirt, then reached around and unclipped your bra. When you moved to cover yourself, he caught both wrists.
"Don't."
"I justâ"
He pressed your wrists to the mattress, one on either side, gentle but deliberate, and held them there. You let him immediately. He filed that away. "Keep them there."
He took his time. He'd earned the right to take his time â all those months of being deliberately removed, of watching you from across the bay and looking back at his charts â he had accumulated a significant amount of patience that was now going to get spent in one place.
He put his mouth to your collarbone and worked down slowly, and every time you moved he said stay and felt you try, felt the effort of it in the tension running through you, your hands gripping the mattress. He got his mouth to your nipple and felt you arch up sharp, and he pulled back just enough.
"Stay still."
"I'm tryingâ"
"Try harder."
"Robby, pleaseâ" And there it was â the specific texture of your voice when you were overwhelmed, the thing he'd catalogued and refused to think about directly. The way it went soft and raw at the edges. Your eyes had gone glassy. "Please. I needâ"
"Tell me what you need."
"You know what I needâ"
"I do. I want you to say it."
You made a frustrated sound that turned into something else when he dragged his thumb along the inside of your thigh and stopped before it got useful. "I need you to touch me. Please. I needâplease."
"Where?"
"You know whereâ"
"Where?" Quieter. Final.
"My cunt," you said, and your face went red saying it, and he pressed his mouth to your stomach to have somewhere to put the expression that wanted to happen. The slight mortification and the fact that you'd said it anyway. He was going to be thinking about that for a long time.
He pulled your scrubs down and the underwear followed, and he sat back on his heels and looked at you spread across the narrow mattress, flushed to your chest, thighs pressed together out of some residual instinct toward dignity, and thought with a startling clarity that you had absolutely no idea what you'd been doing to him.
He pressed his mouth to the inside of your thigh and felt you exhale shakily. Pressed it to the other. Kissed up slowly, felt you start to tremble, your thighs trying to close around him.
"You're already so wet," he said against your skin, and heard you make a sound. "I've barely done anything."
"Don't say it like that â" you whined.
"I'm just statin' what I see." He pressed his mouth to you properly and felt you gasp, felt your hands go immediately into his hair. He worked you slowly, his tongue flat against your clit and then pointed, then flat again, and two fingers pressing inside you, curling â and you made sounds he was going to be hearing in his head for years, the pitch of them, the way they went higher when he changed the pressure. He brought you right to the edge, felt it in the way you tightened around his fingers and your thighs started shakingâ
And he stopped.
"Whatâ" The outrage of it, immediate and genuine. Your hips chased nothing. "I was so close, I was rightâpleaseâ"
"Tell me what you want."
"I want you to make me come," you said, without hesitation this time, and your voice was wet at the edges and your eyes were wet, actual tears on your lashes, and he pressed his mouth to the inside of your knee and held it there for a second.
"Please," you added, smaller. "Please. Robby."
He put his mouth back, and this time he didn't stop. He held your hips down with his forearms and kept the pressure steady and relentless, worked two fingers inside you in a rhythm that he'd figured out about four minutes in and was going to use mercilessly, and you came hard â shaking, properly shaking, both hands fisted in his hair, his name said so many times it became something else. He kissed your inner thigh through the end of it and felt you go loose by degrees.
He straightened. You had tears running down your temples. He kissed them away without entirely deciding to, and you laughed weakly.
"I'm just bein' thorough." He got his scrubs off, found the condom from the pocket he'd put it in on a hope, and looked up to find you watching him with red-rimmed eyes and an expression of dazed, complete attention.
"Stop looking at me like that," he said.
"Like what?"
He didn't answer. He settled over you and paused â his forearm beside your head, his weight on his knees â and just looked at you for a moment.
"Robby." Breathless. "Please."
"I've got you," he said, quietly, and pressed in slow.
He felt you exhale under him, felt you shift to pull him deeper, felt your legs wrap around him before he'd done anything. He set a pace that was, he'd admit only to himself, not particularly controlled â the months of it had a way of making themselves felt when the situation finally changed. He pressed his mouth to your ear and told you exactly what you felt like â and he was precise about it, anatomical in a way that made you shiver, hot and tight and so fucking wet that he'd had to think about something else when he'd first pushed inside you â told you what he'd been thinking about, in terms that left nothing abstract.
You made a sound into his shoulder that he was going to think about for a long time.
"You've been thinking about this?" you managed.
"At length."
"How long?"
"Longer than is appropriate." He pressed deeper and felt you gasp. "Considerably." He pulled back and pushed in again, slow, deliberate in the way that he could feel you registering â the way your breath caught, the way your nails pressed into his back. "You want me to tell you how long?"
"Yes," you said, slightly desperate.
"When you had the Torres admit. You were at the nurses' station and you leaned over to get a chart and your scrubsâ" He stopped for a second because the memory had found him at an inconvenient angle. "I had to go chart something."
"You left because of me?"
"I left before I did something professionally unsound." He pressed a hand to the back of your thigh and pushed it higher, changed the angle, felt you make an embarrassingly gratifying sound. "Stop talking."
"You were the one whoâ"
"Stop talking," he said, and moved, and you did.
You cried through the second orgasm â actual tears, the way he'd half-expected, your face buried in his shoulder, both arms around his neck, holding on. He kissed the side of your face. The corner of your eye. Felt you clutch at him like you'd decided he was staying.
When he followed he was considerably less composed than he'd planned, face in your hair, your name said once, very quietly.
He hadn't meant to fall asleep. He understood this approximately fifteen minutes later when he woke to find you beside him, awake, looking at some mid-distance point with the expression of someone slowly processing a sequence of events and finding it, on the whole, acceptable.
"You fell asleep," you said.
"I rested my eyes."
"For fifteen minutes."
He looked at his watch. "Thirteen."
"Fifteen." You turned your head. Still flushed. He was not going to have feelings about that. "Should Iâ" You gestured vaguely toward the door.
"In a minute." He pulled you back before he'd consciously decided to, and you went without resistance, settled against him like you'd considered the geometry and found it reasonable. "Stop thinking so loudly."
"I'm not thinking loudly."
"You are." A pause. "Say it."
"I was just going to say." You seemed to be choosing words with some care. "This doesn't have to be weird."
"It's not weird."
"You've been weird about me for a while."
He looked at the wall for a moment. "Months," he said.
You lifted your head. Looked at him. He looked back with the equanimity of a man who had made a decision and was now on the other side of it.
"Months," you repeated.
"Don't make it a thing."
"You had a crush on me." The laugh was already happening, quiet, against his shoulder. "You've been making my shifts difficult because you had a crush."
"I don't have a crush. I'm almost fifty."
"You made a first-year cry."
"His documentationâ"
"Was wrong, yes." You were laughing properly now, helpless, into his skin, and he let it happen and did not find it as irritating as he should have. "You fixed my formatting error. You ate four muffins."
"I ate one. Maybe two."
"Dana counted. She has a tally."
He absorbed this.
"Dana has a tally," he said.
"Apparently she's been running it since March."
He sat with that for a moment. The cart with the squeaky wheel went past outside, its regular circuit, the one maintenance had been promising to fix for weeks. He'd started timing the rounds. He wasn't going to tell you that.
"Robby," you said, quieter.
"Mm."
"The blanket." A pause. "It was you."
He said nothing.
You pressed your face back into his shoulder. He felt you smiling â actually felt it, the shape of it against his collarbone â and didn't say anything about it.
"Thank you," you said, very small. "For not waking me up."
He didn't answer.
You settled more completely against him. Outside, the hospital kept going â someone called down the hall, a monitor beeped its steady note, the cart made another pass. He listened to the intervals and thought this was probably fine. More than probably.
A thought occurred to him, belatedly. "Did Kowalski ask you to dinner?"
A pause.
"Last Thursday," you said.
"What did you say?"
Another pause. Longer. He could feel you deciding whether to make him ask twice.
"I said I was busy," you said.
"Were you?"
"No." You shifted against his shoulder. "But I had a feeling I'd be busier."
He didn't say anything. Outside, the cart went past again with its squeaky wheel.
"Robby," you said, half-asleep already.
"Go to sleep."
"Everyones's going to know."
"Hmm."
A pause. "Does that bother you?"
He thought about that for a moment. Dana had apparently been running a tally since March. Dana had apparently noticed before he had. That was its own kind of information about the past several months that he chose not to examine too closely.
"No," he said.
"Is that okay?"
He looked at the top of your head. "Go to sleep," he said.
a/n - thank you for reading. comments and reblogs are appreciated.
summary â¸â¸ Brendon Park has built an entire career on being the smartest person in the room. Then he meets you, who makes him forget what he was about to say.
warnings â¸â¸ coffee shop meet-cute, grumpy x sunshine (?), fluff, pining, brendon yearns, he falls first and harder, jealous! park, park the goldfish bc he canât keep his mouth shut with her near? (one of my tamest fics tbrh), abbot and shen cameo bc I love them. no use of y/n.
notes â¸â¸ first official park fic yaay! I do realise Iâm supposed to be on a break, but look at him! I genuinely donât know why it took me so long to write for him, mainly because I've been told that if there's an ortho bro within a five-mile radius, I'll somehow manage to find him? Itâs unfortunate that theyâre truly horrible tho đ
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Brendon Park had not looked at anyone twice. Not in his surgical practice, definitely not at a fucking coffee shop of all places.Â
He'd had his thing in med school. Everyone did. Ill-advised entanglement with another type-A who wanted to win every argument and came close. It ended mutually around final year with shaken hands, which should tell you everything.
Ortho had a reputation and Brendon had leaned into it wholeheartedly. Fast, brutal, precise, and deeply uninterested in anything that didn't have to do with bone mechanics or operative planning.Â
Park the Shark. He'd heard the name passed between residents in the corridor like a warning, and he hadn't minded. Warnings kept the noise down.
He was, all told, completely fine.
And then he met you. At the hospital coffee counter on a Wednesday morning, over a cup of black americano, and everything went sideways.
The barista set his coffee down and he was on his way to get it. Pretty normal stuff. Stuff that happened everyday.Â
But before he could get there, there was you, his cup in your grasp, and then between your lips.Â
He'd opened his mouth to say something. Sharply, probably. The same voice that made interns forget how to speak. But then, you drank.Â
Your face did something spectacular. Nose scrunching up, eyes going slightly wide, mouth opened like a fish, as though you were offended, devastated, betrayed by a fucking beverage. You stared into the cup for a full second like you were waiting for it to apologize. "Okay," you said, to the cup, mostly. "That's â what is that?"
Brendon stared at you.
"What'd they put in this?" you continued, as if you were workshopping a complaint, a comical lilt to your voice.Â
In the fifteen seconds of you taking his drink and drinking it, it didnât occur to you that youâd just consumed something belonging to someone else. The coffee â he didnât think youâd agree for it to be called a coffee, to be really honest â had shaken you so much that it took you a minute to compose yourself.Â
When you did, you turned the cup in your hand, read the side and looked up, a sheepish smile on your lips.Â
As you found him just standing there, gaze locked on you, your eyes dropped between him and the cup. "Oh, it's got your name on it." You had the audacity to look adorable â what the fuck did he just think? "Is this yours?"
Brendon nodded. Fucking nodded.Â
Embarrassment should not have looked that good on anyone. How could someone look like that while questioning life decisions, evaluating choices that led to this moment?
"Right." You set it down on the counter between, like you were disarming a situation. "Sorry. I genuinely thought â mine's supposed to be a latte and I just grabbed it, I wasn't looking at the name. I'm really sorry."
Dark circles under your eyes, hair pulled back like it was done in thirty seconds without a mirror, lime green scrubs that had no reason looking good, no reason making you look good. Who even looked good in that colour? Who even chose that colour?Â
You were somewhere between mortified and trying to hold it together, which was fair, because you had just walked up to a stranger's drink and had at it. "Can I at least â I'll pay for a new one, hereâ"
You were reaching into your pocket and Brendon, who had been on the verge of saying something very reasonable like it's fine, not a problemâ "No."
Accidentally spoke in the voice. He didn't always mean to use, it just comes out that way by default, making fourth-year residents straighten their spines. And heâd used it. To you.Â
You looked up at him with an expression he could only describe as a deer having second thoughts about the road.
He hadn't meant â he wasn't angry. He'd said no out of reflex. Most things he said were out of reflex, and now this person was staring at him like he'd personally threatened her. He had the strange and unfamiliar experience of wanting to walk it back. "I meantâ" he started.
But you'd pulled yourself together, apparently deciding that whatever his problem was, it was his problem.Â
"Okay, no." You held your hands up, like you were placating a toddler. "Noted. For future reference though, why would you get it like that, it's â is this fun for you? Like do you enjoy it?"
He blinked, heat rising up to his cheeks. He could only hope you didnât notice it.
What you did notice was that he looked clueless and you clarified, "the coffee," you pointed to his cup. "There's nothing in it. I took one sip and I think my tongue is still reeling from it."
"That's what coffee tastes like," Brendon said.
"That's a very sad thing to believe." You stated, completely without malice, which made it worse somehow. A genuine opinion. To make matters worse, you were already looking back toward the counter, scanning for your actual order.
Brendon stood there holding his americano while everyone else and everything else continued their life, including you.Â
The barista called your name. You went to get it, came back briefly into his sightline, and gave him a small, still-somewhat-mortified wave on your way out the door.
He watched you go and drank his coffee, the same one your lips touched. It tasted exactly like it always did, which was fine, he liked it fine.
Do you enjoy it?
He took another sip. It was objectively bitter.
Lime green. A colour he couldn't immediately place. It bothered him, sitting in the back of his head while he moved through his afternoon.Â
PTMC colour-coded by department. He knew this. He just didn't have them all memorized, a gap he'd never needed to fill before.
He decided to ask his ward nurse, Delgado, at the end of his post-ops. Casual as he could make it, which for him was still pretty clinical â "lime green. You know which department?"Â
Delgado looked up from her chart. "Lime green," she repeated, slowly, like she was checking the words for a hidden compartment.
âYeah.âÂ
âAre we talking about scrubs here, Dr Park?â She had her eyebrows crossed like she was trying to read him.Â
âYes.â
âNeonatology,â she answered.Â
Four floors up, the opposite end of the building, behind two sets of badge-locked doors and a hand-washing protocol longer than some of his procedures. He'd been in there exactly twice in his career, both times for consults that took fifteen minutes and ended in a referral elsewhere.
It made sense. You looked like sunshine incarnate, all airy and beautiful, effortlessly skilful â not that heâd seen you work, but he had an idea.Â
"Right." He turned back toward the board.
"Dr. Park."
"Mm."
"Are you â Is there something involving neonatology that I should know about?"
A small, unwelcome lurch happened inside his chest. He kept his face the way he kept it in the OR â nothing on it, nothing to read â and he could tell, with horrible clarity, that it wasn't working.
âSomething?â
âA case?âÂ
Brendon could see that sheâd worded it carefully. "No."
"Okay," Delgado said. "No reason then."Â She didn't believe a word of it and had decided not to push, which was worse because he couldâve handled an argument. An argument had an end.
Without looking at her, he said, âyou can go.â
"I'm charting."
"You can chart elsewhere."
"This is the nurses' station, Dr. Park."
She was smiling. He knew that without even looking. He went back to his board and did not say anything else, hoping this was the end of it.Â
It was in no way shape or form, the end of anything. It only took him five minutes to look it up. Not you specifically, he wasnât doing that. Yet, the back of his mind supplied.Â
He was just reading about fellowship timelines, the NICU admission criteria for some reason? He also learned itâs two or three more years of training, all of it happening four floors above his OR in a unit he had approximately zero clinical reason to enter.
The fact that he even went down this road is embarrassing. But he went a whole another mile.Â
Clavicular fractures were the most common birth-related bone injury. Unfortunately â now, he hated himself for even thinking the word â they were managed entirely conservatively. Swaddle the arm, follow up in two weeks. It wouldn't require an orthopedic surgeon, much less him, to stand in a NICU looking purposeful.
For about four seconds, he entertained inventing a reason. He got as far as picturing himself walking through those doors in his scrub cap with some flimsy excuse half-formed, and the picture was so stupid â so transparently, embarrassingly stupid â that he closed his laptop immediately.
The hospital was large and your departments were, in practical terms, on separate planets.Â
Youâd been in the coffee shop on Wednesday, which meant you probably used it, which meant theoretically he'd encounter you again just by existing in the building. He told himself he wasn't going to engineer anything, he was just aware of the possibility. That was all.
Two days passed. He did four surgeries including a complicated tibial nail revision that took three hours and came out beautifully, and one very satisfying conversation with a referring physician who had misread an MRI and needed correcting. Normal week, right?Â
Next day, he got his coffee at six forty, same as every morning, and stood at the counter a beat longer than the transaction required, scanning the line behind him without meaning to. Nobody in lime green. He told himself that meant nothing, took his americano, and left.
Friday, same thing. He noticed himself doing it the second time, which didn't help â like catching his own reflection mid-expression and not recognizing the face looking back.
He didn't see you. Abnormal week.Â
ER consult. Friday, mid-afternoon. A fracture dislocation that the ER attending had flagged as needing operative planning. Brendon came down at two-thirty, and found Abbot by trauma three looking over a film.
Coming down to the ER wasn't his favorite part of the day. Not the work â the work was fine, usually obvious, usually somebody else's problem until it became his â but the way the place ran, all motion and noise hot under his skin. Abbot, somehow, thrived in it.
They'd gotten through about two minutes of the consult â Abbot walking him through the case, Brendon pulling up the images, the two of them doing back-and-forth of people who'd worked a building together long enough to skip the preamble. Uneventful.Â
But then the ER entrance on the left side of the bay opened and you walked through it.
Same lime green scrubs and a your Dunkin' cup in hand. Shen next to you, also holding a Dunkin' cup, saying something Brendon couldn't hear from this distance, and you were laughing. Brendon, to his disappointment, noticed it was not a poilte laugh. Your shoulder bumped into Shenâs with the force of it, a fully open-mouthed laugh, and you looked gorgeous.
The sight in front of him was only fogged by the fact that it was Shen who was at the receiving end of it.
The blush climbed before he could stop it, heat crawling up the back of his neck and into his ears. He thanked every god he didn't believe in, that Abbot was still looking at the film and not at him.
Brendon's jaw locked. Back teeth coming together, the muscle in his jaw pulling. He knew itâd give him a headache if he kept it up.Â
He didnât really know Shen, not really. Having entirely met him through corridors and in consultations. But in that moment he decided, with an immediate, total conviction usually reserved for diagnoses, that he didn't like him.
Because he didnât want to stare, he looked back at the X-ray on the tablet. "So the fracture pattern â" he spoke.
"You okay?" Abbot cut in.
Brendon looked at him. Abbot looked like he already knew the answer and was just asking to pull his leg, like most ER attendings.Â
"Fine," Brendon said. "The fracture is comminuted. Needs ORIF. Iâll book an OR, do it first case tomrorw morning."
Abbot nodded as he scribbled on the iPad. Didn't look fully satisfied with the fine but let it go. Brendon knew that about Abbot â the latter picked his moments.
Brendon looked back at the X-ray.
In his peripheral vision, you and Shen had stopped near the nurseâs station, still talking. You had the cup halfway to your mouth, nodding at whatever he was saying, and then you laughed again, smaller this time, shaking your head. Like whatever Shen had said was ridiculous and you were conceding it anyway.
His molars hurt from pressing down too hard. "ORIF tomorrow, first case," he said again, to the iPad at his hand, to no one.
"You already said that," Abbot noted.
He pulled up the next item on his consult list â a possible Montaggia fracture, a cakewalk for him, nightmare for others. "I'm confirming."
He was not confirming. He had no idea why he'd said it twice.Â
You'd moved further into the ER now, past his sightline, and he found himself looking at the entrance you'd come through for a second before he caught himself and looked back at Abbot. The latter was watching him like he was trying very, very hard not to smirk.
"Do you need something?" Brendon asked.
"I'm just standing here," Abbot said.
"You're doing something with your face."
"I'm a person, Park, my face does things." Abbot tucked his hands in his pockets. Nodding towards the general direction of where you might be standing, Abbot said, "I didn't know you knew anyone in neonatology."
"I don't," Brendon interjected soon. Too soon.Â
"Hm." Abbotâs head did a sweep of the ER, probably searching for you, and then looked back at Brendon. "Right."
Brendon put his iPad under his arm, said he'd have the operative plan by end of day and walked back toward the elevator, which took him directly past the nurseâs station, where you had apparently remigrated with Shen, talking to the desk coordinator about something.
He did not slow down.
But in the two seconds he passed within range, he did clock that you smelled like coffee and something warm underneath it, something sweet, vanilla maybe. You didn't notice him, but Shen did and nodded. Brendon nodded back and kept walking, very normal. Walk of a man who was fine.
The elevator took forty-five years to arrive.
He stood in front of it for all forty-five of those years, staring at the closed doors with his hands in his coat pockets, acutely, miserably aware that Park the Shark had just sped up his pace to get past a girl with a Dunkin' and was now standing at an elevator hoping it would hurry up.
Somewhere behind him, he was fairly sure, Abbot was still smiling.
It was a horrible week for the ortho residents. And it wasnât even Tuesday.Â
It wasnât because of the caseload. The caseload was what it always was, a rotating carousel of fractures and dislocations and the occasional spectacular screw-up from another department who'd missed a bone scan.Â
No, the residents had a terrible week because Brendon Park had decided, somewhere between Friday evening and Tuesday afternoon, that their technique was uniformly sloppy and their pre-op prep was an embarrassment to the profession, and he'd said so. Repeatedly. In front of each other.
It wasn't personal. He thought so and would tell you so, if anyone asked him. No one was brave enough.Â
His residents just kept standing in his eyeline when he was already irritated, and that was their problem, really.
Delgado, to her eternal credit, had not said a single word about it. She'd watched him tear into a second-year over a chart â like who enters the date wrong? â and kept her face entirely professional. The kid went pale, stuttering through his apology, and Brendon didnât care.Â
He'd noticed it himself. The snapping. He was moving through the ward with even less patience than usual, which was saying something. He did a K wire banding, ate lunch at his desk, reviewed post-op films, and at six-fifteen found himself at the hospital coffee counter scanning the room before his order was called. It was mortifying enough on its own, and you weren't there, so it brought double the mortification.Â
He went back Tuesday. Sat down, which was something he genuinely had never done. He had always taken his coffee to go. There was no reason to sit, the hospital was across the street, he drank it walking.Â
But this time, he sat. Kept his phone out, drank his coffee and checked his messages. He absolutely did not look at the door every ninety seconds.
You weren't there Tuesday either. Which was fine. People had schedules. Neonatologists especially â the NICU didn't exactly run on a nine-to-five, he knew that much. He'd looked it up. For professional reasons, of course. For someone whoâd prided himself for working 24/7, he was humbled real quick.Â
Wednesday, he sat again. He had a consultation at nine, no reason to rush. He could drink his coffee like a human being who used chairs. He pulled up his post-op notes on his phone, found Abbot's message about a fracture dislocation follow-up, which Abbot didnât have to do but does it anyway. Abbot was like that sometimes.Â
When he looked up, his coffee was in front of him. And so were you.
Lime green scrubs, your own drink in your other hand, and you were sliding his cup toward him. The look on your face that said you'd been watching him not notice it for at least thirty seconds. He had been reading an MRI report. A fascinating one.
"I really should get you a coffee," you said.
Brendon laughed. It was him. That was his laugh. Coming out of his face, in a coffee shop, at seven in the morning.
It came out before he could stop it or do anything about it. Just a short, but real sound, surprising him enough that he almost looked around to check if someone else had made it.Â
You were watching him with that same expression from the first time, like you found him interesting the way you'd find an unusual rock formation interesting. Curious but not unkind. It was doing things to his blood pressure.
"You're still doing that to yourself, I see." You nodded at his cup.
"It's coffee."
"Doesn't taste like it, though." Your nose scrunched up, just like the first time, just as adorable. Did he just say adorable again?Â
He picked up the cup, took a sip purely out of spite, and looked back at you.
You sat down across from him. Which he had not expected and also had absolutely expected. Two things existing simultaneously, almost fucking him up.Â
"You're here a lot," you said.
"The hospital's down the street."
"Is it?" You glanced at him, stirring your drink. "Because I've only ever seen you take it to go, and now you're sitting." You took out the stirrer and placed it on a tissue. "Three days in a row."
The back of his neck went warm, mouth opening to say something. Deny it probably, which was stupid and a waste of time. But you interrupted him.Â
Brendon Park is not someone whoâs interrupted. People let him talk, and only think about answering when theyâre sure heâs finished.Â
You, on the other hand, did not care. "You're kinda hard to miss with all the brooding going on."
"I don't brood."
You took a sip of your drink, watching him over the lid, expression doing a tremendous amount of work without saying anything.Â
He held your gaze. You lowered the cup. "You totally brood. It's an ortho thing, right? Comes with it."
"You know I'm ortho?"
"Everyone knows you're ortho." You said it completely matter-of-factly. Like, yes Brendon, the sky is blue and youâve got an Ortho bro vibe going on. "You have the whole â" You made a vague gesture in his direction, encompassing, apparently, all of him. "You've got the OR energy."
"Half the people here have OR energy. It's a hospital."
"No, see, ER people have this sort of â" you tilted your head, "â controlled chaos thing. They're always braced for something. But, you walk around like youâve won everything already. It's very obvious, easy to pick out."
Pick out what? Him from a line-up?
He watched you say all of this with zero self-consciousness, just stating observations, a woman delivering a verdict. He realised his coffee was halfway to his mouth and he hadn't drunk it. You talked about him like he was a case study, and he was sitting there letting you, taking all of it.
"So where else do you brood," you asked, "besides here and the OR?"
"I don't brood."
"Besides here and the OR?" You prompted, dismissing his non-answer.Â
"The ER⌠sometimes," he heard himself say it. See, he did not think of saying it, but said it anyway. Crystal-clear experience of a man who had just walked directly into something. He'd had five years of attendings trying to catch him out on rounds. None of them had managed it. You'd done it in under ten minutes, twice, while drinking a latte.
You made a sound. Not quite a laugh, more like an intake of breath with amusement in it. "The ER."
"Consults."
"Right." You traced the rim of your cup with one finger. "Were you in the ER last Friday?"
And⌠there it was.
He could've said he didn't remember. He could've been very busy, very unbothered, a man who passed through ERs constantly and didn't register the days. He was a surgeon. He was in various hospital departments routinely. There was nothing notable about Friday.
"Yes," his mouth admitted.
You nodded slowly, like something had confirmed itself. "I thought I saw you. You walked really fast."
He put his coffee down. "I had somewhere to be."
"Okay." The word stretched, like you werenât entirely convinced. He wouldnât blame it, he wasnât exactly convincing. An infant could catch him in a lie, and you apparently were their queen. You went quiet for a second and then looked back at him, debating whether to say it or not. Affirmative won apparently. "You saw me with Shen."
It wasnât a question. And he wasnât exactly thrilled to answer it. He'd spent five days being awful to residents over it. A little late to play it cool.
"I figured." The amusement on your face was warm rather than sharp, which made the ache in his chest somehow worse. Whoa, whoa, what ache? "We have a thing going, me and Shen. Whoever lost the bet had to do the coffee run. I'd just lost." You paused. "For the fourth time. I'm apparently terrible at predicting admission numbers."
"The fourth time," Brendon parotted.
"In a month. I know." You shook your head, shaking the thought, a soft sigh leaving your parted lips. "I don't know why I keep agreeing to it. Every time I'm like, this time I'll get it right, and then the board goes completely feral and I'm standing at Dunkin' at two in the afternoon getting Shen's ridiculousâ" You stopped to look at him, and he had his utmost attention on you. "Anyway. That was just the loser tax."
Loser tax. He sat with this for a second. The whole week reshuffled. Him being a monster to those unsuspecting residents â itâs not like it's unwarranted, but still.Â
You and Shen, a bet. A coffee run. A losing streak that apparently had nothing to do with the bond between the two of you and everything to do with ER admission patterns, which, if he was being honest, were genuinely unpredictable, nobody could forecast those accurately, it wasn't â
"You walked so fast," you spoke again, this time interrupting his thoughts. He noticed you liked to do that, keep him on his toes. There was a laugh behind it now, delighted almost. "I didn't know an orthopedic surgeon could move like that without a reason."
"I had a reason."
"What was it?" You prodded.
I just couldnât stand you bumping shoulders with Shen like you belonged together.Â
His eyes dropped to his coffee at his hand and found you again. You looked back at him. You had the same âinterested in rock formationâ thing going on, except closer now and clearer somehow. He had the increasingly urgent sense that you knew exactly what you were doing.
"You were with someone.â He sighed.
A smile adorned your lips like youâd won, finally beat him.Â
Like your mind was displaying in neon, Sunshine neonatologist : 1. Big bad ortho guy : 0.Â
You let it sit there between you while you took another sip of your drink. "I was getting Shen's order," you said finally. "Because I lost a bet."
"I know that now."
"But you didn't walk fast because of Shen specifically. Did you?"
His molars found each other again. What is with you and asking him impossible questions? Was this like your hobby? Hit the ortho guy until he falls over? At what point in medical school had someone taught you to do this, and could he have a word with them?
Without giving him a moment to recover, you spoke again. "So," you set your cup down, straightened up a little in the chair, met his eyes with an expression so direct it nearly made him blink. "When are you buying me a coffee?"
He stared at you. Staring was not his thing. He assessed, evaluated, and arrived at conclusions. What he did not do was stare, sit with his mouth slightly open like a fucking goldfish.Â
"That's what you've been trying to do, right?" Your voice was mild, conversational, voice of a woman confirming a meeting time. "For three days. In a row. Sitting here."
The heat that climbed his face was complete, total and immediate, and there was absolutely nothing to be done about it. Park the Shark. Sitting in a coffee shop for three days like a golden retriever who'd learned to use a chair.
You laughed. It filled the air and came right back to him. And he thought, sitting there red-eared with his black coffee, that it was the best sound he'd heard all week.
Possibly longer.
He only remembered that you asked a question when you raised your eyebrows. Right. The question. Which he totally didnât forget when he was staring at your lips and thinking about how they would feel pressed to his.Â
"I have a nine o'clock," he said. "Seven works."
"That's very early."
"You work in a NICU. You guys are up since five."
You looked at him for a moment and he had no idea what you were looking at. But he sat very still, which was insane on his part. He only hoped he passed whatever test you were conducting. Apparently having looked enough, you picked your cup up, along with the tissue paper and the stirrer you discarded, and stood. "Seven," you said. "Don't brood while you wait."
He watched you walk out. He looked down at his americano. He drank it.
It still tasted exactly like it always did, and he liked it fine, and he was aware, in a dim and reluctant and completely inescapable way, that this was probably not going to be the last time he sat in this coffee shop.
Not by a long shot.
MY MASTERLIST !
extras â¸â¸ lime green scrubs bc I was forced to wear them during my NICU postings
synopsis: Trinity and Dennis ask Jack about his wife
warnings/notes: Number eleven in the widow!jack ficlet series. As always, @tanely helped brainstorm. Listen, timelines are loose in this AU. things happen when they happen. so...yeah.
wc: 1.1k
Previous Series Masterlist
Trinity sat at the computer where she was supposed to be charting staring at Robby and Abbot across the room. âHey, Crash,â she said as Victoria walked past with Dennis.
Victoria rolled her eyes but slowed to a stop. âWhat?â
âYou did a rotation on night shift, right?â
Her and Dennis exchanged a look. âYeah. Why?â
âWhatâs the deal with Abbot?â Trinity turned on her seat to face the other two.
âWhat do you mean?â Victoriaâs gaze moved from Trinity to Abbot and back again.
âI mean,â Trinity drew the words out in annoyance, as if it should be obvious what she was getting at without her needing to explain. âHeâs cool. SWAT, the leg, him and Robby are besties. Like, whatâs his story?â
âWhy do you care?â Victoria was so confused as to the point of this conversation.
Trinity shrugged one shoulder. âThinking about going on nights for a while. It wouldnât hurt to have an in with the attending.â
Victoriaâs eyes went wide before she nodded once as if that made sense. âYou should ask him about his wife. He loves talking about her. Itâll totally get you points.â
âHeâs married?â Dennis asked.
She looked at him. âYeah, didnât you notice the ring?â
âWell, we havenât really been around him much to be fair,â he said.
Trinity smiled. âThanks for the solid, Crash.â She hopped to her feet and patted the younger woman on the shoulder as Abbot walked past them to head into the breakroom. âYouâre coming with me, Huckleberry.â
âButâWhat? I was helping Victââ
âOh, donât worry about it,â Victoria rushed to assure him, waving a hand through the air. âIâll ask someone else.â
As she turned to hurry away, she hoped they hadnât noticed the gleeful expression on her face.
When they hurried into the breakroom, they found the attending sitting at one of the tables with a cup of coffee. âH-hey, Dr. Abbot,â Dennis greeted.
âWhatâs up? Why are you here anyway?â Trinity added as she grabbed an energy drink from the fridge.
Jack looked between the two of them with a frown not saying anything. Finally, he leaned back in his seat and crossed his arms over his chest. âMorning admin meeting. Now, what do you want?â
Dennis started to stutter out an excuse but Trinity talked over the top of him. âWe were wondering about your wife, is all.â
âMy wife.â Jackâs voice was rough, low. His gaze darted between the two of them. âWould you like to hear about my leg next? Why donât we just rehash all of my trauma?â
Dennisâ eyes went wide and his mouth dropped open slightly. Oh no. Shit.
Trinity sat at the table. âYes, actually. What happened?â
Jack turned his head slowly to look at the resident, an unimpressed expression on his face. âRobby crashed his fuckass motorcycle with me on the back. They had to amputate.â
Her mouth opened and closed before she said, âOh.â She glanced at Dennis who stood behind Abbot shaking his head and mouthing the word No. âSo, what about your wife then?â
âMy wife was the most remarkable woman. I have never and will never love anyone like her. I will love her and only her for the rest of my life.â
Trinity swallowed hard. âWhat happened to her?â
Jack blinked once. Twice. âRobby crashed his fuckass motorcycle with her on the back. She didnât make it.â His tone was flat, emotionless.
Trinty physically recoiled ever so slightly. âListen, Iâm sorry ifââ
This time it was Dennis cutting her off, just as the breakroom door opened. âDr. Abbot, we are so sorry. We didnât mean to bring up any trauma or whatever. Seriously, we were just trying to get to know you.â
âWhatâs going on in here?â Robby asked.
âWe were just asking Abbot about his wife,â Trinity said as she stood.
Robby narrowed his gaze. âAnd what did Jack have to say about the Mrs.?â
âJust about how much he loved her. It was very sweet really,â Dennis hurried to say before pushing Trinity out of the room.
âI think Crash set us up,â she said once theyâd reached the hub.
âYa think?â Dennis asked, sarcasm heavy in his voice.
âGood for her.â
Dennis just shook his head as he watched his roommate leave to check on a patient. He glanced back to the closed door of the breakroom before walking off himself. Whatever had happened to Dr. Abbotâs wife, he obviously still loved her deeply. Dennis could only hope heâd find a relationship like that someday.
Roughly an hour later, Dennis was heading back toward the hub when he saw you standing next to Robby. He briefly considered introducing himself knowing you were the other night shift attending. His gaze caught on Abbot making his way to you, bag over his shoulder. And his eyes glued to your ass.
Dennis frowned. Hadnât the man just been extoling his wifeâs virtues and now here he is staring at yours? Dennis was oddly offended on Mrs. Abbotâs behalf. He walked over to where the older man was making no effort to hide his obvious leering and stood beside him, crossing his arms over his chest.
âI thought youâd never love anyone like you loved your wife.â
Jack huffed a humorless laugh. âYou got that right, kid.â
âThen what is this?â
âThis is me appreciating whatâs right in front of me.â
âAre you staring at my ass again?â you asked, not even glancing over your shoulder.
âI told you if you donât want me staring at it, you shouldnât put it in front of me,â Jack said.
Dennis curled his lip. Abbot was disgusting. Heâd actually felt sorry for him and nowâThe thought cut off abruptly as Abbot wrapped an arm around your shoulders and kissed your temple.
Robby shook his head. âWhitaker, have you two met?â
âNo.â Dennis stepped forward as Robby introduced you.
He finished with, âAlso known as Mrs. Abbot.â
âOh.â Dennis processed what heâd just been told. âOh!â
Jack just grinned as you elbowed him in the side. âWhat did you do this time?â
âWhy do you always think I did something?â
You stared at him without saying anything.
Finally, he said, âOkay. Fair.â
âI donâtâŚIâm so confused,â Dennis said with a helpless look at Robby.
Robby put a hand on his shoulder. âDonât worry, kid. Youâll get used to it.
Dennis wasn't sure about that. What he did know was that he had no intention of letting Trinity in on the information anytime soon.
Summary: You work in admin at the Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center. Though your work is upstairs from the ER, you're often found in the Pitt. One day an accident lands you dead in the centre of the emergency room, and Jack helps you realise that your place might be there with him instead of behind a desk. (wc. TBD)
Warnings: Canon-typical medical themes. Reader is female body coded; she/her pronouns; has a past in the military as a medic; is an amputee (transfemoral leg amputation); underlying PTSD which is sort of not really mostly coped with but they talk about it.
Listening to: 'Wonderful Life' by Smith & Burrows - "No need to run and hide. It's a wonderful, wonderful life."
Masterlist || AO3 link
It might sound stupid, but you didnât have a lot to live for anymore. Well, no reason a regular person might have. One tragedy after another left you with very little, and some days you were reminded of it more than others.
But while you didnât have the same reasons as others to push forward, you still had them. They were still good reasons. You had a little ball of fluff who relied on you getting home every day, and you had a group of good people who reminded you that they relied on you being at work.
As the months passed into years, that group of people slowly became your friends, and slowly their friends became yours too. Some of them almost became family, especially since your visits into the depths of your work became more often.
You frequented the Pitt as often as you were at your desk.
âWhose kid is that?â Was the first question that flew your way the moment you walked into the ER. It was way too early in the morning for this.
You had both your hands on the very young girls shoulders. Said girl, Morgan, had her hand wrapped tightly around a small wad of gauze on her finger. You rolled your eyes at the source of the question, Dana, before throwing your reply back at her.
âSheâs Sandraâs. Couldnât find a babysitter for the holidays.â
âHere I was thinking you were keeping secrets from us.â Was the last thing you heard before you finally got the girl steered away towards triage. Robby, the attending doctor, was at your side before you made it to your destination.
âWhatâs going on here?â he hummed, trying to understand the purpose for your visit into his ER. Youâd heard he was being weird today, word travelled fast through the nurses, and most were blaming it on struggling with the hand-off to the stand-in attending.
âFinger met pencil sharpener.â you mumbled, âIt went badly.â
He made a quiet noise of understanding before ushering you both towards one of the beds in the paediatric bay. âDr Mohan can get that sorted, quicksticks.â You looked up at him as Morgan settled back on the bed.
ââQuicksticksâ?â you said, raising a brow at him. He looked back at you with a face that said âgo on, say it I dare youâ. So you dared. âYou sound so old.â
âI am -â
âYou look like my grandpa.â Morgan said. Robby momentarily looked like heâd just been shot. You had to try and keep your face as neutral as possible, for the sake of whatever part of his ego hadnât been shattered by the eight-year-old.
âHow about you go get Samira?â you offered.
âGood idea.â
âSo how come you get to play caretaker?â Samira asked you.
She was putting the last stitch on Morganâs finger. Morgan was very good about it all, she only cried a little when the numbing needle went in, and has been curiously watching everything Samira did ever since.
âSheâs fun.â Morgan said.
âMore like your mom is more behind on paperwork than me, so I took one for the team. Besides, I needed to stretch my leg-s.â You trailed off on the last syllable, hoping neither of them noticed. They didnât.
âWe almost canât keep her away you know,â Samira said to Morgan, snipping off the last suture. âItâs almost like she wants to be a doctor instead of a patient services clerk.â
âShe was a doctor.â Morgan said. You felt your blood run cold.
âYou were?â Samira asked.
âI was not.â You quickly replied. Maybe too quick.
âWas so! In the army.â Morganâs voice was so matter-of-factually you almost could believe her yourself.
âReally?â Samira looked at you with a tilt of her head.
âMorgan!â you hissed.
âWhat?â She had her finger held up to her face, admiring the exposed couple stitches before a bandage was to go on. âYou said so.â
âWhy did you stop?â Samira asked. You shifted awkwardly, scratching your jaw and trying to avoid eye contact. You looked sus as hell, if anyone like Dana or Princess were here you could bet you wouldnât be left alone all day.
âIâd rather not talk about it.â
âOh.â Samira said, suddenly looking just as nervous as you. âRight. My bad, I shouldnât have asked.â
âItâs fine. Itâs behind me now, Iâd just rather keep it there.â
âIâm hungry.â Morgan said, now completely disinterested in her finger. When the painkillers wore off she would definitely be focused only on that again. Her wanting to eat though was a good sign.
âIâll finish here and then our friend can take you back to your mom.â Samira said, then turned to you, doctor mode back on, âBut make sure to come back, I need to make sure her mom knows what meds to take.â
âDonât worry, I doubt this will be the only time you see me today.â
You indeed were back before the dayâs end. Not in the way you expected. Youâd never thought youâd be in the ER like this.
What was supposed to be a quick in and out trip to pick up an on-mass lunch-time coffee order for your office crew and a few of the nurses in the Pitt, turned sour really fast.
Actually sour might not be the best word.
It was an emergency, medical, and one you never thought youâd be on the helping end of ever again. Not since you gave up being a medic.
The cafe was a few blocks away from the hospital, a good excuse for a walk even if you knew it would only help make your leg hurt more by the time you got home tonight. At the time, the only thing worse than your leg aching at the end of the day was being stuck behind your desk for another five minutes.
You got there, and it was a very pleasant walk, but barely had time to place your order after waiting in line before there was a screech and a sickening crunch outside.
A car crash.
You couldâve sworn there was a second there where you considered doing nothing, but that wasnât like you. When you chose not to pursue being a doctor you still stayed in the medical field, you couldn't just be someone that stopped helping others like that. So you reacted, your body flipped a switch before you even knew it.
People were yelling, phone calls to nine-one-one being made already, someone was screaming. The bonnet of the car was steaming and crumpled into one of the trees past the intersection.
You rushed over, as fast as your leg allowed, and immediately started searching for the driver. There looked to be no other passengers, so you focused on him until paramedics arrived.
And they should arrive soon, the hospital was barely two blocks away.
The steering wheel was pressing into his chest, and the glass on the windshield had weirdly shattered everywhere, leaving what you hoped was superficial cuts all over his face and arms. You called for one of the people behind you to call the fire department too, theyâd need to cut him out of the car.
What concerned you the most at that moment was the large amount of dark blood coming from somewhere near his neck. Your worry was that the glass cut deep enough to hit his exterior jugular vein.
Your brain ran one hundred miles per minute. He could experience blood loss. Shock. Air embolism. Hematoma. Airway blockage.
He needed the hospital urgently, but all he had was you. Good thing youâre used to dealing with high stress medical emergencies. Or used to be. Time to find out if you still had it.
The paramedics, OâNeil and Lidel, were kind enough to let you jump in with them back to the hospital. Since your John Doe patient had no passengers or family around there was space.
You knew the patient looked bad, there was still blood everywhere, but you didnât realise how bad you yourself looked until you walked through the doors to the ER behind the gurney.
âHoly shit, are you okay?â Princess said, rushing over to grab your arms, trying to give you a once-over.
âItâs fine. Iâm fine. Itâs not my blood.â
âEx-fucking-scuse me.â you heard, then none other than Jack Abbottâs head poked out of room six, eyebrows sky-high and looking like he was just finished tugging his shirt back on.
He was just the person you needed to see you looking like a mess. The reason you donât work as a clerk on night-shifts, a.k.a your work crush.
âThatâs a lot of blood for not being yours.â he said, beginning to guide you out of the open space and out of Princessâ arms, âRoom six is open again Princess, weâre admitting -â
â-You are not making me a patient.â
âYou look like you should be.â
âI just need a change of clothes.â
âYou need a once-over -â
âCan you both just go into room six,â Princess hissed, âNo arguing in my hallways, and you look like youâll scare the patients. Iâll send someone in with some spare admin scrubs for you to change into.â She practically shoved you both into the room, and you didnât miss her little smirk as she turned away.
The little shit knew about your crush, she knew what she was doing.
âGet your shirt off.â Jack said.
âExcuse me?â You replied, gawking at him open-mouthed. Jack asking you that under different circumstances would have you running hot for a very different reason.
âI need to check for injuries.â
âAt least close the curtain first -â He closed the privacy curtain immediately, then stood with his arms crossed. Waiting. âIâm still not doing it.â
âYou have to, how can I trust you arenât running on an endorphin-high right now?â
âUhm probably because I wasn't in the car crash. I was across the street and went over to help. The guy moved and dislodged a piece of glass in his neck and the blood went fucking everywhere.â
He stood there for a moment, mulling over your words, arms still crossed. His chest rose and fell before his arms uncrossed, giving in.
âYouâre going to need a shower. And a blood test for if you have any existing wounds exposed to the -â
âI know the protocol Jack, Iâve been doing this a long time.â you mumbled, beginning to shuck off the cardigan you had on - you shouldâve left it in your office, it was too hot for it outside anyway.
âYouâve been here like a year -â
âThree years.â
âIn admin work. Thatâs not a âlong timeâ.â The air quotes he used made you wince.
You liked to keep your past private. But if there was anyone to open up to, why not let it be Doctor Jack Abbot? He of all people should understand.
âYeah well Iâm fully trained as an army medic, so I figure some of that carries over.â you snapped.
âYou are?â he asked, perking up. âWhy did you -â He stopped.
Youâd jumped back onto the bed, wincing as relief spread down your leg and up to your hips. Your hands went to your left thigh, starting to massage your stub. Jack had noticed. Of course he had. And he realised what it meant because it was something he did too.
âAh.â He said, sitting down at the seat across from the bed.
âWhat?â you asked, looking over at him. His dark eyes were already on you, not unusual for him, you always tried your best to not look away first like it was a challenge, but this time was not one of those times.
âNothing,â he said. But it wasnât nothing, because he kept talking. âIs losing your leg the reason you donât practice anymore?â
âNo.â you said, scoffing.
âOh?â his brow raised as he leant back in the chair, âSo why?â
âProbably because every time I think about someone's life being in my hands again I start having a panic attack. I lost my leg when our base was bombed, I had someone under the knife at the time, and I just canât shake the feeling that itâs going to happen again.â
âYou seem to handle that patient fine.â Your eyes snapped back to his. You hadnât even realised that's what youâd done - how didnât you notice? âPracticing medicine here is a lot different, you know.â
âYeah, yeah, I know. I know but I just⌠I donât know.â you said trailing off just in time for the door to open up the noise of the pitt. Jesse came in with a set of scrubs.
âDeliveryâ he said, setting the clothes down on the bed next to you. âIâd shower first though.â
âThanks Jess.â You said, then he was gone again.
âIâll leave you to it, you know where the showers are.â Jack said as he stood after the door closed again. âAnd ignore me if this is out of place, but I think you need to talk to someone about all this.â
âHow do you know I arenât already?â
âBecause if you were youâd be wearing black scrubs, not those.â He said plainly. You could feel yourself swallow as you looked down at the clothes like the offended you. âYou still work in a hospital. You still obviously have the skills, and the stomach for it. And youâre down here all the time.â
âHow do you know that Iâm down here all the time?â you asked, standing again as you took the scrubs in your hands.
âIâm here a lot, remember? Besides, I have my spies keeping an eye on the place when Iâm not here.â
âOh do you?â you said, eyebrow raising as you eyed him with a smile.
âYeah, I need to make sure that the pretty admin worker from upstairs is behaving.â he said, leaning close as he opened the door for you. âFrom the looks of it she hasnât been behaving today.â
âHey, that's not fair.â
âAllâs fair in love.â Jack said, trailing behind you as you wandered your way towards the showers.
âAnd war.â you finished. âSpeaking of, what are you doing here? Now? In all this tac?â
âIâm part of a SWAT team.â
âThatâs the perfect way to cope with your trauma.â You rolled your eyes just thinking about it. âWho told you to do that?â
âMy therapist says I need to get out of the house more.â
âIf they suggested joining a SWAT team Iâm never going to go to your therapist.â You said, then decided in a split second to be brave. He did basically flirt with you first. âYou should ask them if they suggest going on a date too. Iâll take you to a dive bar I know.â
âYouâre asking me out?â He came to a stop outside the door, arm resting on the frame as you turned to face him. He had a grin on his face, one that looked like he was trying to hide how big it really was.
âYou werenât doing it, left me no choice.â
âShit, if I knew youâd say yes I wouldâve asked you when we first met.â he said, leaning in again with a tilt of his head.
âWell now you know.â you smirked.
âSure do.â His eyes looked you up and down, fixing on your lips a second before reaching your eyes with the start of another long eye-contact session. âMy next night off is Wednesday?â
âCool.â
ââCoolâ. Could be more excited about it.â he said. You slowly started to close the door on him, coyly smiling at him.
âIâm trying not to be too excited.â
âI donât like you because you pretend to be cool. Youâre a badass just being yourself.â
âShut up,â you said, having to restrain the way he seemed to be turning you back into some giggling teenager. âGet back to work.â
âYes maâam.â
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summary ... reader and jack have come to terms with being in a situationship after the third attempt of being in a relationship. that title doesn't come out of anyone's mouth, but it's essentially what it is. reader has begun to come to terms with it, but jack has realized he wants more, even if he's the one who agreed to casual.
pairing ... jack abbot x reader
word count... 7.2k
warnings... situationship... that's it.
based on this request ⌠i hope i did this justice!!!
Week 0 of the Situation
Itâs the third time this year that Jack has decided to pull away from the mess you once called a âblossoming relationship.âÂ
Youâre sitting on the edge of his bed, wearing nothing but a pair of panties and one of your old National Honor Society shirts from high school, while he stands nearly naked by your bathroom door. Heâs trying to find his clothes while he rambles on about âneeding to go to therapy more.âÂ
âI threw your stuff in the washer when you knocked out,â you tell him as he pulls the same towel off the ground for the fifth time. âThey should be dry now.âÂ
âThanks.â He runs over to the dryer, and you hear him struggling to pull his jeans on. âI know this isnât ideal, but I just canât be in a relationship right now.âÂ
âYou said that last time.âÂ
Jack walks back into the room with his shirt on backwards and runs a hand over his face. He digs his thumbs into his eyes and lets out a loud sigh. âI know, and I am really sorry. Seriously. I worked on myself, and I thought I could do it. But I cannot be in a committed relationship.âÂ
You scoff. You want to tell him, âOkay, whatever, see you next week,â but you stay silent.Â
There is still an ache in your chest, but itâs dull, and it only ever lasts a few hours. Youâve learned that whatever is happening between you isnât serious, even if the idea of it being so races to the front of your mind every so often. After a year, youâve come to realize that itâs just really good sex, really good meals and conversations, and really bad commitment issues.Â
Well, bad commitment issues on Jackâs end.Â
Since speaking to Jack, youâve made it more than clear that if heâd just make up his mind, you would have no problem settling down. You enjoy his company more than the sex. You enjoy cooking for him when he walks into your apartment like a zombie after long shifts. You enjoy the domestic qualities of your whatever-ship â even if they only last a few days, weeks, or months. When you have long conversations about nothing and everything â from your childhood nicknames to your favorite character in a stupid childrenâs movie â you can easily imagine your life with him five years down the road.Â
But when things become too real, too serious, too lovey-dovey, he pulls away and claims heâs not in the right headspace.Â
âIâm always at work. I canât be there for you like you want me to.âÂ
âYou should find someone else thatâs serious.âÂ
âYouâre too good for me.â
âIâm just a depressed widow missing a fucking leg. Iâm holding you back.â
Now, the excuse is that he doesnât go to therapy enough.Â
You donât make a big deal out of it this time around. You donât shut down and bawl into your hands while he hugs you. You donât hide in your room and choose isolation for weeks instead of going out and finding someone new to hook up with.Â
You just stand up and head to the bathroom. You turn the shower on and let the room fill with steam while you pump face wash into your palm. âIf thatâs what you need, I wonât fight you on it.âÂ
âI still want you in my life,â Jack tells you.Â
You stare at his reflection for a few seconds with pure confusion. âI canât be your friend,â you tell him. You get back to scrubbing the makeup and sweat from your face while an even more confused Jack lingers behind you.Â
âWell, why not?âÂ
âBecause we have sex and we were really close to getting into a relationship.âÂ
âCan we try?âÂ
âTo be friends or get into a relationship?âÂ
âWhat do you want?âÂ
âFor you to make up your mind,â you state. âBut whatever you want, I guess. I donât want anything happening to you because you lost your favorite fuck.âÂ
Jack makes a sound that closely resembles a dying hyena. âWhat does that even mean?âÂ
âThat Iâm the girl you love to fuck the most. You know, among all the other women you fuck.âÂ
âDonât say fuck,â he admonishes.Â
âSorry,â you laugh. âShall I say, make love?âÂ
Jack groans and presses his body against your back. âYouâre not a favorite fuck. Thereâs also not a million other women I have sex with. Youâre the only one.âÂ
You bend down to wash your face off and try to fight off the lump in your throat. You want to ask him why heâs struggling so hard to commit to you when he enjoys your presence. And, itâs only you he has in his house and his bed.Â
Figuring that out will probably give you a massive headache, so you choose to brush it off and accept whatever offer he throws at you.
âYour shift starts soon,â you say as you wipe your face off. âYou should go.âÂ
He nods and slowly backs out of the bathroom. He doesnât kiss you or tell you goodbye. He just grabs his stuff off the bedroom floor and walks out.Â
Week 1 of the Situation. Jack.Â
Jack canât stop rubbing his chest as he makes the short drive back to his apartment. Heâs had to pull over a few times to assess his symptoms and track everything heâs consumed in the past twenty-four hours.Â
He takes note â for the fifth time â that he hasnât had too much beef jerky or consumed copious amounts of caffeine or fatty foods. All he can think about is the consuming guilt from watching the fed-up expression on your face when he told you he couldnât commit.Â
He knows he canât keep doing this to you. At one point, he has to let you go so you can find someone who can give you what you want. Someone who doesnât think twice about settling down with you. Someone who doesnât back away when things start to feel entirely too domestic.Â
But this is easy for Jack. He doesnât have to fight his avoidance issues because what you have is casual. He knows he doesnât deserve you, and you know you should seek someone who will fulfill your deepest desires. He also sticks to this entanglement because even if he doesnât let himself give you the title of his girlfriend, he has you in most ways: in every room of his home with your clothes shoved into his dresser, your name and face in every app on his phone, and your weird food concoctions littering his fridge.Â
Thinking about this only worsens the guilt that shoots through his chest. Jack keeps whispering, âI know I need to stop. Sheâs right, it was almost a relationship, I need to leave,â but he also knows he wonât go through with it.Â
Jack parks his car in front of his place and takes himself to the front door. As he pushes his key into the doorknob, he hears rustling and heels clacking against the floor. The movement doesnât completely faze him, but what does are the heels he clearly hears â and sees â when he steps inside.Â
Youâre running across the house like a chicken with its head cut off. Youâre throwing things into your bag, running into his room, then reappearing with something else he canât really see. Youâre mumbling to yourself while youâre doing this, too, and itâs mesmerizing.
Jack kicks off his shoes by the door and watches you scramble to get your life together without thinking much. He doesnât even question why youâre ready for work when youâre usually lounging in the living room with a cup of coffee on Saturday mornings.Â
âWhy are you staring at me?â you question, annoyance loud in your tone.Â
He shrugs and pushes himself off the door. âYou look good, is all,â he tells you as he walks up beside you.Â
You scoff and continue to search through your bag for the fiftieth time in less than five minutes. âHave you seen my cool headphones? Where are they? I canât find them.âÂ
âCool headphones? The big bulky ones?â he asks, trying to make himself useful so you donât kick him out of his own home.Â
âNo,â you tell him and stomp into the living room. âThe cool ones.âÂ
âYou have to be more specific.âÂ
You groan and fall back into his couch cushions. âThe ones you got me for Christmas.âÂ
âThe Koss headphones?â Jack exclaims, finally understanding what youâre referring to. He quickly goes into the living room and grabs the small basket beneath the coffee table. Itâs full of all the things you leave between the couch cushions and scattered across the kitchen island. He throws them onto your lap with a quiet âhere.â âI forgot to tell you that I put them in there. All of your CDs and books and stuff.âÂ
You sit up and softly pat his cheek, then jump off the couch to shove them into your purse. Jack runs a hand over his mouth to smooth out the forming smile and follows behind you. As youâre going through the checklist of things you need â half of which arenât required in a copy editing office â Jack nuzzles up behind you. His nose is nudging the shirt thatâs loose against your shoulders and inhaling your musky perfume.Â
âStay a bit longer. What about breakfast?âÂ
You groan against his grasp but give up on moving. âYou were late for breakfast, and I wasnât going to be late to work because of it.âÂ
Jack moves an arm from around your body and checks the time on his watch. âFuck,â he groans, and the same pain he experienced in his chest a couple of minutes ago returns. âIâm sorry. My shift ran long, and I had to pull over a few times cause of some pain. I shouldâve called or texted.âÂ
You spin around and grab his shoulders, studying his face and the way his chest rises and falls. âAre you okay? Were you hurt at work, or was it your leg? I told you to take more breaks if youâre going to be working longer shifts.âÂ
Jack rolls his eyes and tries stepping away from whatever assessment youâre making. However, you pull him back and give him a stern look that forces him to stand still. âItâs just some chest pain. Itâs probably heartburn.âÂ
âIt was that bad?â you ask.Â
He shrugs. âIâll live. It was worse a bit ago.âÂ
You rub his chest and offer an empathetic smile, then move around him and immediately open the fridge. âIâm making you something to help with it. I left a couple of things in here a while ago when I had bad chest pain.âÂ
âItâs fine,â Jack tells you, but he doesnât go out of his way to stop you. Heâs always liked the way you take care of him when heâs under the weather. You come up with these teas and soups your mother used to make for you when you were in the same situation. You will apply creams and ointments to his aching leg or to his nose and chest when heâs sick. It feels nice when heâs the one always taking care of other people.Â
You set a glass in front of him two minutes later and say, âDrink up.âÂ
âIs it bad?âÂ
You shake your head. âBe a big boy and drink it. And be fast, I have to go.âÂ
He chugs the drink and raises a brow when heâs done. âThank you,â he tells you, then sets it down on the counter with a loud âclink.â âDo you really have to go? Or can you give me just a few minutes?âÂ
You roll your eyes at him and pull your purse on. âI have to leave, but what do you need?âÂ
Jack throws you a smirk. âA quickieâŚâÂ
âAbsolutely not.âÂ
âWhy?â he cries. âIâll be fast.âÂ
You walk up to him and wrap your arms around his stomach. âI know you can be, but Iâve been late a couple times this past month â because of you, might I add â and I canât be late again. Especially if itâs just for sex that Iâll definitely have at some point this week.âÂ
âOuch,â Jack hisses, then pinches your sides. âI donât like rejection.âÂ
You crinkle your nose at his remark and pull away with a little shove. âI donât like rejection either,â you say. You grab your lunch bag and water bottle sitting on the table and rush over to the door. You take your keys off their designated hook and open the door. Before you leave, you look back at him leaning against the kitchen island, happily looking at you â and your ass in your work pants. âYou should have some of the yogurt I bought with a bunch of fruit instead of eggs and bacon. Even if the bacon isnât as fatty, it might make your heartburn worse. I also canât make it after work, but Iâll send over some meal prep ideas that wonât kill you. Please make them. You never cook.âÂ
âOkay,â he whispers. âHave a good day, pretty.âÂ
You nod and rush out of the door, locking it behind you.Â
When Jack can hear you peel out of his driveway, he takes a minute or two to release the air in his lungs that he couldnât exhale while he was talking to you. He drags his hands over his face, pressing his thumbs into his eyes againâas if, by pushing hard enough, he could flip a switch inside his brain and completely give himself to you.
âI donât deserve this,â he tells himself. He grabs the glass on the counter and lifts it, moving it up and down and thinking about how something used to be there. Something you made for him because you were worried. âI wonder who the lucky person is who gets to spend forever with her.âÂ
Jack doesnât do anything for the rest of the day until you send over a few meal prep ideas.Â
Sweetie: Make at least one of the meals I sent. If I come over and thereâs nothing in your fridge, I will send you to a nursing home.
Week 3 of the Situation. Jack.Â
Jackâs annihilating alarm jolts him awake from a peaceful dream you starred in.Â
Your head was in his lap, and he was toying with your earlobes while you talked to him about office drama. He was watching you from above, and you had to stop a couple of times to giggle because the look on his face was too smitten with your appearance.Â
This has happened twice now, and itâs getting ridiculous. He only has dreams about you when you canât spend the night at his place. So far, itâs been five times.Â
Five times since last week.Â
Jack turns and groans into your pillow. âWhat the fuck?â he exclaims.Â
He doesnât quite understand the reasoning for his change in attitude towards his incredibly flawed relationship with you. Itâs only been three weeks since he told you he couldnât have a serious relationship, and it has been gnawing on every single part of his body.Â
Some days, his chest will hurt, other days it's his leg â even if itâs only been one hour into wearing his prosthetic and hasnât stood up long enough â and some days, like today, itâs his head. Even though he just woke up, his head is already throbbing, and he knows heâll have to take a fifteen-minute break at work to shut his eyes and pray the headache away.Â
At first, he thought it was from the guilt after he broke the news, but now itâs the discovery that youâre becoming okay with his decision to be casual.Â
Jack has noticed that you have skipped on sleepovers, dinner dates, and weekly grocery shopping, where you act as his dietitian for an hour or two. You might have helped him out with meal prep and his so-called âheartburnâ two weeks ago, but since then, you have only been around for one sleepover and breakfast date. If heâd even call it that, considering it was eating fast food breakfast in his car before the cut-off time.Â
You also only have sex with him and then turn away from him afterwards. You donât cuddle him like you used to or kiss him all over as a âthank youâ for the good head and intense positions. You just hug yourself and drift off to sleep.
Jack sits up on his bed and turns the lamp on. Then he grabs the pen and journal sitting on his nightstand and flips it open to the third page. The first two pages are just about the weird dreams he had after taking melatonin because he wanted to see what you thought about them.Â
On the third page, he writes about this dream. Every single thing that happened from start to finish as itâs fresh on his mind. He wants to read it the next time you cancel plans, so he wonât have to make that drink again.Â
Week 5 of the Situation. Jack.Â
Jack is on the roof with a black leather journal in his hand when Robby finds him. Heâs behind the railing, leaning against the iron as he reads another dream entry.Â
âI thought you went home,â Robby says, pressing his side against Jackâs shoulder.Â
Jack shuts his journal and shoves it between his armpit. âI was going to.âÂ
Robby stares at his miserable composure and hums. âWhatâs been up with you recently? I keep getting word from the night shift that youâve been off your game.âÂ
âNot off my game,â Jack mumbles.Â
âSo everyone down there is lying for the fun of it?âÂ
He shrugs. âIâve just been havingâŚÂ romance problemsâŚâÂ
âOh yeah? I donât think Iâve ever heard you say that,â Robby says as he squishes his chin between his fingers. âI thought you and your girl were okay. Wasnât she okay with you going casual?âÂ
âYeah.âÂ
âIs she not taking it well?âÂ
Jack scoffs and drops his head. He pushes his body against the railing and peers down at the ledge. âShe is taking it well. More than well.âÂ
Robby doesnât say anything. He just looks at Jack for a minute or two, studying the way the crease between his eyebrows has gotten deeper since he told him about the change in his relationship flow a month ago. He hasnât ever seen Jack like this, and itâs astonishing.Â
âShow me the journal,â Robby says.
âNo way,â Jack answers.Â
âShow me the damn journal,â he says again, his voice hard and scary and too similar to the tone he uses with Gloria, or the new intern he canât seem to like.Â
Jack grunts a few curse words and slams the journal into Robbyâs palms. âJust donât read it out loud.âÂ
Robby opens the journal and glances over the first two pages. It doesnât matter much to him that Jack had magically grown his leg back like a starfish. What draws his attention are the pages after.Â
Itâs a dream about you and Jack on a vacation after he asked you to be his girlfriend. You were dipping your feet in the sand while Jack fed you apple slices coated in caramel. Jack couldnât stop kissing you and telling you how much you meant to him. He was being open and vulnerable about his feelings, and you were happy to be there.Â
Jack retold the entire dream and ended it with the time and date like he usually did with the previous entries. The only difference was that he added something else after.Â
I donât want to say that I donât know why I keep dreaming about you. The truth is, I know why.Â
I donât like the way you keep pushing me away after sex. I donât like that you keep pushing me away when I want to kiss you. I donât like the way youâre pulling back the way that I always do. I now understand how it feels, and it is absolutely killing me.Â
I donât think I deserve to feel the way I do because I chose this. I wanted this. I wanted you in my life, in my bed, in every single corner of my house, but I did not want to label it because it would make it all too real. I would have to burden you with my every thought and past trauma, and I donât want to ruin you. You are too perfect for me.Â
This past month has terrorized me from the inside out. I canât sleep, eat, work out, or perform emergency surgery without thinking about you. I canât function because you cancelled our plans. I canât function because I wonât stop thinking about you, finding the one person who has beaten me to loving you forever.Â
I canât let you go, and I need to get my shit together.Â
Robby doesnât read past the second-to-last entry. He shuts the journal and gives it back to Jack. âI suggest you work this out and tell her how you really feel⌠Before you end up accidentally killing a patient.âÂ
âWhat if she doesnât want me anymore and is just trying to find a way to seriously end this?âÂ
âI think she does want you, but sheâs pulling away so she wonât get hurt again.âÂ
Jack nods and thanks Robby as he goes back to the chaos downstairs. When the door closes, he grabs onto the iron bar and bends down to cross over to the ledge. But then he receives a notification from his phone.Â
He pulls out his phone, and your name pops up on his screen.Â
Sweetie: I used the spare key to come in last night. I wasnât a fan of my bed and missed yours. Hope thatâs okay.Â
Sweetie: I made banana pancakes with your mushy bananas. Theyâll be warm when you get back.Â
Jack: Iâll be there soon. Thank you, pretty.Â
Jack shoves his phone into his pocket and steps away from the ledge. He doesnât know when heâll end up telling you how he feels, but he plans on brainstorming on his way to see you.Â
Week 7 of the Situation. Jack.
Jack doesnât exactly tell you how he feels in the most obvious way. He doesnât sit down with you and explain that he no longer wants to do casual and that heâs ready to commit and work on himself as long as thatâs what you want, too.Â
No, he does this in a way that only makes sense to himself. He tracks the food you bring into his house and stocks it before you have the chance to replace it. He takes this method to the bathroom, where you keep a handful of your skin and body care â an amount that used to be larger, but you took half back to your place after week two of your arrangement. Jack also tries to cook, even when youâre not around to watch him, partially because itâs getting fun, but also because it avoids your lectures on keeping himself healthy.Â
The most obvious method of his deeply flawed plan to win you over is begging for your presence whenever you mention having some free time.Â
âCome over, even if itâs for an hour.âÂ
âSince you donât have to go into the office for the next two days, how about you come and stay at my place. You like my bed more anyway.âÂ
âI saw a new coffee shop on my way home. Letâs go tomorrow when I get off my shift.âÂ
âIf youâre free this Sunday night, we should get margaritas at that place you love.âÂ
Sometimes it works, other times, it fails. He keeps track of that, too.Â
Recently, youâve been going out more without an explanation of where youâre going. Youâll just say, âSorry, I have plans this weekend.âÂ
Jack will ask, âOh, is it with that one friend that moved back to Pittsburgh from New York?âÂ
Youâll shake your head and look away from him. Youâll scratch your head or fiddle with your earlobes while saying, âNo, another friend. You donât know them.âÂ
Jack wonât ask questions anymore because frankly, he doesnât want to know. Your inability to look at him when giving him an answer is an answer within itself. He just doesnât want to believe that youâre taking the casual thing seriously.Â
He knows he should chill out with his excessive acts of kindness now that he knows youâre dating, but he does the complete opposite.Â
A day ago, you were lying in Jackâs bed, staring at the ceiling while he got ready for his double shift. He was covering for Robby while he took care of some personal matters, and hated him for it because it was taking him away from you.
âWhat are your plans for the night?â he asked as he slid on a long-sleeve shirt.Â
âNothing much. I think Iâll go for a run and then go home to answer a few emails.âÂ
âSo, no going out tonight or tomorrow?âÂ
âNo, just staying in. Why?âÂ
âCan you be here when I get back tomorrow?âÂ
âYouâve been wanting to spend more time with me, recently. Is everything okay?â you asked.Â
Jack shrugged, trying to dust off the fear that previously weighed on his shoulders. He was worried youâd say that you did have plans, and wouldnât be able to spend time with him â again. âYeah, I just want to see you more. Is that okay?âÂ
You didnât know what to do with your body â whether to dramatically raise your shoulders, purse your lips or sink back into his mattress â so you just looked into his eyes to figure out what was really up with him. He was a bad liar, and you could feel it in your bones that he was choosing not to tell you something.Â
âI guess itâs okay.âÂ
Jack walked up beside you and placed his hands on both sides of your face. He bent down and kissed your forehead, then lingered above your lips before placing the softest kiss on your mouth. âWe can order some food, watch a show, or a movie.âÂ
âOr I can cook.âÂ
âOr I can cook,â he told you.Â
You lifted your head and kissed him again. âNo. Iâll cook, and itâll be warm for you when you get back.âÂ
âIâll be here at eight, alright?âÂ
When he got back from his shift, he was indeed welcomed by a bowl of chicken pasta with half of the greens section at the grocery store. He didnât mind, though, because it was incredibly delicious.Â
Now, heâs sitting on the couch with you pressed against his side, arms wrapped around his bicep with enough force to nearly cut off his circulation. You put on a horror movie about forty-five minutes ago and itâs more gory than anything. You can typically handle horror movies, but this one is on another level.Â
âWe should probably switch the movie,â he tells you with a chuckle.Â
âJust pause it and turn on the lamp. You shouldnât have turned off the lights.âÂ
âYou asked me to!â he exclaims with a laugh.Â
You cling to him as he pauses the movie and turns on the living room lamp. Then you almost climb onto his lap as you try not to recount the scenes you just watched. âCan I spend the night?â you ask him, hands shaking against the groove of his bicep.Â
He kisses the top of your head and hums in approval. âOf course you can.âÂ
You sit in silence with him as you forget about the chopped off limbs and the crazy jump scares you couldnât prepare for. He rubs your hand and continues peppering your head and temples.Â
Jack thinks about replicating this moment until his deathbed. Maybe without you clinging to him like a koala over a mediocre horror film, but holding you and vice versa after long days and nights or simply just because.Â
He thinks about what Robby told him two weeks ago: âI suggest you work this out and tell her how you really feel⌠I think she does want you, but sheâs pulling away so she wonât get hurt again.âÂ
Jack realizes this is the perfect time for him to spill his guts.
His heart starts racing, and the sharp pain he experienced a month ago returns. He grunts and shifts his body so that heâs facing you, but your hands are still clinging to him. âI think we need to talk,â he whispers to you.Â
You nod, and for a second, your face loses its cool. You go from being scared to shut your eyes to worried that youâll be kicked out in the next five minutes. âIs this too much?â you ask him immediately.Â
Jack profusely shakes his head. âNo! No, itâs not too much. Itâs actually the opposite. I really enjoy this,â â he signals between you two and the way you were trying to step into his skin, âAnd I want it to keep going.âÂ
You slowly nod. âOkay⌠So what do you want to talk about?âÂ
âThere is a reason why Iâve been wanting to spend more time with you. I want you around for ââÂ
A series of notifications fills the air, and you and Jack both turn towards your phone that illuminates on the coffee table. The first notification is from someone named Daniel, and the other two are from Hinge.Â
Jack looks at you once the screen fades to black and nearly chokes on a breath, realizing he hasnât actually been breathing. âUhm, so, actually, donât worry about it,â he tells you as he pulls away. He grabs your hand and sets it on your lap, then takes the empty bowls and forks and stands to discard them in the sink.Â
âAre you mad?â you ask him.Â
Heâs glad he isnât looking at you, because heâd probably let go of the tears burning his tearducks. âI wish you had told me is all.âÂ
âTold you that Iâm on dating apps?âÂ
âYeah,â he says in a wobbly tone. He drops the dishes in the sink and turns the water on as hot as it can go. âWhy didnât you tell me?âÂ
You stand and rush over to the kitchen. You turn on the lights and walk up beside him, staring at the way he hisses when the steaming water settles on his skin for too long. âI didnât think it mattered,â you tell him. âI thought you couldnât do a serious relationship, so I wasnât going to waste my time waiting on you to figure yourself out.âÂ
Jack shuts off the water and turns to face you. His wet hand grips the counter for some kind of stabilization. âIâm not saying youâre in the wrong. I know I was being an asshole, and I understand why you wouldnât want to wait.âÂ
âSo then what are you saying?âÂ
âIâm saying that you should have told me you were on dating apps.âÂ
You roll your eyes and let out a broken laugh. âWhy should I have told you? So that you could have a reason to join them, too, and find the next person to terrorize for a year?âÂ
Jack drags himself away from you and stumbles against the floor like heâs just been shot. âI donât want to be on dating apps,â he mutters and pulls himself to the living room. He sits down and stares at the moving screen that has shifted from the paused movie to a bunch of paradise vacations.Â
You follow him and stand at the edge of the couch, a couple of cushions away. âSo what do you want?â you reply in the same tone and cadence. You wipe at your face even though your tears havenât fallen, and bite down on your lip to stop it from wobbling.Â
Jack doesnât answer. He looks at anything but you. âI think itâs best that you leave tonight. Iâll talk to you later.âÂ
âNo,â you tell him as the first tear falls.Â
âI just need some time.âÂ
âWhat were you going to tell me?âÂ
âItâs not important.âÂ
âI know youâre lying,â you say. You move closer and closer, pushing him to the edge so he can admit to whatever heâs hiding. âJack, just tell me. Please.âÂ
âGo home, pretty. Iâm not the one you want.âÂ
âYou donât know what I want!â you cry out, painfully loud. âYouâre jealous about this man you know nothing about and upset that Iâm on dating apps, but you literally told me you couldnât commit to me. I just donât get it. Do you want me or not?âÂ
Jack covers his face and tugs at the curls bordering his forehead. He can feel a piece of his world collapse, and as much as he wants to grab whatever he can before it gets away from him, he just sits and cries into his hot palms.Â
âI donât think it matters what I want anymore,â he tells you. âThere is someone on your phone begging for you and can probably give you exactly what I canât.âÂ
You kneel in front of him and rest your hands on your thighs. âI know that you want to be with me, I just need you to tell me,â you plead. âYou donât have to lie, and you know I would love to be official with you. Iâve told you this a handful of times. But itâs getting tiring, and I canât stick around for you. So if you want me to leave, Iâll leave, but Iâm not coming back.âÂ
Jack looks up from his palms and at your wet face. His red eyes meet yours â stained with mascara and the soft eyeliner youâve rubbed off. He needs to say something. He needs to admit that he wants you and he is willing to be vulnerable in exchange for your infinite presence. The issue is, he canât get over how much distress he has caused you. He was wasting your time and doesnât want to accidentally hurt you again if he decides to commit and comes across some turmoil along the way. Heâd much rather you find peace, even if it means with someone else.Â
âI want you to leave,â he whispers.Â
You wipe your tears and nod. You stand and head to his bedroom, where you collect your things and throw them into the large basket you stole from the coffee table. You re-enter the living room and glance at Jackâs folded position.Â
You think of saying something, but decide that silence is better than adding to the fire.Â
You step into your shoes by the door and grab your keys. Then you leave.Â
When your presence is completely gone, Jack falls back onto the couch and sobs into his hands. âYouâre a fucking idiot,â he says to himself, over and over again. âYou were supposed to patch things up, and now look at what youâve done.âÂ
When his crying died down, Jack put his shoes on and went down to the corner store a couple of blocks away from his place. He bought a bottle of cheap whiskey and a pack of cigarettes.Â
He hadnât smoked in nearly two decades, but his body was falling apart every second, so smoking was the least of his worries.Â
Jack smoked two cigarettes in front of the shop, then gave the pack to someone asking to bum a smoke.Â
He chugged half the bottle of whiskey on his way back home and then fell asleep on his couch, right where you had lain an hour ago.Â
Week 8 of the Situation. You.Â
You were on a date with Daniel, a high school teacher who taught biology. He had just taken you to his schoolâs elite science fair, where you judged a bunch of fifteen-year-olds' complex projects. It was unlike other science fairs you had been to, where everyone was in third grade, showing off the projects their moms helped them with. It was more like robotics, but with less computer science.
âIt feels wrong judging children,â you say between bites of a vegetarian burger. Squash has replaced the meat, and youâre not quite sure you like it. You swallow it down without much chewing and continue with your words. âIt feels better when youâre judging adults.âÂ
Daniel laughs and bites down on a tofu fry. âHow come?âÂ
âWe have experienced more rejection than they have.âÂ
âHuh,â he says with a shrug. âNow that you say that, I might have to drop out of the next science fair.âÂ
You laugh. You try to find something else to say to fill the silence, but nothing comes to mind. You let Daniel ramble about the next science project heâs going to give his students. You listen, but you donât really keep up. You just know that youâd hate him as a teacher, and glad youâre in your thirties rather than in your teens.Â
Daniel talks for another thirty minutes during the date. You push your food around the plate and think about what itâd be like going on a date with Jack. He would ask you what youâre craving, and then find a place that matches that. He wouldnât force you to eat at a place that didnât pique your interest â even though youâd tell him he should choose a place he liked, too.Â
Jack would also never spend the entire date talking about himself. He would find a way to insert you, and then spin the entire conversation so you spend the next hour or two talking about yourself.Â
Daniel is the opposite. After the science fair, he asked if you were hungry, then said, âSame. Iâm craving his vegetarian spot in the city, letâs go.âÂ
You werenât mad, just annoyed. You didnât exactly want to eat squash covered in a million seasonings and deep-fried just to make it feel like chicken for half a second. You also didnât want to sit in silence while a man talked your ear off about humiliating teenagers in front of their peers.Â
You zone him out until your waitress comes to the table with a confused look on her face. âHi! I wanted to ask if you know someone named Jack. Heâs at the front and wonât stop pointing at you. He says he has an emergency that requires your help.âÂ
You look at Daniel, whoâs just as puzzled as you and the waitress are, and turn into a stuttering mess. âI do know a Jack⌠I just donât know what would be an emergency. Uhm⌠yeah, just tell him Iâll be right there.âÂ
The girl nods and rushes back to the front of the restaurant.Â
Daniel laughs a bit and asks, âIs that your ex or something?âÂ
You shake your head. âNo. Heâs just⌠I donât know. Heâs my Jack?â you say, and immediately regret calling him yours. âI mean â We never labeled it, and we cut things off last week. Heâs been texting me, but I donât answer. I guess he thought I was dead.âÂ
âWhy would he think that?âÂ
âI usually always reply even when weâre rocky,â you say, then grab your bag and get up from the table. âI have to go, though. Thank you for the meal.âÂ
You walk to the host stand, where Jack is, rocking back and forth. He oogles you despite you only wearing a black long-sleeve shirt and black jeans. Itâs nothing special, yet he is completely enamored.Â
You grab his hand and say a quick âthank youâ before dragging him out of the restaurant and into the nearly empty parking lot. You quickly find his car and stomp over to it, where you push Jack against the back door.Â
âWhat the hell?â you seethe. âWhy did you show up here? And how? Who the hell told you?âÂ
Jack lifts his hands in mock surrender. âCalm down, let me explain.âÂ
âNo! I thought we ended this. And now youâre showing up to this date unannounced like some sort of stalker. Are you insane? Should I call the ââÂ
âI love you,â Jack breathes out, cutting off your rambling.Â
âFuck you,â you spit.Â
Jack shakes his head and sets his hands on your shoulders. âI love you. I really do. I tried telling myself that what I was feeling wasnât real. That I just wanted more sexual intimacy or something, but that was all a lie. I have been depriving myself of you because I thought I would ruin you by being open and raw.â
âYou wouldnât ruin me,â you whisper.Â
âI know that now. I have spent the past week thinking back on every single conversation weâve had, and I finally realized that I have been making decisions without asking how you really felt. I havenât even asked you what I could do better, and I am a fucking idiot for that. I am so sorry, pretty.âÂ
You grab his face and press a wet kiss to his lips. âI love you,â you say between desperate brushes of your lips and tongues. âYou would never ruin me by telling me how you feel. You would never ruin me by telling me what led you to this version of yourself. Do you hear me?âÂ
Jack brushes his forehead against yours and releases a shaky exhale from the depths of his lungs. His tense shoulders drop, and he melts into the hug youâre pulling him into. âIâm sorry that Iâve spent a whole year just dragging you along. I know that itâs been extremely painful for you. I will spend every single day of my life making it up to you.âÂ
âThank you,â you say, and shut him up by strengthening the hug until he releases the last few tears hiding in his eyes. âI accept your apology.âÂ
Jack chuckles against your head. âI want you to be my girlfriend,â he mumbles.Â
âWhat?â you exclaim and pull back. âEven if I was just on a date with someone?âÂ
âDid you like him?âÂ
You shake your head. âNot really.âÂ
âThen I donât care,â Jack replies. âBe my girlfriend, please. Iâll even beg on my knees.âÂ
âDonât,â you say and swat at his chest. âI will be your girlfriend, Jack.âÂ
âFinally,â a voice says behind you. Daniel.Â
You turn right before you go into another series of kisses with Jack, and pull him into your chest as if itâll hide him from the man you were just inside with. âDaniel! Iâm sorry.âÂ
âDonât be. Iâm just glad this happened right after the first date and not after we married or something.âÂ
You cackle. âOh, okay. Very confident man, you are.âÂ
âI hope this goes well for you two.âÂ
âThanks, man, have a good night,â Jack tells Daniel, then returns to look at you, whoâs a laughing, dying mess. âHim, really?âÂ
âI donât know. I was a bit sad when he asked for a date.âÂ
âYou wonât have to worry about dates with men who take you to vegetarian places ever again,â Jack says against your lips. âUnless thatâs what you want, then I guess Iâll accept. But you did just agree to be my girlfriend, so I hope the answer is no.âÂ
âI want you,â you tell him.Â
âThen itâs settled. Youâre mine, and Iâm yours forever. Even if Iâm a bit fucked up.âÂ
