Knifepoint - Amelia Shepherd x Reader (Grey's Anatomy)
a/n: ignore this is a day late and also that i have disapperead for a week, work was high stress - i may upload previous days or i may disappear for another week. with me - who knows!!!
summary: You’re a trauma surgeon known for rocking black scrubs and keeping cool under pressure. When a tense situation turns dangerous and you get hurt, Amelia Shepherd steps in to save you and things get a little complicated. Between the hospital chaos and all the unspoken feelings, you both start to realise maybe there''s more to your rivalry than just work.
Part of May Prompts (a black scrub top) AND Maylancholy 2025 (held at knifepoint - @may-lancholy) - that's right, we have a combo one in day sixteen!
Early on in your career, you made a choice to wear black scrub tops.
Not charcoal. Not navy. Not a trendy graphite hue that someone from plastics might mistake for fashion. Just black. The kind of colour that takes no prisoners.
They drape like shadows around you, absorbing everything, blood, questions and grief. You make no explanation for them, and in your silence, everyone else fills in the blanks.
Some say it’s a trauma thing, a symbolic mourning, whilst others think it’s rebellion. A way to set yourself apart from the chaos of surgical life, from the rainbow of department colours that try to make life-and-death look less... well, less like death.
You don’t confirm or deny. You just keep moving.
There’s something in your gait, unapologetic and smooth, that makes people step aside before they consciously decide to. You walk like someone who’s already memorised the next fifteen steps. Your stethoscope is always coiled neatly, and there is not a strand of hair out of place.
The residents know not to chatter around you. The interns whisper your name with reverence and fear, as if you’ll materialise behind them with a glare sharp enough to lacerate.
You’ve heard the nicknames: The Void, Reaper in Reeboks. One ICU nurse calls you death in Danskos when she thinks you’re out of earshot.
You don’t mind. Better that than someone trying to make small talk.
Only one person doesn’t keep their distance. Amelia Shepherd.
It didn’t begin as antagonism. More of a clash. She barreled into the scrub room mid-glove up, her ponytail swinging. Her badge hit her chest as she moved, the words NEUROSURGERY catching the light. She stopped short in front of your locker, her arms folding across her chest.
"You’re not hijacking my OR just because you’ve got seniority and a God complex," she snapped, voice sharp with adrenaline and annoyance.
You didn’t flinch. You didn’t even look up from the chart in your hand. "My patient is crashing. Yours is stable, sedated, and prepped."
"So that’s a yes on the God complex, then?"
"I’m trying to save a life," you said, calmly sipping from your water bottle before slamming your locker shut. "If you’d like to argue about it with the chief, be my guest. But I’ll be done before you even know it."
She narrowed her eyes. "You better or you can be the one to apologise to my patient's family."
You met her gaze finally, with the slightest quirk of your eyebrow.
You’d been circling each other ever since.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
It was a few weeks later. The hospital had finally quieted to a dull hum, most of the chaos seeping into night shift rounds and whispered consultations. You sank onto the cracked leather couch with a sigh, unwrapping the worst vending machine sandwich known to mankind.
"You know," came a familiar voice, dry as desert air, "I’m starting to think you enjoy suffering."
You didn’t look up right away. "Big talk from someone eating back-to-back protein bars."
Amelia Shepherd let the door swing shut behind her with a soft thud. She was still in her scrubs, top untucked, sleeves pushed to her elbows, hair escaping in every direction. She looked like someone who hadn’t slept in twenty hours, which, given the shift schedule, was probably accurate.
"They do the job and at least they taste somewhat alright," she said, biting into her bar without a flinch. "You, however, look like you’re one bite away from a stomach pump."
You risked a glance at her, brows arching. "Did you come in here just to roast my dinner, or…?"
Amelia’s lips twitched. "I came for silence. I stayed for the opportunity to roast your dinner, obviously yes."
You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your mouth twitched upward. You tore a piece off the sandwich, then paused, glancing over at her. "Rough day?"
She gave a noncommittal shrug, flopping into the chair across from you. "They’re all rough days lately." You didn’t respond right away. Amelia tapped her thumb rhythmically against the side of her protein bar wrapper. "You haven’t been sleeping."
You blinked at her. "Is that an observation or an accusation?"
"Just an observation." She leaned back, regarding you with that unnervingly perceptive look she had, the one that always made you feel a little too seen. "You’ve got the whole haunted-in-the-hallway vibe going."
You bristled slightly. "You don’t exactly radiate sunshine and puppies yourself."
"Touché," she said with a smirk. Then, after a beat, "But I’m not the one deflecting by working double shifts and pretending it doesn’t bother me."
You met her gaze, something sharp and vulnerable flashing across your face. "And what would you suggest I do, Shepherd? Meditate? Journal? Scream into a pillow between rounds?"
Amelia didn’t flinch. "No. I don't have an answer yet. I wish I did."
"Ah, so you dish out this empty advice for free, huh?"
For a long moment, you sat there, two people balancing on the knife’s edge between pushing each other away and pulling each other in. Then Amelia sighed and stood, tossing her wrapper into the trash with unnecessary force.
"I’ll bring you real food next time," she muttered, already halfway to the door. "Try not to die of sodium poisoning before then."
You looked up, surprised. "You cook?"
She paused in the doorway, turning her head just enough to send you a small wink, "No. But I have very convincing delivery menus."
And then she was gone, leaving the door swinging quietly in her wake and something strange in your chest. You weren’t sure if it was annoyance or interest. Maybe both.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
Another three weeks later, you’re mid-chart, back hunched at the nurses’ station, eyes moving too fast over patient notes that make you wish you could just go home, when you feel it.
A presence. Off-kilter.
You look up.
The man standing in the lobby doesn’t... belong. That much is obvious from the way his body holds tension. It's coiled, like a spring waiting to snap. He wears a hoodie too thick for the weather. His eyes dart from nurse to wall to floor. Sweating, fidgeting, vibrating with something that doesn’t match his surroundings.
You’ve seen that look before, where someone balances on the edge of unreality. A place where people either break down or break through.
Then you place him.
Angela Vasquez’s brother.
Angela, seventeen, who came in with a sudden thunderclap headache and collapsed in the elevator. You’d operated for six hours, cut and clamped and prayed with every ounce of precision you had. But the bleed was too fast. Too much.
She never woke up.
You were the last one to touch her. You’d stayed after the code was called. Sat beside her body. Pressed your palm against her cooling wrist and whispered her name.
Now her brother is here, standing across the atrium with that look in his eyes.
You push back from the desk and murmur low to the charge nurse, "Call security. Quietly." But it is too late.
He’s already moving. Three strides, maybe four. He closes the distance with a speed you don’t expect. There’s no time to back away. His arm rises.
Metal flashes.
The folding knife is cheap, dull silver with black tape around the handle. It catches the light for half a second before pressing hard into your chest.
There’s a shout. A dropped clipboard. Somewhere, someone screams.
But all you see is him.
His eyes are red-rimmed. His breath comes in short gasps. He’s not a killer. But he’s grieving.
"Say her name," he growls.
You exhale, slowly. Keep your body still.
"Angela," you say. "I remember. I was there."
He breathes harder. The knife digs in. You feel the press of it, sharp enough to pierce fabric, bite skin. "She walked in here. Alive."
"I know."
"She had a headache. That’s it."
"I know," you repeat. "I’m sorry."
The blade jerks. He presses it harder. Blood wells and there's a sting, then warmth. You'd hardly be able to see the liquid bloom through your shirt but you feel it become damp.
"Say it again!" he shouts. "Say it!"
"I’m sorry."
His eyes glisten, fury cracking into anguish. The whole hall is still. No one dares move.
And then- "Hey!"
The voice slices through the tension. Amelia.
She’s standing at the end of the corridor, wide stance, hands half-raised, eyes locked on the man’s trembling grip. She’s wearing her normal clothes and must have just come off shift. But her presence shifts the air.
"Don’t move," she says, calm and razor-edged. "It's just us."
The man twitches. The blade shifts slightly. Your blood spreads slightly wider beneath the black.
"She didn’t care," he says, voice cracking. "Didn’t even say sorry till I made her."
Amelia takes a step closer. "You’re right. It wasn’t enough."
You shoot her a glance. She doesn’t look at you. Her focus is entirely on him.
"Hurting her won’t bring Angela back," she says, voice thick with compassion and authority. "You don’t want to carry that weight."
He trembles. The muscles in his forearm twitch. "She was my baby sister."
"I know," Amelia says. "And I’m sorry. I should’ve caught the bleed. I’m the neurosurgeon. Maybe I missed it. Blame me."
Your heart spikes. "Amelia. No."
She finally looks at you, just for a second. And what’s in her eyes is not fear. It’s fury. It’s fire. It’s something too big to name.
"I’m not letting him kill you."
The man is confused now. His rage flickering, not knowing where to land. You feel his grip loosen. And so you move. It’s instinct. You slam your elbow into his ribs. The knife slices downward as he staggers, leaving a hot, burning trail across your chest.
Then you’re falling.
But you don’t hit the ground.
Arms catch you, steady, strong, too warm. Amelia's hands are on you, pulling you back against her body, her breath right against your ear. "Okay. Okay. I’ve got you. Just breathe. Stay with me."
You feel her pressure against the wound, fingers trembling just slightly. Blood soaks into her sleeves. Her hair brushes your cheek.
"That was monumentally stupid," you whisper.
"You’re a fucking idiot," she chokes. "A stupid, noble, infuriating idiot."
You wince. "Didn’t know you cared so much."
She huffs a broken laugh. "Don’t flatter yourself."
But her hand never leaves your chest.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
You wake up in post-op and feel sore. Slow. Heavy.
And you’re not alone. She’s there. Curled in the corner chair, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, her cheek resting on her fist. Her eyes are closed but not asleep.
You whisper, "Did I ruin your day?"
Her head jerks up. "You ruined my fucking month."
You give her a tired smile. "That dramatic streak. Neurosurgeons really are the worst."
"You bled on my sweater. And almost died. You don’t get to talk shit."
You reach out. Your hand finds hers. "You stayed."
"Yeah, I never left."
There’s a silence. Then, "Why?"
She swallows. "Because I didn't want to. Not when you owe me for that takeout. It's your turn to buy me food."
"That makes sense." You smile softly and she shakes her head.
"Maybe I want to keep you around to see what happens too." She hums, a slight anxiousness in her eyes. But you are too blunt for this.
Your voice barely makes it out. "Say it."
She leans in, forehead brushing yours. Her breath is warm, her voice softer than you’ve ever heard it.
"I care about you," she murmurs. "More than I should. More than I ever wanted to."
You close your eyes.
And for the first time in weeks, maybe longer, it doesn’t hurt quite so much to feel.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
Three weeks later, you’ve been back on rounds for almost a week. You turn a corner and stop.
Amelia’s waiting for you and she is in black scrubs.
She raises an eyebrow, arms crossed. "Well? Do I look intimidating?"
You glance at her, lips twitching. "You look like my evil twin. Is that what you wanted to hear?"
She smirks. "I can think of some other things."
Teddy walks past, gaping and tilts her head, eyeing both of you, one brow lifting. "Okay. You can’t both wear black. People are going to think you’re in a cult."
Amelia didn’t even look up from her coffee. Her tone was bone-dry. "We are. It’s called the surviving trauma and deflecting with sarcasm cult."
You leaned back against the nurses’ station, a grin spreading slowly as you raised your coffee like a toast. "And caffeine. Don’t forget the daily sacrifices to the coffee gods."
"You need a catchier name, there's no way that'll catch." Teddy came to a stop next to Meredith, who was leaning on the opposite side of the counter. Meredith lifted her head and blinked at you both and deadpanned, "You two realize you’ve been matching every day for a week now, right?"
You shrugged with mock innocence. "Coincidence." Amelia, at the exact same time, replied, "Solidarity."
That earned an amused snort from Teddy, who shook her head. "So… solidarity in looking like you’re two seconds away from scoring a record deal with a broody indie hospital soundtrack?"
Amelia finally turned toward her, her grin blooming slowly. "If the scalpel fits."
Meredith took a slow sip of her coffee, clearly savouring the moment before droping in her next line, "Honestly, I just want to know how long until you two finally stop pretending that this is just a trauma bond."
You choked on a laugh and pretended to clutch your heart. "Meredith Grey with emotional insight? Who are you and what have you done with our queen of avoidance?"
Teddy leaned in, stage-whispering to Meredith with a gleam in her eyes. "I give them two more days before Amelia ‘accidentally’ kisses her in the elevator."
Amelia didn’t miss a beat. "Please. It’ll be the supply closet. Have some respect for tradition."
"Just for the record," you said, voice lower now, intimate in a way that made Teddy raise her brows and Meredith pretend very hard to be engrossed in her phone, "if it were the supply closet... I wouldn't exactly object."
Amelia tilted her head, mouth curving upward into that mischievous little half-smile she wore when she was two steps away from doing something reckless and brilliant. "Noted," she said, her voice just as soft.
Teddy cleared her throat, "Well. That’s my cue to make myself scarce before someone violates HR policy behind the linen cart."
Meredith finally looked up, smirking. "Just make sure someone actually does kiss someone before I waste another bet on emotional repression."
Amelia chuckled, stepping close enough that your shoulders brushed. "No promises," she murmured.
