𝓼𝔂𝓷𝓸𝓹𝓼𝓲𝓼 : no one wants to patch up the most violent fighter in the ring. toji fushiguro is obnoxious, brash, and refuses to let any medic lay their hands on him. that is, of course, until you come along - brand new head doctor assigned his unit.
boxer!toji x doctor!reader !
𝓪/𝓷 ~ a little idea that’s been brewing in my mind for a bit :)) boxertoji…i need him
no one wants toji fushiguro as their client.
you figure that out in your first ten minutes in the med centre behind the arena.
“he’s an asshole,” one of the older doctors tells you without looking up from his clipboard. his tone is flat and practiced, like this is a speech he’s given a dozen times before. “refuses treatment, mouths off. i had him for two weeks. longest anyone’s stayed with him.”
another doctor snorts from across the room. “the last guy was here for half a match. toji didn’t like his face and told him to fuck off before he even had a chance to look at his cuts.”
you gulp audibly, the sound embarrassingly loud. “oh.”
“just hope he doesn’t lose,” one of the nurses tell you, patting your shoulder. “we normally stay out of the way.”
you first see him in person mid-match.
it’s brutal. there’s no other word to describe it.
(there’s also the fact that he’s ridiculously handsome. you’re quick to push that thought to the back of your head.)
toji fights like he’s trying to prove something. every punch lands harder than the last. fast. violent. the crowd eats it up, roaring, chanting his name.
but you notice it immediately.
the slight twitch in his movement. his right shoulder.
his opponent notices the falter in his step, the way he guards his right side suddenly, and suddenly it’s one bad hit, one wrong twist, and —
knocked out, and that marks the end of the round, and the ref blows his whistle after counting to ten.
your heart sinks. you look over to your associates frantically, but they’ve already dispersed, muttering to each other under their breath.
the doctor who was with toji for two weeks looks back and gives you a sympathetic wave.
just hope he doesn’t lose.
and backstage is even worse.
he’s sitting on a bench in the med centre when you find him, head tilted back against the wall, blood drying along his cheek, chest rising and falling slow and controlled.
his shoulder looks bad. swelling already, awkward-looking and purple.
you step forward after a moment of hesitation.
toji cracks an eye open. looks at you. doesn’t say anything for a long moment.
“who the fuck are you?” his voice is rough, low. it drags across your nerves like gravel.
“i’m your new assigned doctor.” you introduce yourself with a polite smile, pulling up a chair across from him at the bench.
you hope he can’t see that you’re shaking. you’re very aware of how big he is. i mean, his bicep’s the size of my head. it’s hard not to be fucking terrified out of my—
you don’t move. you reach into your kit, pulling out gauze, antiseptic, tape. eyeing his shoulder.
“sit up, please,” you repeat, more calmly this time.
you look up into his eyes more properly. swirling, sharp, angry pools of deep green. measuring, lingering.
his lip twitches. “don’t touch me,” he mutters.
“well, you’ve got a busted shoulder and a cut brow, so i’m going to have to touch you.” you will your voice to stay even, your tone matter-of-fact.
he stares hard again. unblinking, eyes boring into yours with an intensity that makes your knees tremble.
you swear his gaze drops to your lips.
then something shifts. he exhales through his nose, tension bleeding out of his posture. he visibly relaxes, arms settling at his sides. his eyes close.
that’s it? this is the man everyone warned you about? the toji fushiguro that has tantrums and throws people out mid-treatment?
you don’t want to take it for granted, and you pull your chair closer to him, hands settling on his shoulder.
“does it hurt here?” your fingers press softly into the swollen skin and he winces.
he flinches, barely. “no,” he bites.
“you’re lying.” you hum, unimpressed, adjusting your grip slightly. a faint crease appears between his brows. “alright, toji, on three—”
you move your hands quickly, a sharp shift rolling his shoulder back into place.
toji sucks in a breath, teeth clenching. “what the fuck—”
his hand snaps to your wrist, holding it tightly. your heart skips at the contact.
he stares at you, still holding your wrist, and his grip flexes slightly before he lets go.
you move to his face next, cleaning the cut above his brow. your fingers press cotton and antiseptic into the bloodied skin.
the strangest part is how he just…lets you. no snapping, no cussing you out.
you can feel toji watching you the whole time. a lidded, heavy gaze.
he lets you tilt his chin up, and your fingers brush against his skin, gentle but firm. you patch his forehead wordlessly, his brow, give him a cold patch for the bruise under his eye.
you smile softly, gathering your items. “there.”
he stays silent, tracking your movements as you put your equipment back in your kit. as you fiddle with your hair absently.
then, a grumble of : “i guess i’ll see you next match.”
you pause and look up, but he’s already standing, rolling his shoulder experimentally.
he walks out without another word, the door clicking shut behind him.
you stand there, stunned. your wrist still tingles where he grabbed you. your mind replays the moment. the way he looked at you.
you let out a slow breath.
the loss doesn't sit right in his head.
by the time toji steps off the mat the anger is already rotting through his system, sharp, hot and corrosive. he hates that he knows exactly where he went wrong. the misstep, that moment where his shoulder twinged with too strong a swing. he can replay it in his mind with perfect frame by frame clarity. that makes it worse.
someone tries to talk to him as he pushes his way out of the ring. he doesn't register who it is. maybe someone from his PR crew. it's just a voice that annoys him deeply, saying the wrong thing at the wrong place at the wrong time. toji's patience snaps thin.
he shoves the guy hard enough to make a point, mutters something sharp under his breath that shuts up the people surrounding him quickly. someone else tries to calm him down and he yells, his left fist ending up in the wall instead of their face, a sharp crack splitting through the air.
skin tears across his knuckles, pain blooming fast and bright.
he then ends up in the med room. there’s nowhere else to put himself, and despite his consistent heavy refusal, toji knows that he has to undergo the mandatory medical checkup after every game.
he sits, head tipped back. his shoulder throbs, deep and wrong, but he ignores it the way he ignores everything else.
until the door opens, and he’s already irritated enough and he doesn’t want to deal with his doctor right now - he’s completely incompetent, wired, and too jumpy.
he’ll just piss toji off more than he already is.
when he looks up, his anger stutters for half a second.
you’re just standing there, calm in a way that settles in toji’s bones.
that thought hits first. sharp and immediate, cutting through all of toji’s simmering anger.
he tells you to fuck off, to find someone else. he expects that to be the end of it.
but you don’t argue, or push. actually, you don’t really react..at all. you keep moving, setting up your equipment, and act like his refusal doesn’t matter.
it throws him off more than if you’d snapped back.
he watches you longer than he means to, waiting for something to give. for you to twitch, for the nerves to show, for your hands to shake.
your hands are sure and precise, and when you pop his shoulder back into place with little warning, and everything snaps back into place, pain flaring high enough to drag a rough breath out of him, his hand catches your wrist on instinct.
you still don’t flinch, or pull away. you just look at him.
you tilt his head softly, unbothered by the fact that he could snap at any second. you don’t rush, your steady hands carefully cleaning the blood off of his face.
for a few seconds, the noise in his head drops out. no replay of the loss, and no anger clawing at his ribs.
it sits in his gut, heavy, making his stomach twist.
and when you’re done, you step back quietly, your voice soft, your eyes soft, your hands soft, and toji doesn’t know what to do with the thought of that. that he’s been watching you like he hasn’t watched anyone in a long time, his eyes tracing over your form, the delicate features of your face.
he stands too fast, rolls his shoulders, jaw tight. he mutters something on the way out, barely registering the words himself, and he’s gone before you can respond.
his mind lingers on it. on you.
and toji fushiguro hates that he can’t just punch it out of his system.
