He's the hot new doctor in town - in more ways than one.
You went to his clinic, complaining of a mystery pain on your right side. As if seeing that warm smile on his gorgeous face - complemented by the oddest of makeup, green patches across the major planes of forehead, cheeks, and nose - weren't enough to cure your ills, Dr. Cioccolata proclaimed your diagnosis with just a gentle hand to the spot that hurt.
"Gallstones," he said, in an unfairly deep voice. It was all you could do not to swoon right off the examination table.
The sensible part of your brain had to laugh. How could he know that with a touch? No scans? No tests? But before you could open your mouth, the pain intensified tenfold, as if an entire cutlery drawer was stabbing you in the liver. Guess he was right.
"Secco! Cholecystectomy, pronto!" the doctor called, and a squirrely nurse raced into the room with what looked like a full surgery kit, ready to go.
It was tough to focus through your blinding pain, but Dr. Cioccolata's soothing voice explained the procedure, you nodded, and he held your hand as he guided you into unconsciousness.
---
Recovery wasn't pleasant. There were complications, apparently, and the surgery was more invasive than a routine gallbladder removal should be. Living alone had its benefits, but when you're laid up in bed, unable to walk or even sit upright without intense pain, independence became an inconvenience.
Thank goodness for your BFF, Sam Spaghetti. He dropped everything when he found out you had emergency surgery - not that there was much to drop, since Sam was perpetually "between jobs" and coasting along on family money. Of course, you kept these thoughts to yourself when Sam came over, suitcase in hand, ready to wait on you hand and foot.
"Oh, y/n, you poor creature." Sam was always so theatrical.
He fixed you up some thin broth, helped you to the bathroom, and kept you company while you dozed under the lull of pain medicine.
A knock on the door startled you awake. Sam glanced at you, and you shrugged your shoulders. Not expecting any visitors, and certainly not in this state. He disappeared to answer the door, and your heart fluttered at the sound of that familiar deep baritone. Dr. Cioccolata appeared at your bedside a moment later, dressed casually in a designer jacket that mimicked his lab coat and low slung trousers that showed off...was...was that a thong?! Stop checking him out, you mentally chastised yourself, snapping back to his gently smiling face to offer a proper greeting.
"Well hi! I didn't know doctors made house calls these days."
He chuckled. You gasped.
"I figured you wouldn't be able to make it to the clinic for your follow up, so I'd bring the follow up to you. Apologies for not calling ahead."
"Uhm. Not a problem."
He helped himself to your desk chair and started the examination. It was slow, careful, methodical, a complete 180 from the instant diagnosis at the clinic last week.
"Hmm."
That didn't sound good.
"Would you mind if my nurse captured video of this examination? There are some strange healing patterns and I'd like to review them with staff at the hospital downtown."
Over his shoulder, that twitchy nurse named Secco showed up, video camera in hand, next to a thoroughly displeased Sam Spaghetti. You looked at all three men in the room - Secco looked browbeaten, like he had no choice in the matter; Sam, frowning, mouthed "NO" with a firm shake of his head; and Dr. Cioccolata... Oh... Doc...
"Of course," came your reply.
The rest of the exam was practically torture. Dr. Cioccolata changed bandages and sutures, pressed hard on raw spots and asked your pain level, as if your twisted face and writhing limbs didn't send the message. Tears were falling down your cheeks by the end of it, out of shock. The strangest thing was, Dr. Cioccolata looked surprised to see your reaction. He'd been focused on his work, sure, but was he just completely unaware of the emotional toll it was taking?
"Ok, med men, I think that's enough for the day. If y/n needs more treatment, they'll go to that big hospital downtown, hmm?" Sam always had your back.
But the doctor ignored him completely, pulling off his latex gloves, rolling the chair up next to your head (and breaking the hold Sam had on your hand in the process) and reached for your face in the most heartbreakingly tentative manner. Your instinct to recoil was overwhelmed by the concerned frown on his green brow, and you relaxed into his touch.
"Mio dio, I'm so sorry, y/n. I get lost in research mode sometimes, and I forget my-" he chuckled, "bedside manner."
You can't help but smile at his lame pun. He gestures to his nurse, who only now folds away the camera, and in a moment they're filling you with something that calms your tension and pain. He explains to you and Sam that the healing process will be slow and difficult, something about stones that got into places they shouldn't, and he's worried about infection. Sam promises to keep an eye on the wound and keep it clean, clearly ready for this visit to be over. But the doctor settles back in the chair once the medical talk is over, crosses a leg over his knee, and smiles that warm smile at you.
"So how are you doing otherwise, y/n?"
You huff out a laugh. Then laugh and laugh and laugh, swatting at the good doctor's shoulder for asking such a deliberately dumb question that's obviously making your stomach hurt. But it's funny, and you're oddly grateful he's trying to lighten your spirits. You let the hand not laying protectively over your wound fall onto the arm of the desk chair, and he moves closer so you don't have to reach as far. And Sam is sent to fix herbal tea, and your hand moves back to the bed, and his hand follows.
