stupid, clumsy, bumbling fools
platonic!glade x med-jack!reader (gn!reader) [fluff, mild crack, slice of life] summary: being a med-jack means patching up slicers and the occasional outlier injury. so why the hell is half the glade in need of assistance today?
warnings: mild injuries (nothing too serious but they're still described for various characters), reader is silly and jolly and likes to joke around, no use of y/n, 2nd person featured characters: gally, winston, frypan, chuck, thomas, minho, newt, and reader word count: ~3.3k enjoy!
You should have known that today was going to be odd when it was Gally—Gally, of all people—who entered the hut.
“No way.” Your lips turn up into a smile. “Have I ever actually seen you come in here before? On your own accord? All by yourself? No kicking or screaming? Willingly? All—”
“Shut your trap.” Gally groans, pinching the bridge of his nose with his left hand. “Look. There’s a piece of wood lodged in my palm, and it’s not getting out. I need to work, so I need it out.”
“So…you got a splinter.”
Gally glares back at you, and you stifle a laugh and turn around to grab some tweezers. You knew it was a good idea to ask the box for some, despite the builders insisting that they could always just get someone to pry it out with their nails.
Guess not. You silently award yourself a point. You, one. Builders (Gally.), zero.
“Okay, sit down.” You command, and Gally plops himself onto a stool begrudgingly, his foot tapping against the earth rapidly.
“Make it quick. I have work to do.”
“Yes, sir.” You breathe out sarcastically, grabbing his palm and lifting it up, inspecting it thoroughly. It takes a moment to find it due to the lack of light that filters through to your corner, but you get there eventually. It’s not massive, but definitely enough to be irritating. There’s only a bit of it sticking out of his skin, and you frown.
“Gee, any more trying and it probably would have slipped right under.” You note, tilting his hand backward.
“You don’t think I noticed that?” Gally asks dryly. “If you’re just going to daddle, give me the—”
“Uh-uh.” You shake your head, pulling the tweezers away. “This is my job, not yours.”
“Then do it.”
“I am.”
This guy. You think to yourself. You don’t think that he’d even bless you with some thanks after. But you weren’t expecting it in the first place, so there’s no need to be disappointed when it came to that.
You pinch the end of the splinter with precision, slowly tugging on it until it comes loose, sliding out of his hand. You drop it behind you, examining his hand once more.
“Was that the only one?”
“Should be.” Gally huffs. “Are we done here?”
You resist the urge to roll your eyes. “Yeah, yeah, all done. You can go back to constructing mansions of gold, now.”
“You wish I made you a mansion of gold.” He narrows his eyes, standing up quickly and brushing himself off.
Yeah, you kind of do wish you had a mansion of gold. “Next time, just come straight here for a splinter. Better yet, hold on to a tweezer.” “I won’t need one next time, because there will be no next time.”
There will definitely be a next time. You just don’t know if he’ll bring himself down enough to come to you again.
“Right, right.” You nod. “Right. Go back to doing the only thing you’re good at.”
With that, he leaves. That was basically a thanks, wasn’t it? He just admitted that you were good at getting the splinter out, since that came with being a med-jack, right?
Win. You, two. Gally, zero.
At the time, you weren’t particularly expecting anyone else to come around. Well, you knew that one of the Slicers would probably show up, but that was a given.
True to your assumption, Winston pokes his head through the entrance with a barely guilty expression.
“Hi.”
“One day streak. Good for you.” You sigh, crouching down to grab a couple of bandages. “What’ll it be? Stitches? Amputation?”
“Just a scratch.”
By just a scratch, he’d probably sliced his hand open. Nothing too bad, hopefully, since you haven’t had to operate on him yet due to his self proclaimed ‘expertise with weaponry’, but his stubbornness meant that he always downplayed whatever was wrong with him.
“Should I trust you?”
“Totally.”
It was in fact, not just a scratch. Blood oozed out of the cut on the back of his hand steadily. It wasn’t enough to cause any serious alarm, but it was a bit more than you had thought.
“You liar.” You scrunch your nose, pointing to the stool. “How did you even manage this?”
Winston scratches the back of his neck with his uninjured hand. “Wild story.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Dave and I wanted to see who could slice up their part the fastest.”
“Seriously?”
“Dead serious.”
Dave was going to get himself killed one day, for sure. The guy was too reckless. “Why would you do that? What if I went up to Clint and said ‘hey, let’s see who can operate on this stung guy the fastest?’ and then killed him?”
“Uh, that’s different.” Winston argues as you press a wet cloth against his bleeding hand firmly. He grimaces slightly. “We’re not hurting another glader. Just ourselves. Only potentially.”
“Of course.”
You pick up the cloth after a while, satisfied with the lack of blood flowing out of the cut, dropping it into a spare bucket. You unroll some bandages and begin wrapping it around his hand.
“It’s just you and your guys using up all the supplies in here, huh? Maybe you should set a better example. New challenge for you and Dave. Who can go the longest without cutting themselves up?”
“We’re keeping you in business. What would the Med-jacks do without us?” Winston grins back.
True. Most of your time was spent fixing them up. Still, you’d prefer not to have to see so many injuries from whatever knife they used in a day.
“Maybe we could sit back and relax for once.”
“Boring. Alby would shut you lazy slobs down and make you primarily work your second jobs.”
“You can’t just primarily work a second job.” “You will if we’re always healthy.”
“Mhm.” You tug on the end of the bandage and tuck it in. “Flex.”
Grinning, he begins to show off his biceps.
“You know what I meant.”
He rolls his eyes and flexes his fingers. “Perfect as always. Thanks. I’ll be back tomorrow.”
“Please don’t plan on it.”
Winston just laughs as he leaves, throwing his hand up in a wave behind him.
At that point, you were expecting a completely empty day. The runners wouldn’t be back for a few more hours, and Winston’s stubbornness was unlike the stubbornness of the Runners, who would refuse any help unless they truly felt like it would hinder their work.
What were they trying to prove, anyway? That none of them were poor enough to be sloppers? Everyone knows that already!
You lean back in your chair, fanning yourself boredly. Clint was feeling under the weather and was knocked out on a bed nearby, while Jeff was out helping the gardeners. Three Med-jacks was a crowd, and there usually only needed to be two around, so most of the time one of them would go perform their second job instead of sticking around in the hut.
About half an hour from Winston’s visit brought about Frypan.
“Huh. Have you ever been here before?” You ask, furrowing your eyebrows as you try to recall any time that Frypan might have been injured.
“Not really. But I—uh, I burned my hand. Can’t have my flesh dripping into the food, yeah?” “Ew.” You frown. “Never say that again.” “Aye aye.”
Three in a day. Weird. Really weird, actually. But hey, if it kept you busy, you weren’t going to complain. You couldn’t imagine being in another role that was the same routine all day, every day. At least there was a bit of variety with being a Med-jack.
Luckily, you had also been incredibly smart enough to remember to ask for burn ointment, though that wasn’t a lack of trust with Frypan. That was the result of a couple of roughhorsing guys getting a little too comfortable with the flames at one of the Greenie bonfires—you don’t quite remember whose.
Fixing up Frypan is quick and easy. You squeeze out a bit of the cream and rub it over his wrist, (as a matter of fact, why on earth was everyone injuring the same hand today?) careful not to press too hard.
“Did you stuff your hand into the flame?” You ask, tilting your head slightly.
“Nah. I picked up one of the lids off the pot and it scraped against my other hand.” Frypan laughs a bit. “Guess it’s a good reminder that I’m not injury proof.”
“At least you’re not prone like the slicers.” “I thank the skies every day.”
You let him off after that, telling him not to touch it and let the burnt skin peel off on its own. Frypan smiles back and leaves.
You’re positive that after that, you were done for the day. There shouldn’t have been anyone else showing up after Frypan, unless it was Dave after initiating another competition again.
So imagine your surprise when the baby of your group comes through the doors, accompanied by your newest Greenie, Thomas.
“Uhm…he scraped his elbow.” Thomas explains awkwardly.
“And you’re here for emotional support?” You ask, noting that it was the same hand as everyone else. Was today cursed?
“He scratched his arm, too.” Chuck points.
“What could you two have possibly been doing?” You say, exasperated as you turn to grab a couple of bandages again.
Both look at each other in shame, and then back at you, in unison declaring, “Nothing.”
Right. Well, maybe you could actually get to know the Greenie better.
You start off with Chuck, cleaning up the dirt and beads of blood on his elbow. It wasn’t anything serious, and you’re sure that no one else would have come to you for something as small as this, but Chuck was young, so you weren’t going to judge.
You bandage it up and push on it lightly. “All good to go. Try not to do…‘nothing’ again, alright?”
“For sure.” Chuck nods with a smile. You pat his shoulder and turn to Thomas.
“So…how are you liking the glade?” His arm isn’t anything serious, either, but it’s a long cut that stretches across his forearm and trickles a bit more blood than Chuck’s.
“As great as I can.” He responds, intently watching as you wipe the blood away like it was an artform he’d never consumed before. Odd, but he’s got no memories and this probably is the first time he’s been treated.
Aw, that makes you a little sad, actually.
“Fantastic answer. As long as you don’t freak out and bolt into the maze or try to kill someone, you’ll be fine here. You’ll get used to it.”
“I don’t know if I want to.” He mumbles. You can’t blame him. You weren’t exactly sunshine and rainbows when you were sent up all those months (years?) ago. But you had to learn the hard way that escaping was going to take a long while, so you might as well do something useful.
“You got your eye on any jobs, yet?”
He hesitates for a moment, shrugging slightly as you wrap the bandages around his arm. “I’m not really great at anything.”
“You’ll feel it when you get there.” You offer, tying up the ends of the bandage, satisfied. “Stay out of trouble, though. I’ll see you again soon. Probably when it’s your turn in here.” “See you.” Thomas nods, getting up. Chuck waves cheerily and follows after him.
After they leave, you’re completely convinced that there couldn’t be more. You couldn’t possibly have more visitors after this. Five boys with injured right arms was five too many. You grab your canteen and take a quick chug of water, closing your eyes and swallowing greedily.
When you open them and put down the canteen, Minho is standing before you.
The two of you weren’t best friends, per se, but you got along just fine. With such a limited number of people around, it was hard not to be on good terms with others. Thus, when he offers a half-assed wave, you think that he's dropped by to say hello.
It’s not just because you know each other. It’s because Minho likes to think that he’s invincible, and rarely ever stops by unless something has gone wrong with his legs and it might cause him to take a day off.
“Good run?” You question, leaning back against the wood.
“Same as always. But, uh…” He gestures downward. Your eyes trail down, not registering what he means for a moment, until your gaze lands on his pants, slightly shredded.
“No…” You whisper in disbelief. “It can’t be…”
Minho clears his throat, scratching his cheek. “Earth to Med-jack 3?”
“How could you?” You accuse, jabbing a finger in his direction. “You deceived me! I thought you were visiting out of the goodness of your heart, you…you…gah!”
You turn around for the hundredth time to grab some supplies, stopping half way when you realize that you haven’t got the slightest clue what the injury might be. You turn back around to tell him to roll his pant leg up, but he’s done so already, making himself comfortable on the chair near the door.
It’s not terrible. It’s bruised up significantly enough that you think that the initial injury is at least a day or two old, but the scratches on the bruises are definitely recent.
“Did you trip or something?” You grab another towel to start wiping away the cut.
“Caught it on the edge of a wall. Turns out that the edges are pretty ragged.”
You work in silence, expertly applying ointment for the bruises as well before wrapping up his leg. The last person you expected in here with an injury other than Gally was Minho. Minho prided himself on being able to take care of himself. He probably would have done this all himself if you weren’t around. He would do it if you were around, like now, but you hate letting other people fix themselves up, as everyone has come to learn the hard way. This was your first role for a reason, and it was a damn good reason. This was your thing, not theirs.
“Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed today.” He teases.
“I’m in shock.” You reply simply. “I’m processing it.”
“I’ll believe you.”
At least it wasn’t his hand, you try to reassure yourself. But it was his right leg. It was his right leg!!
You breathe out slowly, trying not to make yourself seem like some insane freak as you finish up your work on his leg.
“The bruising is pretty nasty.” “That? Just a bump. Nothing crazy.”
“Right.” You knew better than to argue about the seriousness of injuries with the other gladers. No one ever took them seriously.
“No serious diagnosis, right?” Minho asks, kicking his leg back and forth.
You see right through his question. “You can still run.”
“Great.” He says, like he wouldn’t have run if you said the opposite. “Catch you later.”
With that, he’s gone. You feel like you’ve just been thrown around from person to person without break. This might be the most people you’ve ever interacted with inside the hut. It’s usually just you, Clint, Jeff, and a couple of the slicers that have had ‘unfortunate accidents’ which could have almost always been avoidable.
You start working on rearranging supplies like you always do when you’re bored and have nothing to do. Except you’ve had a lot to do already, so this doesn’t count as one of those moments. Just as you perfectly align your rolls of gauze, you hear footsteps behind you.
Please be Jeff, please, please, please be Jeff. You beg mentally, refusing to turn around until you hear a voice.
“Hope you’re not busy.” Newt’s smooth voice rings through the air instead. You’re not disappointed at all, actually. Newt was the second best option after Jeff, because Newt wasn’t the type of person to get injured. He was responsible enough that you’ve only had to treat him a few times the entire time you’ve known him.
Besides, Newt was good company. And good to complain to.
“Newt. You will not believe the sheer amount of—” You freeze in your tracks when you turn around, instantly spotting the sheepish expression on his face, accompanied by the steady flow of blood from his nose.
“Bit of a problem here, as you can tell.” He holds a hand under the dripping blood. “You got a spare cloth?”
You nod slowly, grabbing yet another cloth to hand over to him simply.
“...‘preciate it.” He says after a pause, analyzing the expression on your face. “Slow day?”
“The exact opposite.” You reply dryly, plopping yourself on the floor beside him. “Y’know how this all started off? Gally came in.”
“Gally?” A hint of surprise leaks into his voice.
“For a slippery splinter. Then Winston. Frypan. Chuck. Thomas. Minho.” You put up a finger for each name you list off. “It never ends. Now you’re here!”
“Didn’t realize you hated my company so much.” Newt smiles, squeezing the cloth a bit. Yeah, there was a reason that you were the Med-jack and he wasn’t.
“You’ve gotta tilt—no, your head, tilt it back. Yeah, like that.” You order, waiting until he has it right to lay off of him.
“The day's almost over.” He comments. “I should be your last patient of the day then, yeah?”
“I sure hope so.” You exhale slowly. “At least it’s your nose and not the right side of your body. How’d you manage a bloody nose? Get slugged?”
Newt’s face reddens slightly. “I tugged too hard on a tool. Went flying straight for my nose ‘fore I could even see it.”
You snort, attempting to conceal your laughter before it just explodes out of you. “Went flying?”
“You should have seen it. Zart will never let it go.” He figures with a groan.
“I won’t, either.”
“Aw, great.”
When he leaves, the sun has just about set. He scratches at his arm as he goes, and you watch him for a couple of moments before turning back to your supplies. You’ve got a lot of bloody cloths to wash.
Well, at least Newt was right about there not being any more injuries. Or so you really hope. Once night comes, things tend to calm down enough that you’ve had maybe one or two patients from nighttime shenanigans a month.
This better not be one of those nights.
You sit down, splashing your face with a bit of water, wiping away the sweat from your forehead. You could sleep for days, and all you did was patch up more people than usual. You’d probably make a terrible busy worker if this is what messed you all up. It would be a lot easier if it wasn’t so damn hot all the time.
“Hngh…” The groan makes your heart drop until you realize that it’s just Clint, still suffering from feverish skin.
“I hear you, man.” You sigh loudly, grabbing a washcloth and pulling a stool back to his hammock, pressing the cool towel against his clammy skin.
You were not doing this again tomorrow.
But…it was sort of nice to talk to everyone. You didn’t get much interaction during the day, with everyone busy doing their own thing to keep the glade running.
Still. You would not do this tomorrow. fin.
