who: gabe & dinah | @pinkauras where: the prep room of o.r. 2
the or is still humming with the tail-end static of prep—stainless steel gleaming, instruments arranged like a hymn, and the usual low murmur of voices giving way to purpose. gabe stands just outside the sterile field, arms folded, eyes flicking over the imaging that had been pulled up on the monitor near anesthesia. a fractured radius, multiple carpal bone fragments, and what looks like an attempted love affair with a table saw. his mouth tightens at the sight of it. “that’s how you lose your fingers,” he mutters, more to himself than anyone else, but loud enough to carry—dry, even-keeled, and just shy of exasperated. he glances sideways, like the comment might need a witness. the nurse on his right isn't one he recognizes. gabe takes a beat, then nods slightly, as if revising his internal file. whoever she is, she isn't green. he leans in a little, tone low but not unkind. “please tell me his dad is not the kind of guy who thinks duct tape solves bone trauma.” it's his first week, and already it feels like every hallway is a landmine of old ghosts and new dynamics. he can play nice, sure, but small talk never came naturally. still, if you were going to spend hours shoulder-to-shoulder in an o.r. with someone, might as well know who you’re working with. so he extends a hand, just enough to show he's trying. “gabe spencer. peds fellow. you?”
