“Hey, Dana? Got a sec?” Robby asked in a low voice, leaning over the counter.
“Why?” She took off her glasses and looked at him.
“I got a patient in Trauma 2 and she’s… jittery. I need an ortho consult for her arm and hip but she doesn’t want to. She keeps asking to be transferred to Westboro or any other hospital.” He explained, “And she’s got bruises that aren’t from the accident.”
Dana looked over at Trauma 2, where you were sitting, leaning back, staring at the ceiling. You were cradling your arm to yourself, the team had wrapped it but it still needed to be looked at once the X-rays came down.
You smiled and nodded as someone administered medication and it was obvious that you wanted to leave even though you were being as polite as possible.
“I’ll check it out.” Dana patted Robby’s shoulder and moved towards the room you were in.
Meanwhile, you were sitting and hoping that someone would come with the good news that you were getting transferred.
“Hey- I’m Dana.” She entered, closing the door behind her and drawing the curtain. “You got a minute to talk?”
You smiled and sat up a little, then winced in pain. “Sorry- Just really sore. Am I getting the transfer?”
“Uh- Not yet.” She looked over her shoulder then pulled a stool to sit next to the bedside. “Is there a reason you don’t wanna be here? At this hospital?”
“Yeah, I usually go to Westboro or Sacred Heart. I was just near here so they brought me here and I wasn’t very lucid to advocate for myself.” You gave a nervous laugh.
“And there’s no other reason?” She asked, eyeing you carefully.
“No, ma’am.” You swallowed but she noticed you stiffening up a little.
“Okay… okay. Is there someone we can call or-” She started but you shook your head.
“No! I mean- I- No. I’m fine. I just wanna get out of your hair-” You said immediately.
“Okay.” She nodded, watching you fidget with your wedding ring. “You married?” She asked softly.
“I- Yeah-” You smiled, looking at your hand. “Three years now.”
“He’s a good guy?” She asked.
“He looks mean but he’s-” You pause then sigh deeply. “Are you here to ask if I’m being abused?”
“Dr Robby saw bruises that weren’t related to the crash. We have to do our duediligence.” She explained with a gentle smile.
“I’m not- It’s not abuse-” You flushed deeply. “We’re just very passionate and he’s stronger and gets very-” You cleared your throat as you shied away from explaining that your husband was an animal in bed.
“Robby called for an ortho consu-” Park entered and stared at you, saw Dana, then turned and walked away.
“That was new.” Dana mumbled then looked at you. You laughed nervously, trying to not show anything. “So, I’m gonna ask again, can I call someone for you?”
“I- My husband is my emergency contact but I don’t wanna bother him.” You said quietly.
“Honey, you might have a broken arm and a fractured hip. You’re gonna need to call someone.” She said softly, reaching to hold your hand and give it a squeeze. “Maybe a sibling? Or a parent?”
You shook your head again. “No. They’d all call him immediately so-” You sighed. “I’m fine… Really.” You gave a small smile.
A few minutes later, Garcia walked in, confused. “Shark refused the consult.” She whispered to Dana and gave you a smile to start your consultation as Robby came back again.
Broken radius, and fractured ilium with a lot of bruising on your ribcage.
You nodded through the diagnosis and then the explanation of how you may need surgery for the arm but everything else can be wrapped and heal on its own. And then once again, someone emphasised that you needed to call someone.
The room was full of interns, student doctors and Robby, explaining your condition when Park walked back in. He was no longer in scrubs but the same jeans and shirt he’d been wearing when he’d left home in the morning.
Robby raised a brow as he entered. No one had ever seen him on the floor in casuals.
“We good?” He asked slowly.
“Good. Continue.” Park nodded and pulled a stool to sit next to your bedside, taking your hand in his.
It took Robby a good thirty seconds to finally realise why you wanted to be transferred to another hospital. You were saving them from the Shark, not trying to run away.
“Brendon- I was just-” You looked at Robby worriedly.
“I know.” He nodded, eyes still locked on Robby.
The room that had been buzzing was now very, very silent. One intern was now focused on the IV pump, another found the curtains very fascinating. The student doctors were transfixed on the floor.
“Okay.” Robby clapped his hands, “Learning moment’s over. How about everyone go so I can have a moment with our patient and… spouse?” He added carefully and Park nodded once. “Right…”
Once the room was empty and only the three of you remained, Robby turned to you both again.
“How bad?” Park asked. His voice was unwavering but he was obviously worried with how hard he was holding your hand.
Robby silently pulled up the Xrays to show him. Park sighed deeply then looked at you.
“You should’ve called me.” He spoke gently which made Robby’s brows meet his hairline.
“I didn’t wanna pull you from your shift.” You whispered back.
“My shift?” Park hissed and Robby cleared his throat. “We’ll talk about this later.” He pouted and turned to Robby, shoulders dropping a little. “Garcia will do the surgery since I can’t.”
Robby nodded in agreement, looking over his shoulder, a small crowd was just walking past, constantly sneaking peeks of Shark and you, and whispering.
“As soon as we’ve got an OR, we’ll move you up.” Robby explained. “And uh-” He paused. “Dana might wanna talk to you-”
“Dana? Why?” Park’s brows furrowed.
“The bruises-” You whispered to him and he glares at Robby.
“I am not explaining how I love my wife.” He was appalled at even the notion.
“Right! Of course! But you know! Hospital policy.” Robby backed away with a smile and exited the room quickly.
You turned to Park with a smile. “You really have a reputation, huh?” You laughed softly. “They have no idea how gooey you are at home.”
“Stop… I’m a tough guy.” He smiled a little.
“The doctor before- The woman. She called you Shark. I never thought they seriously called you that.” You giggled some more and he rolled his eyes, leaning to kiss your forehead.
“I told you I’m a scary guy at work.” He said softly.
“Sure thing, fish boy.” You mused.
Outside the room, Robby was explaining the situation to Dana, whilst Whitker and Santos were eavesdropping.
“What… is happening right now?” Mel asked Dennis as she too stared at the scene unfolding in Trauma 2.
“Shark might actually be human.” Dennis whispered back.
“Who would’ve thought.” Trinity nodded in surprise.
୨ৎ summary .ᐟ.ᐟ you were suddenly put back on the day shift--temporarily. things with park had simmered, but there was an awkwardness whenever the two of you clashed. you weren't easily convinced park the shark could be taught new tricks. while assigned to mentor the new MS4, you come to realize what you didnt miss of the shark's troubled waters.
୨ৎ tags/warnings .ᐟ.ᐟ female reader, no use of y/n, no physical description, park still being a bit of a jerk, trauma cases, medical inaccuracies, verbal intimidation, public criticism, slowburn!!, professional tension, emotional repression, gruff x sunshine, lowkey mutual pining, unreliable narrator (emotionally), forced proximity
୨ৎ authors note .ᐟ.ᐟ. omg part three y'all!!! i didn't expect to come this far when i posted the first part, but i am constantly inspired to do more. keeping up with the hayley william inspired titles because i love that woman.
୨ৎ word count .ᐟ.ᐟ 18.9 k
prev: can't get much stronger!
How you were stuck pulling the day shift for Sully didn’t make sense. They could’ve assigned Reddy, the co-chief to take over leaving Dr. Revere as the only fourth year as nights. Emmick’s explanation was that it wasn’t her choice. You’ve worked days before. Park thinks you’re the only one who can adjust, she shrugged.
You had gone on a tangent when you video called Sully.
He was off in Chicago arranging for his permanent move in three months. An official tour of the hospital he’d be working at, viewing apartments he had seen only in photos, and spending time with his long distance girlfriend since med school.
He was currently enjoying his life while you were trying to readjust your body to the day shift.
You spent enough time being nocturnal you forgot how prickly the sun was against your skin. When you walked out of your apartment and to your car, you resembled that of a vampire seeing the sun after a hundred years of darkness. Your eyes were bloodshot red from the restless sleep and the intrusion of UV rays to your retina.
After hand off, you were assigned to work with a new fourth year med student previously working with Sully. She was a mousy girl with two braids and a pink stethoscope. She barely spoke when you introduced yourself to her, but you brushed it off as nerves. That made the most sense when you realized she kept eyeing you like a kid with a stranger.
It wasn’t until you bought her an ice coffee from the café downstairs that she eased up.
“How did you get pulled into the day shift?” Maura questioned, walking alongside you through the emergency department. She was lighter than before. You assumed the caffeine must have energized her spirits.
You scoffed, hands swaying beside you as you walked. “I have the misfortune of being friends with the chief resident, which I guess means I’m his assigned coverage.”
“Sully?” She questioned, fiddling with the digital chart in her hand.
You nodded your head with a small grin. “Yup. He gets the luxury of jumping ship while I’m stuck covering his shifts.”
“Is day shift that bad?” She asked. You both stopped before reaching North 3. “I mean, I know about Dr. Park, but apart from that?”
Pumping hand sanitizer on your hands, Maura followed your lead, both rubbing your hands. You shrugged, “He’s a good surgeon with not so great social skills. Apart from that, I’m just too used to the darkness.”
Maura laughed lightly, before shaking her hands to dry off the rest of the hand sanitizer. She grabbed the tablet she tucked in her arms, staring down at the chart. “Charlie Braun, 26. Fell while rollerblading at a local park.”
You hummed, paced beside her before stopping at the open curtain of North 3. Smiling at the brunette man sitting up on the bed, lightly flinching as he adjusted his position, Maura continued. “Closed fracture. Neurovascularly intact. Ready for reduction.”
“Does that mean you can fix this?” Charlie tried to joke, chuckling dryly as he attempted to put a smile.
With your hands behind your back, you approached the left side of the bed where Maura had positioned herself. Grinning at Charlie brought a sigh from him. “That’s the expectation, Mr. Braun.”
“Please call me Charlie. Mr. Braun is my father.” He threw his head back, taking in steady breaths.
“Nice to meet you, Charlie.” You concluded while straightening your back after hovering over his arm. Turning to Maura, she straightened her posture. “Walk me through your neurovascular exam.”
She hesitates for a moment. The smile on your face, encouraging and thoughtful of her confidence which didn’t demean her. Charlie noted the quietness, curiously deciphering the looks the two of you were sharing. Maura’s hands clammed against the device, and you closed in to relax her from the pressure.
You read the notation. You knew exactly what she had checked and she did a good job at translating her notes, but there was one thing. You were mostly glad you caught it before anyone else did, especially from Park. Before she could open her mouth and verbalize the thought, you shook your head. “Let’s go over it again.”
You gently pulled the tablet from her hand, motioning your head to Charlie. With a steady breath, she pulled out a pair of gloves from the wall before approaching Charlie’s arm. Her hands moved gently around his hand and wrist, announcing every response to stimuli. This time she went over the median nerve distribution. Lifting her eyes up at you, she noted the nod you gave her, acknowledging the error efficiently.
When she concluded with the textile and questions for Charlie, she yanked off the gloves, relieved. Offering her the tablet again, you faced Charlie. “We will proceed with the reduction, Charlie. We will move you to pre-op soon to fix that up nicely.”
The toothy smile he gave you somehow made the room brighter, like his anxiety about the whole thing was dissipating with the constant reassurance. He shook his head eagerly, glancing at you then Maura. “Thank you both.”
“No problem. We will see you soon.” You excused the both of you, walking away from the patient room to the nearest sanitized dispenser. You noted the weary glance Maura made towards you as she followed at your heels. You brought her farther away from the patient room before turning to her.
With your eyes set on her, she tightened her shoulders, the small bangs on her face bouncing. “I’m sorry for not checking the median nerve. It was a stupid mistake.”
Folding your hands behind your back, you waited for a beat before speaking. “Do you know why we check the median nerve?”
When Maura paused, you noticed the shift in her eyes. She was still embarrassed she needed correcting. Sully taught her for a couple of weeks now, and the self-disappointment was evident in her small frown. “Because swelling can compress.”
“And if we miss it?”
“Permanent dysfunction.” She sighed out, the truth of the matter evident.
“Exactly.” You confirmed, not tensely but appreciative she understood the consequences. One step closer to performing to the best of her abilities. The silence made her look at you funnily, expecting some other fault for you to throw at her, as if it was too good to be true. “I read the notes from the first exam, apart from that, everything looked good.”
Maura smiled shakily. The resemblance between her and you from the beginning of your intern year was uncanny. Working alongside Park provided pertinent insight on how the rest of your residency would go. The good thing was you weren’t molded exactly to Park’s image. You didn’t scowl at every mistake and you didn’t bully Maura into correcting it. Your trust in her built her trust in herself.
Mouth slightly agape, you heard the call of your name from off to the side. Simultaneously looking for the source of the voice, at the nearest nursing station you saw Park nodding his head over at you. He was at a distance that would let anyone with acute hearing pick up what you two were discussing. Knowing your luck, you shouldn’t be surprised to see Park.
“Go ahead and chart the new observations, then I’ll go over surgical planning with you.” You told her warmly, letting her escape while she could.
One anxious look at Park, the clench of his jaw as he acknowledged her feeble presence, had her practically scurrying to the elevators by the trauma rooms. You made sure she was out of ear shot before coming up beside Park. “What brings you down here, Dr. Park?”
“Trauma paged,” He responded curtly. Looking past you, he eyed the small girl you focused on opening her up professionally. If looks could kill, Park would have you all hanging in a meat locker. “How’s the med student?”
Taking the chance to look behind you, Maura was already stepping into the elevator, chatting it up with an OBGYN resident sporting pink scrubs. “Maura is picking up quickly. I don’t know if she wants to do orthopedics, but she’s doing as good as some of the R2’s.”
“She made a mistake.” Park announced the obvious. When you turned back to look at him, you tightened your lips. Exactly what you were waiting for.
Park hadn’t changed much since you transitioned to the night shift. He was still observing, watching where you’d linger, questioning you post-operations. Apart from the small consideration he had for you after the pile up on the interstate, there wasn’t anything remotely different.
He still guarded and protected his placement and responsibilities. You didn’t expect him to be mushy, but you weren’t eager to be working the day shift either.
With an upside smile, you agreed blandly. “She’s learned from it.”
“She has a delayed reaction and she can’t remember basic neurovascular exam requirements.” Park opposed, as if looking for you to admit the flaw.
It was easy to say she messed up, to do the work, and tell her she needed to fix it. It took more work having her recognize the lapse, redo it for her sake, and remind herself why it is important. It was efficient for her education and the lives of the patient she would work with.
“Maura is new. She is a med student here to learn.” You restated. Park knew that, but it didn’t interest him. They were excuses to him. Cover-ups that put patient lives at risk.
You knew better than to feed into his wants. This wasn’t a debate more so than a jab to get a reaction from you. He probably was aware of your dissatisfaction for having to work the day shift for the next two weeks. You didn’t exactly come in bubbling with excitement, especially if it meant it granted Park the Shark ample opportunities to grovel his teeth into you.
With a tight smile, you looked up at him. “Anything else you have to say about the med student I’m responsible for?”
He eyed you curiously. It felt like being back in his office again. He was too busy thinking in his head to warrant you a verbal response. The tick in his crossed arms had you wondering what exactly he thought of you now. The slightly presumptuous demonstration of loyalty to a med student you just met probably didn’t rub him the right way.
“Welcome back to day shift.” He said blandly, before passing around you.
“So, have you heard anything about Sully?” Emmick’s voice rang as she came up behind you.
Handoff with the night shift had just begun. You had made past the first shift of 10 you’d have to work with Park. So far it was looking to be manageable. You were not optimistic that you two would be close friends by the end of your small stint. If the last conversation you two had was an indication of how your next two weeks would go, you believed you two still had some air to clear up in order to work together.
You smiled as Emmick offered you a paper cup, the aroma of coffee hitting your nose. With your free hand, you cautiously grabbed the cup from her. “He’s enjoying himself. Maybe too much, considering he still has to come back and finish off three more months of his residency.”
“The boy is excited. It’s his first, adult job.” Emmick joked, briefly sipping her coffee.
Continuing to follow the small group of residents making their way to post-op, Emmick slowed down, curving to stand against the wall of the hallway. You hesitated, flashing her furrowed brows. She eased you with a smile, motioning you closer. “I may have heard you had some thoughts about your life after residency as well.”
With a tight lip smiled, you scrunched your face. It was one time. You had offhandedly mentioned to Sully about moving to Chicago. He had caught you one morning on his day off surfing through fellowships in the Chicago area. You had considered specializing in adult reconstruction (after the plentiful trauma surgeries you had worked on). It was a lucid thought after having worked 12 hours and running off the little after taste of an energy drink.
You weren’t serious, but you were willing to plan a backup option if your fourth year plummeted.
“Did Sully tell you something?” You questioned, tucking the tablet in-between your rib and your arm. You stepped aside as other surgical staff passed down the hall.
She shrugged, diplomatic yet curious. “Nothing worth repeating, but I believe in proactive action.”
“I think you should strongly consider where you want to go.” She advised–earnest in her investment.
When Park talked about life after residency, it was a lecture on proving his teachings were not absent. He was looking for his resident’s work to prove he had done his job properly. With Emmick, it was a mentor trying to help them land on the final steps of their training. She wasn’t holding your hand, but merely standing by your side to choose between all the beaten and narrow paths.
“There are many good fellowships down in Chicago. Many of which you would excel at.” She teased, the crinkle in the corner of her eyes matching her smile lines. “I spent my residency and fellowship there. I also met my wife. It brings me fond memories.”
You chuckled nervously, grasping the cup tighter. “Did Sully put you up to this?”
She had an indescribable look on her face. Skeptical by your question while entertained with pushing your buttons. Not frustratingly like Park would, but to stimulate you to use your brain like in surgery. While straightening her shoulder, she eyed you carefully. “No, but I know he’s trying to persuade you.”
“He’s just—“
“Looking out for you?”
Emmick interrupted gently, enamored with your flustered sense of speech. She had seen residents circulate as much as air. She always had an embarrassing story of a resident. You always wondered what she might say about you, especially if you left.
You sagged, defeated and aware it was just the two of you in the hallway. She offered an apologetic smile, “I’m sure he means well, but you have a lot of potential to use wherever you go. Whether that’s here or elsewhere.”
The scoff that left you had her curling her lips higher. “Here? With Dr. Park? And you? I couldn’t possibly measure up to those standards.”
“Anything can happen.” She suggested, obviously more open minded then you were. When did you become so pessimistic? “I may not always be here. Brendon will probably rather die than transfer out. I always told him he was too comfortable.”
You laughed. The royal throne the Admin at PTMC created for him was so high; he didn’t let anything intimidate his position. It was laughable. The idea you could rumble the floor he stood on. The third-year resident Park abhorrently corrected, openly for humiliation. You would prefer a public execution to rid you of your misery instead.
“But, that can change too. Don't underestimate the power of your charm.” She winked at you, which made the color rise on your cheek.
Before you can oppose or deflect into something that didn't include talking about Park and you, Emmick straightened her stance, looking past you with brightened eyes. “Park, how was the day shift?”
You immediately spun around, hoping to not see exactly whom you two were talking about. It took everything in you to flash him a polite smile as you begged to whatever high authority could hear you that Park’s ears did not pick up anything about him.
His hands swayed, muscles probed by the tight sleeves of his scrub top. He looked at Emmick with the scrunched lips and tight jaw. “Enlightening.”
The monotone response didn’t sound enlightening. You peeked at the watch on the inside of your wrist. The two of you hadn’t been gone for long, but for Park, any delay is unnecessary. He then moved his sights on you, tablet tucked away with the coffee in your hand. He eyed you down, like some high school kids caught without their hall pass, before turning back to Emmick. “Do you make it a habit to distract the residents?”
Emmick grinned, shaking her head. “You don't scare me, Brendon.”
Her hand landed on your shoulder, flashing you her dashing smile. Distracted, she pulled the tablet from your arm. “I was just catching up with my star pupil that you’ve so selfishly pulled from the night shift”
You look at her suspiciously. Selfish? Park the Shark was cruel and brusque, but never did that amount to selfishness. If anything, the one redeeming quality you could agree on was his selflessness. He did everything on behalf of patient care, even if his methods were unorthodox.
“You still have R&R. I could’ve switched any of them for Sullivan, Marla.” He quipped back, not too intrigued with playing a game. His eyes still hooded and although misery was his best company, he seemed comfortable making the jokes with Emmick.
“Except you didn’t.”
You had bowed your head at that point, wondering how inappropriate it would be just to slip away without so much as an excuse. It wasn’t the type of limelight you wanted over you. With every passing second, you awaited Park’s sharp jaws. Considering you weren't anywhere near the other residents (where you should be), your blood pressure spiked with anticipation for the subject to pop up.
“No hard feelings, Park. She’s pretty special, isn’t she?” Emmick mumbled as she brushed past his shoulder.
When you lifted your head, your gazes met and she had on the same playful smile she was using with Park. She didn’t elaborate more as she departed towards post-op, leaving you and Park standing alone with each other. With an awkward laugh, your hands relied on the coffee cup to hide the sudden discomfort of the desolate hallway,
His head craned to watch Emmick disappear, and when she was far away, he set his sights on you. Emmick complimented every one of the residents, shamelessly. What she hadn’t done was practically shove you down Park’s throat. There was little reaction to the rhetorical question, except the crossing of his arms.
Suddenly embarrassed, your brain fumbled to form a coherent thought. “We were just talking about my life after residency. Inappropriate timing—“
“What is Emmick trying to convince you to do now?” He questioned, his forehead pinching ever so slightly.
“Nothing.” You responded, quizzical of the question. Now? A gnawing sensation picked in your stomach at the idea of Park and Emmick speaking privately about anything regarding you.
Knowing Emmick, she was hopelessly trying to convince Park to oppose the antagonistic view he had on his residents. Referring to them as humans still learning instead of cogs in the machine. You didn’t think that meant defending your character behind those closed doors. Shaking your head, you sighed. “She was checking in with me about my plans after residency. It was bad timing, but she is my attending.”
“While you’re on the night shift,” Park recalled curtly, tucking his head barely to stare at through his long eyelashes, wispy while also emphasizing his dark blue pupils. “Right now, you should be handing off to the night shift so you can go home like the rest of your co-residents.”
Nodding once, you began making your way around him. There was no reason to erupt in some disagreement over an argument that he was right about. You kept your head down while you walked down the hall and you noticed the sounds of footsteps following behind you. Trying to ease your body with the coffee, you took a hasty sip.
“I know Emmick managed to convince you to move to the night shift, but you should make your own decisions over what you do after your residency.”
You stopped in your steps, spinning around with raised eyebrows at your attending. That wasn’t what you told him when you gave him your monologue. You hadn’t even mentioned what Emmick had told you because it had little to do with the actual reason. Meanwhile, the actual reason was standing right in front of you.
The idea was to be civilized with Park, to move onto the night shift as smoothly as possible. So far, it was working. He continued to linger in ways you didn’t expect. He’d ask a question or remind you of your responsibilities. What you didn’t expect was for it to feel different.
He had stood up to you from Dr. Norton. He had gently (compared to his previous nature) been considerate after 30 hours on the clock. None of that was residue of the attending who had belittled you in the hallways. Echoes of his name and his methods of teaching you as his resident were fading.
None of that meant that you had turned over a new leaf. There was still time to convince you otherwise. Instead of letting the slight bitterness of his tongue sour your mood, you offered him a tight lip smile. Regretfully, you were still hopeful you were wrong about the type of attending Dr. Brendon Park was. “That’s the plan, Dr. Park.”
He folded his arm, his chin elevated. There was no need for the power play. You made it clear there was no competition between you and him–not that you felt you had an inkling of the talent he had. You were confident in your work as yourself, but not nearly enough in the work he considered perfection.
“That means not letting Sullivan convince you to do what he wants either.” He sharply followed.
You were sure he had seen the small retraction. Now, you were definitely confused. To you, it was clear Park didn’t have excessive personal concern over his resident. He didn’t ask them courteous questions about their days off or their aspirations or goals. It mattered little to him. As long as it didn’t make him look bad, it seemed to be the most concern he had.
“What makes you think I’m going to Chicago?” You incredulously asked, your eyebrows curved downward. He didn't need to elaborate to make his point. With Sully gone for the exact implication Park was making, it left little to question.
It was a major ‘eye roll’ situation. You didn’t want to repeat yourself. The only reason you had put your career on the line, shaming Park as if you had nothing to lose, was for the opportunity of staying. If you had enough respect to your name and your work, Admin could potentially stand against Park the Shark’s opposition.
Sucking in a sharp breath, your hand brushed away the stray hairs tickling your face. “Dr. Park, I’ve made it clear my intentions are to stay at PTMC.”
“But, if that stops becoming an option, I will make sure to weigh my options out wisely.” You were satiating whatever prompted the conversation. Whether it was the grudge he still held or the fact you were talking with Emmick while working under his shift, it was making you nervous.
He hummed deeply, and you were sure it was the end. Not that you wanted the last word, but you just wanted to go home to recharge enough to endure him the next shift. After this conversation, there was no doubt the alter of your sleep schedule was messing with your brain. Dr. Park was starting to appear more as a mentor than a dictator.
“It shouldn’t unless you don’t want it to be.”
You felt your lower jaw loosen in shock. Was it an endorsement? Whatever happened with Norton seemed like a slip-up. Just an excuse to not delay patient care, which was fine as long as your head wasn’t on a stick by the end of. The patient had survived, which was a win for all parties.
This surpassed that, and it created a whirlpool in your mind. Maybe you were reading too much into it. Brendon Park was complicated and you had decided long ago it wasn’t worth racking your brain over.
Before you could stop it, Park plucked the cup from your hand. You attempted to reach back for it, which only made him pull it farther from your grasp. With a straight face, he started walking away, your still warm coffee cup in your hand. “No drinking in patient care areas.”
You had tried to convince Maura to go home. It was your job to answer the consultations, no matter how late duty called. Therefore, when Annette found the two of you wandering past the nurse’s station, passing along the message from the ED, it left you answering the call. That is when you told Maura to pack up. She wasn’t being paid to put in the overtime.
She insisted, though. Arguing it was beneficial for her education to adapt to the demands of the job. You weren’t convinced she wanted to do orthopedic surgery yet. The drive would help her in a trauma unit like the ED or General Surgery.
When the door swung open of Trauma 1, you saw the small fleet of ED staff including Dr. Shen, Langdon, and King. Among the sea of gray and black scrubs, you caught the plum scrubs from across. With her hair tied back, it was easy to make out the huff and grin she sported, as if she was surprised to see you. “Where have you been?”
While pulling out a pair of gloves, you chuckled. “Dr. Walsh, haven’t you heard? They’ve put me on the dreaded day shift for the next couple of weeks.”
Walsh rolled her eyes playfully, arms folded. “Of course, Park did. Just a cloud of misery.”
“If it’s any consolation, we love having you around, shark pup.” Langdon huffed out, working beside Dr. King, who smiled and nodded enthusiastically.
Your eyes began to put together the scene. A conscious male patient on the gurney, hooked to monitors and medications. What you had neglected was still standing towards the corner, watching like a deer in the headlight. Walsh, with her dog-like scent, cocked her head to the side, staring straight behind you. “Who’s Bambi over there?”
When you glanced over your shoulder, you caught the wide eye stare she gave Walsh. You just realized she did look like a doe. Pointing a finger internally, she swallowed thickly. “Me?”
“Play nice, Walsh.” You playfully jabbed, which earned you a playful surrender of her arms. With a polite smile, you acknowledged everyone before turning back to the med student. “Maura, MS-4.”
“Meet Dr. Walsh, night shift surgical attending.” Your hand pointed in her direction, like serving her on a silver platter. Walsh liked to joke she was royalty if Park was to be the residential predator. With a military background, she was one-step away from earning a crown.
Maura waved a shaky hand–somehow, more intimidated humanizing Emery Walsh and her devilish smirk. “Nice to meet you.”
“I wish it were under better circumstances.” Walsh jerked her head to the patient. Maura finally took the invitation to take the leap of fate, while you were already at the bedside, leaning over the patient.
“What is your name sir?” You asked softly, yet loud enough over the monitors, chatter, and sounding of machines.
His breath was trembling and his line of sight glued to the ceiling. Despite the fact you tried to slip yourself into his purview, his state of shock was overcoming him. The C-collar keeping his face upward didn’t make it any easier to assimilate to his surroundings.
“Nate.” He shakily let out,
“Hello Nate.” You responded, a smile gracing your lips, even if he couldn't see it. Indicating to Maura to your right, you clasped your hands. “We are from orthopedic surgery and we are going to take care of you, alright?”
He hesitantly tried to nod his head, the morphine masking most of the pain he probably felt in his neck and collar. You turned to Maura, capturing her attention, pushing her to focus. “Maura, go ahead with the neurovascular exam.”
Maura stared at you, uncertain and something relative to scared. With a firm nod, she finally listened. You pulled away, wandering over to peek at the imaging. You saw her hands go over to the open tibial shaft fracture. Stalling at first, then she touched the deformed leg. Walsh was watching the examination, asking the patient to move his foot and toes. She’d notice the small grimaces on her face. “You aren’t squeamish are you, Maura?”
“Emery.” Came the warning sign from you, supervising the examination. Maura eyes were fleeting between the two of you, mostly nervous Walsh was sniffing out a flaw she hadn’t nipped away. Your eyes remained on her as you came closer to the bedside.
“Yikes, first name.” Walsh joked, shaking her head humorously. There was a sound behind you, like the door opening, which you paid no mind to. “Did you learn that from Park?”
“It works, doesn’t it?”
That sound did call for your attention. With your eyebrows shot up, you spun quickly, alarmed. Park was already snapping on his own gloves, examining the matching, caught-off-guard stares from you and Maura. Annette knew the consultation had been answered, meaning the party wasn’t necessary. You wondered whether he already knew of the consult before you came down—wanted to test your patience when you should’ve been long gone with the rest of day shift.
His name was the only thing that could come out of your mouth at first. He approached the bedside to your right, closer to the patient's head than his legs, where most of your concerns lie. With his towering height, he didn't need to lean over to see the fracture. It was an odd sensation to feel his bicep brush against you, the room suddenly stuffy.
Tearing your eyes from looking up at him, you looked over at Maura, putting on an easy smile. “Maura was just about to tell me what she found from the neurovascular exam.”
If she wasn’t nervous walking in, she was shaking now. Up to this point, you had managed to hide her from the great white shark. It wasn’t pity so much as mercy. If she had any desire to apply for orthopedic residencies, she didn’t need the likes of Dr. Park ruining her hope. He considered dreams thoughtless actions. You had conferring ideologies. You hummed, “Thoughts?”
She cleared her throat, acutely aware everyone had their eyes on her somehow. Park and you were more expectant than the others. Retracting her hands, you could notice the flushed look on her face. “I think everything is intact.”
“You think?” Park asked rhetorically.
Her body deflated in an instant. It was like a bad dream. All the embarrassing moments you recalled of yourself as an intern, trying not to make a fool of yourself while failing miserably. Accepted in a trauma-1 hospital in the orthopedic surgery program, you always feared to be out of your depth. You didn’t see yourself having the qualifications to match. Maura had some qualities you wished you had at her age instead of flipping around like a fish out of water.
Before Park could inquire punitively about her vague answer, you inched closer. “What do you feel uncertain about?”
Instead of looking at Park's formidable disapproval, she turned to you for some assurance. This would be unfit for a resident. Park always preached about hesitancy and lack of preparedness. Nothing was worse than showing up to a consultation like a deer in the headlights. While Maura was a medical student, she still had many opportunities to turn it around in her favor. She gnawed at her lower lip, “I don’t know. It didn’t feel right.”
“Do it again.” You instructed firmly. It wasn’t a demand, but it was a firm redirection from the clouds in her head. You knew the fog was hard to navigate. Her own mind was playing tricks on her. With the pressure to perform with Park in the room, you could sense it was in control of her rationale.
She agreed, placing her hands back on the patient’s leg. While she re-asked Nate to enact some movement, you were watching his face for stimuli.
“Present.” Park announced while Maura continued her exam. He circled around you and Maura, to the x-ray machine towards the double doors. He leaned over the machine, soaking in the images.
“Nate. Twenty-three year old male involved in a motorcycle collision with an open tibial fracture.” Maura began, still checking the tibial nerve. She continued reciting what she was able to pick up from the administered medication and vitals.
Your eyes caught the retraction of her hands, and she seemed more at ease with the second go. Park picked up the silence, eyeing the med student from behind. She sighed, stepping back to confirm with both you and Park. “Neurovascularly intact.”
Her sight stopped back at you, earning a subtle double-thumb up from you. She repressed the chuckle. Walsh continued presenting to Park about the other surgical concerns not regarding orthopedics; you noticed the continuous flexing of his toes. Glancing over at Nate, he still grimaced as if something was wrong but he hadn’t acknowledged it.
Maura picked it up and she waited to follow your directive. Positioning yourself at the end of the bed, your hand went to test the nerves for yourself. “Nate, does this feel the same as the other foot?”
There was silence in the room, waiting for Noah to answer. A pause then a small groan. “No, actually.”
You nodded, and when you looked to your right, Park was already standing there. Leaning in, you kept your voice low. “I think his sensation has decreased.”
Park’s jaw ticked as he examined the leg from where he stood. You motioned for Maura to switch places with you. When she reserved the spot, her hand followed the same movement yours did to reevaluate the nerve. Carefully watching her eyebrows furrow and relax gave you a clue as to what she was feeling. “What nerve?”
“Deep peroneal.” She responded with no hesitation.
“What compartment?” You followed up.
A pause. “Anterior.”
“What does that mean?” Your chest was beating rhythmically. Park might be concerned over the constant questions he considered prompting, but you gave no indication of the answers. She was coming up with them based on her knowledge. Under the shy exterior, her brain was picking up quickly what you and Sully had taught her in three weeks.
“We need to keep reassessing him. This could be compartment syndrome.” She concluded, releasing a heavy sight that came from making her way to the end of—what felt like—a riddle.
You tried to keep your smile professional, but you knew the crinkle in the corner of your eyes gave you away. “Good.”
Feeling as elated as Maura, your eyes wandered behind her to your attending. When you two locked eyes, he relaxed them from the narrowed, curious look he had when trying to make something out. Giving him a tight lip smile, you raised your eyebrows at him, inviting anything pertinent to the case.
“How did you get roped into the consultation?” Was the question that escaped his lips. So he didn’t know what he was walking into.
Pulling your gloves off and tossing them into the nearest bin, you shook your head. “Annette caught us by pre-op 2. Guess we were unlucky.”
The response was sufficient because he gave you one nod. He didn’t appear to want to elaborate on the matter. Maura stared confused about what to do next. She suddenly remembered she was over an hour into her scheduled rotation. From the look Park gave her and you, he noticed that fact as well. His head jerked upward, “Head up and let Annette know I’m down here, then go home.”
There was a sternness in his glare, but the longer the two of you stayed locked on one another, it lacked the bite he usually had. The one that didn’t require words or even the movement of his jaw. In the past three years, you had hyper-fixated on his subtle movement to read him. You knew every twitch and strain you did nerves in Noah’s tibia. It told you a story without the need of complicating words.
Park always warned not to trust patients so easily. They’ll lie through their teeth even if you were the only person who could save him, he told you on your first pelvic reconstruction. You wondered whether that truth could be applied to him as much as the rest of you. While sanitizing your hands, you sighed. “Don’t have to tell me twice.”
“I sure hope not.” Park snorted, shaking his head. He was looking down at the patient’s leg, ignoring some of the questionable looks from the ED staff. Even Walsh was stunned in her place.
She pressed her lips together, unable to obscure the curve in the corner of her lips. She turned to Shen at the head of the gurney, the snapping of her gloves echoing. “I will book the OR.”
Walking behind Shen and towards where you and Maura stood by the door, she pointed a finger at Park. “It’s on you if he dies before then, Brendon.”
You caught the small twitch of his nose before slipping out the door. Walsh followed with her hands on her hip. Maura stayed close behind, yet far enough to not be noticed. You could recognize the technique anywhere, except it didn’t work nearly as smoothly as she had hope. Walsh was searching for her, facing her with arms crossed. “Impressive, Maura. I’m sure you didn’t learn all of that from Park.”
Walsh playfully glanced over at you while you pressed the up arrow for the elevator. Maura folded her arms in front of her, polite and back to her reserved nature. “I mean, he’s a good surgeon…”
The words ran out like printer ink. Endeared, Walsh chuckled; she softly hit your arm with the back of her hand. “I see you haven’t taught her everything.”
When the elevator doors slid open, the three of you settled in and Walsh pressed the floor button. The humming of the elevator buzzed as it came to life, sliding upwards. She stood beside you while Maura was in the opposite corner, fiddling with her badge. Walsh admired Maura. “You still have the wide, glossy eye, childish fear of Park the Shark.”
“It goes away with time.” You joked. When Maura looked at you through her lashes, you winked at her.
She was already learning her way around the hospital. Even if she went into another specialized surgery program, she’d take with her the processes she was learning with you. You could see she didn’t want to disappoint what you had seen in her when she’d stall or shrink within herself. It was hard to convince someone to not drown with the presence of Park in the room.
But you had done so; and even if it’s not Park, you were sure she’d need it to survive somewhere else.
The elevator stopped and Maura was the first one to exit, leaving you and Walsh walking side-by-side. You could sense her lingering eyes and she leaned in, her arm pressed against yours. “That’s what I was talking about, by the way.”
Awkwardly chuckling, you furrowed your brows, staring at her blankly. “What do you mean?”
She scoffed, shaking her head in feign disappointment. “Didn’t I tell you I wasn’t going to spell it out for you?”
Your face fell at the echo of her voice, recalling that dawn in the break room. You had performed a surgery on your own, thanks to Dr. Emmick. She had trusted you. Park never reciprocated that sense of trust. That sensation reconstructed what being a surgeon meant, but now, you were worried you had overreacted. Maybe Park wasn’t some figure of evil coming out to get you. Was it wrong of you to try to stop it before it got worse?
“Park the Shark doesn’t just remind residents to go home.” Walsh clarified a knowing glimmer in her eye. When her spectralink rang, she gave you a farewell in the form of a nod before continuing further down the hall.
You hadn’t realized how much you slowed down until Maura was several feet ahead of you, watching you speak in hushed voices with Walsh. Maura waved at Walsh as she passed by, waiting for you to approach her. You gave her an upside down smile, “You didn’t have to wait.”
“Well, I wanted to invite you to this taco truck that me and some other med students are going to.” She offered politely.
You had to be almost four years older than her, mid-twenties, although she looked barely old enough to drink. It was obvious she was flustered by the idea of inviting someone she considered superior, more than halfway done with a residency and attending-bound. You didn’t see yourself as much different than her.
Nodding, more enthusiasm than she was expecting, it eased the tension in her shoulders. A mix of the post-shift stress and the nerves. She sighed, smiling wider. “I know hanging out with med students probably isn’t your version of fun.”
“Nonsense.” You lazily waved your hand. “I was a med student too once. Plus I’d like to get to know you more outside the hospital.”
The two of you walked shoulder to shoulder. Your hand stuffed in your scrub pockets while she continued fiddling with her badge. “Unlike Dr. Park.”
“He’s a difficult person to understand.” You muttered, bowing your head.
If anything Walsh implied had merit, it just confirmed what you and the rest of the residents assumed of him. He was too complicated personally, but too good of a surgeon. Apart from the fact his molars did oddly resemble those of a shark, he did impressive work. Everyone cursed his strength. If only he weren’t so good, then maybe it’d be easier to hate him.
Instead, people aspired to be him—or at least tolerated by him.
It took you time to realize you were wasting more energy than making worth of your training. Yet, the longer you were forced to spend with Park, there were new vines growing in the place of dead weeds. It was strange to feel as acknowledged by him as you did with Emmick. As if, the two of you could jest, like friends more than colleagues, or a mentor-mentee.
If the two of you could get along, respect the work, and learn boundaries for each other, you could see yourself even liking Park for once.
“You’ll have to come visit!” Sully’s girlfriend, Josie, yelled from wherever she was in her apartment. You could hear the echo bounce off the walls and the only person in fame was Sully. He sat slumped on the couch, the computer he was video calling you sitting on his lap. “I don’t get why Sully keeps you over there.”
“She is afraid of getting attached.” Sully responded, grinning back at you. This is what you get for agreeing to a FaceTime call on your lunch break. The surgical department was mostly doing scheduled, non-emergent surgeries. You had spent most of the morning in surgery, scrubbing out at the perfect time to sit and eat.
“Says the guy who keeps trying to persuade me to move to Chicago.” You retorted back, taking a bite into your sandwich. With your phone propped on your water bottle, you clearly saw him roll his eyes.
Josie slumped beside Sully, leaning closer to be in the camera view. She had her hair tied back in a ponytail, sporting a pink tank-top. She smiled into the camera, one hand braced on Sully’s shoulder. “We could all be roommates! It’d be fun!”
You hummed, frowning in disagreement. “I don’t think I want to be your guy’s third wheel.”
She shrugged, recovering the optimism of a child. It was ironic since she worked with kids. She was the ideal physician any parent would want. “We can settle on neighbors.”
“I can also fix your single dilemma.” She gleamed, which earned a chuckle from Sully who already expected whatever his girlfriend was about to say. “I know some cute doctors who would die to meet you!”
You snorted, pushing down your food with the lukewarm coffee from the morning. “You sure they’ll be into the long distance thing?”
“It wouldn't be a long distance if you moved.” Sully retorted. It was your turn to roll your eyes. This was a never-ending debate, not just between you two, but the other residents as well.
With Sully gone, all the residents had been asking the same questions. It would be casual conversation turned into interrogation. It didn’t make sense why anyone would want to stay willingly, but when they thought about it, they’d nod. You had concluded they were compliant to the idea no one else would want to deal with Dr. Park except you.
With your sandwich almost meeting your mouth again, you rapidly pulled it away, staring at Sully. “Are we really going to have this debate again?”
“Forget about that. Right now, you still have time to decide.” Josie mediated perfectly, smiling between the two of you. The lovesick look in Sully’s eyes told you everything he felt for her. If only she knew, he was hiding an engagement ring in his nightstand he bought almost six months ago. “But, I would like to meet the woman who’s been after my heart even through video calls.”
Sully’s face immediately morphed into something childishly envious, mouth agape as he continued staring at Josie. You covered your mouth to suppress your laugh. With one hand clutching his chest, he scoffed. “I’m right here.”
“I can’t let you ruin my chances of meeting my soulmate!” She exclaimed, her smile widening the longer Sully remained wounded.
“Sweetie.” He pleaded softly, now frowning. It was comical watching the two of them. It also reminded you how pathetically single you were.
“I’m messing with you.” She sighed, pressing a brief kiss on his lips. You visibly saw color come back to his previously mortified expression.
“You guys make me sick.” You coughed as you mistakenly swallowed down a piece of your food too thick to pass down smoothly.
“Don’t avoid the subject.” Sully warned while Josie stood up from the couch at the sound of something ringing in the background.
“Once you have a full furnished apartment over there, then we can talk.” You joked, chugging the rest of your coffee down.
Sully pointed a finger towards the camera, a small grin on his face. “Don’t tempt me with a good time. By then, I might have convinced you to pack your bags.”
You mockingly nodded your head. You tried reminding him Chicago wasn’t that far, nor were the time zones much different. The two of you could always text or call and once you settled into your last year of residency, visit.
“How are things over there? Playing nice with Park?” Sully transitioned the conversation. The couch beside him dipped again, and Josie came into view.
“Is that your scary attending I keep hearing about?” Josie questioned. Park was notorious even to the ears of those who didn’t know his face, His reputation surpassed the walls of the hospital. He would spend most of the resident’s program being their worst nightmare. It came to no surprise that it would seep into their personal lives.
Sully grinned, shaking his head. “He’s not scary. He’s mean more than anything.”
You agreed without hesitation before leaning back in the chair, readjusting the wireless earphone. “Things with Park are fine. I have mostly been finding reasons to stay away from him. I just can’t wait to go back to night shifts.”
Before you could follow up with some weird encounter of your day or anything regarding Park, the breakroom door swung open. You lifted your head from the phone and a thick figure poked his head in first. Park had one hand braced on the doorframe, his eyes landing immediately on you, in the solitary breakroom. With raised eyebrows, you both stared at one another, the anticipation increasing with the ongoing silence.
“Have you eaten yet?” He asked, the same cadence he’d speak in when demanding someone to present a trauma in the ED. To anyone unfamiliar, it wouldn’t seem remotely friendly, but you heard the subtle muttering from Sully who was equally confused through the phone.
You quickly confirmed, scrunching up the plastic wrapper of your sandwich. Your brain was still stuck on the question. When did it concern Dr. Park if you ate? He stepped into the break room, letting the door close behind him. “The patient in pre-op 5 still needs to sign some forms, but Delgado and that new med student couldn’t get anywhere with the parents. I have a labral repair to scrub into.”
“Is that the 16-year-old scoliosis correction?” You inquired, completely ignoring the conversation between Sully and Josie. You were glad Park couldn’t hear the ruckus. You were sure he hadn’t even noticed the fact your phone was propped up vertically.
He gave you a curt nod, before shaking his head. There was visible frustration in his face. “Parents are getting cold feet and we can’t rely on the words of a 16-year-old child. They’ll listen to you more than Delgado.”
Your eyes widened in disbelief in his words. He had a lot of trust for someone who felt there was such a thing as ‘too much’ empathy. Slowly a smile was growing on your face. “That’s a lot of faith to put on a person.”
He scoffed and even though he pressed his molars together, you sense he was repressing something he didn’t want known yet. “Am I wrong?”
You weren’t sure how to answer that. On one hand, this could all be a ploy to test ego. See whether all the compliments and validation from Emmick was finally getting to your head. He didn’t indulge the animalistic necessity to satiate the hunger in his residents for the verbal acknowledgments. It was an unknown practice.
On the other hand, he could be—for once—genuine. You weren’t sure if that was something tangibly visible or what you were overthinking, Since talking with Walsh, it put ideas in your head you didn’t want to entertain. Not because you didn’t believe in the slightest she was being dishonest. On the contrary, Walsh specialized in slipping it in her jabs and sarcasm. Those who got along with her understood her cryptic way of talking.
It meant obsessing over every nuance then on after. Thinking of the possibilities you might have misread everything since before you spoke to him in his office. You didn’t need to start doubting your ruinous decision months after.
Instead, you gave him a tight lip smile, “I can try. I don’t like making promises.”
“Well, if you can’t, I don't have much hope for anyone else. So, make sure you do.”
It felt less of a threat and more of an attempt at a joke, bordering on flattery. This had to be a trick. All Brendon Park knew how to do was speak in one-sentence monologues, unless the situation called for more; and typically, that was when someone fucked up. Then it’d turn into suave hooks and jabs, where the opponent is more so struggling to survive than to keep up.
Right now, your chest tightened at the expression on his face, relaxed. You wondered if you hadn’t eschewed your relationship, if he would laugh at the joke.
“I will make sure to pull out all the stops, Dr. Park.” You wittily gave him a lazy salute. That earned something of a scoff and a snort.
He still stood by the door. The corner of his eyes crinkled slightly enough to disturb the usually clean canvas of his face. He was almost ten years your senior even if he didn’t look like it. Whatever he did to maintain his muscular stature and pristine skin was working for him.
From your earphones, you could hear Sully mutter a question, asking if he was still there from the silence that befell the room. Eventually, Park affirmed with a nod before walking out the door briskly. The sigh that escaped was audible to the microphone. With your eyes back on the illuminating phone, Sully and Josie stared back with wide, expectant eyes.
Josie broke the silence first snickering, “That’s your attending? Dr. Park?”
“Why are you saying it like that?” You questioned when you heard the little melody she added to his name, like there was something amusing about it.
“Because he doesn’t sound like the person I keep hearing about.” She snickered harder, one hand pressed against her cheek.
Sully frowned, but there was a matching mischief in his eye. “Trust me, he is never like that.”
You stood, tossed the rest of your trash, before grabbing your phone and water bottle by the handle. You caught the smirk on Josie’s face. She was insinuating something with her look alone, which made you stop in your tracks. She readjusted herself on the couch she was sitting on. “Is he hot?”
Sully exclaimed her name, a laugh escaping him that edged around a cackle. With one hand on the door handle, you sputtered. Hot? Of all the things, she could have asked you. Now she’s put a dreaded idea in your head. Thinking of your attending in an aspect HR would not approve. There was no way you could put into words whether he was attractive enough to your liking. That was surely crossing boundaries.
“Josie!” You whispered sharply. “In no way am I going to entertain that question.”
“What?” She asked, offended by your offense. How could she possibly find nothing wrong with that question? She also worked at a hospital for crying aloud. “I just asked if he was hot, not if you wanted to jump his bones.”
“Josie!”
“What the fuck?”
There were overlapping voices between you and Sully who both felt slimy about the topic. Sully wouldn’t disagree if you said Dr. Park was the social standard of attractive, but to personally identify him as such, you could hear him imitating gagging noises. Engrossed in your current debate, you had opened the door, head bowed while arguing to the screen. Too distracted and slightly disgusted, you had lost track of what was in front of you.
Not until you bumped into a mass of something that was most definitely not a wall randomly placed in the middle of the hall. You clutched onto your phone tighter, alarmingly jumping back. Two hands settled on your biceps, right as you almost tumbled backwards. While trying to push space, your feet hadn’t planted gracefully.
When you looked up, pulling the phone into your chest, Park was staring down at you. His eyebrows knitted together and the heat of your face felt too hot to touch. He was now wearing his matching scrub cap, covering any evidence of his perfectly gelled hair. It somehow chiseled the rest of his face; Sharper edges that could make you bleed to the touch.
You opened your mouth to say something before he beat you to it. “Who the hell are you talking to?”
That’s when you remembered the ongoing call you were still having, without even thinking you quickly pressed the red button, cutting Sully and Josie from pestering them with burning questions. The last thing you heard was the utterance of ‘Park’ from Sully until the call ended. You sighed, stuffing your phone in your pocket, putting on a shaky smile.
It was then that the warmth of his hands on your arms tingled, and as you shifted, he finally pulled them away. “Sully was just checking in on me.”
Park hummed, crossing his arms. It was clear when Park didn’t like something. A surgical plan, post-surgery care, or the staff he was unfortunately stuck operating with. It never occurred he might not like you talking so much about Sully until now. The small scrunch of his nose told you that much might be true, but it didn’t make sense.
“Came back to tell you ED needs a consult. Sounds like an ORIF case. Take care of that with your little puppy before speaking with the spinal corrections kid.” He informed you, immediately brushing past you.
Huffing out, you spun. “What if they go into emergency surgery? I could be stuck in there.”
“Handle the consult,” He advised, stopping to turn back to face you. There was a hand trying to ease any concern over conflicting schedules. You weren’t exactly put off by the suddenly full plate, but still frazzled over the bump and his hands on your arm. “Delgado will jump in if surgery is anytime soon. I just need someone competent down there right now.”
You cocked your head, “And Delgado isn’t?”
There was a pause. He had never spoken so briskly about another resident in your presence, surely not a fourth year resident. Maybe he was suffering separation anxiety with Sully being gone. He pressed his lips in a thin line before shaking his head, “For whatever reason, Robby, Garcia, and them like you. I don’t need to hear about one of my residents fucking up while I’m scrubbed in. Especially not from Garcia.”
There was desperation in his tone. Help me by doing this for me. He would never outlandishly say it, but the shift in his eyes trying to read yours was enough to convince you. “Okay. I will try to calm the tides on the floor and the ED. Do you have your pager?”
“I gave it to Annette, along with my cell.” He jerked his head over to where Annette was most likely stationed. His hands rested on his hips.
“If anyone pages or calls for anything pertinent until then, I’ll handle it with Maura.” You assured, it would’ve sounded presumptuous, especially if Delgado were here. It wasn’t like you to go over the head of your senior resident. You wouldn’t do it to Sully, but he also acted as if you two were equals and not at different levels of the surgical hierarchy.
You only waited long enough for him to give you a resigned nod in agreement. Whether or not he was comfortable allocating some power to his resident, he wasn’t left with much of a choice. You didn’t make any promise that you were the most capable to solve whatever emergency may occur, but you were willing to try. You could use this as a perfect chance to demonstrate leadership he may otherwise shrug off.
Continuing down the opposite end, you still listened for his movements. Your ears picked up the small thuds of his footsteps, slowly unrecognizable the further the two of you parted. Once you rounded the corner, you pulled out your phone to see the chaos you erupted.
SULLY 4m ago
What the fuck is going on with you and Park?
You were almost done with your first week. If you had to classify it in comparison to the shifts you’ve worked on nights, you’d say it ranked somewhere under alright. Apart from the exhaustion of long surgeries and back-to-back travel from the ED to the surgical floor, everything else had been fine. Slightly manageable, which was your version of the brink of bad.
If you weren’t answering basic consultations or debriefing about surgical plans with Maura, you were in the OR. You had spent it mostly working, which for a change, felt like a reward and not a punishment. Park had sought you out more than once to run some consultation or reassigned cases he wanted you to handle. At first, it was as if he wanted you stuck in the OR instead of seeing you wander the floor. He’d even send Maura away with someone else when she could as easily sit in and observe.
“She could be of use elsewhere, instead of serving as a distraction, like how you should be more worried about what you can do for the patient,” He muttered the first and only time you had opposed. It was a bit snappy, considering he was already preoccupied with the emergency limb re-implantation the two of you had consulted.
After that, you didn’t push the idea. Maura was doing fine, and you didn't want to put a target on her back. Park had a hard enough time restraining himself from criticizing her with you always in the vicinity.
You had just finished with an ORIF procedure that for some reason was scheduled later in your shift, just the right time to catch hand off. Assuredly, you made your way to post-op, figuring hand off was probably close to wrapping up. The first person you saw was Park, apart from the small handful of residents. Instead of immediately joining the fray, you walked to the nursing station, leaning down to speak to Sarah about turning over a new room.
With your eyes still focused on Park and the residents, you saw them move from patient in post-op 2 to post-op 6. That’s when you noticed Maura clutching to an electronic chart, the black bulky case appearing too big for her hands. Sarah was talking to you about the triage plan they came up with as the line of patients being sutured up increased. You were listening, arms on your hips, but your eyes picked up the horrific site of Maura presenting in front of Park,
She had presented in front of Park before, but with the messy bun, she managed to wrangle into a claw clip slipping, you could tell the poor girl was exhausted. A timid girl from South Carolina still didn’t quite know how to navigate a big city or large trauma hospital. She was swimming in a tank of larger fish, Park being the shark that stalks the rest of you. There was breath that came out of you while you watched alone from behind the nursing station.
“Definitive management.” Park asked, arm crossed as they stood outside the patient’s room. You could mostly make out the side profile of Maura’s face, while Park had his back to the patient, making him most visible.
“Urgent irrigation and debridement with operative fixation.” Maura responded, frowning slightly with the line of question. You hadn’t heard the entirety of her presentation of the patient, but you came to trust her judgment at this point. She was about to graduate from med school and become an intern at some hospital. You wanted her to know the trust that came with that responsibility.
“Why Cefazolin?” Park followed up. He didn’t have a chart like her in his hand. You were sure Maura must have mentioned it, but it was impressive the details he stored in his own head sometimes.
Maura didn’t rattle so easily, but the longer he stared down at her, waiting for her to react just made her body shiver. Even with the fleece jacket, you could see something of a tremble under the fabric. “Coverage for gram-positive organisms.”
“Which ones?”
You moved around the nursing station, remaining unnoticed by Park. What? This seemed excessive for a hand off. Oftentimes, those facts were assumed. Residents had more experience than med students, which meant they had unspoken understanding of certain decisions, but this? It felt like he was trying to make her trip.
Maura finally broke. Her shoulder sank lower and she readjusted the device to be held by her forearms, gripping the top edge. “Staphylococcus.”
“Which species?”
Silence. The long awaited slip up. The questions leading up to this agape mouth and glossy eye look she had on her face was watching the climax of a movie. There was a disaster in the wake, the audience gripping their seats as if they could brace for some fictional impact. The residents were watching the back and forth. You could sense the horror of the moment, something most of them have lived more than once.
You had once stood in her place.
What would you add for a type III injury? When would you broaden coverage for farm contamination? How long do you continue antibiotics?
The questions followed one after the other. The more words he kept spewing out, the less she was able to stand confidently. It was like seeing a lion in the wild, forced to confront a force of nature, bared defenseless. A bad case of déjà vu. You could envision the narrowing vision and the sick dread in your stomach. From the way, her hands kept clamming on the device, tethering her dignity to a piece of metal and wiring.
“You had all day to familiarize yourself with the patient.” His voice had a deeper base to it now. It sounded like he was the only source of noise around even though there were call bells, machines, and miscellaneous conversations in the perimeter. “There is no excuse as to why you don’t know this. Patient care is about understanding the condition and treating it.”
A storm alarm was playing in your head, warning you of waterworks and wobbly lips. Maura was only a step away from running off to hide in shame. He didn’t yell, he punctured with the sharpness of emphasizing. “Tell me why none of it stuck with you. Does the patient mean nothing?”
“Dr. Park,”
Your voice came from the back of the group. All the heads swiveled and Park’s eyes knew where to land. He may not have seen you approach, but the sound of your voice was undeniable. He recognized the intrusion in a second. It cut through the pause of his question and Maura’s lack of response. A pit settled low in your stomach. You felt reminiscent of the post-shift encounter between you and him in his office.
Hands still on your hips, you looked over at Maura who was hiding from you too. Even if she was grateful for the interruption, she couldn’t face anyone. You shifted your focus back on Park, arms still curved over his chest. “This is starting to sound like an interrogation instead of a presentation for handoff.”
He repositioned himself to face you. As he stared you down, you finally realized he could find you in any room if he wanted. There was an animalistic character to how he positioned his body from six feet away towards you. “She’s not answering the questions anymore. That’s the problem.”
“I can see that.” You affirmed, picking up the nervous glances from Maura. If the other residents weren’t nervous before, they were now.
No one would expect a handoff to ‘escalate’ to this matter. Everyone silently agreed to just accept what Park gave. He was the attending, the rest were bottom dwellers. It came to a surprise to yourself that his name dare escape your mouth. The instinct was natural. Some might argue this would turn into a performance for anyone interested in watching, but this was more than that for you, Maura, and him
His eyebrows furrowed, appearing equally confused for your interruption. “She needs to perform under pressure.”
You chuckled, “She does.”
The fleet of eyes on you now grew. You were now standing on a metaphorical stage, interrupting a drama that had everyone on the edge of their seat. Maura and Park matched their expressions. Maura seemed more concerned over your objective. What sparked you as interesting was the retraction Park had. You were agreeing with him, but to what degree. You shook your head, “But, right now she ‘s trying not to embarrass herself. She’s stopped thinking.”
“If your goal is to see what she knows, this isn’t measuring that.” You motioned to the public entourage that had witnessed her shut down.
You knew some of the residents would gawk at you after; acting like this was a form of self-sacrifice. Selflessly throwing yourself in the trail of Park the Shark. Except, that wasn’t the reason at all. Your vows were to do no harm. Surely, the medical board extends that vow to the fellows, residents, and med students. How could you perform ‘no harm’ without teaching it to others first?
You were holding your breath, but you didn’t see yourself giving up so soon.
Before Park could get in the last word, a phone rang. Park grumbled to himself as he recognized the sound of his spectralink. He whispered something to Delgado who was standing opposite of Maura, before slipping between the two of them. Delgado stepped forward taking his spot, reciting the information Maura had presented, while simultaneously answering what Maura couldn’t.
The rest of the handoff was a blur. Emmick joined sometime after, trying to make small talk with you while the group traveled from one patient to another.
It was hard to focus when you were more worried with Maura. She kept towards the front of the group, but her head remained bowed, and she had instead passed the device off to someone else. She had taken a backseat in her own education from the wash up of self-reproach. The week after Park had chewed you up for what happened with Mr. Stevenson, you had fallen into the same pattern. He didn’t consider you worth the aggravation, so you hid. If you could obscure yourself in the work, keeping your head down and your presence unknown, you could work without dispute.
That didn’t do you or the patient any justice. When you finally came to terms that your education mattered more than the validation you were chasing from Park, it made you center your work on the patient’s more.
Departure was quick. Everyone dispersed quickly, including Maura. You went straight for the residents room grabbing your things to try to escape. Maybe it was smart Maura left instead of hanging around. She risked Park finding her to finish the lecture, and if she were still as wobbly as when you saw her last, it would only make matters worse. As you were rounding the corner to the elevators, you found a small figure standing in front of the doors.
“Maura?” You called out. Her braid flipped as she followed the sound of her name. You caught the light reflecting over her wet eyes. Her skin was red, as if she had wiped her face enough to irritate it.
She hummed, keeping her mouth shut. As you approached, you smiled at her. You saw the face she was putting on; pretending Park’s words didn't affect her. You had left in the same shambles before. The elevator door ding and you let Maura slip in first. It was quiet, up until the elevator started descending to the main floor.
Maura scoffed, brushing her bangs. “He’s awful.”
You stared at her before laughing. She was confused, but her body reacted in the same manner. There was an understanding between the two of you. That you two could laugh about how awful your experiences were. When your laugh’s settled, you leaned onto the elevator. “I used to work the day shift.”
“I switched over last year because of one of Dr. Park’s monologues.” You rolled your eyes, “There was a patient who just…slipped through the cracks during a MVA we had. He had developed compartment syndrome and when Park found out he was my patient, he ripped me a new one while transferring the patient up for surgery.”
“He told me I wasn’t worth the aggravation.” You concluded, the words clear in your mind. It was like ripping off stitches still too raw.
Maura shook her head, a frown on her face. The elevator had stopped and the two of you stepped out, walking towards the main entrance, side-by-side. “How do you still manage to work with him, let alone for him?”
There was still a small spring breeze, but the rest of the humidity outside had your clothes sticking uncomfortably. You shrugged, “I stopped caring about what he thought of me and not my work.”
“I wanted to impress him since the moment I got here, and I worked my ass off for any acknowledgment.” You laughed at yourself again. Maybe the delirium of an adrenaline high like calling Park out in front of the rest of the residents was affecting your brain. “After that though, I forgot that I had qualities different from Dr. Park that helped me help patients. They weren't bad qualities, just different. Park is a stickler for doing it his way though.”
The two of you had stopped somewhere halfway between the hospital and the parking garage. She smiled back at you, slightly more hopeful than before. “Yeah, you're right.”
You stuffed your hands into the pocket of your fleece jacket. She recovered perfectly fine, which comforted you more than you expected. If she could learn to balance out her expectations and that of others, she could become a fine surgeon. She was eager, adaptable, and even when Park knocked her down; she was still one of the last ones to leave. Bumping her shoulder, you giggled. “I get that a lot.”
The two of you found your way in front of the elevator of the garage, waiting for the doors to open. She’s turned to you again, eyebrows furrowed. “You know, I’d find it hard to believe he doesn’t like you.”
“What makes you say that?” You questioned, narrowing your eyes.
She shrugged, “He respects you. I mean a lot of people here do, from what I’ve picked up.”
When the doors slid open, you clicked the button to the fourth floor while she pressed the sixth. She gripped onto the strap of her backpack, shrugging her shoulders. “I haven’t known him for long, but something tells me he wouldn’t just let anyone talk to him like you did at all.”
You remained quiet as you continued to stare at her. Her cheeks flared up and she started stumbling while trying to find words. “Thank you by the way. You didn’t have to risk yourself for some med student.”
“You’re going to be a doctor, Maura.” You remembered, grinning slightly. If today didn’t set her back, that’s what she had to look forward to. “You should act like one.”
She opened her mouth to speak, but you gave her a look. She knew better than to disagree with you. Instead, she sighed. “I’m sorry if he gives you a hard time about it.”
You waved your hand. The elevator dinged and you stepped forward, “Don’t worry about it. I can handle Park the Shark.”
That earned a confident support from her. The two of you paid farewells and ‘goodnights’ and you only made your way to your car when the doors closed again. Sighing, a small groan escaped you. Despite what she may think, you were dying to know what to expect. If your relationship wasn't ruined, you sure caused a shit-show of it today. Even if Park did respect you, it wasn’t your place.
You couldn’t stand to watch it. Your body itched the longer Park kept talking, and it reacted to the painful memories of your own embarrassment. If it were so wrong, why didn’t he stop you the minute you said his name? Unless he wanted you to dig your own grave. At least that way half the work would be done.
What the fuck had you done?
SULLY 10m ago
6 image attached
This is what you could be enjoying…
You chuckled as you tucked your phone, discreetly peeking at the message. You had an inkling this visit would be another way to coax you into applying for an attending or fellowship position at Mount Sinai—dragging you with him like a childhood toy he couldn’t part with.
If it meant having to cover for him more times than once, you would have to think long and hard over that decision. Especially how your first week back on the day shift has gone.
It would be nice to have someone familiar in an attending position. At least you know you’d have someone you could trust and work well with. Except, you were enjoying life in Pittsburgh. You enjoyed your job, where you lived, and all the small friends you’ve made outside the hospital. Even if your boss was a prick most days, you could get over it with the nice company of everyone else.
Leaving would be abandoning the one place you felt home, even when Sully played a big part in that.
It was hard to complain about Park through a computer screen. He had too many questions about your current dilemma with Park, his strange behavior you didn’t know how to interpret. It had slipped your mind to mention what happened during shift change. It wasn't the type of conversation to have over the phone, plus nothing had come out of it yet. You thought you could spare yourself the interrogation from him for a while more.
“Are you having trouble?” The patient questioned. A 45-year-old woman required a split, questioned, looking down at her. She was sedated in the affected area enough to not be bothered by the pain.
Maura sitting at the bedside started the first step off, pulling at the hand before hesitating when it came to manipulating the wrist and wrapping the splint in place. The ER nurse beside her watched with a slight grimace as she withheld judgment. You leaned forward in your chair, watching Maura almost break a sweat as she tried to maintain composure for the patient’s sake.
She had been floating by since the other day. You were right about one thing: she recovered like a bouncy ball.
“Maura, take a second.” You instructed calmly, noticing the tension from the nurse, Princess, and the patient, Leslie.
Listening to your instruction, she released the force she was putting on her hand and arm. Looking at her with raised eyebrows and a smile, she let out a breath she was holding. “What doesn’t feel right?”
“It’s not supported.” Maura breathier voice responded. The sleeves of her jacket pulled up halfway. She had stuffed her stethoscope in a pocket to clear everything around her face.
“What’s the purpose of the splint?” You questioned simply, watching her try to focus on the question and not the resistance materialized in her gloved hands.
“To keep the fracture from moving.”
“Good.” You encouraged, eyes moving along the sugar tong split she was using. She would start strong and then her doubt kicked in and she could not proceed with wrapping the splint. From the way she’d look at the binding of the arm with the soft padding and rigid splint material. “What position are you trying to preserve in turn?’
“The reduction position.”
“Does your splint support it?”
Instead of answering, she quietly examined the wrist in the splint. She started readjusting it, without you prompting what movements to make next. With each breath, she made the necessary movement that when she applied the splint again you were sure she changed the position. When you glanced over at Princess, she had an easier smile on her face.
As she lifted her head, she caught the two thumbs up you flashed her. She humbly tried to hide her smile, but you could see the curve of her lips as she bowed her head. When Leslie’s arm was wrapped and next steps were explained, the two of you excused yourself.
Walking alongside each other to the elevators, you could sense the little skips to her steps. You giggled lightly from the change in her demeanor, sensing the youth you missed having. “Good job. Just a word of warning, if you panic, your patients tend to panic.”
“I know. I just couldn’t get it right the first time.” She explained, deflating her ego a bit.
With your hands in your pocket, you nodded in understanding. “I get it. During med school, I spent hours staying up just trying to get it right.”
Right as you two were approaching the elevator door, one of the doors to the trauma rooms was pushed open. Halting in both your steps, the stocky, broad body of Dr. Park came at you two. He eyed the two of you like you were in the wrong department. His eyes landed on Maura, who clasped both her hands in front of her.
Neither of you had talked about what happened. Considering you had the next few days off after the fiasco of a hand off, there wasn’t much of a chance to, You were partly grateful for the break, but the lingering questions of what Park might do to you when you came back lingered. You had missed him during hand off, and that kept the suspense in the back of your mind.
“Did you two need anything?” He questioned, mostly drinking in Maura’s shrinking figure.
You had warned her he fed off the scent of scared prey. He was an attending who wanted his residents to fear his judgment. If they weren’t worried about what he thought, then they weren't doing their job right. You had quietly assured her you were planning to work as many cases together as possible. Partly for her sake, but mostly for yours.
The longer you spent away from his sights, the less likely you were to be caught by him. That was the reason you were taking the ‘easy’ consultation. The bedside reductions and the non-emergent calls from the ED. They were all teaching moments for Maura and ways to hide from Park the Shark.
A win-win situation.
Except, it wasn’t working and you two had been caught. Hook, line, and sinker.
“Maura just got done with a bedside reduction. Applied a sugar tong splint. We will repeat the neurovascular exam and imaging for alignment.” You informed without hesitation. Maura was relying on you to take charge of communication with the intimidating attending.
With how she timidly stood, begging with wide eyes to be dismissed, you thought it’d be best she kept quiet. She didn’t need the attention.
“She will repeat neurovascular exams and imaging. You will be scrubbing in on surgery.” Park states, turning for the elevator without waiting for a response. You cursed his inflated ego. Of course, the one time you two meet, he is bossing you around. You weren’t going to fight it. Deep down you felt you deserved it. It was a cynical idea, but he was attending, and what said goes.
Stumbling over your words, you furrowed your brows approaching close behind him. “I’m sorry. In what case exactly?”
The glance to you over his shoulder was barely perceptible. It took you craning your head further to notice his line of sight on you. He curled his lips lightly before rolling his shoulders back. “28- year-old patient, entrapped in a hydraulic steel press. Limb salvage with a mangled extremity.”
You and Maura turned your heads to stare through the glass of Trauma 1, where the bustling ED team stabilized a patient. You could barely make out the status of the patient, but you noticed Dr. Garcia worked alongside Dr. Langdon and Dr. King to stabilize the patient.
The elevator door dinged, and as Park stepped in, you slipped behind him. Only a few steps behind, Maura slipped in as the doors began closing, pressing her body against the wall. You looked up at Park who seemed disinterested in
entertaining a conversation with the third-year resident he was stuck with. “I’m sure Delgado would like to sign up for it.”
“Did I ask for you to nominate someone on my behalf?” Park scoffed, twisting his neck lightly to look down at you. He was luring you further. He knew exactly what you were thinking from the look of your eye. Was Brendon Park messing with you?
Hands falling to your side, you sighed. “I just think you would prefer a fourth-year resident to assist you with a complicated surgery.”
“You’ve done enough on your own.” Park pointed out and it was hard not to distinguish a condescending voice from his tone. No thanks to him. If you hadn’t considered moving to the night shift, who knows what you would have or have not accomplished while under his supervision. “Delgado is stuck on the last trauma.”
“So, I’m what, chopped liver?” You joked, cocking your head to the side.
“You’re the third-year resident who is going to scrub into the surgery.” Park said simply.
The elevator door slid open and Park stalked out first. You hated the feeling of following behind him—all but confirming the ‘shark pup’ jokes made at the expense of your self-worth. Walsh still made jabs at you every so often when she was feeling particularly spunky. She’d shrug, tell you to feel proud of the fact you shook off his razor sharp teeth from your back.
It’s a badge of honor to make Park the Shark broad, she had joked while in the midst of a surgery. You were skeptical of the ethics of the conversation in front of the scrub nurses. At least he finally might give to all those soft, human feelings.
You rolled your eyes at her. Feelings? Like it was possible for Park to have anything as perceptible as sympathy. He was the living embodiment of an industrial, surgical machine. His precision was clean, and his record impeccable.
In what universe would Park give in?
When you looked at your watch, you motioned to Maura attempting to keep up with you and both your bosses. “You should probably eat something.”
She nodded vigorously, eyeing Park nervously, awaiting him to object to your command. “I will be stuck in this surgery for a while. Find Lucia afterwards. She’ll keep you busy.”
Park stopped in front of the viewing and OR lounge to prepare for operative planning. You flicked your head to the side, silently pleading for Maura to run off. You were grateful one of you was able to escape the traps of Park’s jaw.
You weren’t as lucky apparently.
When facing Park again, his blank expression didn’t give in to any disfavor of you. Even when his emotions appeared ambiguous, you could know to expect something later. He shelved his monologues for a timing where his words could wound. It wasn’t like to forgive and forget.
“I should’ve apologized for what happened—“
“Are you good to scrub in?” Park questioned, his tone even. He wasn't remotely too interested to stem any concern on your part, but it did raise some alarms. Rendering you speechless, he rolled his shoulder. “I don’t need you passing out in the middle of surgery.”
Nervously smiling, you shook your head. “I’m good for surgery, Dr. Park, but we should talk—“
“About the surgery? I agree.” He interjected again. You were sustaining your patience with the strength of an elephant at this point. He never made it easy to want to like him. He pulled out his phone, staring down at something. He didn’t bother to lift his eyes again. “Anything else you’d like to redundantly speak about?”
You barely shook your head until he spun away, scrolling on his phone. This was going to be an eventful surgery, for reasons other than the actual procedure.
It took over an hour to prepare for the surgery. While orthopedics, along with vascular and trauma planned the order of repairs with the degloving and compromised arteries, it dawned on you the severity of the case. You were internally groaning at how irritating the fact was that you’d be stuck in a salvation surgery with Park.
You had messaged Sully, telling him you’d probably miss the nightly video calls you’ve been having with him–a meaningful way to decompress from the day shift.
It was bloody and more gruesome than the injuries the poor worker came in. Nonviable muscle was the first to go, and in between incisions and removing the muscles, Park was staying centrally focused.
“So, Dr. Sullivan is almost on his way out.” Fatima cooed, earning a snicker from under your mask. You rolled your eyes at her, and she picked up the cue from beside you.
“Dr. Sullivan is shamelessly leaving me to deal with the lease of the apartment he invited me to live in.” The retort came out bitterly, but she could read in between the lines of the joke. The two of you including Sully had a good time while in the OR.
You eyed Park from the rims of your goggles, the black scrub cap hiding away the glistening of his combed, slicked back hair. While passing along the instrument to Park you turned back to Fatima. “Don’t worry, you will always remain his favorite OR nurse.”
She hummed, pleased by that statement. “I’m not the one he’s trying to drag to Chicago.”
The bumping of the music continued, something Reyes chose as the rest of the surgeons failed to guess the number Bailey (the anesthesiologist) was thinking. Garcia lifted his head from across the table, listening to the conversation. “Dr. Park, losing two of your well esteemed shark pups in the span of a year? You must be a repellent.”
Park glared at Garcia, which only fed her ego. She must be picking that up from Walsh. If he weren’t wearing the mask, the tension in his jaw would be more visible. He grumbled something, practically telling everyone to shut up without using the words.
Once vascular began working in returning arterial flow, Garcia’s eyes landed on you mischievously. When you noticed, she had cocked her head to the side. “So, baby shark, going to abandon ship like your second half?”
Your eyes stayed glued to Reyes’ work near the patient's foot, “Why? Going to miss us when we’re gone?”
She narrowed her eyes, feigning offense to the insinuation. “You wish.”
“Oh, that’s confirmation if I’ve ever heard it.” Reyes intervened, announcing aloud before mumbling something to the nurse and Park. “We all know she’s a teddy bear inside.”
There were small chuckles all around. Everyone silently agreed the prickliest of the bunch was Garcia. Despite the fact Park was dubbed the predator of the OR and entire surgical department. Garcia had the exterior of a cactus while Park had the canines of a shark. Somehow, the two were meant to coexist in liminal spaces like this moment.
“Okay, check for arterial flow.” Reyes called out, pulling his hands away.
Moving closer to Reyes, you began gently lifting the heel. There was slight chatter as you and Park stared down at the paleness of the foot. Her ears were busy and her eyes kept looking at the external fixator. It was like the external fixator was making a buzzing noise. Lifting your head to look at Park, he was barely an inch away from touching shoulders. “Can we rotate internally five degrees?”
The rest of the noise finally silenced, and Park stared at you with the sunken, shadowed eyes. He had the same precision when he was reevaluating in real time his course of action. There was serious consideration as he stared at the metal, medieval-like device—pins stuck in places over the lower leg.
You were prepared for the interrogation. A divulge into why you thought what you thought. Park didn’t follow the instruction of others, and while you had posed a question more than an objection to the procedure, you expected pushback. He leaned over the external fixator, looking at the lack of movement from the artery and the leg they were set to salvage.
“Loosen it.”
Right as he nodded at you, there was movement to the frame, your hands directing it by minimal degrees. It was an unbearable wait as you watched the arteries and the foot, begging for there to be something viable to conserve. When the arterial flow did revitalize, the color of his leg had changed. The rosiness that came from lively limbs was apparent under the fluorescent lights. You let out a sigh along with everyone else. Garcia whistled which made you lift your head.
She nodded at you, appreciation and mutual respect. Then, her eyes landed on Park. “You sure you want to let this one go?”
You couldn’t see whether Park had acknowledged the questions. What you did notice was the shift in his feet. This man could stand hours over a table like a challenge he willed himself to beat. You two were barely a few hours in. He didn’t just shift for the sake of it. You concluded you were overthinking the action. He had dismissed your attempt at an apology. He obviously had no interest in racking his brain over you.
Surgery continued silently between the two of you. It was astonishing to you that there was still and unspoken partnership. It was also probably best that you two didn’t speak. The awkwardness was unfit for the operating room. It was fair to throw anyone else in between the unspoken differences the two of you had. Maybe it was inappropriate on your behalf to have a noticeable indifference for your attending, but it didn’t affect Park, so what was the harm?
Garcia’s question rang in your head. Would he turn you down as a potential addition to the orthopedic department just for the distaste you left in his mouth? Park was considered ruthless at times. You knew exactly what the other residents meant when they threw that word. At this point, you couldn't put anything past him.
Surgery concluded after nine hours. The man had a leg, but the amount of follow up surgery still needed would take grit from his part. He was recovering in the ICU, which would bring his own troubles if he didn't make it past the night.
Once you scrubbed out of the OR, there were barely any day shifters left. When you made it to the dictation room, it was past 10 pm. You had decided you needed to call it quits. There was enough on your plate as it was. Moreover, if Sully heard you had stayed until midnight just to catch up with charting, he’d rip you a new one.
You had solemnly packed your bag, draping it over your tiresome body. Anyone who recognized you down the hall knew to keep the greetings simple. You weren’t scheduled for a double and they could tell from the disheveled appearance of your civilian clothes, you were ready to go home. You were set on leaving until you approached the elevators.
There was something left unsaid.
You couldn’t scrub off the anxiety of what Park thought of you now. You had publicly stood up to him and didn't even apologize for it (not that he let you anyways). You were going to end up just like Park if you didn’t do anything about it. He may not be familiar with the concept of apologizing, but it couldn’t be too late to teach an old dog new tricks.
That's how you found yourself walking through a pair of double doors instead. The beep of your badge unlocked the doors and you trudged through the dimly lit hallway. The day shift attendings were gone, and if there was anyone on nights, they were probably on the floor with how desolate the offices were.
The one source of visible light came from the Chief Orthopedics office.
You grasped onto the cup of coffee tighter than before. It was a lame excuse, as well as a form of a truce, along with a protein bar from the residents lounge. You had doubts it would work in your favor but it was worth a try, You knew he’d read into your intentions, make some joke of your nice nature. Too kind to just let laying dogs lie. The two of you were able to power through 9 hours of surgery without a hiccup. You knew he considered that good enough without addressing the issue.
When you approached the office, the door was slightly ajar. You called out his name first. There was silence and then a deep grumble that you made out as an invitation. You pushed the door open, lightly to not scare him (although you had never caught him off guard). Peeking your head in first, you saw the sight of Park leaning back in his chair. He was oddly more casual then his usual day to day. His combed gel hair wasn’t as shiny, no longer sporting his scrub cap. He had a few hairs that fell in front of his face, brushing his forehead.
He rubbed a hand down his face after he saw who was at his door. He must have known from your voice alone, but maybe he was holding out hope it wasn’t who he expected. You closed the door behind you before extending the coffee towards him. When you got a view of his desk, there wasn’t much but a water bottle off to the side. Smiling, you still held out the coffee. “I thought you might be charting late. It’s just black coffee. I know you don’t do sugar or creamer.”
You put the cup down in front of him, along with the protein bar in your pocket. He lazily extended his arm, playing with the sleeve on the cup. His eyes remained on you. “What are you doing here?”
“I was going to get some charting done—“
“No,” He interrupted swiftly, his fingers no longer twiddling with the sleeve. “What are you doing here?”
The emphasis on the word made it clear what he meant. The sanctity of his office. The same place you had so bravely announced your switch to the day shift. The same place you had told him that you didn’t approve his methods of teaching; like you had a say in the matter. You had preemptively nipped what you thought was a problem. Park felt otherwise in the matter.
You are now riddled with anxiety. He had seen right through you. Park the Shark could sniff out an ulterior motive. He had the previous time you paid him a visit in his office.
Nervously laughing, you tried to put on a polite smile. “Because our conversation was cut short before the surgery.”
“What conversation?” He asked, folding his arms over his chest. He had teased you when he reached for the coffee. He knows better than to cave in to handouts.
“I guess the better way to put it is my apology for my public indifference to your approach with Maura.” You clarified, clearing your throat. It was closing in on itself, enough so to cut out the words spilling halfway out your mouth.
You didn’t understand why now—all of a sudden—you couldn’t speak to him like an adult. All the self-improvement you thought you made had gone down the drain. You were the same scared resident he met three years ago. With your sudden act of bravery, you should’ve acted and sounded different. How else was any of it supposed to be worth it?
Pulling out the seat in front of him, you pulled off your backpack, placing it beside you. Gauging his reaction, you saw his eyes track your movement. He didn’t expect you to sit down with the way he readjusted himself in his seat. With your hands in your lap, you rubbed them beside your thighs. “I didn’t intend to undermine you.”
“Your intentions don’t matter.” His voice was quieter to match the serious tone you had sent. If this was the way you want to approach it, he was entertaining it so far. “Sometimes you don’t intend to kill a patient, but with the wrong decision, you’ll still kill them anyway.”
One of the commandments all the residents learned. He always warned them about being the reason a patient didn’t make it out of the OR. He followed up with another warning: he didn’t need to hear sob stories after. He was cold-heartily teaching everyone to compartmentalize, whether he or she wanted to or not. Come to terms with what they did wrong, and repent for it later—preferably away from him.
You sucked in a breath. He was right. Whether you intended to embarrass him in turn didn’t matter, because you already had. In the end, it made you no better than him. Shaking your head, you chuckled dryly. “I don’t know why I did it. I was looking at her, and all of a sudden, I saw myself in her place almost 6 months ago.”
Park didn’t respond. There wasn’t a place to. You could tell he was itching. He was expecting a sob story. All he saw in front of him was someone who let herself feel too much into the work. Meanwhile, he reserved his internal emotions for somewhere more private. The longer he stared, the less walls you saw obscuring his thoughts. He leaned forward, resting both arms on the desk. “You undermined me.”
“No, Dr. Park,” You corrected, gently, but with less restraint than before. “I interrupted because she wasn’t learning anymore. You just kept pushing after you accomplished what you wanted.”
“What’s that?”
“To prove we don’t know everything.” You answered rapidly. It wasn't anger or impatience. You just didn’t find any point in the song and dance when the two of you knew. “To prove there is always something for us to learn. She’s a med student. Don’t you think she knows that?”
“What she doesn’t need is lasting embarrassment that comes from whatever happened during hand off.” Your eyes were stuck on him. Not because you need to be right, and for him to have a relapse of judgment. This wasn’t retribution, it was a wakeup call. “How is anyone supposed to measure up to some standard that will always be unachievable in your eyes?”
He paused, furrowing his eyes barely. “Are we talking about Maura? Or you?”
Some lines must have blurred. You were blindsided by the thorns still sticking in your sides. Maybe it was all an excuse to make him repay you for what he did. You never considered yourself spiteful, but sitting in front of Park now, maybe your intentions were mixed up in between the incident and now.
“You’re wrong, pipsqueak.” Park muttered, reaching for the coffee and taking a sip. You watched him skeptically. When he pulled the cup from his lip, he didn’t elaborate. His lips pressed together, staring back at you blankly.
You swallowed down the lump in your throat. “About what?”
“About my standards, as you put it.” He clarified. On any other occasion, it would’ve sounded condescending, except he was being serious. “It’s not so unachievable for everyone, it seems.”
You blinked a couple of times. What? It was like Park had been switched out. Since you started covering for Sully, you suspected there was something off with Park. At first, you thought it was because you weren't used to working consistent shifts together.
When you worked doubles, you didn't need to read too much into Park. 12 hours together in the span of a month was considerably small compared to the hours you did spend up to last year. Except, with this prolonged, inevitable time the two of you had to spend revealed a new nature in Park that didn’t exist until after switching to the night shift.
Did Park finally approve of your efforts?
That's what you were making out with what little he gave. Give someone an inch…
“Considering we will have the same turnover of senior residents, Emmick and I have strongly considered who we will choose for the chief positions.” Park informed you. The change in his tone had your body preparing for bad news.
You knew the conversations were circulating. The other third and second year residents were already making predictions. Oddly enough, you were the front runner. Walsh and Garcia had endorsed you, subtly making a hint of ‘chief resident’ aspects they found in you. Earnestly, you were happy that they found some form of leadership qualities in you. That was important for an attending.
Anyone would be proud to have the title; and although many had faith in you, there was hesitancy on your part. You wanted to rightfully earn the title–meaning trust from both Emmick and Park. You knew one party would be easier to convince than the other. What you didn't want was for Park to cave into Emmick because he was left with no choice.
“Dr. Park, I apologize—”
“Can you stop with the apologies?”
The irritability in his subtle eye roll caught you off guard. Had you done that so much in the span of a week? He refocused his gaze on you, “It's unfitting for a future chief resident.”
Future chief resident. Did he mean to let that slip? Nothing Park did was unintentional. He was the most prepared person in the OR. You envied how much he knew, and you knew you couldn't hate someone who could give the knowledge back to you. Your mouth must have been agape because she frowned from your lack of response.
Slowly, you began shaking your head, hands raised, trying to slow down time to replay what you just heard. “What?”
“Dr. Emmick and I have agreed on naming you and Cal chief residents.” He firmly stated, providing you the confirmation you needed. You just had to hear it from his lips.
Your brain buffered and buffered. Chief resident. You couldn’t wait to tell Sully. He’d probably make some big deal of it when he came back. He looked for any excuse to have a ‘party,’ order cake, and have some fancy dinner. Your heart was thumping with the news. There was a smile waiting to break out, but your body was still in shock.
That’s when it clicked. Dylan Calloway. A third year resident on the night shift. If the intention was to have a chief resident for both shifts, why would they nominate two from the night shift?
He saw the gear spinning in your head. That's why he had gone mute. Before you could utter a word, he leaned back in his chair. “There obviously needs to be one of you on the day shift. The conditions Emmick and I agreed on is to have you move back to the day shift.”
Your heart was still thumping, except the acceleration was different. Your body wasn't filled with the butterflies that came with achieving a goal of yours. It was fighting the concept of going back to an environment you dreaded. If the interaction between him and Maura proved anything, it was that he still had those tendencies. He’d chomp his teeth if the occasion called for it in his eyes. His narrative. His directive.
When you thought of it, your body went into a state of fight. To fight against the memories you had ruined by him and his words.
“Why?” You questioned with a scoff, eyebrows furrowed. “Is this some punishment?”
He scrunched his face. He acted as if the theory were bizarre. Every correction, remark, and warning was chastening. There was no way none of that wasn’t a form of punishment. The way he was controlling the entire board of chess to place you back in a corner, back against the wall. Was your distrust in his intentions misplaced?
With a sigh, he flexed his fingers. Relaxing and tightening them inward. He was stalling to collect his thoughts. “The vessel was a good catch.”
That furthered the curvature in your brows. Your jaw was strained with uncertainty. Your brain didn't know whether to take the compliment to appease him or reject it to maintain a sense of humility. If this was another way to hook you in. He shrugged, “Most would have blamed vascular.”
“That's why.”
When your back hit the back of the chair, your body slumped in resignation. What he saw in most, he didn’t see in you—and in his perspective—that was a good thing. Good enough to be chief resident. Good enough to be recognized. Good enough to welcome you back on the day shift.
“Your med student has learned a thing or two as well.” He leaned forward, turning the monitor of his computer to face you.
On the edge of your seat, practically leaning your body onto his desk, you distinguish the familiar charting system. Your eyes skimmed the information. When you read the header with the patient’s name and chief complaints, you recognized it as the case you both worked on in the ED. You noticed the detail she added. Covering all the bases as if she were handed questions she knew Park would ask about.
He examined your approval over the charting; with the faint existence of a grin, he scoffed. “Whatever program she joins, I’m sure her attending will appreciate her charting skills.”
You repressed the laugh that almost escaped you. Park had excellent comedic timing for someone who never cracked a smile; or the delirium was finally hitting the both of you. Slouching back in the chair, you grinned lazily. “She’s a smart girl.”
“No, she has a smart teacher.” He mumbled, readjusting his monitor with both hands. He didn't meet your eyes when he said it. Once he did, neither urged to add anything more to the statement.
Clearing your throat, you smiled with tight lips. “I appreciate the consideration for the chief resident position.”
Park raised singular eyebrows as you clamped your mouth. “That’s it?”
Fuck no, you thought. Logistically, you were thinking of all the way this could go wrong. Sure, he was abnormally nice right now, but who's to say when push comes to shove, he won’t retaliate? You sucked in a sharp breath, “I understand I would have to move to the day shift to receive the privilege.”
A pause. Your niceties weren’t meant to intervene with this conversation. Park didn't need sweetness. He wanted to practice convening with his future chief resident. You bated your eyes, “But, I just want reassurance that there can be mutual respect that doesn't end with either of our egos bruised.”
“You want a pinky promise?” He joked with a frown.
“Of course not!” You groaned, dragging a hand to obscure the smirk. Curse his charm. “Let's agree to listen to one another. If you really want me as your chief resident, you have to trust me, and not use bullying as a form of lecturing.”
“I think I proved that there are other effective tools to teach residents besides crushing their hopes and dreams.” You cocked your head, peering at him through your eyelashes.
His mind drew a blank. You had to lay the rules now, while you both were in the right state of mind too. He didn't have to mindlessly throw himself into your mercy. You’d always respect him as you're attending, but it should extend both ways. You always welcome the criticism—if done correctly. You wanted to learn from him after all, but not at the expense of your dignity. Now, he knew that. You weren't going to give that up easily.
While taking another sip of the coffee, he nodded. “As long as you stop apologizing for everything. You're about to be a chief resident and you should start acting like one.”
You hummed appreciatively at the sound of the words leaving his mouth. It felt right. Livelier and buzzing with newfound determinations, you smiled at Park. He didn’t like overt niceness, but he didn’t stop you from being bubbly. “I think I can work on that.”
He was crossing his arms over his chest, his eyes heavier with exhaustion. He bit down, but the small curvature of the corner of his lip gave him away. You reached down and grabbed the backpack on the ground. Stretching lightly, you shoved the sleeves up your arms, staring appreciatively at Park. “You should go home, get some sleep.”
All he did was lightly swing the chair back and forth, pushing with his feet. He didn’t make an effort to stand up, even when he continued staring at you through his lashes. Pushing the chair in, your hands lingered on the top edge of the back. Before the week, you didn’t know what to expect.
Park was predictable in nature and unpredictable in sentiment. He had exactly shown you a soft interior for you to believe anything similar to your gentler nature existed in him, but this was the start.
“I think I should be telling you that.” Park grumbled, tossing his head back to run a hand through his hair. He tussled it around, stray hairs parting in the middle.
You shrugged, “Balance, Dr. Park. That’s how this works from here on out.”
The pride in your chest for having some equality in this tug-and-pull relationship you two had was undeniable. Your intention wasn’t to abuse it, but to hopefully pave your way to a permanent position after residency. Park must have known the program and Admin would be looking for that in candidates. Walking towards his door, you didn’t sense the nerves eating you alive as when you walked in. There was a change in the atmosphere. It was charged with a positive energy that didn’t come from the agony of fearing Park the Shark. Being in the same enclosure brought you excitement.
Sparing him one last look, you scoffed. “You owe me a coffee, by the way.”
WHEN DAMIAN WAYNE has his 'oh. oh.' moment after your strange, melancholic behaviour has him desperate to bring back your smile.. and realises he may not detest you as much as he thought.
context: they're both vigilantes and forced to work together. grumpy x sunshine but sunshine! reader is acting unusual — damian notices and tries miserably to cheer you up, fluff, dick plays wingman, naturally.
You've been frustrating him all day. Damian suspects it must be to annoy him, to deter him from completing the mission that he didn't need company for. You barely listened to his instructions over the comms, which nearly resulted with you both returning with injuries tonight. When he reprimanded you, instead of coming up with your usual excuses, you simply nodded like a sad, kicked puppy before trudging off.
It's a long way back to the cave, and in a case of desperation (one he learns to never make again), he pinged for help. Grayson was his first choice, being the only contact he can think of that has the most successful experiences with women, and therefore, he concludes should understand them better than he does.
"Did you say something to upset her?" Dick suggests.
He frowns. "Why did you assume I was the perpetrator?"
"Because you're always targeting her."
His brow furrows. Sure, he has made comments about your slacking off during previous patrols, your strange fighting style that combines impulse and unneeded energy bursts, your infuriating smile when you make untimely jokes. Still, he doesn't get why he's the automatic assumption when there's plenty other reasons you could be upset. He hasn't said a single word to you since the catastrophe earlier, and now that he thinks about it, neither have you. That is an oddity, for you to be silent.
"I may have called her out on her mistakes, but it was for her own good." He answers, though now his mind is frustratingly preoccupied over the what's and why's over your sudden mood change. He has more important things to be concerned about, like the suspected drug smugglers near Crime Alley, the new upgrades for the utility belt he's been meaning to configure, anything but your sudden lack of prodding.
"Maybe you should apologise, if it bothers you." Dick offers.
He scoffs. "Apologise? For saving her life?"
He hears a barely repressed sigh from the other line. "Was she upset before or after your nagging?"
"Before." He answers quickly, too fast for his liking. It is only because your behaviour is affecting his, he reminds himself. Also, he does not nag.
"Then, maybe.." Dick pauses. "You can try to cheer her up."
Damian goes silent at the suggestion. He can already sense the incoming headache at the mere possibility of trying, for he has mastered many skills, but improving another human's mood? He racks his brain, but nothing comes to mind.
"How do I do that?" He winces after his question, hating to sound incapable of anything.
"That.. is something for you to figure out."
He's ready to snap at the utterly unhelpful advice when he hears the notable click, signaling the end of their transmission. Grumbling to himself, he can imagine Grayson being awfully pleased to have left him even more clueless than before.
You're also lingering behind the alley, opting to walk at a glacial pace, an observation that ticks at the back of his mind like an annoying pest. What is more annoying, is noticing that his own pace has slowed, his distance to you decreasing with every passing second. He shouldn't. It isn't his responsibility to handle whatever is plaguing your mind. Yet, his body seems to disobey his calculations by turning back to you.
You don't react or even notice his movement towards you, which is stupid and reckless and completely unlike you, because even though you're infuriatingly smug and chirpy all the time, he doesn't deny that you have the skills of a decent fighter. He grabs your arm, snapping you out of your stupor, giving him brief satisfaction which he crushes once your eyes finally meet his.
"Damian?" Your brows raise at his sudden contact, eyes falling onto your connected limbs.
He ignores you and your questioning gaze, instead dragging you away from the route back to the cave, and down another alleyway.
"Hey! I know I screwed up earlier and you're mad at me, but killing me to satisfy your blood cravings isn't the right way to get your revenge."
Your voice rings loud in his ears, and he's both relieved and annoyed to hear you sound more like yourself. His mood shifts more towards annoyance when it registers that you're still not giving up on your blood-thirsty demon accusations. As if your blood would be appetizing. It'll probably taste like those overly sweet Thai teas you always consume.
"I'm not mad at you." He answers shortly, not deigning you with anymore clues to what he was doing.
The destination in his mind isn't too far, a fact he's grateful for, as the longer you both trudged on awkwardly through the alleyways and up a fire escape, the more he starts to regret the whole detour. Finally, you both make it onto a rooftop, seemingly identical to the other nearby buildings. He can sense your patience waning as he stands there, thinking of ways to explain himself without sounding too concerned.
"Okay, you have got to tell me what's going on.”
He doesn't feel like explaining himself because he can barely understand what possessed him to do this either, so he only sits on the edge of the rooftop and tugs at your sleeve, forcing you to sit beside him.
You land awkwardly, and he instinctively stabilizes you with his hands wrapping around your waist. Shocked gazes meet one another, and he quickly retracts his arms, feeling something hot burn behind his ears. "Just sit down."
You oblige, even if confusion is apparent on your face. Up close, he takes note of your frazzled hair, the large eyebags under your reddened eyes, and the slouched posture of your back. You look exhausted, and the pounding questions in his head blurt out before he can stop them. "Spit it out."
Your head turns to him, your face contorting into a visible question mark. "Huh?"
Huh, indeed. He hides his own regret over his impulsive choice of words, and tries again. "You were sloppy today, well, sloppier than usual. You have this depressing look on your face, and it's-" Distracting. "Unacceptable."
Where was he going with this? His mind chases frantically for advice given to him from people less cutthroat than he was. "I heard that when a person feels sad, talking it out can make them feel better." At least, that's what Alfred tried to tell him. "So, talk."
You can't help but snort back a laugh. You may be feeling like shit, but his expression that grows more pained with each word he spouts, clearly putting himself in a position he's never been in before, distracts you momentarily from the heaviness in your heart.
"So, that's what all that dragging me around was about? Finding a suitable spot for your therapy session?"
"I am not so utterly incapable of noticing other people's emotions to not know when someone is upset." He mutters, his signature frown deepening as he speaks.
"So.. you are aware of when someone is upset, but you still chose to insult my performance and appearance?" Amusement is vividly painted on your tired expression, but you're avoiding the topic — trying to spin the focus onto him instead.
“Is that the reason?” He cuts in. He was here for answers, at the very least, it will hopefully make the exchange worth his time. “Did I say something to offend you?”
“Not today.” Your response triggers further questions on what he could have possibly said in the past to have hurt you, even if he doesn’t fully understand why it matters — but he clamps his mouth shut at the sight of your dampened expression. “It’s just stuff going on at home.”
His mouth parts, and he understands. He’s heard of this from Barbara, who warns him that despite your everlasting smile in the face of danger, you weren’t as invisible as you seemed. Another tick he can’t be rid of is the concerning clarity of any information that involves you. It’s like his brain has stored a file of unnecessary notes pertaining all your negligence, faults, character — and just you.
“See?” You shrug, putting on a false smile as if pleading for him to wave it off. “Nothing special. Just off my game today because I can’t separate my personal and professional life. You know, it’s actually hilarious to call it a profession when we’re technically illegal vigilantes.”
You’re spouting nonsense, a tactic you use to try and distract others in a conversation from topics you didn’t want to indulge in. He shakes his head, causing you to pause.
“Tell me.” He presses further. Watching your expression shift, a multifaceted glimpse into your shock, confusion, discomfort — he realises his approach may be too direct. “If you want.” He adds on, and even he knows how unnatural it sounds.
He hears your deep inhale, spots the press of your palm against the concrete, and waits. He doesn’t do this for many people, but he thinks you need this. An open channel to vent.
“Well, my parents don’t know that I’m a vigilante.” You start off, your expression blanking like you’re distancing yourself from your story. “So, whenever I disappear, they think I’m fooling around, wasting away my future instead of trying to fit into the expectations of my family.”
There’s a silence after, and he knows it’s the part that’s been hurting you most. “I had a really bad fight with them today.” You confess. “I was sneaking out the window, and my mom caught me. She thought I was running away, and she said that if I stepped out that window, I will never be welcomed back.”
You turn to look at him, and he doesn’t like the look you give him. No, he hates it, seeing you look so hopeless and defeated. “As you can see, I’m clearly here with you, out my window.” You laugh humourlessly. “So, technically, I’m temporarily homeless.”
You look away, maybe expecting him to be frustrated. To expect a better reason for your subpar performance today. Yet, no hits land. In fact, nothing comes other than the lingering silence as you stare at the cityscape, trying to swallow past your wallow and that lonely ache in your chest.
A moment passes before Damian clears his throat. “There is an extra guest room in the Manor.”
Your gaze snaps to him, barely comprehending the words he’s saying. You would never expect pity from Damian, much less an extended helping hand to you of all people. He made it clear that he found you a nuisance, a burden.
His own gaze is focused on the streets below him, the reflection of the city lights casting faint shadows in his side profile, highlighting the bridge of his nose, the freckles dotting his skin.
“Why?” You can’t help but ask. Generosity, taking on your weight even if it’s a liability.. it’s completely uncharacteristic of him.
“You are my mission partner.” He huffs. “I will not have you distracted on the field because you lack accommodation. So, I’m offering a solution.”
You can’t help but smile, something fuzzy and warm soothing the numbness in your chest. Even through his generosity, he still acts like a soldier. It’s tempting, especially knowing him, he’s probably bound to retract his offer within 20 seconds.. but something churns in you at the thought of truly running away. Even if you hid in the Manor, pummeling yourself with missions to hide from the stones life throws at you.. it’ll only linger unresolved until you faced it head on.
“I appreciate the offer but..”
He turns to you then, almost offended that you’re rejecting his offer, but he stops at your expression, the acceptance in your gaze and knows that you’ve made a decision.
“I have to face this.” Staring at him, you hope you could stand a little taller like him, carry yourself the way he does. You always did admire him, even if he didn't return it. “I can’t keep running forever.”
“So what do you plan to do?” There is no argument in his tone, only mere curiosity.
“I’ll tell them the truth.” Even in your decision, you feel the stutter in your heart as you say it aloud. It may not change a thing, you may face more rejection and repercussions for your actions.. but you’ll wear it on your skin because that is who you are. Who you have become.
“And if they reject you?” His question is a direct, swift cut open to your hidden fears.
“It won’t stop me.” You answer, your resolve hardening. “The city needs my help.. and if they can’t understand my decision, it’s still my life to decide what my purpose is.”
He’s silent, but you watch his challenging gaze flicker to something softer, a hint of respect that he’s never shown before.
Something glimmers in the distance, and you turn then to the light reflecting off the window panes of the surrounding skyscrapers, all coated in a gradient of orange hues rising to outshine the indigo. In the gaps of the concrete jungle, sparks of sunlight has risen to reveal.. morning light.
”Wow, that’s.. pretty.” You breathe out, eyes glimmering in genuine awe. “Actually, more than pretty — I didn’t even know Gotham could have sunrises like that.”
There’s pride that swells in his chest, seeing your reaction, to know he’s made that shine glow in your eyes again. “I found this place a few months ago.” He states, still staring at you. The sunrise, he has seen. It’s this view of you — encased in golden light, that he feels is rarer.
“Did you take me here on purpose?” Your question is teasing, but there’s a curiosity in your gaze when you finally cast your eyes back on him, only to find that he has been looking at you the entire time. How could he not, when he’s just realised that he preferred you like this — or that he’s taken it for granted to see you smile that way?
“Yes.” It’s a simple admission that slips out so easily, and he can only blame it on the way your mouth lifts into the brightest grin, looking much like the one he’s used to seeing.
He feels as if he's been blinded this entire time, tainting his perception of you in muddled grey to stop himself from seeing you in your true colours. The irritation he initially felt towards you, his frustration over your rose-coloured view of the world — seems rather nonsensical now that he's truly tried to understand you.
You may be stubborn and hard-headed, but you needed to be. He was almost grateful for your character, your ability to see through anything with your smile still intact and unbroken. Much like the sun that promises to rise in spite of everything.
“Damian, who knew you had a heart?” Your teasing reminds him that just because his image of you has changed, doesn't mean you've become less bothersome. He clears his throat, forcing himself to look away.
“That was your own fault for assuming I didn’t.” He huffs. There’s something uncomfortable in his chest, banging around when it should stay still. He decides he should keep such intimate interactions to a minimum. He doesn’t know how Grayson does it, parading around with his words of encouragement to his peers, or even to him — it’s more excruciating than a healing wound.
“You just had a heart to heart with me and took me to see a sunrise.” You gasp, as if the realisation had just fully set in, and he wishes it hadn’t. “Damian Wayne just did that.”
“Don’t go announcing it to the world.” He winces, but his words don’t have its usual biting effect, not in the face of your ever-growing glee. “This isn’t going to be a common occurrence, understood? I expect you to be careful on our next mission.”
Your smile is impossible to erase — so unfathomably bright, it puts the sunbeams pouring in through the streets to shame. “Since you asked so nicely.”
He truly does wonder, how is it possible that you make him want to strangle you and at the same, ensure you’ll never look at him with that dampened frown ever again. Still, he can't find it in himself to let go of this moment, of your awe and smile, so he ignores the ache in his bones from a long mission, and sits beside you.. watching the sun rise over a new day.
Extra:
Unbeknownst to them, Dick was listening in on the entire charade, spying through the communication channel, being the nosy older brother he was. “He’s all grown up.” Dick mumbles, weeping a tear as his chest overfills with pride at the interaction.
puppys thoughts: latest obsession. love this guy. #would // not proofread! just pure, flowing puppy thoughts
tw: cursing, mentions of surgery & stretch marks, bad marine animal references, and soft park :3
The Shark. Possibly the most important guy in the Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center, and an ego to match. The guy was practically a surgery deity, people parted ways when they walked, everyone listened, and whispers practically flew whenever he had to leave the OR.
To be fair, he’s always been this way. Ever since med school, he’s always gotten to hide behind the persona of “The Shark.” Park could smell the blood before anyone even got in the elevator, before anyone even clicked the button for the 5th floor. The medical world was a bitch, and he just so happened to learn that being a bitch back is how you win..and with such knowledge, comes a massive responsibility, blessing any and all interns with it.
It wasn’t a secret Park hated interns…or most people. Every single time it was Intern and MS Day, there were at least 4 people from the OR practically lining up to hand Gloria their badges. Yet still, nobody said a word. You could fall victim to the Shark, but once you were in the jaws, the only option was being chewed up. Only a few have managed to land in the jaws, and make it out alive. Emery Walsh, his second in hand, and who went down to the ED more often, and his wife.
For those who have met her, she was completely opposite. While he was grumping around, snapping at his “guppies” and busy rebuilding bones, she was whimsical. A giggling mess, soft and understanding, literally the exact opposite of Park. Despite being married for nearly 10 years, nobody truly knew what went on behind the facade labeled “The Shark”, and he didn’t mind it. Brendon wasn’t a public person. His wedding and engagement band laid on a chain, hidden behind his scrub top, was all anyone knew about him. He was married, and he didn’t like sharing. On the rare occasions she was in to bring him something, he got extremely possessive. She had to be at his side, couldn’t talk above a whisper, and no interacting with the interns. Of course, she would do her. Giggling, wandering off to talk to Emery, or even sitting on the Charge Nurses desk in the ED was her job. She kept him active, that was for sure. When he came over to retrieve her with arms in a shrug and a faint smile tugging on scarred lips, was the one time people got to see Brendon.
Brendon Park, the man behind the ego. The man who lets his wife gel and comb back unruly curls, straightening them until perfect. When he wasn't breaking and rebuilding bones, he was gently rubbing his wife's stretch marks, securing backs of dresses and putting her own hair in buns or braids. God, the double-life was great.
brendon park x emma nolan. 18+ MDNI. predator/prey dynamics. possessive behaviors. power imbalance. god complex. love at first sight if the person in "love" was a predator
The pen is blue.
That's the first thing that Park notices. Not her- not yet- just the pen, extended towards him in a small hand that's visibly shaking, a cheap ballpoint with a chewed cap and the logo of some medical supply company stamped along the barrel in white sans-serif font.
It appears in his peripheral the way most things below his sight line appear: as an interruption. (Everything is an interruption, considering his size, bigger than most, the kind of man that makes other men feel small in comparison, that makes rooms rearrange themselves around the fact of him the way villages rearranged themselves around the thing in the mountain that takes their livestock and their daughters and has never once been satisfied-)
It's a minor obstacle in the space between where he's standing at the nurses' station computer, pulling up imaging for a pre-op check that's already twelve minutes behind because radiology can't seem to run on the same clock as the rest of the damn hospital.
"I-I saw you looking for one. You looked like you needed it."
The voice is... small. Not quiet, exactly. Quiet implies intention, implies someone modulating their volume to match their environment. This is just... small, takes up no space at all, exists in the narrow column of air in front of him and doesn't attempt to travel any further.
Park looks down.
She's short. That's the second thing. Short enough that the angle between his eyeline and hers is steep enough to change the shape of her face- foreshortening the bridge of her nose, widening the size of her eyes, turning her her upwards gaze into something that looks less like eye contact and more like looking up. (The way a child looks up. The way something small looks up at something large and doesn't think to be afraid yet because it hasn't learned yet what large things do to small things that don't run when they should.)
Her scrub top is too big. A size, maybe a size and a half, the neckline sitting too wide on her frame, exposing the ridge of a clavicle that reminds him of a bird's bones. Hollow. Breakable. He thinks about how easily things that are built like her come apart, and the thought comes sudden, unbidden, a flicker of currents jumping between axons and dendrites, the briefest neural spark that should fizzle and die the way all intrusive thoughts should fizzle and die, should dissipate into the white noise of a busy shift and a surgery at two and twelve minutes of lost time he can't get back.
But it doesn't fizzle. Something dark in the back of his mind reaches out and snatches the dying flicker before it goes cold, closes a fist around it, drags it forward through the folds of gray matter and settles it into his conscious thought like coal in a nest of kindling. Something ancient and starved and holy in the worst way, living in the unlit nave behind his sternum, breathing slow, fed on small things for years. The thought grows teeth. Opens its eyes. Looks out through his and sees her standing there with her too-big scrub top and her bird bone clavicle and likes what it sees.
He thinks- more strongly now- about how easily things that are built like her come apart. How little force it would take. How she probably doesn't even know that about herself, probably never tested the boundaries of her own construct, never had anyone grip her hard enough to find out where the give is. She's walking around inside of a body she's never been shown the limits of, and something about that untested quality makes the back of his mouth water.
(He thinks about how those hollow bones would look spread out and trembling under his weight, stretching that tiny frame until her belly showed the ridge of him dragging back and forth inside her, until the give in her body became the only thing keeping her intact.)
(He thinks about the deer.
He was sixteen, hunting alongside his father in the Alleghenies, early November, the air cold enough to see his breath and the light coming through trees in long amber shafts that made the frost on the ground look like something out of a painting. The deer walked out of the tree line, a doe, young, standing in the clearing maybe fifteen yards from where he crouched in the brush and looked at him with huge, dark, liquid eyes that contained absolutely no understanding of the danger it was in. No fear. No wariness. No flicker of ancestral recognition that the shape in the shadows was a shape to run from. It just looked at him with the dumb, trusting curiosity of a thing that had never been hunted and therefore didn't know it could be.
His father whispered take the shot.
He didn't take the shot.
He went back the next morning. And the next. And the next. He brought grain, left it at the edge of the clearing, sat in the brush and watched the doe find it and eat it and lift its hard and look towards the place where he was hidden with an expression that was almost... grateful. Devotion of it indistinguishable from worship if you didn't know which one of them was the god and which was the sacrifice.
By the seventh day it walked right up to the grain and stood there, chewing, close enough that he could see the individual lashes framing those huge dark eyes, close enough that if he'd extended his arm fully he could have touched the velvet flat of its nose.
He didn't touch. Not that day.
His father asked him what he was doing. He said he was practicing patience. His father looked at him for a long time and didn't ask again.)
Her badge is clipped to the breast pocket: EMMA NOLAN, RN. EMERGENCY MEDICINE
The badge is clean and the photo looks like it was taken this week, the eager, unweathered headshot of someone who ironed her scrubs for picture day.
Her pockets are full. That's the third thing that does something to the inside of his chest that he recognizes immediately and doesn't bother to suppress. Both front pockets of the scrub top are distended, stuffed to capacity with supplies- pen lights, hemostats, a folded reference card, alcohol swabs, a roll of tape- and she offered him a pen. The absolute, guileless, unironic earnestness lands in the space behind his ribs that most people assume is empty and isn't. (There's something housed there. Something with stone walls and no windows and an altar that has never once been clean.)
She's brand new. He can smell it. Bright eyed, overprepared, hopelessly convinced that the distance between the classroom and the floor is a gap she can bridge with enthusiasm and color coded notes with textbook knowledge that has never once been pressure tested- walking into a building full of people who've had the softness ground out of them and expecting healthcare to be like the brochures. Expecting the job to be what their professors told them it would be. Expecting the people to be kind.
He looks at Emma Nolan and her clean badge and her bird bone clavicles and his teeth ache; a real, physical throb in his jaw, deep in the hinge where the masseter anchors to the mandible, the dull pressure of a bite that hasn't happened yet but wants to- involuntary and grandular.
(He wants, vicerally, to sink her between his jaws, feel the whole of her caught in the cage of his bite, the fine bones and the thin skin and the rapid, hummingbird pulse, to close down slowly enough that she'd feel every degree of increased pressure and understand, in the shrinking space between his teeth, that the only thing keeping her intact his his decision to not bite down all the way. That the structural integrity of Emma Nolan is not a fact. It's a favor. One he can revoke.)
He swallows and the ache doesn't leave. It just settles, migrates from his jaw into the back of his throat, takes up residence somewhere behind his soft palate.
Not here, not now. The thought doesn't come with urgency. It comes with the patience of something that has a den and a long winter and is in absolutely no rush because the thing it's watching doesn't know it's being watched and there's a specific pleasure in that- in the looking, in the having looked, in the accumulation of details that the source of the details doesn't know are being collected. Has been collected for the past thirty seconds and already has more details in it than she'd be comfortable knowing about.
He takes the pen.
Their fingers don't touch. She's holding it by the very end, maximizing the distance between her hand and his. Polite. A deeply ingrained, reflexive politeness, someone who was raised to be considerate of other people's personal spaces. Who says excuse me when passing by one person in an otherwise empty hallway. Who holds open doors for people thirty feet behind her. Who has probably never once in her life taken something from someone without saying thank you.
(He wonders what her thank you would sound like with his hand around her throat and his cock buried deep in her cunt. Resting on the column of her neck with his thumb against her pulse while she says it, so he could feel the words in her larynx before they left her mouth. Feel the vibration of her gratitude hum against his palm while he fucks her open, dragging every inch of his heavy shaft along her walls until he's grinding right up against her cervix, carving himself so deep inside of her, she'll feel him for days.
He bets she'd still say it. He bets she'd look up at him with those too big eyes, glassy and lust drunk now, lips parted and trembling, and moan a soft breathy "thank you" while he's fingers tighten on the carotids just enough to make her head spin and her pussy clench around him like a fist. The kind of girl who'd find something to be grateful for in the grip that's killing her.)
She's smiling at him.
It's a terrible smile. Not because it's unattractive- her face is good, open and symmetric, a mouth slightly too wide for the rest of her features in a way that makes every expression she produces disproportionately loud- but because it's real. Completely, recklessly, almost offensively real. No calculation. No armor. No awareness that the man she's smiling at has been described by three separate residents, in three separate interviews, as the reason I changed specialties.
She doesn't know who he is. Or she does know, in the abstract way that new graduates know things- a name on a directory, a face in an orientation packet- but the knowledge hasn't translated into the wariness it should produce. The knowledge hasn't reached her body yet. Her shoulders are open. Her weight is forward, on the balls of her feet, leaning towards him slightly, the posture of a person who moves towards other people instead of away from them because the world hasn't yet taught her that some people you move towards are the reason the lesson exists.
He wants to teach her.
The want is there, fully formed, sitting in his chest since the moment she extended a shaking hand with a cheap pen and looked up at him like he was a person and not what he actually is. Because she is smiling at him the way she would smile at anyone else. She has one smile and it costs her nothing and she has no idea- no framework, no instinct- that giving it to him is different than giving it to anyone else. That most people in this building are furniture and she is the first thing he's looked at in months.
He wonders how long it would take to make her stop smiling.
Not by being cruel. That would be too easy. He could do that in a sentence, in a comment. He could wipe that smile off her face in four seconds and she'd probably apologize for having it.
No. He wonders how long it would take to make her stop smiling at other people. To make the smile something only she does for him. To hollow out the indiscriminate generosity of it and reshape it into something specific, something that only activates when he walks into a room, that only exists on her face the way a reflex exists, involuntary and entirely dependent on the right stimulus.
He wants to be the stimulus. He wants to be the only one. Not by earning devotion but by salting the earth around every other altar until there was nowhere left to worship but at his feet.
The thought doesn't alarm him. He settles alongside the others- the bird bone clavicle, the overstuffed pockets, the voice that doesnt take up space- and it fits. Like the space was always there. Like he's been carrying the space of this particular want for a long time and she just walked into the hallway and filled it.
"I'm Emma," she says. "I just started today. Not just here. I mean this is my first- I'm a new grad, so everything is kind of my first-"
She's rambling. He watches her realize she's rambling. Watches the precise second she hears herself, the little spark of realization in her eyes, the flush that darkens the warm brown of her cheeks, deepening the skin below her ears and across the bridge of her nose into something richer, bilateral bloom, embarrassment heat he can see against her cheekbones until even the press of her lips looks swollen with embarassment.
She swallows and he watches the delicate tendons in her throat shift, flex beneath smooth skin, a subtle bob that makes his cock twitch and fuck, his mind goes straight to imagining putting his teeth on that tendon, the points of his canines resting in the shallow valley between the sternocleidomastoid and the strap muscles and holding. Holding until she stops talking. Holding until the rambling dies and her breathing hitches and stops and the only sound is the pulse he can feel hammering against his mouth.
He wonders if she would go still, frozen, every voluntary muscle locked, the ancient mammalian hardware taking over and telling her body that thing with its teeth on her throat might lose interest if she doesn't move.
(He imagines sliding two thick fingers between her lips right then, pressing down on her tongue until she gags, teaching her the only safe place for her words is wrapped around his knuckles while he finger-fucks her throat open, to make her drool and to make her apologize for the drool. The thought makes his cock throb so hard he has to shift, to keep it from pressing visibly against his scrubs.)
"Sorry," she says. "You probably don't care about any of that."
She apologized. She apologized for talking to him. For taking up space in his day. For the crime of existing in his vicinity with her shaking hands and her big eyes and her pockets full of supplies. She apologized like its second nature, like she moves through the world with sorry always on the tip of her tongue, making herself smaller, tucking herself into corners, the perpetual apology of a person who was taught that her presence is an imposition and never questioned the lesson.
He thinks: who taught you that.
He thinks: I want to meet them. I want to shake their hand. They did all the groundwork and they don't even know what they built.
Because that's what she is. Groundwork. A foundation already poured. Someone- a parent, a teacher, some formative cruelty she probably doesn't even remember- already taught Emma Nolan that the correct response to authority is deference. That the correct response to taking up space is apology. That the correct posture in the presence of someone who matters more than her is small. All that training, all those years of learned submission, and nobody bothered to teach her what it looks like from the other side. Nobody told her that making yourself small in front of certain predators isn't safety. It's an invitation.
He should respond. The social contract of this interaction requires it- a name, a thank you, a dismissal. This is a five second exchange. He's has millions of them.
He stands there with her pen in his hand and he looks at her and the thing in the dark of his brain, the thing living behind his sternum isn't opening one eye anymore. It's on its feet. It's pacing.
She's still looking up at him. The embarrassment hasn't faded. Her eyes are brown and in this kind of lighting they look almost black. Wet. Not crying-wet. Just the general shine of eyes that still react to things. Eyes that haven't been dulled by decades of fluorescent lights and administrative indifference. Eyes that feel things still and show the feelings and don't know that showing is giving and giving is losing and she's been losing since she walked over here.
He can see everything in those eyes. He can see the nervousness and the eagerness and the desperate, aching hope that she's making a good impression, and beneath it all, buried so deep she probably can't even name it, he finds the think he's actually looking for: the need. The need to matter to someone who matters, to be singled out, to be chosen, to have someone look at her the way he's looking at her right now and make her feel like she's the only person in the building.
She has no idea that need is a door. And she just showed him exactly where the handle is. That she is looking up at him with the same eyes as the deer. The same absence of understanding. The same willing to stand in the open and be looked at by something she should be running from.
"Thank you," he says. He clicks the pen. "Emma."
He says her name and watches what it does to her face the way he watched the doe's ears rotate towards the sound of his footsteps- a full body orientation towards a stimulus she should be flinching from and instead leans into. Her mouth opens slightly, a millimeter of space between her lips that she's not aware of producing. Her pupils dilate.
She doesn't know what any of that means. She doesn't know that her body just handed him a blueprint, that every involuntary response she's produced in the last ninety seconds is a map he's drawn of her. A map that shows him every unlocked door and unlocked window in the architecture of Emma Nolan, and she assembled it for him herself. Handed it over with a pen and a smile. Free of charge.
"Thank you for the pen, Emma," he says again, and he lets her name sit in his mouth a beat longer than necessary. Lets the second syllable land softer. Watches the softness hit her nervous system like the grain in the clearing.
She lights up. The smile comes back, wider now, and she ducks her head- a small, deferential, instinctive motion that exposes the back of her neck.
The back of her neck.
He looks at it. The fine hairs at her nape. The knobs of her cervical spine pressing against skin so thin he can see the vulnerable hollow at the base of her skull. She's showing it to him. She doesn't know she's showing it to him. She ducked her head because she's pleased and this is what pleased looks like on a body that hasn't learned to guard itself, and the back of her neck is right there, six inches from his hand, close enough that if he reached out and set his palm against the nape and squeezed-
She'd make a sound. A small one, startled, and he wants to hear that sound. He wants to file it along side every other response her body has produced in the last ninety seconds and then spend however long it takes learning which ones he can produce on command.
(He imagines setting his palm flat, fingers splayed wide, on the back of her skull until her cheek is smushed into his mattress, ass up high, her knees forced apart by the width of his thighs as he pushed his cock into the silk of her cunt. Hand locked on her nape the whole time, pinning her there, using the leverage to pull her back on his cock again, again, little muffled cries vibrating against his palm as her pussy flutters and clenches around the stretch of him-)
He doesn't reach out.
He gives her a nod- brief, professional, a nod that anyone watching would read as a senior physician acknowledging a new staff member and nothing more.
"Welcome to PTMC," he says.
She beams, full wattage, the kind of smile that uses every muscle in her face and crinkles the corners of her eyes and makes her look even younger than she is, which is already too young, which is already so young that thing in the back of his brain hums in delight. Delight in the guarantee, that this will be easy, that she will come willing, a lock he's already been handed the key to, that the gap between who she thinks he is and who he actually is will shorten until she she walks into the door he holds open for her and the door closes behind her and she realizes there's no handle on the inside.
She turns and walks towards the Pitt, her pigtails bouncing. Her too-big scrub top shifts on her shoulders with every step, exposing the nape of her neck and then covering and then exposing it again. He watches the rhythm of it. Bare skin. Cotton. Bare skin. Cotton.
She pulls something from her pocket. Another pen. Of course. Of course she has more pens. Of course she came prepared for every possible scenario except the one she doesn't know she's in.
He clicks the pen twice. It makes a tinny, unsatisfying sound that he's going to hear for the rest of the day every time he reaches for his breast pocket and feels the outline of a ballpoint he didn't buy.
He thinks of mythology- every religion, every dead civilization that scratched it's fears into cave walls and temple stones- of the offering. The first fruits. The unblemished lamb. The thing you bring to the feet of something vast and indifferent and lay down with trembling hands because you don't understand what it is, you just know it's bigger than you and the only way to survive in its proximity is to give it something. To feed it. To prove that you know your place in the hierarchy of the living and the thing at the top of the hierarchy is not you.
The offering is never for the god's benefit. Gods don't need pens. Gods don't need lambs, or the grain, of the wine poured into dirt. The offering is a transaction- worshippers buying the illusion of safety, and the god accepts because the acceptance is what keeps them coming back. Keep accepting and they keep giving. Keep taking the small things and eventually they'll give you the big things. Their harvest. Their firstborn.
Their throat.
Emma Nolan walked across a room full of people who knew better and she held out a ballpoint pen to something she mistook for a man, and she smiled her full, reckless smile, and she said you looked like you needed it.
An offering. Brought to the altar on trembling hands by a girl with bird bones and Bambi eyes who doesn't know the predator she walked up to. Who thinks the warmth she felt when he said her name was kindness. Who has no framework, no mythology, no ancestral memory whispering to her that thing smiling back at her from behind the altar has never once in its existence been kind. That it has only ever been patient. And that patience, in a god, is not a virtue.
It's a hunting strategy.
He thinks about the deer again. The clearing. The mist. The huge dark eyes and the absolute absence of fear. He didn't shoot it that morning. He sat in the brush and he watched it graze and he let it walk back into the tree line on its own legs and he came back the next day and the day after that until the deer stopped flinching at the sound of him and started walking towards the brush instead of away from it.
You looked like you needed it.
Yeah.
He did.
(Park puts the pen in his breast pocket. Accepts the offering.)
pairing: mechanic!jason todd x bimbo!reader
category: mechanic au, grumpy x sunshine, dc comics, romance, slice of life, slow burn, action, banter, soft tension, competent reader, strong female lead, slight violence, quick scene of SH (nothing graphic!), foul language
word count: 6K
dividers: enchanthings
a/n: im starting a new series because i have a serious problem :3 im gonna be honest, im not the biggest fan of pink and the ultrafemme aesthetic just because my personal taste is def more androgynous goth, but after seeing these coquette images on pinterest (sponsor me pls) I just had a mental vomit for this fic series with my love Jason todd. i hope yall like it, enjoy reading <3
˚.𖦹°Masterlist✶⋆.˚/Next Chapter
The shop smells like oil and metal and something that might’ve died in the vents weeks ago. The neon RED LINE AUTO sign outside flickers like it’s having a nervous breakdown. Roy Harper sits on an upside-down bucket, waving a pink-glitter résumé in the air like he just found a treasure map.
“Jason, I’m tellin’ you—she’s perfect.”
Jason Todd doesn’t even look up from the busted transmission he’s elbows-deep in. “You say that every time someone with tits walks through the door.”
Roy grins, unoffended. “Yeah, but this one wrote in a glitter pen. That’s commitment.”
Jason snatches the paper from him. The thing sparkles under the fluorescent lights like it’s mocking him.
-Interests: fashion, manipulation, being the center of attention, and pink.
What’s a carburetor?: I don’t know, I don’t care, and I don’t give a fuck.
Jason drags a hand down his face. “Jesus Christ, Harper.”
“She’s honest! Refreshing, even.”
“You wanna hire someone who thinks a carburetor is a mood.”
Roy shrugs. “We need someone who won’t scare off customers. Half the people who walk in here think you’re gonna eat their souls.”
Jason glares. “Maybe because you keep telling them I used to kill people.”
Roy grins, unapologetic. “Technically true.”
Before Jason can respond, the sharp click of heels echoes through the garage. Both men look up.
You’re framed in the open bay door, sunlight behind you like some divine joke. Pink miniskirt, cherry lip gloss, tiny heart-shaped purse swinging from your wrist. You smell like vanilla, chaos, and trouble.
“Hi!” you chirp, voice bright enough to make the lightbulbs hum. “I’m here about the job.”
Roy’s smirk widens. “Told ya.”
Jason mutters something that sounds suspiciously like fuck me under his breath.
You stop in the middle of the shop, taking in the grime, the oil-stained rags, and Roy’s “tasteful” pin-up calendar. “Well,” you say with a grin, “it’s definitely… rustic.”
“Welcome to Red Line Auto,” Jason deadpans. “You any good with paperwork?”
You flash him a smile that could melt asphalt. “I’m great at making things look good. Paperwork’s things, right?”
You tilt your head, sweet and unbothered. “Look, I’m not gonna pretend I know how to change a tire or whatever it is you people do here. But I can keep your appointments straight, make cranky old men spend more, and smile through just about anything. You’ll thank me later.”
Roy whispers, “She’s already doing better PR than we ever have.”
Jason shoots him a look that could kill. “We don’t even have a desk.”
“That’s fine,” you say, pulling a pink pen out of your bag. “I can improvise. Or you can build me one. You look like you have strong arms.”
Roy nearly chokes on his laughter. Jason just mutters, “You’re buying the damn desk, Harper.”
A few hours later, there’s a “desk”—if you can call a tool cart with a clipboard and half a phone a desk. You’re perched on a stool that wobbles if you breathe too hard, sipping cherry Coke from a straw, pretending you don’t notice Jason glancing your way every few minutes.
When the bell over the door jingles, you’re up before he can move. The guy looks like every impatient customer Jason hates dealing with—suit, Bluetooth earpiece, zero patience.
You beam, leaning on the counter with that smile that could sell air to a drowning man. “Afternoon! What’re we ruining your day with today—oil change, tire rotation, or a general lack of manners?”
The man blinks, then laughs. Roy whistles low. Jason hides a smile behind his hand.
As the customer fills out a form, Roy leans against Jason’s shoulder. “Told you, man. She’s customer-service magic.”
Jason doesn’t answer. He’s too busy pretending not to notice the way your pink pen glitters every time you write a number down, the faint scent of perfume hanging in the air, or the fact that—for the first time in months—the shop feels alive.
He mutters under his breath, “She’s gonna give me an aneurysm.”
Roy grins. “Yeah, but you’ll die happy.”
༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･
The morning sunlight cuts through the cracked windows of the shop, slicing the dust like lazy, golden knives. The air smells like hot oil, stale coffee, and the ghost of cigarettes from tenants past.
Jason Todd’s under a Dodge, half awake, muttering at a bolt that refuses to turn. He’s been up since seven. His patience died around seven-thirty.
The door chime jingles.
He slides out from under the car, wiping his hands on a rag. “One week on the job and you’re already—”
You sashay through the doorway in platform boots, caramel latte in one hand and a pink bakery box in the other. The smell of sugar and caffeine follows you like a halo.
“—late,” he finishes flatly.
“Not late,” you correct, setting the donuts on the nearest workbench. “Fashionably delayed. There’s a difference.”
Roy’s already peeling the lid open. “Bless you, angel of mercy.” He stuffs half a cruller into his mouth before Jason can even form a complaint.
Jason wipes the grease off his fingers, glaring. “It’s your first week, and you’re—”
“Improving morale,” you cut in with a smile that could blind a saint. “Step one: donuts. Step two: makeover.”
He groans. “No.”
“Yes,” you sing, sipping your latte.
Roy looks up, powdered sugar on his cheek. “Makeover sounds good to me.”
Jason mutters something about quitting his own damn shop.
You start before he can stop you. The first casualty is the pin-up calendar hanging crooked over Roy’s toolbox. You pluck it off the nail, flip it closed with two fingers, and hand it back to him with the bored grace of a queen returning a peasant’s trinket.
He straightens immediately. “Uh… yeah. Sure. Been meanin’ to take that down anyway.”
“In this century, we celebrate professionalism,” you say, pulling a dry-erase board from your oversized tote. You hang it with pink thumbtacks you absolutely did not ask permission to use.
In neat cursive, you start filling columns—
Appointments — Parts ETA — Call Backs—
all in rose-colored ink.
Roy whistles. “You actually… remembered all that?”
“Of course.” You dot a little heart over the “i” in Friday. “Organization is sexy.”
Jason passes behind you, pretending not to look, but his eyes keep drifting back to the board. It makes the chaos look almost manageable—like a real business instead of two guys white-knuckling a dream.
Next comes your desk—the battered tool cart Jason swore was junk. You roll it to the front window and lay down a strip of pink-gingham cloth. A fake succulent. A cup of glitter pens. A tidy stack of trash magazines: Vogue, People, and Mechanic Monthly, purely for irony. Beside it, your nail kit gleams under the fluorescent lights.
Roy peers over your shoulder. “You bringin’ a spa to the shop?”
“Maybe I’m bringing taste to the shop,” you shoot back, smoothing the cloth.
Then you pull the next miracle out of your bag: a mint-green thrift-store turntable.
Jason blinks like you’ve just announced a séance. “A what now?”
“For ambience,” you say.
“It’s a garage.”
“It’s a pièce de résistance, darling.” You set the record player beside your desk, drop the needle, and let the faint crackle of Fleetwood Mac hum under the clank of tools. “We’re manifesting prosperity.”
Roy nods sagely. “Manifest the hell outta it.”
༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･
By midday you’re leaning against the counter, scrolling on your phone. “Okay, morale improvement, step three: hydration.”
Roy perks up. “Beer?”
“Mini fridge.” You turn the screen toward them—your cart already loaded with a bubble-gum-pink model. “Look at her. She’s perfect. Chic. Inspiring.”
Jason groans. “This isn’t a spa, it’s a real business.”
“It can be both if you have taste,” you shoot back. “We deserve nice things.”
Roy’s already on your side. “She’s got a point, man. My Red Bull’s been warm for weeks.”
Jason pinches the bridge of his nose. “Absolutely not.”
Cut to ten minutes later: you supervising like a tyrant while both men wrestle the box through the door.
“I can’t believe you convinced me to buy this,” Jason mutters, trying not to drop it.
“Consider it a business expense,” you say, batting your lashes. “I’ll invoice you.”
“You have never successfully used our invoicing software,” he fires back.
“That’s because it’s ugly.”
Roy’s laughing too hard to help. They finally set it down beside your desk with a heavy thud. You plug it in, the little hum blending with the music, and ceremoniously stock it with cherry Cokes, bottled water, and one mysterious yogurt cup.
After making sure the refrigerator he “absolutely didn’t want” was in place, Jason rolls his shoulders and bends back into the guts of a Honda. It’s hot. The air smells like metal and summer. You let yourself look for half a second too long before you get a grip and turn back to your desk.
An hour later he’s still there, jaw tight, fighting a rusted bolt like it insulted his mother. Sweat runs down his temple, catching the light. You pop open the new fridge and grab a cold bottle.
You don’t say anything when you walk over. You just press it to the inside of his wrist.
He startles; then his shoulders drop like someone cut a wire. He takes it. “Thanks,” he says, quiet.
“Hydration’s hot,” you murmur. “Try it sometime.”
He almost smiles. Almost.
Fleetwood Mac keeps playing. The fridge hums. Outside, the neon sign flickers; for once, the shop doesn’t feel like a tomb—it feels alive.
༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･
The summer heat hits different in week three. The shop’s fans hum like lazy hornets, and every surface is sticky with either grease or humidity—or both. You’re perched behind your makeshift desk, painting a fresh coat of bubblegum pink over one thumbnail, the record player murmuring something low and dreamy in the background.
Jason’s under a car again, radio static buzzing from somewhere near his feet. Roy’s elbow-deep in an oil change, singing off-key to whatever’s playing. The rhythm is comfortable now, familiar.
Then the peace dies in a screech of tires.
A silver sports car slides into the parking lot like it’s trying to make an entrance. You can hear the ego before you see it.
Jason mutters something under his breath. “This’ll be fun.”
The guy who steps out looks like every overpaid Gotham executive rolled into one: fitted polo, mirrored shades, loafers that have never touched asphalt. He storms in like the shop owes him rent money.
“My engine light’s on,” he snaps, tossing his keys on your counter. “Fix it. Now.”
You glance down at the schedule you spent half the morning color-coding. “The main mechanics are tied up with pre-booked work, darling,” you say, polite and professional. “You’ll just need to hang tight until our other tech clocks in—shouldn’t be more than fifteen minutes.”
He laughs once—sharp, condescending. “Listen, sweetheart, you seem like a pretty decent little eye candy for this place, but I need someone who actually knows cars. Now.”
The sound that comes out of Jason is low, dark, and way too close to a growl. From across the shop, he straightens, eyes locked on the man like a scope finding its mark.
Roy mutters, “Here we go.”
You don’t flinch. You’ve seen this before—guys who think loud voices and big wallets can buy respect. You keep your tone sweet, sugar-laced with venom.
“I’m so sorry, sugar, but I don’t take orders. I barely take suggestions.”
You tilt your head toward the mason jar at the corner of your cart—
SUGGESTIONS / TIPS (cash only)—the label glittering under the fluorescent light. The jar is stuffed with bills.
“Feel free to drop your feedback right in there,” you say, flashing him your most dazzling smile.
The man’s mouth works soundlessly, as if his brain is buffering.
Jason’s already halfway across the floor before Roy catches his arm. “Let her handle it,” Roy hisses, but Jason’s jaw stays clenched.
Finally, the customer clears his throat. “Fine. I’ll wait,” he grumbles, voice thick with resentment, and snatches his keys back.
“Perfect!” you chirp. “There’s coffee over by the fan, and reading material right here.”
You hand him a magazine from your stash—glossy, pink, and absolutely titled 10 Signs You’re the Problem.
Roy snorts so hard he nearly drops a wrench. Jason actually—almost—smiles.
The man slumps into the waiting bench, defeated by your sugar-coated precision. You turn back to your nails, humming under your breath, unbothered.
Jason watches from the bay, arms crossed, expression unreadable. He tells himself he’s just impressed by your people skills. He doesn’t admit the real thought: that he’s proud of you, and that scares the hell out of him.
Roy leans over his shoulder and whispers, “She’s customer-service Batman.”
Jason shakes his head, smirking just a little. “Nah,” he mutters, turning back to his tools. “She’s scarier.”
༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･
By the fifth week, the shop hums like a living thing.
The new record player crackles quietly through the haze of exhaust—Madonna one day, The Runaways the next. Your whiteboard gleams in pink cursive, every appointment stacked and organized, every call logged with a heart over the “i.”
Jason won’t admit it out loud, but things actually run better now. He still grumbles every morning when he walks in and sees the fake plant and the pink fridge glowing like a neon sign of chaos, but the jobs get done. The bills are paid. Customers actually come back.
And then the jocks show up.
The glass door jingles and in they stroll—five of them, all varsity smiles and matching letterman jackets, smelling like cologne and entitlement. You recognize the type immediately: daddy’s cars, mama’s money, and an attention span shorter than a TikTok.
You smooth your skirt, tilt your head, and smile the kind of smile that makes men do stupid things. “Welcome to Red Line Auto, boys! What can I do for you?”
One of them—tall, all jawline—whistles low. “Damn, sweetheart, you actually work here?”
You beam. “Of course I do. Someone’s gotta keep these grease monkeys in line.”
They laugh—exactly the response you wanted.
You lean a little on the counter, elbows just so. “Now, I’m sure handsome young men like you must have lucky girlfriends already. Why not buy them a few extra things to put in your car? A glitter-dice air freshener, maybe one of those heart keychains—make ’em happy.”
Within minutes, they’re arguing over colors. You keep your tone soft, teasing, all honey and manipulation. By the time they pay, the counter’s half empty and they’re out almost four hundred bucks in unnecessary accessories.
As the door jingles closed, one of them slides a slip of paper toward you. “My number. In case you, uh, wanna ride in a real car.”
You pick it up with two fingers, still smiling. “Aww. That’s precious.”
They swagger out, laughing.
The moment the glass door clicks shut, you drop the number straight into the trash can.
Jason’s there before you even look up. You didn’t hear him walk over, but you feel his presence—warm, heavy, grounding.
“Question,” he says gruffly, wiping his hands on a rag.
You glance up, pen still twirling between your fingers. “Shoot.”
He nods toward the door the jocks just left through. “Why d’you act like you’re suckling dumb pills around guys like that? You’re not.”
“Please,” you say, capping your pink pen with a click. “Of course I’m not. But do you want to sell more to rich jerks or have me lecture them about internalized misogyny?”
He opens his mouth. Closes it. His brow furrows like he’s trying to argue but can’t find the angle.
You grin. “Didn’t think so. They tip better when they think I can’t spell receipt. I can. Shockingly.”
Jason stares for a beat, and the corner of his mouth twitches. It’s not quite a smile, but it’s damn close. “You’re scary good at this.”
You wink. “I enjoy paying rent. The rest is theater.” You twirl the pen once and gesture at the impulse rack stacked with glitter-dice and lip-balm toolboxes. “Besides, I got them to pay five times as much thanks to this rack—” you tap the display “—and this rack.” You point to your chest.
Roy, passing behind with a tire slung over his shoulder, stops mid-stride and lets out a dreamy sigh. “God, I love capitalism.”
Jason drags a hand down his face, muttering, “I hate both of you.”
You just laugh—bright and easy—and turn back to rearranging your display. He watches a moment longer than he means to before heading back to the bay, jaw set, pulse just a little faster.
༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･
By mid-afternoon, the air tastes like metal and heat. The record player hums something low and crackly, and you’re filing receipts while Jason and Roy bicker over who misplaced the torque wrench this time.
Then Roy freezes mid-argument, eyes wide. “Shit. I forgot to pick up the valve regulator.”
Jason groans. “You promised that job’d be done by five.”
Roy wipes his hands on his coveralls, already backing toward the door like a man walking into his own funeral. “Across the street’s got it,” he says quickly. “I can run—”
“I’ll go,” you chirp, already grabbing the purchase order and your bag. “I need steps. My watch yelled at me.”
Jason straightens immediately. “I’ll go.”
You turn to him with both hands on your hips, eyes narrowed like you’re about to scold a child. “Jason, you’re knee-deep in an alternator and Roy’s too busy pretending to be useful. This is exactly what I’m here for. Just because I don’t know what a fucking turbine looks like doesn’t mean I can’t handle picking up a part. I’ve survived rush hour at a Forever 21 on Black Friday. I’ll live.”
Roy whistles low. “She’s got a point, man.”
Jason steps forward to argue again—right into one of the glass hanging planters you installed last week. The thunk echoes across the shop.
You wince. “Oof. Sorry. That one’s glass. Don’t bleed on anything cute.”
He freezes, hand over his temple, grimacing. You take a step closer, guilt flickering under the sass. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” he mutters, rubbing the spot.
“You sure? ’Cause I don’t think OSHA covers decorative injuries.”
That earns you a half-growl, half-grumble that sounds suspiciously like a laugh, and you take it as your cue to head out before he can protest again.
༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･
The rival shop—Iron Claw Auto—sits across the street like a bad omen: sign half-flickering, windows tinted too dark, the kind of place that smells like stolen hubcaps and cheap cologne. You can feel Jason’s eyes burning into your back from the doorway even before you cross.
Inside, the air is heavy with exhaust and bad flirting. A mechanic with slicked-back hair—Trent, according to the grease-stained name patch—leans on the counter the moment you walk in.
“Hey there, doll face,” he drawls, eyes dragging down your outfit like it’s for sale. “Don’t usually see a face like yours around here. You sure you’re in the right shop?”
You smile, light and professional, the kind that hides knives behind pearls. “Positive. I’m here for an order pick-up from Red Line.” You slide the purchase slip toward him with manicured fingers.
He doesn’t take it right away. “I could think of better ways to spend my afternoon than handing over car parts.”
“Lucky for both of us, I can’t,” you say brightly. “Now, about that part?”
Trent chuckles, finally turning to fetch it, his movements deliberately slow. You catch yourself glancing toward the open bay door, half expecting Jason to appear in full body armor and throw the man through a wall.
Across the street, he’s planted in the garage doorway, arms crossed, jaw tight. Jason can’t hear words, only cadence—the bright lilt of your voice, the polite laughter you use when someone’s pressing your boundaries. The longer he watches, the tenser his shoulders get.
Trent leans closer when he hands over the bag, voice low and smug. Whatever he says makes you laugh once—sharp and empty. Then you sign the receipt, pivot, and walk out with the poise of a queen leaving court.
༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･
Back at Red Line, Roy’s on his knees searching under a workbench for a socket when you stride in. You toss him the bag. “Got it! He tried to flirt. I tried not to yawn.”
Roy peeks inside, smirking. “Did you get his number?”
“Yeah,” you say dryly, grabbing your cherry Coke from the mini fridge. “It’s 1-800-blocked.”
Jason doesn’t move aside fast enough when you pass him, so you shoulder through, perfume cutting through gasoline and ozone. His brain goes static for half a second before the noise settles.
You’re already back at your board, scribbling the part number in pink bubble letters, Coke sweating in the light from your mini fridge. Jason stands frozen, watching from the doorway, memorizing the faces across the street.
Roy sidles up beside him, wiping his hands. “You look constipated, man.”
“I’m fine,” Jason says automatically.
“Sure,” Roy says. “And I’m celibate.”
Jason doesn’t look away. “They’re dirty.”
Roy’s grin fades a fraction. “Yeah. I know.” He glances sideways. “Patrol duty on them next time?”
Jason’s eyes flicker darker. “Yeah. Maybe.”
For a long moment, they both just watch the rival shop in silence, the low hum of your record player filling the air behind them.
Jason finally looks back inside. The planter that nailed him earlier still sways gently from its string, a tiny leaf brushing the glass every time it turns. You, at your desk, are humming under your breath, completely oblivious to how much space you’ve taken up in his head.
“You okay, boss?” you call without looking up.
He blinks once. “Yeah.”
“Great,” you say. “’Cause you’re changing that lightbulb I told you about. I’m not risking breaking a nail on a ladder.”
He snorts despite himself. “I’ll get the ladder.”
You grin, slow and wicked. “Good boy.”
Roy immediately drops a wrench on purpose, just to make Jason flinch.
The record player crackles, the pink fridge hums, and sunlight bleeds gold across the floor. For the first time since the sign above the door started flickering, Red Line Auto feels like more than a business. It feels like the start of something dangerous and almost—almost—warm.
༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･
The day feels longer than it should.
It’s end-of-month chaos—three cars behind schedule, one customer who screamed about oil stains on his floor mats, and Roy swearing he can “feel the caffeine vibrating in his blood.”
When the last car rolls out and the bay doors rattle shut, the shop finally exhales.
Roy slaps his paycheck against the counter, grinning wide. “We survived a month with Miss Sunshine here. We’re celebratin’.”
Jason doesn’t even look up from the invoice he’s signing. “We have work tomorrow.”
You glance over from your desk, one brow arched. “No booked appointments. We can schedule maybe two guys for a half day just in case we get walk-ins and take the weekend off.” You stand, stretching your arms over your head with a dramatic sigh. “Besides, it’s my one-month anniversary of dealing with you idiots. I deserve a toast.”
Roy whoops. “She’s got a point, boss!”
Jason mutters, “She’s got too many of those,” but his mouth twitches.
When Roy starts shutting off the lights, you groan dramatically, looking down at your carefully picked-out work clothes. “Wait, we’re going now? I can’t go to a bar looking like this. I look like a goddamn grease-goblin.”
Jason glances over his shoulder. “You don’t even have a stain on you.”
“That’s not the point!” you protest, waving a hand. “I can’t flirt with anyone in mechanic drag.”
Roy’s laughing. “We ain’t goin’ to flirt; we’re goin’ to drink.”
You narrow your eyes. “Then you can both drink without me looking like a swamp rat.”
Jason folds his arms, leaning against the workbench. “We’re not drivin’ across town just so you can change.”
You huff, dramatic as ever. “Fine. Watch and learn, boys.”
You grab your tote bag and march toward the bathroom, muttering something about “aesthetic integrity” under your breath.
The second the door shuts, Roy smirks at Jason. “You’re so whipped.”
Jason shoots him a glare. “I’m not whipped.”
Roy tosses his keys from hand to hand. “You act like you don’t care, but you’ve been watchin’ her since she walked in day one.”
“She’s trouble,” Jason mutters.
“She’s fun,” Roy corrects. “Besides, Red Line’s been boring as shit since before she showed up. Now we’ve got customers who actually smile at us.”
Jason doesn’t answer, just glances at the light flickering in the back corner. As if trying to steer the conversation somewhere that isn’t his fucked-up love life, he growls, “I still think Iron Claw’s dirty.”
Roy nods, expression sobering. “Patrol tonight after we drop her off?”
“Yeah,” Jason says quietly. “Just in case.”
They lapse into silence, the hum of the record player filling the background—a David Bowie classic, the needle popping softly in the groove.
The bathroom door creaks open.
You emerge ten minutes later, a completely different creature—bare shoulders catching the dying sunlight, glossy lips, a skirt that should be illegal in three states. The pink neon from the window paints you in light like a stage spotlight.
Roy’s mid-sentence and just stops. “Holy hell.”
Jason’s holding a wrench; he forgets what for.
You smile sweetly, twirling your keys. “What? This old thing? It’s just my emergency outfit I keep in my bag.”
Roy’s already shrugging on his jacket, grinning ear to ear. “Truck’s out front! Let’s go before she changes her mind.”
Jason just exhales through his nose, muttering under his breath, “You’re gonna be the death of me.”
You catch it, of course. You always do. “Good. At least you’ll die looking at something cute.”
You saunter out first, Roy following, still laughing. Jason lingers a beat longer—because the record’s still playing, and he’s realizing for the first time that when you left, you took all the noise with you.
༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･
The bar’s the kind of place that smells like whiskey, sweat, and lost paychecks. A jukebox groans something old in the corner.
You and Roy lead the charge, Jason trailing behind like a reluctant babysitter. He scans the room automatically—exits, corners, faces he doesn’t trust. He spots them instantly: the rival shop crowd, Trent included, laughing too loud in the back booth.
You head for a different one, only to find it already occupied. The solution? A smile, two sentences, and a tilt of your head. Within moments, the group vacates like you’re royalty.
Roy whistles. “She’s terrifying.”
Jason grunts. “Stay close. Don’t leave her alone.”
Roy snorts. “Relax, man. She’s fine.”
He’s not convinced.
You slide into the booth first, smoothing your skirt, ordering a round before the boys even sit down. Roy starts recounting some chaotic story about accidentally overfilling a radiator; you laugh so hard you nearly choke on your drink.
Jason watches the way your hand flicks against your glass, the way your laughter fills a space that used to feel too big. Roy’s clearly your favorite, and it needles him more than he’d ever admit.
When Roy excuses himself—“gonna hit the head”—Jason’s left with nothing but the noise of the bar and you across the table.
He clears his throat. “So… Venturi or some bullshit like that.”
You blink, confused. “Venturi?”
“The magazine,” he says, nodding toward the glossy cover peeking out of your bag. “You were reading it earlier.”
A slow grin spreads across your face. “It’s Versace, you dense little man. And it’s just another article about the brand’s new summer runway show.”
He shrugs, unbothered. “Right. Well… you’d probably make it look better than they do anyway.”
You go still, that grin faltering just a little—because that wasn’t flirtation, not really. It sounded like honesty, quiet and clumsy.
“Don’t laugh,” you warn, fiddling with your straw, something close to nerves slipping through, “but I actually wanted to study fashion. Didn’t work out, though. Money was tight, and the whole industry’s a rich-kids-only club anyway, so fuck that bullshit.”
You shrug it off like it’s nothing, but Jason sees it—the mask of your bedazzled, dive-bar bravado cracking for a moment, revealing a girl whose dream got taken too fast by an elitist machine.
“But how do you still dress in fancy stuff all the time? Do you make your own?” Jason leans back, watching you, gently nudging you open.
You nod. “Most of it. Thrift stores, fabric bins, a sewing kit from hell. You’d be surprised what you can pull off when rent’s due and all you’ve got is a broken machine and a dream.”
Something in his expression softens. “Yeah. I get that.”
You tilt your head. “You?”
“Believe it or not, I didn’t exactly grow up in luxury either,” he admits. “Before Bruce, it was just me and the streets. Parents didn’t give a crap. Ate if I could steal food, slept if I could find warmth.”
You study him—really study him—for the first time. The tired eyes, the old scars peeking from his sleeve, the weight he carries like it’s welded to his spine.
“You know, you’ve got that look,” you say quietly. “The one people get when they’ve lived through too much and still decided to keep going. It’s weirdly sexy.”
He blinks, utterly thrown. “That’s… one way to put it.”
You giggle, leaning in. “It’s a compliment, Jason. Take it before I revoke it.”
He looks away, ears burning red. “You’re impossible.”
“Thank you.” You grin, knowing.
Before he can recover, Roy reappears, sheepish and empty-handed. “She had a boyfriend. Tragic.”
You pat his shoulder, laughing. “You’ll survive, Casanova.”
Jason shakes his head, but he’s smiling—barely. For the first time, it’s not an almost. It’s small and crooked and real.
He stands. “I’ll get us another round.”
You watch him walk away, heart doing something inconvenient in your chest. You tell it to shut the fuck up, but your pulse disagrees.
༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･
He peels away from the booth and threads through the crowd to the bar, shoulders loosening as he goes. He leans against the scarred wood and orders with that low rasp of a voice that could probably wring a confession out of a saint. The bartender slides him three bottles. Jason nods, eyes distant, the weight of the night settling.
Roy might be right, he thinks, watching bubbles climb through amber. She’s trouble.
But she’s also warmth. Color. Noise. Things he hasn’t let himself want in a long time.
He hates how easy it’s getting to like you—how you don’t take his shit, how you always find the light in the cracks. Maybe he’ll let you through. Maybe.
He’s halfway back to the booth when his stomach drops.
You’re not alone.
Trent from Iron Claw Auto is tucked beside you, grinning like a snake. Roy is nowhere. Trent’s arm drapes the back of the booth, his body too close, his voice too loud.
Jason’s whole body goes tight. His fingers flex around the neck of a bottle, half-ready to smash it.
He doesn’t move—yet. He watches. Measures the distance.
Trent laughs at something you didn’t say, his hand creeping toward your thigh.
And then you move first.
You don’t even flinch when his fingers brush you. You just smile, the kind that makes men nervous. “You’ve got something in your eye,” you say sweetly.
He blinks. “What?”
Pssst.
The pepper spray hisses before he can blink again.
Trent howls, stumbling back, hands flying to his face. The booth screeches as he kicks it, someone’s drink toppling in a splash. “You—bitch—”
He’s half-blind, reaching for you.
Jason’s there before the word finishes leaving Trent’s mouth.
He fists Trent’s collar and slams him into a pillar hard enough to rattle it. “Say that again,” Jason growls, voice low enough to shake something loose in Trent’s skull.
“Jay,” Roy’s voice cuts through the chaos, sudden and sharp. He’s back, catching Jason’s arm before things spiral. “Let the bouncer handle it, man.”
The bar erupts—shouts from every direction, someone yelling to call the cops, the bartender vaulting the counter. In seconds, Trent and his Iron Claw buddies are herded toward the door, still cursing and pawing at their eyes. The bouncer shoves them over the threshold and slams it, muttering about banning those assholes for life.
Silence lands heavy. Glass crunches under Jason’s boots as he turns, jaw locked, anger buzzing off him like static.
You’re already straightening your top, checking your reflection in your phone screen. “Well,” you say brightly, flipping your hair back into place, “that was a fucking waste of mascara.”
Roy’s still catching his breath, looking between you and Jason like he’s watching a bomb tick down.
Jason rounds on him first. “Where the hell were you?”
Roy throws his hands up. “I was talking to a girl! You told me to stay close, not glue myself to her hip, man!”
Before Jason can light him up, you cut in. “Hey—I told him to go. The blonde at the bar was eyeing him all night, and I wasn’t about to cockblock the poor guy. Plus, I can breathe without a fucking six-foot man beside me at all times, you know?”
The words hang there, sharp and unapologetic. Jason exhales through his nose, chest still tight.
A long, awkward beat. Then you hitch your purse higher on your shoulder. “Anyway. Night’s ruined. Let’s go.”
༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･
Outside, the air’s cool and sticky with summer. The parking lot glows orange under the flickering streetlights. You spot Roy leaning against his truck, grinning sheepishly while the blonde from earlier twirls her hair beside him.
You smirk. “I’m glad he’s gonna get laid. That girl’s hot. But I kinda lost my ride home. Still—no way I’m cockblocking that poor, desperate little man.”
Jason shakes his head, a quiet laugh escaping before he can stop it. “Come on. I’ll take you.”
You arch a brow. “On the bike?”
“On the bike.”
You grin. “Yeah, fuck it. Why not?”
He helps you onto the back seat, steadying your hand as you swing your leg over. When your arms wrap around his waist, he goes absolutely still. The soft press of your chest against his back short-circuits every rational thought in his brain.
The engine roars to life, cutting through the silence of the night. Wind rushes your hair as the bike glides down nearly empty streets, city lights streaking past in gold and red. You laugh—an unrestrained, wild sound that makes something in Jason’s chest unclench.
He’s in trouble. He knows it
༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･
When he finally stops outside your apartment building, you slide off the bike, tugging off the helmet and shaking your hair loose. The night’s quiet again—just the hum of streetlights and the faint buzz of traffic a few blocks away.
You hand him the helmet. “You know,” you say softly, “I did mean it when I said I can take care of myself. I’m used to that kind of bullshit anyway.”
Jason looks at you for a long time, eyes dark and unreadable. “You shouldn’t have to, though.”
That lands heavier than either of you expect. For a second, neither of you moves. Then you break the tension the only way you know how—by making him laugh.
“Well,” you say with a crooked grin, “if this turns into a regular thing, I’m gonna need a custom helmet. Hot pink. Big bow on the back for flair.”
He exhales a quiet laugh, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Sure thing, sweetheart.”
You pause, blinking at the word. Then your grin sharpens. “Sweetheart, huh? Normally I’d drop-kick a guy in the balls for that.”
He’s already opening his mouth to apologize when you continue.
“But you…” You tilt your head, eyes glinting. “You can keep it. I like it when it comes from you. Good night, Jay.”
You turn toward the stairs, heels clicking on the pavement, leaving him standing there with the helmet still in his hands and his heart doing somersaults.
Jason watches you disappear through the doorway, the echo of your laughter still caught in his chest.
He exhales, running a hand through his hair. “Fuck,” he mutters, kicking the bike into gear and roaring off into the dark—faster than he needs to, like he’s trying to outrun the way you make him feel.
✶ “I really don't get what you see in them.” “You don't have to. I do.”
✶ “Don't take it personally. They hate everyone.” “Everyone except you, it seems.”
✶ “How do you not get sick of [sunshine]? They're so loud and–” “Talk about my partner like that again and you'll get to swallow your teeth.”
✶ “Stop talking about [my partner] like that! They're not like that with me.” “Come on, [your partner] is an ass, and–” “Shut the fuck up. It's my decision, and I love them.”
✶ “Whoa, don't turn around, but there is some person glowering at us from across the street…” “Hm? Oh, that's my partner. And that's their happy face.”
✶ “It's literally none of your business who I am with.” “I'm just worried. They don't seem like the most gentle person and you're so…” “A grown adult, thanks.”
✶ “You could do so much better than this airhead.” “Being a happy person does not make them a fucking airhead.”
✶ “I just don't get it. You're so.... And they are so....” “And that's what we love in each other. And it's really not for you to understand.”
✶ “Are you sure this is what you want to sign up for? A lifetime of... this?” “In a heartbeat.”
[Prompt Calender: February 16th, National Do a Grouch a Favor Day]
