Swimming With Sharks — Brendon Park x f!Reader
Summary: You end up in the ED with a teensy, tiny head wound. Brendon makes it everyone’s problem.
WC: 3,463
Warnings: the smallest splash of angst-lite; reader experiences a minor head injury; typical ED/medical stuff; protective Brendon Park needs a warning label; probable medical inaccuracies, because to my father’s eternal disappoint, I am in fact not a medical doctor
A/N: read as standalone, but technically a continuation of the Gremlin universe; set seven years before The Pitt (Park is mid-30s); fem reader; cameo by Robby because for some reason I still like that sad old man; I can not believe I'm posting again so soon, but the muse is a fickle bitch
Masterlist
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You’ve learned many things about Brendon Park in the month or so since you met him. You know he takes his coffee black, like a complete psychopath. You know he has a secret sweet tooth (black coffee notwithstanding) and that he never lets his fuel tank drop below a quarter. You know he loves Sudoku, his favorite color is blue, and that he can’t draw to save his life.
What you don’t know is whether or not you should call him.
You’re sitting on a bed in the ED, picking nervously at the sheets and trying to pretend there’s not an IV needle inside of you. Your head is throbbing, there’s dried blood itching the side of your face, and you’re so embarrassed you almost forget both of those things.
You’d been standing on the second floor balcony that overlooks the main atrium, head buried in an email on your phone. It was an email from the outside member on your committee, and you’d been so wrapped up in wording your reply properly that someone could probably had died next to you and you wouldn’t have noticed. Ironic, given that some poor radiology intern carrying a stack of boxes had then crashed into you. The force of the collision had knocked you off your feet, and you’d subsequently hit your head on the balcony railing and, humiliatingly, passed out.
Apparently any loss of consciousness is a big deal, because even though you’d been down for less than thirty seconds, you’d still been rushed to the ED. That was almost an hour ago, and in that time, you’ve been poked, prodded, and questioned half to death.
What day is it?
Do you know where you are?
What’s the last thing you remember before losing consciousness?
Can you tell me what five times seven is?
Friday, PTMC, emailing Dr. Usher, thirty-five.
The resident checking you out had seemed satisfied with both your answers and your vitals, and it wasn’t long before they sent an intern in to stitch up the nasty gash on your temple. They’d given you a local anesthetic, but your head still hurts. You can hear them in the hall now debating whether you need a CT, and you’re suddenly confronted with the fact that you know next to nothing about medicine.
Sure, you did your obligatory Grey’s Anatomy stint in high school, but that highly questionable, medical-adjacent soap opera is your only reference for anything that’s happening right now. You feel out of your depth, lonely and sort of scared, and of course the first solution your possibly-concussed brain provides is call Brendon.
It’s past five, so he should be finishing up his last consults for the day. He’s not on call this weekend, and you don’t remember him mentioning any evening plans. He’s also the most medically competent person you know, and he would definitely know what’s happening and what to do.
Some part of you doesn’t want to call him though. The two of you haven’t talked any more about whatever it is happening between you after the night he’d driven you home. He’s not quite your boyfriend, not quite just your friend. There’s no real reason to call him except you want to, and you’re very good at convincing yourself that that’s not a good enough reason to do anything. You don’t want to put him on the spot, don’t want to make him uncomfortable or make him feel obligated-
That last thought stops you. You don’t think there’s a multiverse out there in which Brendon Park feels obligated to do anything. The President himself could probably stand directly in front of him and ask him to do something, and Brendon would just stare flatly back and say no. If he doesn’t want to come down to see you, he won’t. Simple as that.
Feeling slightly better, you pick up your phone and call him before you can talk yourself out of it. It rings once before he picks up.
“Imp.”
His voice — sharp and biting and familiar — washes over you like a wave. The sound of it touches the fragile part of you you’ve been holding together since you woke up on the tile, and you immediately feel tears begin to well. Shit, you take back all your prior reasoning. You’re just going to hang up. You are not going to cry on the phone with him-
“Imp, why are there monitors beeping in the background. You’re not observing today.”
Well, now you’re definitely crying.
He remembers your schedule. He remembers your schedule and your ridiculous coffee order and tiny details about your ten thousand page long dissertation. He remembers unimportant things because they’re important to you. He would rather die than admit he’s maybe a nice person, but you love his caustic brand of care, and you suddenly want him here with you so badly it aches.
“Um, would you-, could you come down to the ED?”
The brief silence that follows your question is the loudest thing you’ve ever heard.
“Bren?”
“What room are you in.”
The words are short, clipped, and everything you needed to hear.
“I think Central Three-“
“Hi, Ms. Y/l/n, I’m just here to check on your stitches.”
The same resident you saw when you first came in walks into the bay, Dr. Copeland you think is his name. He’s probably your age, with sandy blonde hair and the greenest eyes you’ve ever seen. The intern who did your stitches is trailing behind him. They both pause when they see you on the phone, and you’re about to hang up and apologize for whatever hospital policy you’re probably violating, when Brendon’s voice snaps in your ear-
“Give me five minutes. And tell whatever fuckwit resident that is to keep his fucking hands to himself until I get there.”
The line goes dead, but you don’t feel nearly as alone as you did a few minutes ago.
“Everything okay?” Copeland asks.
He seems genuinely concerned, and you suddenly feel kind of bad for him. You don’t know what Brendon’s going to say when he gets here, but it’s certainly not going to be good job.
“Um, yes?”
None of you are convinced by your unenthusiastic answer, but no one points it out. Instead, Copeland snaps on some gloves and starts moving towards you. You make a sound of protest and lean away. You’re pretty sure he’s a senior resident, he seems perfectly competent, and he’s been nothing but nice to you, but the need to obey Brendon’s directive outweighs the need to get your busted-open skull checked out. That is something you will one hundred percent have to unpack later in therapy, but right now, you’re standing by it.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Copeland asks again, looking even more concerned this time. “Would you like a female doctor?”
Very observant and kind of him, but no, you don’t think that will help. Brendon’s fuckwit resident comment probably applies to the entire ED if not the entire hospital. You’re trying to think of a way to explain why you don’t want your head examined yet, when you hear it.
“Park? I didn’t know we called for a-”
Brendon says something biting and likely rude though you can’t make out the specifics, and then he’s there. Standing in the entrance of the bay, looking like wrath given form. His eyes assess the room in one quick sweep before settling on where you’re curled up on the bed. Something complicated passes across his face, and you’re sure your expression does something similar.
You can’t explain why the sight of him feels so reassuring, or why he’s the person you want with you right now. Your parents and siblings are states away, but you could have called one of your friends from school — your cohort is actually quite close, and you enjoy spending time with them. But right now, when you’re tired and injured and not sure what to do next, his iron control and ruthlessness confidence are what you need. Just the sight of him makes some of the rigid tension in your body ease.
“Hi,” you say softly.
“Dr. Park,” Copeland greets. “Can I help you?”
Brendon ignores him completely and makes his way over to you.
“What happened.”
It’s a command, not a question.
Copeland is still standing next to you, gloves on and clearly unamused with this sudden interruption, and you hesitate. Maybe you should just let him work first. But Brendon says your name once — low, dangerous —and you start speaking before your brain catches up.
“Um, I fell?”
His eyes narrow.
“Okay, I fell and then hit my head. And maybe I passed out, but it was only for like…twenty seconds.”
He exhales slowly through his nose and makes a visible effort not to say something nasty. Instead, his hand comes up to rest on your jaw, and his touch is so gentle it steals your breath. His fingers trail featherlight over your cheek, and then he turns your head to the side, so he can see the gash on your temple. The complicated look from earlier intensifies.
“Vitals and GCS.”
Once again, it’s not a question, and Copeland answers albeit reluctantly.
“98/63, 79 pulse, 98 sat. GCS 15.”
“Which of you idiots put these sutures in?”
You don’t mean to, you really don’t. But your eyes flick over to the intern in the corner, and Brendon follows your gaze like a shark scenting blood. It’s only then that you recognize the woman, Dr. Wilts. She’s the same intern Brendon tore to pieces the last time he was down here. She clearly also remembers the incident — she looks mildly terrified and actually takes a half step backwards.
“Dr. Wilts is a talented doctor and is perfectly capable of suturing a head laceration,” Copeland says calmly.
You have to admire his composure — Brendon’s radiating caged-tiger energy right now. He dislikes most other people on a good day, and he’s definitely not having a good day. In fact, he looks one step away from homicide.
“If this scars, it’s because you suture like shit,” he says to Wilts. “And where are her films?”
He directs the second part to Copeland while simultaneously looking at your chart, open on the work station next to your bed.
“She hasn’t been to CT yet.”
Brendon turns slowly with a glare that makes even you flinch.
“Is there a specific reason, or were you just feeling particularly fucking useless today?”
It’s at this moment that another man walks into the room. He’s older than the residents, maybe in his forties, with dark hair and a scruffy beard on his jaw. He looks tired in the way everyone in the ED looks tired, but his brown eyes are kind.
“Park, why are you harassing my residents?” he asks, amicable but firm.
“Robinavitch.”
From his tone, you can tell Brendon doesn’t necessarily like this new man, but he at least respects him. Sort of.
“A trauma came in earlier, but Ms. Y/l/n should be up for CT soon. Dr. Copeland and Dr. Wilts have followed procedure and done an excellent job.”
Brendon clearly disagrees with the word excellent, judging by the sneer that curls his lip.
“Ms. Y/l/n, my name is Dr. Robby, one of the attendings here. How are you feeling?”
You actually feel quite a bit better now that Brendon’s here, but you don’t think your emotional state is what Dr. Robby was interested in. You take a minute to think about it, taking stock of your body now that your brain isn’t so frazzled. The anesthetic is still doing its job, so you can’t feel the stitches, but the rest of your head is throbbing dully. That, and your whole left side feels bruised from where you’d hit the ground.
You tell him, and he nods.
“That’s normal, but we can get you something for the pain. Otherwise, if your CT comes back clean, you should be good to go.”
You nod, then immediately regret it when it makes your head worse.
“In the meantime, Dr. Wilts will bandage your-”
“Like fuck she will.”
Brendon’s voice cuts like glass in the wake of Robby’s warmth. You turn your head to look at him, and your breath catches. His face is carved of ice and quiet fury. He’s looking at poor Dr. Wilts like he’s trying to eviscerate her with his eyes, and the hand that had been on your face is now resting possessively on your shoulder.
Oh god, maybe you are concussed.
Because there’s no way that Brendon Park’s attractiveness should be anywhere near the top of your current priority list, but oh. It is. It really, really is. You like that he came for you. You like that he’s touching you. And maybe it makes you a terrible, horrible, no-good person, but you really like that he’s being all snarly at other people over you.
“Park,” Robby starts. “This isn’t the OR, you’re not in charge down here.”
“No one else is touching her.”
The two of them lock eyes for a long moment, and it’s like watching a rabid tiger and a slightly confused bear stare each other down. Robby ends up looking away first, which you know he would probably call being the bigger person, and Brendon would definitely call being the loser.
“Ms. Y/l/n, is it okay with you if Dr. Park takes care of wrapping your wound?” Robby asks.
Brendon smirks like he knows exactly what you’re going to say, which, fair, but you still shoot him a look to cut it out.
“Yes, thank you, Dr. Robby.”
Robby nods before leaving with a promise to check on you after your CT. Copeland and Wilts trail after him. Brendon waits until they pull the curtain closed, giving the two of you at least the semblance of privacy in the busy ED, before rounding on you.
“How the fuck do you knock yourself out just by standing?”
The words are biting, angrier than when he spoke to anyone else, but his hands are impossibly gentle as they reach up to cradle your face. He tilts your head to look at the wound again, but his hands linger this time, and he strokes one thumb carefully over the uninjured side of your face. Your eyes flutter shut, and you nuzzle closer into his touch.
“Wasn’t my fault,” you mumble.
“What?”
It takes you a second to find more words. Some of the adrenaline that’s kept you upright and alert has started to wear off, like your body knows it’s safe now that he’s here. Without it, you realize just how tired you are. It takes concentrated effort to open your eyes and arrange a sentence.
“Someone bumped into me.”
His eyes turn downright murderous.
“It was an accident,” you hasten to add. “They were carrying a lot of boxes, and I think they just didn’t see me.”
That doesn’t appease him in the least, but he thankfully doesn’t push it. Instead, he grabs the tray of supplies Wilts left behind and gets a pair of gloves from the boxes attached to the wall.
“Don’t move,” he orders.
Once again his touch is at odds with his tone. He does a bit more poking and prodding at the sutures, but so carefully it’s like you’re made of glass. Then he cleans the wound again, even though you know Wilts already did it, and applies gauze and tape with the kind of focused attention usually reserved for diffusing bombs.
“Thank you,” you say softly when he finishes.
He doesn’t answer at first. His pelagic eyes are calmer now, like taking care of you himself has eased some of his fury, and he watches you with an unnameable expression. He strips off his gloves slowly.
“Why did you call me?” he finally asks.
You could say so many things.
Because he was already in the hospital, and it was convenient. Because he’s a doctor and would do things like demand to know your vitals and see your films. Because he’s Park the Shark, and the ED respected him. All of those things were true, and easy.
“Because you make me feel safe.”
You weren’t expecting him to confess his undying love to you after that, but you weren’t expecting…nothing either. He just stares at you. Silent, unmoving, face blank. It takes about three seconds of that for you to regret your words, then an additional five for you to start panicking.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t ha-“
He kisses you.
He braces one hand next to your head and leans down before brushing his lips against yours. The touch is brief, over nearly as quickly as it started, but sure. You feel it with every nerve in your body. A breathless noise escapes you, and he pulls back just far enough to meet your eyes.
“Brave girl,” he murmurs. “Swimming with sharks.”
He moves to kiss you again, but the curtain behind him jerks open. You both freeze. Your cheeks immediately go nuclear at being caught, but he just looks annoyed. He straightens slowly and turns to face whoever it is with a nastier-than-usual scowl on his face. You wince when you see its Wilts.
“What?” he barks.
“I’m uh, I’m here to take Ms. Y/l/n to imaging.”
She sounds like she would rather be doing literally anything else right now, and you place a hand on Brendon’s arm before he can take her head off. Very, very begrudgingly, he turns his attention to you again.
“Will you be here when I get back?” you ask, partially to distract him, partially because you want to know.
He gives you a look that clearly says what kind of stupid question is that and sighs in annoyance. But he still reaches to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear and lets his hand linger.
“Yes.”
You smile.
“But only if you don’t take too long.”
You’re laughing as they wheel you away.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Robby
“Huh.”
It’s nearing seven, he’s been on his feet for twelve and a half hours, and all that stands between him and his couch is shift change with Jack. But for some godforsaken reason, Robby finds himself standing at the nursing station, staring at Central Three like he’s being paid to do it.
He doesn’t know The Shark well. He knows he’s something of a god to the surgical residents that are down here sometimes, and he certainly commands the room when he himself deigns to make an appearance. But short of being ruthlessly efficient, allergic to small talk, and kind of a dick, Robby doesn’t know anything about him. So really, there’s no reason to be surprised that the other man has a girlfriend.
He is indeed, surprised.
Maybe it’s not because Park has a girlfriend, but because Park has this specific girlfriend. She’s sweet, quiet, though that could admittedly be because she’s in the ED. But she spoke very politely to Copeland and Wilts, didn’t show any indication she was annoyed by the wait for CT, and had apologized at least twice for things like twitching while getting sutured.
“What are we staring at?”
Jack steps up to the desk next to him, backpack slung over his shoulder and energy drink sweating in his hand. Robby just nods his head at Central Three. As they watch, Park’s girlfriend walks out of the room, looking calm if not a bit tired. Park follows close on her heels, and he looks exactly as pissed off as he did when Robby talked to him an hour ago.
“Apparently Park has a girlfriend.”
“Huh. I think I saw them in the elevator together a few weeks ago.”
“She came in with a head lac and a minor concussion, and he bit Wilts’ head off over it.”
Wilts was normally confident and decisive, especially for a first year, but there was something about The Shark that made even seasoned residents question themselves.
“Nearly took off my head, too.”
“That’s kind of sweet.”
Robby looks over at Jack like he’s the one with head trauma.
“Excuse me?”
“At least now we know he’s capable of an emotion besides disgust.”
Like he knows they’re talking about him, Park’s head swings in their direction, and his lip curls in a sneer. His girlfriend follows his gaze and offers them a shy smile. The dichotomy is actually kind of funny once you get over the oddness of it, and Robby finds it in himself to offer a genuine smile back.
“He’s still an asshole,” he says to Jack once the couple leaves.
“Yeah, well, love doesn’t fix everything.”
