Rewatched S2 with my husband and that one scene of Garcia reducing a shoulder saying "I am the OR" reminded me of competent sharkpup!reader from Pearls Before Swine...
( gif credits to the lovely @parktheeshark for this crisp gifset ! )
☤ ─ BY-CATCH! ; Park the Shark
a/n. Dynamic previously established in this fic! A quick drabble for sharkpup!reader from the Pearls Before Swine universe. Anon thank you for this because I HAD to put it into words when I went: Well, what if Park was there too?
“C’MON, FOR FUCK’S sake,” you hiss under your breath, “Stop fighting me, would you?”
The patient doesn’t reply. He’s unconscious, afterall, sedated by the ED in to a painless sleep with propofol thanks to a frustrating inferior open shoulder dislocation that’s proving to be a full body workout for you as the seconds pass.
“Again,” you tell McKay, who’s similarly struggling with the opposite traction from your pull. You curl your fingers round the makeshift sling tighter. “One, two—”
You commit to it. Set a demanding foot on the gurney's metal frame itself; leveraging as much extra weight possible as you yank once more, huffing at the obstinate refusal of the humerus head to give, your strained body practically slanting to a 45-degree angle.
The lanky MS in the corner from you openly cringes at the violent sight.
“I really think this should be done in the OR—?”
For fuck’s sake, kid.
“I am the OR—!” you snarl, stubborn, grunting from the sheer protesting force until—
---POP.
Satisfying. The joint slides back obscenely. Palpably, even. A lock clicking into place.
…But now all resistance has slipped away, and so abruptly goes your footing.
“Ohshit—”
Shoe soles squeak out. Centre of gravity pitches you astern. In a blink, the world tilts on its axis, and your hard stumble downwind to the cold linoleum has you careening—
—and colliding backwards into something solid.
Arms.
A firm, anchoring grip. Animalistic-like reflex snatching you up just before you crash into the ground.
The entire trauma bay freezes. Bated breath. Heart leaping in your throat as you blink owlishly up and come to a horrifying realisation:
You’ve fallen right into the jaws arms of Park the Shark.
Rough hands grasp at your elbow and an upper arm in the nick of time, bracing you uncomfortably against his abdominals where you’re cartoonishly angled like a cat held up by the scruff.
The towering, imposing lean of him is only ever-so-slightly hunched from where he’s followed your momentum into himself to safely cancel it; chin tilted a low, mere inch while he looks narrowly down on you— figuratively and metaphorically, you reckon— from the long, shark-taper of his nose.
Electroreceptive snouts, you remember the marine documentary narrating, Sharks that can react instantly to the slightest shift or ripple in waters.
You must have sailed right into him just as he swept in from the other trauma bay he’d been busy with.
And Park’s expression is the same as always:
A salt-flat stare you can’t really decipher. Thalassic in his blue eyes; an ominous shadow lurking underneath its depths you can’t quite put a finger on to shape out. It feels like you’ve fallen overboard into the wide maw of the Atlantic knowing there’s a predator with its jaws open beneath your feet, deciding whether or not to sink its teeth in you and drag you under.
You wait for the snap. The caustic remark of Get the hell off me, pup, or just a rude drop of you to the seafloor.
Proximity has the warmth of his body searing through your scrubs, engulfing you in a tidal wave of that heady, masculine scent of his that’s mixed with antiseptic— leaves your mind scattered and asunder. It takes a belated moment for you to clock:
You’re still practically leaning your entire body weight on him.
Well. Not that it matters— because in the next moment Park lifts you back up with dizzying, effortless ease. Twists you up to face him and sets you rightside up on your feet again without you having any say on it. Pathetically light as a hollow-boned Storm Petrel that’s unmatched to the sturdy marrow-strength of his Orthopaedic brawn; muscles hardly put through any visible strain when it comes to manhandling the likes of you.
(…You smother the girlish flutter in your gut. File away the memory for safekeeping.)
His wide, calloused palms dwarf your arms. Steadying. Lighthouse in a storm. A world of a contrast in your driftwood-build compared to him; all biceps and forearm and broad chest. Ship-shape. If you indulge in your thoughts you might delude yourself that there’s almost a courteous restraint to his clutch.
It wouldn’t take much for Park to snap you in half, and you fancy he feels it: the same surgical instinct in knowing how much load a humerus or a radius could bear just by mere touch alone before it gives.
“Watch it,” is all he grunts, voice drowned in a brackish bass. Rough-stone. Unimpressed. Makes your skin crawl—
Or perhaps it’s because he’s tarrying, still, and hasn’t yet released his death-hold on you.
“…Sorry,” you chirp— chirp, like a little seabird, for Christ’s sake— regretting the words immediately for making you sound spineless. For shortchanging your dramatic win with that humeral head reduction into something childishly insignificant.
Park assesses you like prey clumsily fallen into his arms. Possessing. Considering. Regarding.
Then he unlatches his grip on you. Deliberate. The weight of its absence still sits where they last rested on your skin, scalding, and you’re sure you’ll be feeling the ghost of his touch for the rest of the week.
It feels like an age has passed. Only a handful of seconds, in reality. A simple, fleeting lapse.
Then the Shark is circling the gurney cuttingly again, parting staff with his presence and taking in your handiwork almost lackadaisically, brows pinched as he concedes whether the matter is over with and he gets to wash his hands free of the case.
No compliments. No good job. Just a hum of assent to buoy you.
“CT angio for vascular,” he concludes his final medical order firmly, already half out the door when he turns over his shoulder to cock his head condescendingly at you. “You gonna just stand there all day?”
You blink. Feet kickstarted into trailing after his waterwake before you realise. Unconsciously trained to heed his beck and call. Fight-flight-freeze overridden by his demand; has the rest of the room comically watching you chase after his heels with your face burning from humiliation and your metaphorical tail tucked between your legs.
LIKE I JUST WANT TO SIT ON IT!!!!!!!!!!!! his lap is sooo big and inviting and i KNOW u could just snuggle right in and be sooo comfy and his ass is NOT letting u leave!!!!!!!!
MY BRAINS A LITTLE JUMBLED ON WHEN THIS WAS SENT BUT I THINK YOURE TALKING ABIUT JON PERHAPS? this wording sounds like cregan.. oh well. all three cause why not !
robb would love having you in his lap. especially while he works, your back to his chest & his arm over your stomach to keep you in place as he shuffles papers around. pointing to places & castles on maps, both of you saying which ones you’d like to visit when the wars over. you’d try and help, but sometimes, you just wanna be close to him and not use your brain. and he’s perfectly alright with that.
jon would definitely adore it. adore the closeness, the soft intimacy of it. he hasn’t felt real closeness like this before. most of the time when you’re on his lap, it’s a comfort for the both of you. wrapping your arms around his neck as he wraps his own around your waist. it truly shuts off both of your brains, allowing you to finally just rest. when you both just need some reprieve, he’s pulling you to/you’re sitting yourself on his lap :( <3
cregan omg. he’d pull you to his lap allllll the time. he’s so touchy, those big paws of his that he calls hands just wanting to be on you all day everyday. at the end of a long day, he’s pulling you to his lap as you tell him about whatever comes to mind. his hands are on your hips, and they rub circles, moving back and forth — kneading the soft skin beneath them. and suddenly you can’t remember what you were talking about. & don’t even think about getting up. as soon as you move to get off you’re reminded of his strength as his grip tightens, locking you in place. he only lets go when you tell him you have to pee. 🙄 dramatic as hell.
