[id. A twitter post by @/Bennieeexyz
Jury duty letter came addressed to my cat.
Not a mistake. "Felix Martinez" - that's his full name according to his vet records.
My last name. His first name. Somehow he's a registered voter now.
Called the county clerk.
Me: My cat got summoned for jury duty.
Clerk: Is the name correct on the summons?
Me: Yes, but he's a cat.
Clerk: Is Felix Martinez a legal resident of this county?
Me: He's a legal cat.
Clerk: Sir, if the name matches our records, he needs to appear or file an exemption.
Me: He can't file anything. He has paws.
Clerk: You can file on his behalf.
Me: Under what exemption? There's no box for "is a cat."
Clerk: (pause) Check "unable to serve due to medical reasons."
Me: What's the medical reason?
Clerk: He's a cat.
Me: That's not a medical condition.
Clerk: It is if it prevents him from serving.
Sent in the form. Got rejected two weeks later.
"Insufficient documentation. Please provide medical professional's statement."
Took the letter to my vet.
Me: I need you to write that my cat can't do jury duty.
Vet: Why is your cat summoned for jury duty?
Me: Excellent question. No good answer.
Vet: This is the weirdest request I've gotten.
Me: Can you just write that he's medically unfit to serve?
Vet: On what grounds?
Me: He's a cat.
Vet: (started typing) "Patient is unable to serve due to species-related limitations including inability to speak, read, or comprehend legal proceedings."
Me: Perfect.
Sent it in. Got another rejection.
"Summons is mandatory. Failure to appear will result in contempt of court."
My roommate thought this was hilarious.
Roommate: Felix is going to jail.
Me: This is serious.
Roommate: Bring him to court. See what happens.
Decided that was actually the only option left.
Day of jury duty, put Felix in his carrier. Brought the entire paper trail of rejection letters.
Checked in at the courthouse.
Clerk: Name?
Me: Felix Martinez.
Clerk: (looked at the cat carrier) Is that Felix?
Me: Yes.
Clerk: (long stare) He's a cat.
Me: I've been saying that for six weeks.
Clerk: Why didn't you file an exemption?
Me: I filed three. All rejected.
Showed her the letters. She read through them, expression shifting from confusion to disbelief.
Clerk: Someone rejected the veterinary documentation?
Me: Twice.
Clerk: (called her supervisor over) You need to see this.
Supervisor read everything. Looked at Felix. Looked at me.
Supervisor: How did a cat get registered to vote?
Me: You tell me.
Supervisor: This is a data error.
Me: Took you six weeks to figure that out.
They dismissed Felix immediately. Apologized for the inconvenience.
Supervisor: We'll remove him from the voter registry.
Me: Appreciate it.
Supervisor: (pause) Out of curiosity, how would he have voted?
Me: Probably whatever party supports universal treats.
Got a formal apology letter a week later and a voter registration card.
For me this time. Apparently I wasn't registered, but my cat was.
Roommate: Felix committed voter fraud.
Me: Felix committed nothing. He's innocent.
Roommate: That's what they all say.
Felix is sleeping on the jury summons now.
Fitting end to his legal career.
end id]
Me: What the fuck. David Corenswet is Superman. The guy who built Star Wars Legos with my brother when they were 14. I knew he had an acting career, he did theater and commercials back then and he was in some Netflix stuff, but Superman?
Husband: congratulations, you are having the authentic experience of being Clark Kent's coworker
summary: when Clark can’t make it to the fortress, Krypto brings him to you
pairing: clark kent x female reader
word count: 2.2k
warnings: typical injury/kinda recovery warnings, blood, broken bones, etc. not much else. reader is mentioned have hair once. no other descriptions
a/n: sigh another fic the next day, that’s when you know i’m obsessed. here’s a lil idea i had as soon as i saw the opening scene. if you're new here cause i'm pretty much known for bucky barnes fics, I love angst so that's kinda my lil niche. hope that's okie!
oh and I loved @sharknutz idea of Clark calling the reader sunshine so yeaaa I had to try that out <3
masterlist | send requests
You were never a very light sleeper, per se. It wasn’t like you were waking up with each creak of the floorboards or gust of wind. But you never were one to sleep fully through the night without waking up just once. Clark had this little joke; he could always count on an extra cuddle sometime around 2 am. What could you say? You always slept better with him by your side.
Tonight, sleep proved to be a challenge. Clark had been gone for hours, off handling what you think you heard as some underground group of metahumans terrorizing the capital of Wales? After a while, you couldn’t find it in yourself to watch the news. Sue you, but the constant sight of your boyfriend smashing into concrete and brick buildings wasn’t how you wanted to spend the evening. It never was easy, knowing every time he left in that cape, there was the slightest chance he wouldn’t return. The habit of flicking on the television, just to become distraught and overwhelmed, and turning it off only to cave and flick it on again, consumed your evenings.
The bed was cold, feeling larger than normal without Clark’s large frame claiming more than half the bed and hogging the blankets. Your feet fluttered under the duvet, trying to shake the nerves and unease that engulfed your body. He should’ve been back by now, slipping through the door with a smirk and some half-funny quip about his injuries; it never was all that funny to you. You knew he needed to stop by the fortress first if he was hurt, recharge and heal, and maybe check on Krypto before flying back. Still, it was 4 am, and the news declared the situation to be handled by 1 am.
The thoughts swirling in your brain halted when a crash and the sound of shattering glass echoed through the living room. You jolted upright in bed, stumbling quietly out from the sheets and reaching for the steel pipe you had stashed under the bedframe. Clark always thought it was ridiculous, offering to get you a bat or something, but the pipe was found with your first apartment, and you’d had no issues in all your years since in Metropolis, maybe it was a good luck charm.
You slowly inched to the door as you heard grunts mixed with the sounds of stumbling feet and soft pounding. Any bit of drowsiness you had managed to build up while lying in bed was gone. If you needed to escape, the front door was in the kitchen, which was right next to the bedroom. Shouldn’t be too hard, right? Unless they weren’t human.
Before you could continue to spiral and plan your first mode of attack, the familiar sound of a bark bounced up the other side of the door.
“Krypto?” you asked hesitantly as you lowered the pipe. The grading sound of that familiar yelp continued, confirming your suspicions.
You placed the pipe on the bed before slowly pulling the door open. You couldn’t even greet the superdog before he latched onto the hem of your shorts and tugged you out of the room.
“Hey, buddy, slow down,” you said as you stumbled behind him, trying not to fall. Something was wrong; the high-strung and chaotic pup you had come to know well was never this focused. He dragged you to the living room before letting go of your shorts with a bark. The white dog rushed over to the window- that’s when you saw.
The large bay window was shattered, exposing the crisp air of the early morning. Glass was strewn across the hardwoods. Lying face down in the middle was Clark. He looked wrecked, bruises covered the sharp angles of his cheekbones, and blood dripped from his lips and soaked parts of his hair. His arm twitched slightly, letting you know there was something damaged beneath the suit. He looked awful. The haunting rattling from his chest was the worst, filling the silent room and pounding in your ears.
“Clark!” you said, rushing to his side. As carefully as possible, you slipped to your knees, being sure to avoid the bits of glass that surrounded the scene. Your hands began to shake as you reached for him, scared to do any further damage. You rarely saw him like this, and if so, it tended to be through news footage.
“Honey, hey,” gently, you tried to turn him off his face and onto his back. He cried out at the movement, but his voice quickly turned to a whimper. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”
He didn’t respond, just fluttered his eyes open and glanced up at you. Through the blood on his lips, he still flashed you a smile. Your heart stuttered.
“Hi baby,” he said, through bloody teeth.
“Clark, honey, what are you doing here?” Your voice was frantic as your hands hovered over him, afraid to touch anywhere.
“…needed to heal,” he said, trying to lean up into your touch, but the movement just brought more pain.
Delicately, your hands moved to cup his face, softly brushing a bit of glass from the sable curls that framed his face. As your fingers grazed the dark bruises by his eyes, you couldn’t help but notice how he relaxed under your hands.
Krypto leapt up onto the couch beside you, crawling up to the front and watching as you tried to figure out what to do next.
“Why…why didn’t you go to the f-fortress?” You asked. He hated how he could hear the tremors in your voice, hated how visibly distressed you were. He hated that he was the one to cause it.
He tried once again to lean upright into a sitting position. This time, you grabbed him and quickly propped him against the couch. At this angle, it seemed the airflow in his lungs was strengthened.
“I…too far,” he said, his bright blue eyes fully opening and meeting yours. “I couldn’t…make it. I got as far as outside the city but...”
Your hands moved slowly down from his neck to his chest. Through the thick blue fabric, you could feel the cracked bones of his clavicle and sternum. Your breath caught in your throat as you tried to relax.
“Then why …? Clark, why did Krypto bring you here? I can’t—I can’t fix this,” you said, your words spilled out in an almost incoherent ramble. Your panic stilled for just a moment as you felt Clark’s hand softly reach up for yours, guiding it to his chest where your palm felt the steady thumping of his heart.
“I told him to take me home,” he said as if it was the simplest thing in the world.
A soft sigh left your chest; you couldn’t place what it was, perhaps it was a mix of surprise or relief or even resignation. Those words were everything you wanted to hear. You wanted nothing more than to be his safety, his place to go and feel protected. If he wasn’t battered on your living room floor, those words would have driven you to kiss him silly.
Your hands came to rest on his neck, tenderly keeping his weary head up as you focused.
“Okay… okay, love,” you said, nodding to yourself as your thumbs brushed softly along the dips of his cheeks. Your eyes darted around the room, trying to remember where you placed the first aid kit. You began to rise from your spot beside him, hoping to find some hydrogen peroxide and gauze to clean out the gash by his hairline. A strong hand on your wrist held you back.
“Don’t… please stay,” he said, his brows curling up as he pleaded his case.
“Clark, I need to get stuff to clean you up…we need to fix you,” you said, brushing back some curls to get a look at the wound.
“The sun will be up soon… I’ll be fine,” he said. “Please, just stay, sunshine.”
Your hands moved to cup his face once again, gently leaning in to place a soft kiss to his temple.
“Please, I can’t see you like this. Just let me make you better?” you asked.
Clark always knew his biggest weakness was kryptonite, but somewhere along the way, that changed. Somehow, it became you. He never could deny you, say no, or dare to not put your needs or wants before his own. It didn’t matter if it was inconvenient or difficult or even impossible; if it was for you, he’d make it happen. He could see the fear and devotion in your eyes; he knew the sight of himself was crushing you. You needed comfort, you needed to feel useful, as if somehow you could make it all okay for him. He knew he’d be fine with a few hours, but if you needed to patch him up, then so be it. Who was he to say no when you asked?
“Yeah… of course, baby,” he said, his hand gingerly squeezing yours before letting you go. With a relieved sigh, you rushed to the kitchen. You didn’t miss the needy sigh that left his lips at your absence.
Krypto dashed from the couch, following you through the apartment as you checked your cabinets. You carded through the bathroom until you gathered everything you’d need. Rushing back to Clark’s side, you could feel the pounding of your heart begin to slow. Words ran through your mind, repeating like a mantra as you tried to compose yourself. He’s okay, he’s alive, he’s here.
You spilled your medical stash along the rug as you returned to his side. You gently began to wash out the first cut you saw. You stretched over him as you worked, kneeling but no longer resting on your legs as you found the best angle to wash out the wound. Your hands worked quickly, stopping the bleeding before applying butterfly plasters to close it.
Somewhere lost in your mission, you noticed the weight of the superbeing below you melting into your chest. Clark’s head rested safely against your chest. His good arm wrapped around your thighs, keeping you as close as he could with the strength he had. The sound of his breathing still left you shaky, but his sighs of content helped.
By the time you had finished, the sun began to creep its way over the sky-high buildings of Metropolis. Warm light filtered in through your apartment, casting deep shadows before banishing them with a brighter day. Your hands gently shook Clark.
“Love, sun’s up,” you said. His strength was returning, but he still had injuries only the yellow sun could fix. He slung his arm around you and helped you pull him up as you moved him over to the window.
You did your best to hold him still and steady as the bright glow of the sun coated his body. You were never around when he took his time to heal; you never saw the way he thrashed and cried out at the pain. As much as it killed you to hear his whimpers, you held him firmly, using what little strength you had as a human to keep the god-like man in your arms upright.
With one last cry, Clark sagged back into your arms. You struggled to keep him rooted, but he soon caught himself. You watched as he drew in deep, long breaths, air finally filling his lungs without the eerie rattle you’d never get out of your head. His hands gripped your arm and hip. His arm was straightened out, firm and taut once again. With one last breath, he stretched back up.
“Are-are you okay?” you asked, your hands once again moving around in search of any surprise injuries you may have missed. With a soft laugh, Clark took your hands and pressed a kiss to your palms. He pulled you in closer, cupping the back of your head and slipping his fingers through your hair.
“I’m fine, sunshine. I said I would be,” he said, pulling you close and resting his forehead to yours. “You took care of me.”
You nodded at his words, falling into his chest as your arms wrapped tightly around him. Calloused hands stroked your hair and held you to him as he placed kisses on the top of your head. You peeked around Clark’s large frame to see Krypto stretched over the couch, his tail thumping at the faded leather as he watched you both.
“I’m glad Krypto brought you to me,” you said, resting your head back over Clark’s heart. The steady beat filled your ear and soothed any anxieties that settled in your bones.
Clark rested his chin atop your head, sighing softly as he squeezed you gently, “He brought me home.”
---
I hope you liked it! kinda quick and eh but thx for reading <3
you're the one i love! you're the one i need! you're the only one i see! clark kent finally works up the courage to ask you to dinner; only to run behind on work with lois and completely stand you up. it's fine, you're three glasses of wine in and ready to rant at your friend lois' door, only to find the cause of tonight's rage sitting there on her sofa. now, clark has to find a way to tell you the truth; that this is all a misunderstanding and it's only ever been you. it will always be you.
pairing: clark kent x journalist fem reader (no use of yn)
themes: angst, fluff, implied cheating (more so accusation)
masterlist.
the voicemails started off polite, poised and then four missed calls later you were bordering into unhinged, murderous woman who had been stood up on her first date territory. which you were- so that take is completely true.
you've known clark kent for a few months since you joined the daily planet as a journalist for their women's health section. separated by the plastic wheels squeaking as his bumps his chair into yours and the sweet cups of coffee he starts your mornings with, it wasn't long between your smiles at him became softer. you let yourself look at him a little longer, hanging on to whatever slivers of himself he'd let sneak past his usual charming and boyish front.
he returned those feelings pretty quickly too, through the holding of hands under the desks, him learning a little over your shoulder purposefully to read over your work, the intensity of his closeness throwing you off- how when he'd speak it was as if he had reserved a separate tone just for you- one that felt a little more breathless, thoughtful, pooling heat in your stomach instantaneously and laced with a feeling a lot like love.
it took him weeks to work himself up to ask you on a date. your first date, you mused. clark kent was clearly a man who did things by the book and you had hoped that after tonight, he'd finally meet you in the middle of this strange dance you're stuck in and kiss you silly already.
you'd imagined it in your head a million times; so often that you had once unintentionally started typing out the scene like a true novella; how he'd wine and dine you at the little italian place a few blocks over, dance with you in the dark on the walk home and kiss the remenants of sweet dessert off your lips on your doorstep- instead of filling the column with your recent musings on the importance of gut health in retaining a balanceful mood. you had never smashed the backspace so hard in your life- the angry crushing of keys and the rosy pink flushing the tips of your ears and neck drawing attention to your best friend, lois who stared at you amused.
"he's obsessed with you," she assured with you once, the very first time he looked your way and sent you spiralling. it was the same day he asked you out, a casual question for dinner and maybe it was your fault for overthinking this. he gave you one look and you went running straight into his heart, demanding entrance and free rent.
"hey this is clark! leave your message and i'll try and get back to you-" and you can imagine his obnoxiously gorgeous face, slight chirp in his voice and suddenly the alcohol buzzing war in your veins is giving you the confidence.
"you know clark, if you wanted to just embarrass me you didn't have to take me out to dinner to do that," you grit between your teeth, "oh wait, you didn't even take me out to dinner! call me NEVER." the breath of anger is hot on your phone, steaming the screen. the phone hangs on by a thin thread of misplaced hope and largely embarrassment as it sits between your collarbone and ear.
it's a contrast to the chill air of the apartment stairwell that bites at your bare skin. the off white slip you paired with a soft knit cardigan that was a sweet butter yellow seemed incredible in the moment but right now, only the breeze- bordering wind territory is getting a treat of it tonight. your kitten heels clatter on the stairs up because your friend's stupid elevators are out of service. like mystery man, lois lane had also not returned your calls tonight. you figured she was going through her usual work phases, her perfectionism and hyperfixated need for the chase of a story stealing most of her time. you let her do her thing, its what she loved and you loved supporting her.
when you first moved to the daily planet she was the first to show you around and became the sister you never had; an instantaneous friendship that made the world spin a little slower for you to keep up.
and that's why tonight: three sweaty flights of stairs and two more voicemails that ended with the escape of sniffles has you knocking on your friend's door- in need of an ear to lift this heavy burden of embarrassment of your shoulder.
"lois!" you don't even knock, just throw the entirety of your body weight at her door. your figure is slumped against it when she opens it just by the smallest of inches and maybe if you were intoxicated less, that could've been the first sign.
"he stood me up," the tears stream and before you know it you're sobbing in her hallway- loud wails that widen her eyes comically in fear you're going to wake up the whole neighbourhood.
"i waited," you throw your arms around miserably, like a toddler having a tantrum, "and he never showed."
something instantly freezes in her and what looks like guilt flashes over the sympathetic smile she sends your way before she crushes you into a bone-bending hug. "oh honey," she soothes into your skin and you let the tears soak up her tank top and then you pull back.
"can i come in now?" your voice quiet and lois decided she'd rather the earth swallow her whole.
"i'm a little busy," she winces, trying to close the door a little bit more behind her but you peer through nonetheless anyways, blood freezing cold at the sight of soft black curls you know from the memorisation of how they've felt under your fingers.
"clark," you breathe. its not exactly a question, more so a snot fuelled statement of betrayal as your eyes flicker between him and your friend. you don't know which one to settle on, shift all your focus and blame on because you're so tired and the alcohol is making you drowsier as the minutes tick by.
"honey," he gets up from his spot on the sofa and tries to meet you at the door but the wrinkle in your brow and fury laced in your frown tells him to stop exactly where he is.
"don't you dare come near me," shame rises in your throat and you feel flushed as hell. the heats on the back of your neck, tinging your cheeks in a rosy fire of embarrassment. "god, how could i have been so fucking wrong?" your voice stretches out with a strain and you take a step back in defeat, "i knew i was in over my head," and then you decide no. this is not a pity party for one, you will not take the blame. you were stood up!
"yeah!" you shout with a growl and the two of them look between themselves in concern, unsure of how to approach you.
"honey, wait," a warm and heavy wrist reaches out to grab your arm as you make a sharp turn on your heel- ready to end this night of drunken shame and theatrics.
"oh i did!" you fight the empty laugh with a scoff, "for a whole hour, no texts no calls, nothing," your voice gets quieter, thudding in clark's chest like warning signals blaring disasterously. this is all on him, he thinks. he's fucked up majorly.
you shrug yourself out of his hold, throwing your small purse in the direction of the two of them and hobble away in a huff. the stiletto heels swelling at your ankles as you shift the weight. the air is heavy as you leave it and face the chill of the outside air swimming around you.
the walk back to your apartment isn't far- you live pretty close to lois and when you reach your door, you sigh heavily. leaning your head onto the wooden frame, and as the tears start to well up all over again you bite them back down. in your fit, throwing your purse at the two traitors you forgot that you left your phone and your keys in there. however, sober you is smarter and you use your excellently hidden spare key to unlock the door and crash inside.
it's safer in your home- no one can reach you here, you think. the kitten heels are abandoned at the entryway, and your body collapses straight onto the sofa, not even making it to your bed before sleep chases you and claims to you a life that was kinder to you, where you ate donuts for breakfast and didn't gain a pound, wrote about things that interested you instead of the latest shopping trends and where you could fall asleep in the arms of someone who let you in all the way and just liked you back enough to choose you first.
...
he softly places your purse on your desk infront of you, shifting his weight back and forth, rocking gently on his feet as he waits behind your chair. at 6'4, his height looms over your area, like a cool of shade on a warm summer day, you normally welcome his presence instantly. usually you notice him in a second, with a soft sweet smile in which your nose scrunches a "good morning" and clark kent knows the day is going to be a good one.
instead, he's met with silence.
pure, heavy, lonely silence.
you were thirty four minutes late this morning- he was absolutely counting as he watched the door open and close, hoping it'd be who'd pass in. and when you did you were quieter than usual, hair tied in a messy knot at the back of your head, glasses perched on the bridge of your nose and the same damn yellow cardigan wraps around your frame. only today it sits on top of a black satin slip that sways in the breeze as you take the furthest seat from him. he's instantly tortured with the memories of last night, how undeserving he was to see you in such a fragile but gorgeous state and he blew it completely.
your eyes narrow in on the purse to the side of your computer.
he watches carefully as you poke your tongue in your cheek in thought and prays like hell that you'll just say anything. instead what he soaks up is your snail- like movements who takes all the time in the world to open your purse, not bother checking whether all your things are still there but unlocking your phone.
"i charged it," he has to clear his throat but the earnest rumble still peeks through. you nod slowly, switching it off within a moment and letting it clutter on your desk with a gentle thud- a careless offhanded movement and he winces.
he still waits, hoping you'll throw another crumb his way. he tries not to let the fact that you've not touched the cup of coffee he left steaming at your desk this morning sting his chest like you've poured gasoline over his heart and are just waiting to set it alight.
"not hungry?" he asks, fighting back a stutter. you look over to the muffin he left by the side of your mug and then back at him, a bored expression on your face and clark wishes he could make this whole thing right again. it was a misunderstanding- hard to explain to someone who's drunk- not that he'd ever blame you. it was his fault for getting caught up in his interview with lois he didn't realise the time. he planned this date, he knew about it, scheduled it weeks in advance and he had let it all go to shit because there was someone out there who knew him. and that changed everything, scared him more than anything.
but seeing you so detached, god that's got to top the list for sure.
"no thanks," you deliver flatly, turning your attention back to the screen. your fingers hover lazily over the keyboard and in the reflection of your glasses, clark can still see his reflection fading to the background.
"listen, about last night-" he starts the story he's practises over and over again with great precision but the nerves in his stomach threaten to rip him open still.
"i said no thanks," you repeat more firmly, "look i get it, you're not interested and it's my fault for dragging this on but for the love of god, please don't make this any more awkward for me i will actually die," you don't take your eyes off the screen once but your fingers are frozen. no words typed out but everything said in the open.
"that's so far from the truth-" he begins and you cut him off with a glare sent with pure edge. he stands firm and watches the ice melt with a softened stare. he thinks he has you for a moment and then all the light fades from his eyes when you give him a reassuring nod.
"clark, it's okay. please just go now," and just like that, your focus is taken back to your computer screen and clark is frozen behind you. he stands for a couple more seconds before jimmy places two hands at his broad shoulders and diverts him away.
"i don't know what you did kent, but it's best to wait this out maybe?" he suggests but clark's mind screams the opposite. he has to fix this and quick or the best thing to happen to his life is going to disappear- and he would've just let it all happen.
...
lois gives him a nod across the room and he delivers one exactly the same. at his side, jimmy crosses his fingers and says a prayer which clark thanks him quietly before getting up and walking with such stealth a few feet behind you.
it's lunch time- later than you usually take it but you've grabbed your work bag and have it slunched over your shoulder and make way to the elevator. clark keeps his steps purposefully measured- slower than yours but quick enough to keep up with your momentum. he stops at your side and presses the button to call for the elevator and feels you still beside him.
it's comical how statue-eque you've transformed that clark has to look extra closely to check the rise and fall of your chest to make sure you're breathing.
"hey, do you wanna grab a bite fro-" he can hardly get the question out before you've darted in the direction of the stairwell, taking off at such an incredible speed that clark has to beg for a few huffs of breaths to keep going.
"honey!" he calls out and growls lowly when you do not pause for a single second, jumping down the flights of stairs like each step is burnt straight from hell. clark uses the last of his strength and ounce of caffeine to pull through getting slighter ahead of you and knocks you against the wall.
his hand shoots out in a razor sharp reflex, cushioning your head from where it was moments from meeting the wall as the other pushes itself gently into your abdomen, holding you still.
"stop running from me please," his voice is dangerously low, a plead heavy in the subtle vibrations
"oh," you whisper stupidly at the hand placement, heating pooling in your stomach at the sudden proximity. you hate yourself for how easy it is for him to break your stony resolve. you planned to give him a whole day's worth of the silent treatment but had already broken your pact by charging your stupid phone like a nice human being. ugh.
he stumbles out an apology and pulls back gently, enough to give you some more room to breathe. his hand covering your stomach travels to the side of your hip instead and squeezes it gently in comfort.
"i'm sorry," he whispers, hanging his head low. "lois and i got paired for a new article and we just ran over time. it was my fault, i thought i'd make it to you on time but as we got deeper in the work i forgot to even call or text and," he breathes out slower, "i'm worried i've blown this all because i'm fucking stupid."
his breaths are heavy, slicing the air as it settles thicker with emotions and regrets of last night.
"so you and lois are not?" you can't get the words out and he shakes his head immediately.
"no," he firmly puts, "god, no," theres more emphasis this time, "she's amazing but she's not you. there's only ever been you- there will only ever be you and it fucking kills me that you thought i wasn't interested anymore. honey you hang the stars in my sky and rotate the damn earth, it could never not be you," he whispers again and you nod, staring straight into those gentle eyes.
"i got all pretty for you," your voice cracks, the shards worming its way and seeping through clark's heart. he watches how your eyes glass with a fresh batch of tears and he reaches out to catch the strays intimately, fingers cupping your jaw and he presses his forehead against yours.
"i know baby, and god i'll be sorry till i die,"
"bit dramatic," you ease to break the tension and he huffs out a laugh, "but i appreciate it nonetheless."
"let me make it up to you?" he asks hopeful and you bite your lip, the insecurity and fear of being left behind still making its way into your bones. he can feel that you're inside your own head and curses himself for making you feel this way.
"i don't know clark," you get out honestly, "i felt real stupid sitting there, you also owe me fifty bucks for all that wine," you face the floor, unable to keep eye contact.
he uses a finger to hook under your chin and lift your eyes to him, "i broke your trust," he speaks gently, as if being any louder might scare you away, "i'm so sorry for making you feel forgotten and alone last night, you are important to me more than anything and i'll show it to you. i'll prove it to you, i'm here," he pleads and you sigh, resting your head into his chest and he melts under your touch.
"one chance," your voice heats at his heart. "as long as you promise to delete all those voicemails- i went a little bit overboard," and you flush with sniffle of embarrassment once more. he promises with a chuckle and soft kiss to your temple, holding you in the stairwell for moments that stretch into an eternity.
you don't know that clark cried so hard to each voicemail, he threw his phone in anger, almost breaking it. that he followed you home last night from a distance to make sure you made it back home safe even though he was probably the last person you'd have wanted to see. you don't know that now as you stand in his arms, every bit of honour he has to fight and hang on to desperately when he wants nothing more than to lean down and kiss you stupidly.
he wants forever with you.
and he'll spend the rest of his life working towards it- one dinner, three glasses of wine and eight raging voicemails at a time.
note: i think im just a hardcore david corenswet girl im ngl the press run hes been on lawddddd - 2k on this is crazy!!!!!!! tysm i love u & have posted some clark fluff to celebrate that- but also make up for the angst, i love u!!!! 💘💘
this has already hit twitter like a bomb, but for the tumblr space: the heated rivalry fandom just dropped the first ~100% accurate way to detect if ai was used in writing. with the two main caveats being 1) this only works for *claude* the ai bot developed by anthropic and 2) it only detects unedited ai, as in ai copy-pasted directly from the claude bot. this cannot detect all ai usage, but it will detect if both of those categories are met.
the main document detailing all of their research can be found here. tldr: there is functionally no way for this to ping a false positive. it goes completely based on html, not "ai tells". and it is looking for a piece of invisible code you would not realistically ever type organically: “font-claude-response-body”. they have also provided a free ao3 skin which automatically turns a work red if ai is detected (page 4 of the document).
what has this revealed? that most ai works are not tagging it. in fact, many ai works are actively lying about ai usage by including "fuck ai" tags or authors notes denying it. there is a massive issue of ai users purposely misrepresenting their works to attract anti-ai readers. these ai users are basically treating ao3 like a social media and including buzz words for more clicks.
is there a course of action against this? not really. but the disclaimer this team offers is not to harass these people. that will only make people double down. we simply want them to correctly tag when ai was used so that readers can be informed about what they're reading, just like tagging actual content in the writing. ao3 has an anti-harassment policy that we must abide by, even when directly asking an author for better transparency.
Statistically Speaking - Brendon “The Shark” Park x Reader
Chapter Three: Dana Evans
Series Summary: After completing your residency, you join the staff at the Pitt, the hospital where your husband of nearly ten years (who you already have five kids with) works. With a common last name and radically different personalities, you make a bet on how long it'll take everyone to figure out that you're married.
Chapter Summary: Dana's the one to catch you in the bathroom when you come down with a stomach bug.
Content: vomiting/emetophobia, discussion of pregnancy
A/N: love this one i fear she's very cute and waaahh to me
Word Count: 3.5k
You make it through two full months with nobody finding out about you and Brendon, everybody in on it keeping their lips zipped and everyone else happily oblivious, but that changes one random day when you wake up feeling like shit.
“You should just stay home, baby,” Brendon murmurs as he watches you slog through getting dressed, clearly exhausted and feeling off. “The ED can survive without you for one day.”
You shake your head and insist, “All I need is breakfast and a coffee and I’ll be all set. Just didn’t sleep well.”
“Alright, I trust you,” he sighs, dropping down so he can tie your shoes the way he has every morning for more than 3,000 days. “Take it easy though. For me. There’s that nasty bug going around and if this is the start of it-”
“I’m fine, Bren,” you assure as he stands up. “You worry too much.”
He kisses your forehead and murmurs, “I know. I’m sorry.”
“You’re sweet,” you reply, nudging up to kiss him softly. You know he only worries about your health so much because he had to watch you nearly lose your life a few years ago; you’re sure you’d be ten times as bad if the roles were reversed. “Let’s go get the kids up, yeah?”
He nods solemnly. “I’ll start pancake duty.”
You pat his ass and push him toward the bedroom door. “Good boy.”
Annoyingly, though, you really aren’t feeling better by the time you’ve had your coffee and breakfast and snuggles with your mama’s boy. Still, you take a deep breath, get the little ones in their car seats, and head to the hospital with a determination to get through the day since you have the next two off.
You don’t even make it to lunch.
Your breakfast decides to make a dramatic reappearance out of nowhere, sending you running to the staff bathroom at code speeds. After puking, your skin is about ten shades grayer than usual while you slide down the wall next to the bathroom trash, head spinning and forehead shining with sweat.
The next person to push inside the bathroom is Dana, having watched you hustle away with an expression every mom recognizes when there’s a bug going around. When she spots you, she immediately drops down and touches the back of your clammy forehead. “You don’t feel feverish, but, Jesus, you look terrible.”
“Thanks for that.” You grimace as she grabs one of the little paper cups and fills it with water for you to sip on.
“You’ve gotta go home; you look like you’re gonna pass out. Can I call someone for you?”
Shit, you left your phone in your locker this morning. You manage to mumble out as much to her and say, “If you have your phone, I can tell you my husband’s number.”
He picks up on the last ring after excusing himself from supervising a more-than-capable resident, knowing an unknown number could easily be the kids’ school or daycare. “Hello?”
Your voice creaks through. “Hi, hon, I left my phone in my locker. Borrowing Dana’s. I think I’ve got the bug that’s going around. I’ve been throwing up for like half an hour.”
“I’m so sorry you’re sick, sweetheart,” he soothes softly. “You need me to come down and take you home?”
Dana’s head cocks to one side. That’s a familiar voice, but she can’t quite place it because she’s never heard it sounding sympathetic before.
“Yeah, I think so,” you reply, feeling defeated and exhausted. “This thing’s really knocked me on my ass. Literally, actually. I’m on the bathroom floor.”
Brendon’s voice gains intensity as it lowers in volume. “Are you okay? How serious is this?”
“I’m alright,” you reassure him, “just needed to sit down somewhere cool and quiet. Dana’s here with me being amazing. You’ll come down soon?”
“Yeah, baby, of course,” he sighs tenderly. You hear him shuffling things around, already reorienting his day at the first sign of you needing him. “I’ve got one more quick post-op and then I’ll grab you, okay? Can you find somewhere to hang tight until then?”
“Mhm,” you offer queasily. “I’ll wait for you in Occupational Health, maybe? I can lay down and get some meds there at least.”
“That’s a good idea. Tell them I want blood and cultures. Don’t forget that you want trimethobenzamide, not Zofran, for the nausea. Zofran always makes you too fatigued.”
“Yes, doctor,” you reply with an eye roll. But when the eye roll makes the world spin which makes your stomach flip, you groan, “Thanks, Bren.”
As she puts all the baffling dots together, Dana steps in and tells him, “I’ll bring her up to OT. She looks like she could go down any second, so I’m gonna stick with her.”
Brendon sighs. You know he’s pinching the bridge of his nose to stop himself from getting too upset that he can’t fix everything right away. “Thanks, Dana, I’ll see you both soon.”
Dana manages to get you to Occupational Health without catching any stray questioning stares. After being briefed on your symptoms, the OT nurse gives you a sympathetic smile as she preps her kit. “It’s probably the flu, but we’re going to draw some blood and take a couple cultures just to be safe, alright?”
Dramatically presenting your arm for the poke, you murmur, “As if my husband would let me leave without a battery of tests for a seasonal virus half a Pittsburgh has.”
She smiles knowingly. “Park definitely seems like the protective type.”
“Park the fuckin’ Shark,” Dana sighs, still disbelieving, as she shakes her head. “So tell me: Was he nice when you first met or were you mean?”
Seeing Brendon’s broad form in the corner of your eye, you turn toward him and sigh romantically, “He’s always nice to me.”
The moment he catches your eye, Brendon’s expression softens. Dana’s never seen that before. He strides quickly to your side and takes your free hand as the nurse does your blood draw. With a quick squeeze to your palm, he asks gently, “How’s the patient feeling?”
You tilt your head back and pout. “Supremely crappy. Sorry, baby, I know you told me to stay home this morning.”
Brendon shakes his head and presses his lips to your hair. “Never apologize for needing my help; that’s the job. You’ve been nauseous half of your adult life and you’re used to pushing through it. Shit happens. Let’s just get you home, baby.”
Dana watches the exchange with befuddled eyebrows. Suddenly the mountain of a frown she’s come to know is a gentle giant, his eyes concerned and his expression tender. He’s had baby blue eyes this whole time? Jesus. She never would’ve guessed after avoiding eye contact so long. She gestures broadly and half-laughs as she asks Brendon, “You’re telling me all those precious angels she’s got covering the inside of her locker belong to you? The meanest man in the hospital?”
“Guilty as charged,” Brendon confirms as he once again kisses the top of your head. He’s rubbing your back, too, unable to stop touching you as a way of grounding himself. “We’ve been together almost ten years now.”
She whistles, impressed. Turning to you while the nurse disappears with your tests, she asks, “Any reason you don’t talk about him at work besides the fact that he’s undeniably awful?”
“I talk plenty about my husband,” you laugh softly, not able to muster much energy to tease, “you all just don’t think my cute stories could be about him.”
Suddenly recontextualizing countless adorable accounts, Dana disbelievingly says, “Brendon Park takes his girls to their father-daughter dances every year in a tie that matches their dress. Brendon Park writes notes for his kids’ lunchboxes and takes them all on dad dates so they don’t miss out on quality time with him.” She shakes her head and laughs, “No wonder he keeps his family a secret; I think you might be the sweetest man in the world, Dr. Park. I’m never gonna look at you the same way again.”
“That’s all hearsay,” Brendon snaps back through a chuckle. Then he sighs and tells her, “Look, surgery may be my life, but those kids are my world. Family’s everything.”
Dana can’t help smiling. “God, now I’m gonna be sick.”
You make kissy lips at Brendon and say, “I tell you guys all the time: My husband’s a huge softie.”
Brendon shakes his head and jokingly covers your ears with his hands. “She’s delirious; don’t listen to a word she says.” Then, while you get cleared to leave, he nudges Dana on the arm and adds, “Hey, don’t tell anyone about us, alright? We’ve got a whole bet going.”
And she gives the only response heard in the Pitt: “Can I get in on the action?”
Just as you’re about to go home after your first shift back a few days later, feeling much better after resting and hydrating as with Brendon’s mom coming over to dote on the kids, Dana touches you on the shoulder. Her eyes are sharp and her voice is low. “Do you have a few minutes?”
You glance at your watch. Brendon’s grabbing the boys from daycare, so you can spare a few minutes. “Now?”
She nods and you can see something serious hiding behind her eyes. Immediately you worry about the particularly fragile patient she assisted you with a few hours ago. “No time like the present.”
“Um, yeah, alright.”
She leads you into a private room and closes the door behind her. Inside, she picks up a chart and a few packets of paper she had waiting.
Swallowing hard as your mind easily supplies all sorts of horrible news, you check, “Is this about a patient?”
“Ah, kind of,” she replies, gesturing for you to sit on the bed. You hop up and she steps closer. After a deep breath, she hands over the clipboard – your chart from your visit to OT last week – and says, “No point beating around the bush, I say. You’re pregnant.”
The floor falls out from under you.
Your ears start to ring. Staring down at the litany of blood tests, your eyes settle on that firm POSITIVE next to a sky-high hCG level.
While your heart thuds its way into your throat, Dana adds softly, “I’m guessing you’re already well into your first trimester based on those numbers. Maybe 10, 12 weeks.”
Not quite processing, you blink fast and ramble out, “I- I’m so good about my birth control pills. Same time every day. Never miss them. With five kids, you don’t miss your birth control.”
“I read over your chart, honey,” she explains, standing next to you now so she can place a hand on your upper back. “One of the medications you’re on – the modafinil, for your sleep issues – reduces the effectiveness of hormonal birth control.”
Tears sting at your eyes as you scoff, feeling stupid and confused and jarred, “How did I not know that? I’m a fucking doctor.”
“You’re not a psychiatrist. If they didn’t tell you that, you should sue as far as I’m concerned.” She hands you a couple stapled packets of paper and a pamphlet. Studies, you realize. “Look, take a day and talk about it with your husband, whatever you need to do, but if you decide to stay pregnant, you’ll need to stop taking it because first trimester exposure can cause some complications and malformations.”
If the floor fell out of you at the first news, it’s the ceiling flying off this time. Your hand goes over your mouth as you choke back a sob. “Oh, god.”
“Don’t go panicking yet,” she soothes, rubbing your back how your mother would when you were little. “The chance is still low and you know as well as I do there are things we can screen for and most of them are fixable, treatable, or manageable even if they’re present. All your numbers look fantastic and you’ve got a nice long history of healthy pregnancies, right?”
You wipe the tears from your cheeks and take a deep breath, steadying yourself as much as you can. “Right. Right, yeah. Okay. Everything’s okay.”
Dana gives you a sympathetic, understanding smile. “Do you want a minute alone? Or I can walk you out to your car?”
You sniffle and try to force your face into a grateful expression, genuinely thankful she’s being so kind and taking the time to be supportive. “That would be nice.”
With her voice low and her arm slung protectively around your shoulder, Dana guided you out of the back entrance and to your waiting car. She says goodbye with a tight hug that lingers, promising you everything will be okay.
Then, alone in your car, your mind finally settled enough to relax, you feel that tiny little spark.
Underneath the shock, underneath the panic, underneath the confusion, peeking out like a sprout growing through a crack in the concrete, there’s that familiar bloom of pure love. That soft, sacred, quiet thing that grows unrelentingly inside of you when everything else threatens to crumble.
Love without boundaries, without conditions, without a name. The same love that has you sewing custom Halloween costumes, baking preschool graduation cakes, and wiping sniffly noses all cold season long. A love made from you and the man who’s rerouted and dedicated his entire life to making sure you and your children are safe and adored.
As you turn over the engine, you touch your lower abdomen and murmur softly, “We’re doing this again, aren’t we?”
You hate to say it, but you’re grateful when Brendon is pulled into an emergency surgery at the end of the day, sending his mom to pick up the boys at daycare. It’s nice to have some time to think while you make dinner and help the older ones with homework.
While everyone settles into the evening, you catch yourself watching the kids playing with each other, leaning in the doorway with a soft, far away expression. You’d felt so finished having kids after Felix, but suddenly you can see another baby to bounce as you chase the others around. You can see it so clearly that your eyes sting with tears. Even when you imagine that baby with any myriad of complications, you love it. You want it.
Late that night, all the kids in bed save your littlest one, Felix is half-asleep on your chest, his thumb in his mouth while you watch the TV on low. You just can’t bear to stop moments like this when you know they’re so fleeting. Running your fingers through his hair, just like Brendon’s downy waves, you murmur, “What do you think about becoming a big brother, little man?”
He stirs slightly and gives you a heavy-lidded smile. With a half-giggle that always melts you, he muses, “Baby sister?”
“Baby something,” you confirm gently. “I just have to tell daddy.”
He nods as if knowingly, nestling his forehead into your side. “Daddy happy.”
“I hope so.”
“Know so.”
You’ve convinced yourself that you’ll manage to wait to tell Brendon until after he’s had a solid night’s sleep. But then he comes home. And, in a matter of minutes, you remember it’s impossible for you to keep a secret from him, especially one this big. That’s the problem with being married to your best friend; he’s the one person you want to talk about everything with, even when it’s not the best time.
“I got my bloodwork back,” you tell him tentatively as you watch him go through his bedtime routine from the bed, “and I don’t have the flu.”
After he finishes flossing, he heads into the closet and asks, “Norovirus?”
Your hands start to sweat. This feels very, very different from your other pregnancies. The shadow of Felix’s birth clouds you both. You swallow hard and squeak out, “Not quite.”
Stepping out in nothing but his boxers, a few droplets of water still on his chest from his recent shower, Brendon sits next to you on the bed and cups your cheek. With a furrowed brow, he urges, “I can read you like a book, angel. Spit it out.”
Searching his blue eyes for any islands to rest away from your anxiety, you whisper, “I’m pregnant.”
Every time you’ve told him before, he’s scooped you up into his arms and spun you around and celebrated. This time, the blood drains from his face. His palms go clammy. The world stills.
After a minute, he asks in a voice that’s jumbled up with fear and grief and love and hope and desperation, “You want us to keep it?”
“I think so,” you reply quietly, “but not if you don’t want another-”
“I’d raise as many kids as you’d give me, baby, that’s not what I’m nervous about.” Brendon turns to you, clutches your hands in his, and shakes his head like he’s trying to clear an Etch-a-Sketch. Through tears that just won’t stop falling, he whispers, “After everything last time, after I almost- almost fucking lost you, I don’t know if I can- if I can handle it.”
You rush back, “That won’t happen again, Bren.”
“You can’t know that for sure.”
Brushing his wet cheeks with your thumbs, you remind him, “I can know it to 99.99994 percent based on the latest research. We both know the odds are astronomical that that complication would happen more than once.”
Unable to speak, Brendon buries his face in your shoulder and takes a deep breath. His arms wrap around your waist and he pulls you effortlessly into his lap to hold you as tight to him as possible.
You massage his scalp with your fingertips and soothe, “I’m okay, Bren. I’m just pregnant.”
“I know, baby, I know.” He pulls back and kisses your hand over and over with his eyebrows pinched together. “But you’re older now, and-”
“Sweetheart, I’m not even thirty,” you chuckle and shake your head. “The average woman hasn’t even started having babies by my age.”
“You’re really on one with the statistics tonight,” he half-laughs, wiping his tears and taking a deep breath. After a minute of studying your features the way he always has when he wishes he could read your thoughts, he checks, “Are you sure?”
You nod and give him the first secretive smile. “Completely.”
Brendon hugs you close once again and sighs out all his fears with his next breath. “Then I’m sure with you.” Sliding his strong arms beneath your ass, he offers a mischievous smile and asks, “Feel secure?”
You roll your eyes and grin and nod – and he hoists you up into the air. Letting out a needed laugh, you lock your legs around him and kiss him hard as he spins you around. With your forehead pressed to his, you giggle out, “We’re gonna have a baby.”
“I love you so fucking much,” he says, kissing across your cheeks. Once he’s got you laughing and thrilled, he flops you back on the bed and kisses your stomach. Finally, propped on his elbows next to you, that boyish smile of his blooms in full force. He says seriously, “At least this means we have some wiggle room for our ultimate frisbee lineup. Margot’s not exactly shaping up to be an athlete with all her musical theater.”
You snort run your fingers through Brendon’s hair as he rests his head on your stomach, eyes closed reverently as he once again reimagines his future with another baby. “Hear that, kiddo? Daddy’s gonna teach you to throw as soon as you’re out of there. Work extra hard on building up that right hook.”
“Nah, we need a Southpaw,” he corrects with the most adorable smile you’ve ever seen. Then he just shakes his head happily and snuggles closer to you, the picture of domestic bliss. As he softly kisses anywhere he can, he muses, “We’re gonna have to go ring shopping again.”
You poke him in the pec and balk, “You want me to wear a six carat diamond? My hand will fall off, Bren. We could send one of the kids to college with that.”
He holds up his hand to stop you in your tracks. “One carat per baby; that’s been my rule for a decade and I’m not about to betray my values now.”
With a snicker, you reach back and turn off your bedside lamp, getting cozy under the covers together. “I can’t even wear my ring to work.”
He counters, “But I like when you wear it on dates.”
“Because you like to show me off like some trophy wife.”
Dramatically, he sighs out, “God forbid a man be madly, spectacularly in love with a gorgeous woman and want everyone in a ten-foot radius to know.”
“Fine,” you relent, unable to stop smiling even in the dark, “six carats it is.”
In lieu of my ko-fi, please consider donating to my mother's long-term dementia care fund.
Maybe she breaks a bone on her day off, and Park shows concern over her/them? Even better if she's sarcastic and he doesnt scare her!! 🤭🤭💗💗💗
broken bones
brendan park + attending!reader
ending up in the hospital on her rare day off, arm in a cast after a student accident. what surprises everyone isn't her injury, it's the shark lingering, visibly concerned. around her, he isn't intimidating. just tense, watchful, and oddly careful. why?
The blinding lights of the PTMC hummed with a low-frequency buzz that usually faded into the background of your consciousness. Today, however, that hum vibrated straight into the marrow of your shattered radius.
You sat on a gurney in Trauma Room 3, your left arm resting on a blue sterile towel, looking remarkably like a piece of abstract sculpture that had gone horribly wrong. Your wrist was deformed, caused by a silver fork that screamed of a high-velocity impact with a hardwood floor and a misplaced rug.
"I told you the rug was a death trap," you muttered, voice still tight. You were sweating, the fine hairs on your neck damp.
"Dr. LN, please stop talking and keep the arm still," Whitaker said, his hands hovering nervously over the splint supplies. He looked like he wanted to bolt.
The entire ED felt like they were on edge, and it wasn't because one of their own was injured. It was because of the man currently stalking down the hallway.
The sound of shoes on the floor didn't tap, it thudded. It was a rhythmic, predatory sound. Brendon Park didn't enter a room so much as he occupied it. He was a wall of muscle draped in blue scrubs, his facce a mask of terrifying indifference.
He didn't look at Whitaker. He didn't look at the chart. He walked slow around your gurney, his eyes fixed entirely on the mangled limb.
"Distal radius," Brendon said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. "Colles' fracture. Dorsal displacement. Significant."
"Good catch, Sherlock," you snapped, though a hiss of pain caught in the back of your throat. "Glad we got an expert in."
The room went deadly silent. Whitaker stopped breathing. The residents peering through the glass door looked ready to hold a funeral. Nobody talked to Brendon Park like that.
He was the man who had once reduced a senior surgical resident to tears because the man had asked if he wanted a coffee during a fourteen-hour spinal reconstruction.
Brendon stood at the foot of the bed, his gaze shifting from your wrist to your face. His expression didn't soften, but it narrowed into something focused, something private.
"You fell," Brendon stated.
"The rug won the argument. Are you going to keep doing your Jaws impression, or are you going to fix me?" You said, your jaw clenched.
Brendan stepped closer. He didn't use the gentle touch most doctors employed. He grabbed the side of the gurney, leaning over you, his scent flooding your senses.
"You need a reduction. Then a plate. I'm taking you to the OR."
"I don't need a plate," you argued, even as a fresh wave of agony made your vision swim with white sparks. "Just pull it back into place, cast it, and let me go home. I have a shift tomorrow."
"You aren't working tomorrow," Brendon said. It wasn't a suggestion. He turned his head slightly toward Whitaker. "Hematoma block. Now. Lidocaine, ten ccs. And get me a finger tap setup."
"Dr. Park, the anesthesia team said--" Whitaker started.
"I didn't ask what the anesthesia said," Brendon interrupted, his voice dropping an octave, turning cold enough to frost the windows. "I asked for the block. Move."
Whitaker scrambled.
You watched the younger boy flee and then looked back at Brendon. He was already prepping a syringe, his movements terrifyingly precise.
"You know, you're a really fun time, Brendon. I can't imagine why everyone has a betting pool on which day you'll finally crash out."
"They're inefficient," Brendon replied, his eyes never leaving your arm. He swabbed your skin with iodine, the liquid stinging. "Small talk is a waste of breath."
"And what am I?" you asked, voice softening as the pain spiked.
Brendon paused. He held the needle above your skin. He looked up, and for a fleeting second, the Shark mask slipped. There was a raw, jagged edge of concern in his eyes that he couldn't tuck away.
"A nuisance," he whispered. "A loud, sarcastic, stubborn nuisance who shouldn't have been standing on a rug she knew was dangerous."
He didn't wait for your retort. He plunged the needle in. You gasped, your fingers twitching, but he caught your hand with his free one. His palm was huge, calloused, and incredibly warm.
He squeezed, a grounding pressure that anchored her through th eburn.
"Deep breaths, YN," he commanded.
"Don't tell me how to fucking... breathe," you panted.
He waited. He didn't leave your side while the numbness spread. Usually, he'd disappear to shout orders from across the room. Instead, he stayed, his thumb tracing a slow, rhythmic path over the back of your knuckles.
"Is he... touching her hand?" Whitaker muttered.
"Looks like he's gonna bite it off," Santos whispered back. "Look at him. He's doing that shark thing again."
Brendon ignored them. Once the block took hold, he hooked your fingers into the metal traps, suspending your arm in the air. The weight of the hanging weights began to pull the boens back into alignment.
"This is going to feel like a lot of pressure," he said, stepping into your personal space again.
"I've dealt with patients like these, Brendon. I know what pressure--" He shoved the bone back into place with a sickening crunch and a heavy, wet thud of shifting tissue.
Your scream died in your throat, replace by a low grunt. Your head fell back against the pillow, your eyes fluttering shut.
"There," Brendon muttered. He didn't look triumphant. He looked exhausted. He stepped back, checking the alignment with a portable X-ray. "It's perfect. But the fracture in unstable. You're going to surgery. Tonight."
"I hate you," you breathes, the adrenaline beginning to crash.
"I know," he said. He leaned down, face inches from yours. "I'll see you in the OR. I'm doing the closure myself. Nobody else touches you."
Six weeks later, the cast was off, replaced by a removable brace that you took off the second you walked through the door of Brendon's apartment.
No one in the ED knew. They suspected, of course, mostly because Brendon had become slightly less likely to snap at paople when you were in the building, but the full extent of you both remained a secret.
The apartment screamed Brendon. Minimalist, sharp, and expensive.
Brendon was in the kitchen, his back to you. He was wearing a thin grey t-shirt that stretched across his massive shoulders, the muscles jumping as he chopped vegetables.
"You're late," he said without turning around.
"It was a circus today. Some guy tried to swallow a lightbulb because of a dare," you said, dropping your back and walking uo behind him.
You slid your arms around his waist, pressing your cheek against his warm back. "I'm tired, I'm cranky, and my wrist aches."
Brendon put the knife down instantly. He turned in your arms, his hands coming up to cradle your face. His thumbs brushed over the dark circles under your eyes.
"Show me."
"It's fine, Brendon. Just the weather."
"Show me," he repeated.
You held your left arm. He took it with gentleness and manipulated the joint, feeling the play of the tendons, his brow furrowed in instense concentration.
"The scar's healing well," he noted. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to the thin, pink line of the incision.
"Yeah? Is that the official medical recommendation?" You teased, your heart doing a slow roll in your chest.
"It's a start," he said. He looked up, his eyes dark. He didn't wait for you to speak. He hoisted you up, your legs wrapping instinctively around his thick waist.
The next morning, the ED was in its usual state of chaos. A multi-car pileup that had sent a stream of trauma cases through the doors. You were back on duty, moving through the bays.
You were standing at the central nursing station, reviewing a set of labs, when the familiar thud-thud of footsteps echoed down the hall.
The people nearby stiffened. Ogilvie actually dropped his clipboard. "It's him. He looks like he's in a bad mood."
Brendon rounded the corner. He looked as intimidating as ever. Jaw set, eyes scanning the room like he was looking for someone to audit. He stopped at the nursing station. His presence causing a three-foot radius of empty space to form around him.
He didn't look at you. He looked at Dana. "Bay 4. The hip fracture. Why hasn't the pre-op been started?"
"We're waiting on the cardiac clearance, Park," Dana said. "The consultant is stuck in the OR."
"Unacceptable," Brendon said. "Get them on the phone."
"Can't do anything 'bout it, Shark."
He turned to leave, but as he passed you, his hand brushed against yours on the counter. It was a fleeting, lightning-fast contact, but he let his pinky finger linger against your nuckles for a fraction of a second.
"Dr. LN," he said, his voice flat and professional. "A word."
You looked up, expression a mask of bored annoyance. "If it's about the patient in Bay 6, I already told you, it's just a soft tissue injury. He doesn't need a consult."
"The patient in Bay 6 is a moron," Brendon said. "I'm talking about your lunch break. You're taking it at 12:30."
"Am I?" you asked, raising an eyebrow. "I didn't realize you were in charge of the schedule now, Dr. Park."
"12:30," he repeated, his eyes boring into yours. For a split second, the corner of his mouth twitched--the ghost of a smirk. "Don't be late."
He turned and strode away. Ogilve stared after him in stunned silence.
"Did he just... tell you when to eat?" He whispered, looking horrified. "And he didn't even yell."
"He's just very concerned about hospital efficiency," You went back to your labs, but you couldn't hide the small, triumphant smile playing on your lips.
You looked down at the hand he had touched, the hand he had meticulously put back together.
"He's not so bad," you said, voice light. "Once you get past it all."
The residents exchanged skeptical looks, but you just tucked your chart under your arm and headed toward Bay 4. Across the ED, Brendon paused at the door of the trauma bay.
He looked back over his shoulder, his gaze finding yours in the crowd. You caught his eye and gave him a tiny, imperceptible wink.
Brendon Park, the man who made grown surgeons tremble, felt a strange unfamiliar warmth spread through his chest. He turned back to his patient, his voice regaining its sharp professional edge.
summary: you think about all the times brendon park has been good to you whilst others question if he could ever partake in a relationship. (wc: 2.3k)
pairing: brendon ‘the shark’ park / pitt!f!reader
content: fluff. secret relationship with the pitt’s shark. grumpy x sunshine duo. pilates princess!reader?? 100% park the shark ooc because i didn’t watch all of the season & he’s on for all of 1 minute lmao.
dedicating this draft to @novatheory for dragging me by the collar back into the pitt obsession
“Do you think he ever feels anything other than bitter resentment?”
You peered over the monitor you had been using to compete in the catch up with Santos on your charting—something Dr. Al-Hashimi took great pride in addressing from time to time. Whitaker and Javadi had their elbows leant against the work station, whilst Santos pressed the heels of her palms into her eye sockets from the mild distraction caused by her peers.
(Safe to say, you were winning the catch up game. Well, until your interest had piqued too.)
Fingers paused on the keyboard, you awaited the conversation to strike up against after a pregnant pause.
Whitaker hummed, “I think he just stares at a wall when he goes home.”
Who were they talking about? You craned your neck to look into Trauma One, where—from your seated position—you could only make out a green fleece and rounded shoulders.
“Dr. Robby?” You dove into the discussion head first. Three sets of eyes turned to the sound of your voice, and you managed to return the blank look on their faces. “Are you talking about Dr. Robby?”
It would make sense. You weren’t partial to the knowledge that Dr. Robby could hold an immense amount of resentment, and spend his spare time boring his eyes into the blank slate of a bedroom wall. There was a great depth of sadness behind those brown eyes and weathered features that would wrinkle in amusement any time you spoke.
Dr. Robby liked you. A breath of fresh air in an all-too-consuming atmosphere that often felt like the walls were closing in with no exit in sight. In spite of this, you weren’t immune to his wrath of a bad day and unaddressed mental health problems that he struggled to pin down.
However, it didn’t entirely make sense for the three musketeers loitering at the work station, to be putting negative connotations on their nuanced Chief Attending; that often gave them the benefit of the doubt.
Santos rubbed at her forehead, speaking lowly, “No. They’re talking about Park the Shark.”
Now, that was a name that made you forget about the looming deadline of your charting.
Park the Shark. The rather foreboding entity that bestowed his abrasive presence within the ED when he was called down from Orthopaedics to leer over a case. Broad shouldered with sharp facial features and an attitude that would silence a room rather than liven it up. Some would assign him to the adjective: arrogant.
If you were playing the same crossword, you much preferred the noun: boyfriend.
(Something that wasn’t common knowledge to the hub of gossip in the PTMC.)
Your smile grew wickedly. Nothing quite like hearing your boyfriend of five months and ten days catching strays whilst inspecting a broken femoral bone alongside Dr. Robby.
“Oh—” You started, standing from your spot to join Whitaker and Javadi with your half drunken coffee in one hand. You nudged Whitaker to move up, “—I’m sure he’s a kitten beneath all of that mean facade.”
“Coming from the person who always gives people the benefit of the doubt?” Javadi laid her eyes on you with a playful smile, “Yeah. Your opinion is invalid. Look where that landed you last time.”
Javadi was referring to the dicey situation you landed yourself in with a flighty forty-year old man with a bad burn and enough pills in his bloodstream to hallucinate that you were a six-foot threat holding a knife designed for his jugular. You had taken the case with a pep in your step, and a broad smile—because you wanted to help. The same friendly smile and dash of naivety that got wiped clean off your face when the man lunged at you with the intention to block your windpipes on a more permanent basis.
It took Donnie, Robby and Jesse—with a couple of fists to the back from Dana—to pry the guy off of you.
You scrunched your nose up at the memory. “Low-blow, Dr. J.” You took a sip from your straw, eyes trained on the large surface area of your boyfriend’s back as he manoeuvred around the patient.
Javadi spoke again, “Can you imagine him in a relationship?”
Yes. Yes, you could!
By all means, Brendon Park was nothing short of a grouch. Low-browed, body made up of ninety-nine percent brood, loathing things such as, his time being wasted, small talk; or long queues in traffic and in the stores on his rare day off.
The other one percent, though? All made for loving you.
When it came to you, Park the Shark—as he had been so graciously titled in the Pitt—was all softened edges and lack of authority in contrast to his razor-sharp reputation in the workplace. When Brendon Park was around you, doors would magically open, the caffeine addiction wouldn’t come with a small dent in your chequing account, and if you suddenly found the inspiration to invest in a herb garden at 9AM? Brendon Park conjured up a green-thumb and made it happen.
He would press a soft kiss to the back of your hand at stoplights, power through four episodes back-to-back of Love Island, despite finding it the most mind numbing piece of garbage that was ever thrown on TV. He would find the right angles for semi-planned candid photos for your Instagram feed, with zero means of protest. He would sweat through a Pilates class after some light teasing from you, that someone with his stature couldn’t possibly make it through an entire session. (He did, but he wasn’t far from quitting.) One time, in between sharing a bad takeaway and a movie that you had pleaded to watch, Brendon tried out your LED face-mask that you had bought on a whim.
Just because you asked him to.
Let’s not even address what had happened behind a closed curtain and the aggressor of your attack, when Park had found out upstairs.
Which, funnily enough, had been the pinnacle moment in where you began to realise how deep Park’s feelings ran for you.
1.) Because what business did an OR surgeon have with a man under the influence of narcotics and a bad burn on his forearm? And 2.) Because it hadn’t always been smooth sailing seas to the heart of the Shark hunting the shallow waters of the ER.
“You’re like a cockroach.” Park had stated with a yank of his latex glove. He had been brought down with Garcia, and quickly realised that he was surrounded by incompetent butchers, which only furthered his impatience when you approached him with the sunniest disposition and a mouthful of conversation for him.
It seemed that you were the only person in the entirety of the PTMC that would rush to the opportunity to speak to the infamous, Park the Shark. Your consistency was a little vexing, because Park didn’t exude the whole ‘please talk to me!’ vibe, in fact, the only other thing than work that he put effort into; was being closed off.
(Didn’t mean he shut off the ability to recognise a visually astounding resident.)
You placed a hand to your chest in faux-flattery, “Thank you, Park.”
“It wasn’t a compliment.”
Despite wanting to project a healthy amount of space between him and you, Park still made sure to hold the door open by his foot until you sauntered past him. You flashed him a mischievous grin in passing, “The symbolism of a cockroach is that they’re resilient. They thrive even in the most extreme environments.”
With his palm held beneath the dispenser, Park didn’t spare you as much as a glance as he scoffed, rubbing the spit of sanitiser up to his wrists before stalking over to the stairs to retreat back into the confines of the OR.
You had watched him go, calling out to him before he disappeared, “I’ll be ready with more animal facts for whenever you’re needed down here!”
And, you did exactly that.
Any snippet caught of Park the Shark lurking in the murky waters of the ED with a hardened expression and little time for pleasantries, you were there with useless facts on a vast array of animals. It started off vague, and then you thought it would be fitting to only present shark facts to the local grump.
The first fact had been met with a brief look up and down in utter silence. The second time, you had matched his strides toward Trauma Two and uttered that capybaras made great companions to alligators which earned you a shake of the head, and a slight curl of his lip—something you would have missed, if you hadn’t been inspecting his facial expressions. The third, fourth and fifth time, Brendon Park could be considered a hypocrite. No apparent time for small talk, but now, he would find himself slowing his walk whenever you giddily rounded the work station to do your fair share of sugar talking.
A man of few words spoke a great deal when it came to his actions.
So, when Park the Shark idled up next to you with his hands braced against the edge of the countertop, and a thunderous face; anyone might have presumed you were about to receive an earful.
(You hoped not. This was the day that, just hours prior, a patient had you in a chokehold.)
“Female sharks have evolved to have skin that is three times thicker than male sharks.” Park uttered the fact to you, whilst his eyes softened remarkably under the intrusive lighting overhead.
You blinked, not expecting him to partake in your adolescent game. “I—Uh…”
“All good?” He interjected.
“Yeah…Yeah, I’m good.” You swallowed, cringing when the reminder of the assault struck a sharp pain down your throat. You smiled meekly.
Park gave a curt nod, “It’s been dealt with.” And, then he knocked his knuckles against the surface top and parted through the sea of nurses and patients.
You were left utterly bedazzled.
Dana Evans, who stood close by and had no intentions of minding her business when she witnessed the lonesome Shark prowling about her ED, swimming up to one of the fresh-faced residents with all the suaveness he could muster from his cold exterior; simply let out an impressed chuckle, her hand coming to rest on your shoulder to give it a quick squeeze.
You tilted your chin up to stare at the mother figure of the Pitt.
“You did it, kid.” Her accent thick as she spoke into your ear, “You’ve caught a shark.”
The charge nurse was then subjected to a tight-lip and a nonchalant shrug if anyone—like Perlah or Princess—queried Park the Shark’s regular attendance in the ED, even when he was not required. She turned a blind eye to the coffees delivered under your name with a cryptic note that had been left for your deciphering only. And, when you adorned a cute little shark pin on your badge…well, Dana Evans bit her tongue and diverted her attention to what mattered.
The only thing Dana had commented on was that, against all stereotypes of the big bad boyfriend and bubbly girlfriend, she had become privy to the knowledge that Brendon Park liked his luminous green matcha and you liked your black coffee; this was after she had caught you sneaking a kiss with the intimidating OR figure before your shift started, both grappling onto your drinks of choice from the local coffee shop a few blocks down the road.
It was also the first time Dana had ever seen a smile on Park’s face. (Something she thought about for the rest of her shift, because clearly, you were doing something right to soften that concrete shell of his.)
So, as a collective, Brendon Park exceeded all expectations for a man who severely lacked the traits of a social butterfly. He was a man that proved that being mean to the world never encroached into the space of when it came to loving his girl.
And, you were being loved right.
With all this thought about having a magnitude of gratitude for the hostile OR surgeon that made enough space for you and your bizarre animal facts to slot into his life, you watched as Park peeled the latex gloves from his hands and exited the room that Dr. Robby remained in for a few moments more. His hand—as everyone’s routinely did—came to the sanitiser dispenser; eyes scoping the chaotic scenes of the Pitt until he managed to find you amongst the other residents.
No animal facts today, big guy.
You took a sip of your coffee.
Park tilted his chin at you when he began to rub the sanitiser into the callus of his hands. There was not a singular hint of a smile, but from the intensity of his stare, you could presume his thoughts were far from the means of child friendly.
(Neither of you had the desire to catch a HR case with Glorida Underwood. So, the PDA of it all stayed within the confines of the PTMC car park, or either of your apartments.)
“He’s looking right at us.” Javadi muttered under her breath, body turned to face Whitaker—who was quick to busy himself with his watch—and you from the side to prevent the obvious staring you had all been doing.
Park began to wade through the ED, eyes set on you as he made his way back to the stairs—because he didn’t have time for elevators. You spoke to him through the subtlety of facial expressions, and he exchanged yours for a brief wink which made your skin prickle with heat.
He disappeared to the staircase, and your phone brightened up in your scrub pockets.
Sharky (4:26pm): You’re beautiful. Love Island tonight.
Yeah. You thought. Who could ever tame a shark like that?
summary: park accidentally washes your number off his hand, you make him a list of things to do to get it back. (wc: 1.9k)
pairing: brendon park / f!reader
content: fluff and humour. park is still moody but a softie for reader. grumpy x sunshine. pilates princess!reader who is a menace. related to these fics. the idea is to write each thing on the list as its own little blurb/fic!
pilates princess!reader agenda
Park didn’t think twice when the sanitiser spat into the central part of his palm, because it had been drilled into every medical professional to make use of the dispensers located throughout the different zones to prevent unintentional spreading of infections. Plus, it had just become habitual at this point.
So, when the inky blue smear from a ballpoint pen slathers up to his wrists; it was safe to say the realisation seeped into his bones almost instantaneously from his grave mistake.
(Being stoic enough, none of the fellow Ortho doctors took note of the miniature change of expression.)
Brendon Park had just rubbed your phone number off in one swipe. Your cute hand-writing turning to a streak of diluted blue, dissipating with his palms rubbed together. Part of him chastises the other half of him that had dipped into the deep waters of the Emergency Department with a poor execution of flirtations and—what he classed as—an impressively old school way of getting a woman’s phone number.
It made sense why it hadn’t gained further traction in the more modern era of exchanging numbers.
In spite of the minor blunder, Park continues his day throughout the OR which includes, repairs for traumatic fractures, the odd joint replacement and Laminectomy to relieve some poor patients pressure that had been pressing on their spinal cord.
He has every intentions when a vacant space in his schedule becomes apparent to march back down to the ED, and catch you for your number again. This time; with his phone in hand.
Unfortunately, that plan goes haywire when a patient was wheeled in with an infected prosthetic joint. Park proceeds to make his soured mood from the increasingly complicated surgery, everyone’s problem in the Orthopaedics department.
Park kept it in his best interests to prevent you from receiving the same fate as his fellow co-workers after a tricky surgery that could’ve been prevented if the prior surgeon hadn’t butchered the prosthetic, and left his emotions to stew into a simmer before he finds you again.
It doesn’t take more than twelve hours before he’s swimming about the ED with an unrelenting facial expression of disconcert. The two nurses, Perlah and Princess, huddle together to whisper in Tagalog as he passes, his head giving them a subtle nod to acknowledge their presence as he walks by them.
The same isn’t said for when Dennis Whitaker catches his eye, in that mouse-like wonder he carried.
“You need something?” Whitaker asks, unsure of what waters he’s treading in.
Park slows, low-browed as he bestows a judgemental gaze upon the resident, “Not you.”
“O-kay.” Whitaker murmurs, returning back to his charting without further elaboration needed.
The Orthopaedics doctor rounds the hub, head on a swivel to catch a glimpse of floral pattern beneath dark scrubs with the occasional acknowledgement to the peers that he was more lenient on the patience side with. Sets of eyes follow him with the question in repetition: Who called for Shark?
Dr. Robby shares the same sentiment when he saw the infamous sharp features peer into the trauma room he was currently in with a handful of residents. He had been sporting a teaching cap to the younger generation of doctors whilst walking them through a nasty head-on car collision with collateral damage following behind in gurneys.
It was your reaction that had Robby’s brown eyes drift from Park the Shark toward you, where you openly stared with the body language that only furthered Dr. Robby’s suspicions of the happenings between the mean-mugging Ortho doctor and his cup always half full rather than half empty, resident.
You perk and then smother your joy by clearing your throat, gloved hands clasped together with your eyes narrowed at the open gash on the patient’s chest.
“Anybody know why Park the Shark is stalking Trauma Two?” Santos says flippantly, suited in a white gown and blue gloves.
You press your lips together.
Robby—however—does not. He looks directly at you with a tilt of his head, “I have a few guesses.”
It makes your skin prickle with embarrassment that your Chief Attending continued to prove the reason as to why he was top of the food chain in the ED of the PTMC. Aside from Dana Evans, the geriatric male—not even close to that title, but it had made him laugh dryly when you had said it to him—was the eyes and the ears of the whole operation down in the Pitt. Observation was key to run an Emergency Department; and it seemed as if Michael Robinavitch was in abundance of it.
He doesn’t dismiss you, nor does he attend to your affairs with Park the Shark; who remained stood outside of Trauma Two like a bodyguard and not a highly sought after doctor a few floors up.
Seems like he had all the time in the world when it came to you.
Once the patient had been overseen by Dr. Garcia, the group of residents are prompted to move onto other ailments dotted on the board overhead. You move behind Dr. Robby, who flashes you a knowing look over the rim of his glasses and you dip beneath the arm he was using to hold the door open for you.
Park walks in formation with you. Prompt and ever so casual. (Definitely not a man on the edge of begging over some digits.)
“You are starting to stick out like a sore thumb down here,” you point out, knowing his growing attendance in the Pitt was catching unwanted attention. You rub your hands together with sanitiser between them, “There’s a joke going around that you’re the shark in shallow waters, that’s gotten a taste for human blood.”
“Does that make you the human I tasted?”
You scrunch your nose up, “Don’t be crass.” you make a beeline for a free computer, sitting down with Park leering over you as you work. “What can I do you for, Sharky?”
Park has a hand against the back of the desk chair you’re sat on, his head lowers as if he’s checking over some notes that are none of his business; on the monitor in front of you.
The closeness draws out a smile from your lips.
“I sanitised your phone number off yesterday.” Park mutters, eyes darting across a blank document. He points to it for theatrics, “I brought my phone down this time, so you can just input it there.”
“Oh, I can, can I?” you croon.
“You don’t want to?”
You shrug as Park turns his sharp eyes to you, “I don’t know…it didn’t seem that important if you just—” you wave your hand about as you playfully speak, “—lost it.”
“It was an accident.” Park says in a softer tone because it’s you he’s speaking to.
“Intentional dressed up as an accident.” you retort and begin typing a string of random letters into the document you had opened, feeling amused by the upper hand you’ve been gifted. “My number is a privilege to have. Seems like you lost that privilege, Sharky.”
Oh good, Park thinks, you’re going to make him beg.
He shifts beside you, throat bobbing as he conjures up a lighthearted apology. Despite the softening of edges that you had done in the time that Brendon Park got to know you, he was still a brash, direct man with little room for humour. So—ironically—the bone doctor was losing in his attempt to find his funny bone in this sudden back and forth you had created.
Instead, you answer for him.
“It can be undone. You seem like a man who thrives in harsh working conditions, and I can provide you with harsh, Park.” you goad him cruelly, “I have expectations when it comes to grovelling, and usually they come in a more physical form than verbal.”
Park blinks. Were you asking for a sexual favour?
Evidently, you saw the same thought cross his blank expression and jump to mend that idea, “No, you do not need to whore yourself out for my number. However, let me know your schedule, and you can prove your worthiness for my digits again through hard labour.”
There wasn’t even a beat of hesitation, no argument that came to the forefront of Park’s mind as you ordered him about like a dog in training. You yanked his leash, and he came bounding after you—didn’t mean he didn’t slightly curse your defiance in his mind. Either way, he silently fished his phone out from his pocket and opened up his schedule for you to take a look at.
Each minute you two spent in each other’s company added more curiosity to everyone’s lips. (They were just ensuring you were okay, for the most part.)
Neither of you cared to notice as you opened up your calendar to mirror Shark’s schedule for Orthopaedics.
You reach for his phone, “Do you mind?” you ask politely with those sort of twinkly eyes that makes Park’s knees go a bit soft. You smile up at him when he willingly hands it over, “Thank you.”
You soon find out that Park the Shark’s calendar is nothing but a strict regime. Work, run, work, therapy at 5PM, food shop and more work. So the rumours were true: he was a lone shark.
What better way than to brighten that loneliness up with some decoration?
Satisfied, you hand Park back his phone, noting how he had spent the time you had been punching information into the empty dates on his calendar; by making the surrounding doctors and nurses scarce with a mean look to make them back off.
“You can come do these things with me.” you say happily when you lock the computer screen, “Fun things.” you add.
Park scrolls through his calendar with one finger. His brows pinch, “…Pilates?”
“Yes!” you clap your hands together, “Ooh! You’ll love it.” (He wouldn’t.) When Park gives you a disapproving look at the list of things you added to his week, you dramatically deflate on the spot, “Come on, Park. You know it’s okay to be multifaceted? It isn’t a crime. You Ortho Bros are such meatheads.”
(Risqué insult, but it paid off.)
“Do I look like I go to Pilates?”
You give him a slow look up and down, “…Do you need me to answer honestly?”
Park could’ve kissed your smart mouth. He went for the latter of a short huff that could’ve been mistaken for a snippet of laughter.
Your own face cracks with a big grin, “These are my expectations, big guy. If you don’t want to do these things with me, well, my number just wasn’t meant to be. Was it?”
“It was. You’re just playing a mean game.” Park states as he tilts his chin upward, staring down the slope of his nose at you.
It was incredibly attractive, to be honest.
Even with the little resistance, Park was prepared to play the long game with you at the core of it. If he had to attend a Pilates class everyday at the crack of dawn, then so be it. It would also mean he’d catch a glimpse of you out of scrubs, and greedily take up your spare time with his brooding presence; not that, that phased you.
He slots his phone back into his pocket, “I’ll see you tomorrow for…Pilates, then.”
“Okie-dokie!” you pat his broad back as he turns to take leave. You speak lowly, “I can’t wait to see you in your Pilates get-up.”
You know this because the clock on the vitals monitor is directly in your line of sight, and you’ve been keeping track of the minutes while tracking the patient’s vitals- numbers ticking over in the periphery of your attention while the rest of your brain tries to keep your hands from shaking.
Fourteen hours. You’ve been on for fourteen hours. The last thing you ate was half a protein bar at six am that tasted like shit, washed down with burnt coffee from the break room pot that nobody’s cleaned since before you started this rotation. There’s a tremor in your left hand that you’ve been hiding by keeping it pressed flat against your thigh whenever you’re not actively doing something with it. The skin around your fingernails is ragged where you’ve been picking at it- a habit you thought you’d kicked in undergrad, resurrected now by the particular misery of being the stupidest person in every room you walk into for twelve weeks straight.
And Park is still ranting
It’s the sutures. It’s always the sutures, or the charting, or the way you positioned the drape, or the fact that you apparently hesitated for a quarter of a second too long before calling out a dosage. Today it’s the sutures. Something about your tension. Something about spacing. His voice has that cadence it gets when he’s not actually teaching anymore, when the correction has already been made and absorbed but he’s still going because he likes the sound of his own authority filling a room. It rolls out of him, low and unhurried, the kind of voice that doesn’t need volume because it knows no one in a thirty foot radius would dare interrupt it.
Your eyes sting. Not from crying; you’re so far past crying that the thought of it feels almost quaint, a luxury for people who slept more than three hours last night. They sting because you haven’t blinked in too long, because the fluorescents in this room have that particular institutional flicker that you can’t quite see but can absolutely feel, a faint buzzing pressure behind your orbital bones that’s been building since noon.
"- and if you’re going to work in my department, you need to understand that I’m not going to hold your hand through basic -”
“Oh my god, shut the fuck up.”
The words don’t feel like yours.
That’s the first thing. They don’t feel like something you decided to say. They feel like something that fell out of you, dislodged by exhaustion, the thing holding it in place quietly giving up. Your voice doesn’t even sound right. It’s flat, toneless, the weight of someone who genuinely, completely meant it.
The room changes.
It’s not silence- the monitors are still going, the ventilator still pushing rhythmic air through tubing, the IV pump clicking through its programmed drip rate. But the human layer of the room, the subtle living soundscape of people breathing and shifting and existing in proximity to each other... that just stops.
You feel it before you understand it. A stillness that presses against the outer edges of your awareness like a change in barometric pressure.
Then your brain catches up.
First, the echo of your own voice playing back to you on a half second delay, the consonants sharper than you expected, the fuck landing with a hard, percussive weight that seems to bounce off the tile and come back louder. Then the context: the room, the hierarchy, the badge clipped to Park’s scrubs with ATTENDING PHYSICIAN printed beneath his name. Then the realization. The simple, devastating realization of what you just did.
You are an intern.
Twenty six years old. Four months into your emergency medicine residency. You do not yet have the authority to order a meal from the cafeteria without someone double checking it. You have told a senior attending- the senior attending, the one the other attendings don’t even argue with- to shut the fuck up.
In front of people.
Your peripheral vision starts feeding you information you don’t want. Robby, to your left, has shifted his weight backward. Not a full step. Just a transfer of gravity from the balls of his feet to his heels, a subtle rocking away from you that his body chose before his conscious mind caught up. Whitaker has dropped his gaze to his hands, looking at his own fingers like he’s never seen them before, studying them with the rapt, deliberate focus. Behind you Princess has stopped writing. The pen isn’t moving. The soft scratch of ballpoint on paper that’s been a constant background noise for the last hour is just gone.
Nobody is going to save you.
The thought arrives with a nauseating clarity. There is no version of the next thirty seconds in which one of your co-interns steps forward and makes a joke to cut the tension or offers some plausible reinterpretation of what just happened. You are alone in this like a dream where you’ve shown up somewhere without clothes, exposed and and suddenly aware that every exit is very, very far away.
Your pulse is doing something it shouldn’t. You can feel it in your throat, your wrists, the soft dip behind your ears. A rapid, threadlike fluttering that you’d flag as tachycardic if it belonged to someone else. Your mouth has gone dry, tongue too thick, too present, a useless slab of muscle sitting behind your teeth with nothing helpful to contribute.
Apologize.
The word surfaces like an air bubble, wobbly and urgent.
Apologize right now. Open your mouth. Say Dr. Park, I’m so sorry, I don’t know what- say something, say literally anything, you have a medical degree, you passed boards, you are a person who is capable of organizing words into sentences that-
Your eyes lift.
You don’t decide to look at him. It’s closer to compulsion, the same instinct that makes you look toward a sound you didn’t expect, your body orienting itself toward the source of the danger before your higher brain can intervene.
Park hasn’t moved.
He’s in the same position he was in thirty seconds ago, shoulder against the supply cabinet, arms folded across his chest, one ankle crossed over the other. The posture of a man who was mid-lecture and simply… stopped. His mouth is closed. The steady, unbroken stream of correction that’s been filling this room for the better part of ten minutes has ceased completely, and in its absence his jaw is set, his lips pressed together tight, like he’s keeping something behind it.
His eyes pin you to the floor.
They’re on you. They’re only on you. Not scanning the room for the reactions of the other interns, not cutting toward the door, not doing any of the things you’d expect from a man whose authority was just challenged in front of others. He is looking at you with a fixed, undivided attention that feels less like being seen and more like being ripped apart from the inside, read down to the last molecule.
His expression is... you don’t have a word for it. His brows are level, not raised in surprise or drawn together in anger. There is no visible tension in his forehead, no flare to his nostrils, no whitening around the corners of his mouth. The set of his face is almost neutral, would pass for neutral, except for something happening in the space between his eyes and his mouth that doesn’t match. Something you keep trying to categorize and failing because it doesn’t fit any of the reactions you braced for. Not fury. Not cold professional disapproval. Not the performative disappointment of a superior preparing to make an example of you.
He looks like someone just set something down in front of him that he didn’t order but has every intention of keeping.
Your stomach drops about six inches.
It drops because you recognize that look. Not from Park, not from this context, but from somewhere older and less clinical, somewhere your hindbrain catalogued and filed away under a category you absolutely cannot be accessing right now, standing in an exam room in your scrubs with your career in a shallow grave at your feet.
The air conditioning kicks on overhead, a low mechanical shudder that moves through the vents and stirs the hem of the curtain partition to your right. Someone’s pager goes off down the hall, muffled through the closed door, two short bursts and then nothing.
Park still hasn’t said a word.
He’s watching you the way you’ve seen him watch a complicated case- that particular narrowing of focus, that quality of stillness that means the gears are turning somewhere behind his expression, that means he’s already three steps ahead and you just became the most interesting problem in the room.
His chin dips. Just barely. A fractional tilt downward that changes the angle of his gaze, sends it through his lashes instead of over them, and the difference that makes is something you feel in the backs of your knees.
Your mouth is still open. You haven’t apologized. You haven’t said anything at all. The silence has gone on long enough now to calcify into something that feels almost agreed upon, a held breath between two people who both know what just shifted and neither one has decided what to do about it yet.
Somewhere behind you, Robby clears his throat and murmurs something about checking on a patient in Bay 4. Whitaker rushes to join him. The door opens. The door closes.
Park’s mouth changes.
It’s not a smile. It’s barely even movement. Just the faintest asymmetric pull at one corner, a shift in his expression so subtle that if you weren’t staring directly at it- and you are, god help you, you absolutely are- you would have missed it entirely.
Your brain is still trying to apologize. You can feel the words piled up somewhere behind your soft palate, a traffic jam of I’m so sorry and I didn’t mean and please don’t report this, but none of them are making it to your mouth because your mouth is busy doing nothing. Your lips are parted about a centimeter. You’re breathing through them because at some point in the last forty five seconds your nose stopped being sufficient, your body rerouting to the faster intake the way it does when you’re afraid, when your hindbrain has identified a threat and started allocating resources accordingly.
The problem is that your hindbrain and your forebrain are in violent disagreement about the nature of the threat.
Your forebrain says: career. You’re thinking about your career. The program director. The evaluation that Park files at the end of this rotation. The letter in your file that will follow you to every fellowship application, every attending position, every hospital that ever Googles your name.
Your hindbrain says something much less articulable and significantly more inconvenient.
Park takes a step forward.
Not toward the door. Not toward the computer, or the supply cabinet, or any of the dozen professional destinations that would make this a normal post lecture movement of a senior physician continuing with his day.
Toward you.
It’s one step. A single, unhurried shift of weight that puts him maybe three feet closer than he was, which means he’s now close enough that you can see the specific weave of his scrub top, the way the fabric pulls differently across his shoulders than it does across the plane of his chest, the slow and even rise of his breathing. He’s not winded. He’s not tense. His respiratory rate hasn’t changed at all, and you hate yourself for noticing that, hate yourself for the clinical part of your brain that’s catches that like he’s a patient instead of the man who holds your professional future in his hands and is currently standing close enough that you can see the flecks of amber in his irises that the fluorescents keep catching.
The room feels like it’s shrinking. Not metaphorically; you know it’s not actually shrinking, you’re not psychotic, you haven’t lost your grip on the material dimensions of an eight-by-twelve exam room, but something about the air quality has changed. It feels thicker. Closer. Like the ventilation system decided to shut down at the exact worst moment, leaving you to breathe the same recycled air that he’s breathing, the same molecules passing back and forth between you in a loop that feels more intimate than it has any right to.
Princess leaves.
You don’t see her go, but you hear it, the soft lick of the door latch, the brief rush of hallway noise that floods in through the gap and then seals shut again, the retreating squeak of shoes on linoleum fading into the mid distance. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t make an excuse. She just left, which means she either read the room and decided she wanted no part of it, or she read the room and decided you needed no audience for whatever is about to happen to you.
You’re alone with him.
The realization seeps in, cold and slow, like water filling a basement. It rises around your ankles first, the awareness that the door is closed, that the hallway noise is gone, that the only breathing you can hear besides your own is his. Then it’s at your knees, your waist, your chest, and by the time it reaches your throat you understand with a complete, full body certainty that whatever is happening right now is not what you thought was happening thirty seconds ago.
Park tilts his head.
It’s a small movement. The kind a dog makes when it hears a frequency it can’t quite identify: curious, alert, the whole body orienting around a single point of interest. But there’s nothing canine about the way he’s looking at you. Dogs tilt their heads because they’re confused. Park tilts his head because he’s decided something and he wants to see you from a slightly different angle while he enjoys it.
“Fourteen hours,” he says.
His voice is different. You can’t identify what changed. The pitch is the same, the register is the same, the vowels still carry that particular unhurried precision that makes everything he says sound like a bastard. But there’s a texture to it that wasn’t there during the lecture. Something underneath the words, packed into the consonants, something that makes the back of your neck prickle the way it does when you walk into your apartment and feel certain someone else was just in it.
You swallow. You feel your throat click with the effort. “What?”
“Fourteen hours on your feet. Four months into the hardest rotation of your first year. Running on what, coffee and adrenaline? Maybe some spite.” He pauses. His gaze moves down your face in increments. Your forehead. The bridge of your nose. Your mouth. He stays on your mouth for a beat that lasts about a half second longer than clinical assessment would require. “And that’s what comes out.”
You can’t tell if it’s a question.
Your hands are shaking again. You gave up pressing them against your thighs sometime in the last minute and now they’re just hanging at your sides, trembling faintly in a way that you’re desperately hoping he can’t see but almost certainly can because Park doesn’t miss things. That’s the whole problem with him. That’s always been the whole problem with him. He catches the suture tension that’s off by a degree, the half second hesitation, the pulse that’s running eight beats faster than it should. He is a man who is professionally trained to notice the things your body does before you’re aware of them, and right now your body is doing several things you’d prefer to remain unaware of.
“Dr. Park-” you start, and his expression shifts.
Shifts. Not changes. There’s a difference. A change would be readable. A change would give you something to work with, anger you could apologize to, disappointment you could grovel through, cold professionalism you could match with your own until the moment passed and you could go have a cardiac event in the supply closet like a normal person with dignity. But this isn’t a change. It’s a shift, tectonic and internal, something rearranging behind the surface that you can only detect by its effects on the landscape of his face.
His eyes narrow, lids dropping maybe a millimeter, just enough to change the structure of his gaze, and the look that comes through that narrower aperture is... focused isn’t the right word. Focused implies effort. This is something past focus. Something that has settled into its attention the way a thing settles into still water, disturbing nothing, displacing everything.
He looks at you like he’s already taken you apart and is now considering the order in which he’d like to do it again.
His tongue touches the inside of his lower lip. You see the movement through the skin, a brief, subtle pressure that reshapes his mouth for less than a second before it’s gone. It’s nothing. It’s a unconscious gesture, a self soothing tic, the kind of thing people do a hundred times a day without thinking.
It doesn’t look unconscious.
“Dr. Park, I’m- ”
“Don’t.”
One word. Quiet. Not sharp, not cutting, not delivered with the clipped authority he uses on the floor when a resident is about to make a mistake. This is softer than that. Lower. It comes from somewhere deeper in his chest, and the sound of it lands at the base of your spine and sits there, warm and heavy and refusing to move.
“Don’t apologize,” he says, and then he smiles.
It’s barely a smile. It wouldn’t register as one in a photograph, wouldn’t survive the flattening of a two dimensional image. You’d need to be standing exactly where you’re standing, this close, in this light, in this airless little room to catch the way the corner of his mouth lifts. To see the way it pulls something taut across the planes of his face, reshapes the hollows beneath his cheekbones, turns the set of his jaw from something authoritative into something predatory.
It is, you realize with a clarity that goes all the way to the marrow, the expression of a man who has been waiting for something he’s very much looking forward to ruining.
The smile doesn’t reach his eyes.
It doesn’t need to. His eyes are doing something far worse- they’re warm. Not kind warm. Not reassuring warm. Warm the way a hand on the back of your neck is warm right before the fingers tighten. Warm the way a voice goes warm when it drops into the register it only uses behind closed doors. There is a heat in the way he’s looking at you that has nothing to do with anger and everything to do with appetite, and it is so profoundly, catastrophically different from anything you prepared for when you walked into this hospital fourteen hours ago that your brain simply stops trying to process it and hands the reins to something older and less rational.
Your body knows what this is.
Your body has known since his chin dipped, since the first pull of his mouth, since he hasn't stopped looking at you. Your body has been screaming the answer at your prefrontal cortex for the better part of two minutes and your prefrontal cortex has been politely declining the call because accepting it would require you to reconcile the clinical reality of your attending physician with the man who is currently looking at you like he intends to take his time.
Park reaches past you.
His arm extends to your right, his hand landing flat on the counter behind you, and for one vertiginous, blood loud second you think he’s reaching for you, caging you in, and every nerve ending you have lights up simultaneously. But he’s not. His fingers close around the chart Princess was writing in before all of this happened: your chart, your patient, the one with the sutures he was critiquing when you decided to set fire to your entire professional trajectory.
He picks it up. He looks at it. He looks back at you.
“Fix your tension,” he says. Same low register. Same impossible warmth. “Then come find me.”
He holds the chart out between you.
You take it. Your fingers brush his. The contact lasts less than a second, barely qualifies as touch, just the drag of his knuckle against the pad of your index finger as the chart changes hands. He doesn’t pull away quickly. He lets the contact happen, lets it register, lets you feel exactly how steady his hands are compared to yours.
Then he turns and walks to the door, and you watch him go because you can’t do anything else, because every voluntary muscle in your body has been temporarily requisitioned by the part of your brain that’s still processing the afterimage of his smile.
He pauses with his hand on the door. Half turns. Looks back at you over his shoulder with an expression you’ll be replaying at two in the morning for reasons you refuse to examine.
“And intern?”
You can’t speak. You manage something- a breath, a sound, a squeak, something that exists in the neighborhood of acknowledgment.
The warmth in his eyes sharpens into something with an edge, something that gleams.
“Get some sleep,” he says. “You’re going to need it.”
The door closes behind him.
You stand there, chart in your hands, pulse in your teeth, the ghost of his knuckle still burning along the length of your finger.
The ventilator cycles. The IV pump clicks. Down the hall, someone pages radiology.
“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.
Brendon’s wife breaks her ankle, is given morphine, and goofy chaos ensues. 😵💫 (random age picked for his wife, some medical terminology included.)
Thanks for all the love and support on my other Park x reader fics! I’m forever grateful to every one of you that reads, reblogs, and likes 🤍.
The stretcher rolled into the sliding doors of the PTMC Emergency Dept, the EMTs talking quickly to the staff. “30 year old female patient, was walking her dog when she twisted her ankle in a hole. She didn’t realize until she went to stand up that the bone was protruding through the skin. 18g IV started in right AC, 4mg zofran given for nausea, 30mg toradol given for pain with 1000mg PO Tylenol.”
You were fighting back tears as the doctors moved you from the stretcher to the trauma bed. “What’s your name?” A female doctor asked, shining a pen light in your eyes. You spoke your name in a shaky voice, wincing as someone began gently prodding your ankle.
“I’m Dr Robinavitch, but you can call me Dr Robby. This is Dr Santos and Dr Whitaker working with me today. You fell in a hole while walking your dog?” Dr Robby’s voice was loud, but steady, easily booming over the chaos in the room.
“Yeah, uh, I was walking him at the dog park and I guess one of the other dogs dug a big hole in the dirt and I just wasn’t paying enough attention, oh my god, ow!” You were cut off by Dr Santos pressing a handheld butterfly ultrasound against your ankle.
“Thready pulse noted, slight discoloration and swelling around the protruding bone.” She stated, wiping the gel off of your ankle. The words “protruding bone” made you ill. You didn’t want anything protruding from your body.
“Can we please get her some pain meds before her x-ray? And maybe an ortho consult, this is going to need surgery.” Dr Whitaker said, and Dr Robby nodded in agreement. “Any chance you’re pregnant?” Whitaker continued, and you shook your head.
“No, I took a test this morning and it was negative.” You said, gritting your teeth as Santos continued to assess you. Relief was quickly given through your IV, as cold morphine was pushed through.
“Good plan. Now who wants to call the shark?” The silence in the room was deafening, and you sighed with relief as the morphine really started to kick in.
You could faintly feel pressure as they secured your ankle, preventing you from moving it and causing anymore damage. The morphine had your mind spinning, your ears buzzing while a warm sensation tingled throughout your body. It had you so out of it, you didn’t even recognize the man that walked in the door of the trauma bay.
“This better be good, Robinavitch, I have shit to do.” Brendon Park announced, walking through the sliding doors and freezing, narrowly missing them closing on him. “What the fuck?” He uttered, almost knocking Whitaker down as he rushed to your bedside. The ER staff stood back in shock, watching the emotion on Park’s face as he took in your injury. “Baby girl, what did you do?” His large hands cupped your face gently, cradling you like you were made of glass.
Your head rolled back onto the stretcher, looking up at his handsome face. “Oh hey Brendon, what are you doing here?” While reaching a hand up and booping his nose. A strangled sound came out of Whitaker’s throat, and Santos watched with her mouth open. Robby just watched carefully, glasses perched on the crook of his nose. “You guys, Brendon is here!” You cheered.
“Yay..” Santos muttered, sarcasm evident in her voice. Brendon began tenderly looking at your ankle, grimacing at the exposed bone.
“Baby, this is going to need surgery.” He told you, running his hand through his slicked back hair, and you just grinned at him, not even realizing what he was saying to you.
“These are my new friends, Brendon! They’ve been so nice to me! Friends, this is my husband!” You announced proudly, reaching out and grasping his hand, showing off your wedding rings, side by side. Everyone was silent for a moment, before Brendon Park, the known ortho “shark,” cleared his voice.
“Jesus, Robinavitch. How much morphine did you give her?” You were looking at your husband adoringly, holding his hand to your chest and you fluttered your eyes at him.
“Apparently just enough.” Dr Robby cackled, turning and stepping out of the trauma bay, getting a handful of hand sanitizer on his way out of the room.
summary: after a fight over jealous, park is desperate trying to make things right with you.
a/n: i am obssessed with him and it's making me sick. anywaysss, hope you enjoy! not proof read
ENGLISH IS NOT MY FIRST LANGUAGE.
You walked through the emergency doors, ready to start one more night shift before your week off. The dark circles under your eyes, the tired smile, and the sleepy voice made everyone around you surprised. Usually, they saw you all happy and excited to be there, especially when you got to work with your closest friends – Shen and Ellis. Not this week tho.
“Girl, what happened to you?” Ellis asked, confused, staring at you.
“Aren’t you a charming woman?” You joked, rolling your eyes.
“Seriously, I miss you being a sunshine. What’s happening?” She was really worried about you, and anyone could tell by her body language.
“I am fine, Parker. Just tired. I’ve been spending more time in this place than in my own home.”
Jack and Shen came close to where you were standing, with worried expressions that were making you madder than you should be.
“I swear to God if anyone asks what’s wrong with me one more time.” You point at them, firm voice and snappy fingers.
“Whatever you need, cap.” Jack gave you a reassuring smile and gave you the tablet. “Go to work.”
“You know we’re equal, don’t you?” Jack nodded, holding his laughter.
You grab the tablet and walk away to start your rounds, accompanied by Ellis and Mohan, who were pulling another double. The ER wasn’t crowded, which was a miracle everyone was pleased to receive at least once. Some patients were waiting to finish their medications, others were waiting for beds upstairs, and a few were waiting for some consults from other doctors.
“Hey doc, can you call ortho and L&D for a consult? They’ve been waiting since the morning.” Lena said, passing you the phone.
You hated begging for them to do their job. Some specialties you could count on all the time, like family medicine, psych, general surgery, and cardio; one call and they show up in less than five.
Ortho was your biggest enemy at the moment. The nurses were arrogant, and the doctors were worse than the devil itself. Just the idea of calling them made your body tense. But you needed to do this for your patients.
The phone rang five times before someone answered.
“It’s Shark, who is it?” Your blood boils immediately.
“A patient is waiting for ortho at the emergency for at least five hours, Shark. Can you please get your ass up and come here to do an evaluation?” Your voice was sharp and cold; you could hear his scoff on the other line.
“I don’t do those evaluations, sweetheart.”
“I don’t fucking care, Brendon.” You took off your glasses, massaging your temple. “This is the job you’re paid to do. You have five minutes to be here, or I’ll take the patient myself.” He didn’t have time to argue back before you hung up.
Jack and Mohan were staring at you with their mouths open. There were a few people, the other doctors, especially the ones everyone feared talking to, respected at the ER – Jack, Robby, and you. They have a complicated history with Robby, but he’s too competent for people to care, and you and Jack are too nice to ignore. Working nights made your network much wider than working days, not only for regular patients but also for other staff: pharmacy, labs, special exams, and even the cleaning staff.
You weren’t on good terms with Park for a lot of reasons. First, he was giving you the silent treatment ‘cause he saw you and Shen sharing a donut last shift. Second, he thinks he’s in the fucking control, he’s not. Your love life is something, and your work life is another. Delaying his work in the ER is way out of line.
You just waited for him to step into this place so you could tear him down like crazy.
The smell of his cologne arrived at the ER before his presence did. You were glad this case belonged to Samira, cause if you were in the same room as him, he would be dead by now. You kept your eyes on the screen while filling the charts, not acknowledging him or whatever game he was trying to play with you. It took him maybe twenty minutes at the south 14 with Samira and Jack, before he went over to the nursing station to discuss transferring the patient with Lena, always eyeing you.
John delivered your iced coffee, turning the other way to help some students on rotation at the ER. You got up to do another round on your patients and gave some results on labs when he looked at you, and you really looked at him.
He looked the same, a little tired. His fists were clenched next to him, and he was biting his lip, maybe trying not to say something inappropriate. You raised your eyebrow and walked away to do your job perfectly. Once everything was done, you went out of the ambulance bay to get some air, decompress a little.
Park hasn’t said a word, and somehow you knew he was there.
“Are you here to scream at me again?” You asked, closing your eyes. “Or are you here to tell me to be mean to my colleagues because you’re jealous?”
“Nope.” He was quiet, watching you. “I needed to see you.”
“You have eyes, and you already saw me.”
“Don’t do that, hon.”
“Do what, Park?” You turned around to face him. “It’s messed up accusing me of things I am not for sharing food with my friend during a chaotic night at this hell. Giving me the silent treatment and showing up as if nothing happened is an asshole move, and you know it.” You point your finger at him. “If you're not here to apologize to me, then walk away, I don't need this.”
“I am really sorry, baby. I was so stressed, it wasn’t fair saying those things and acting like that with you.” He takes a step closer.
“Good for you, being sorry shows you’re a human being.” You scoff and start walking. “I need to work now, Brendon.”
You went back inside, leaving him alone. He knew you were mad, and he gave you that. Usually, Brendon doesn’t like the idea of being an asshole with you, but he tried his best to be nice for you – you made vows for it. He vowed to be good, protect, and keep you closer. He hated how you slept in another room, how you were picking extra shifts, and driving different cars.
Jack caught Park outside and stopped next to him silently.
“She’s mad,” Shark said, laughing.
“No shit.”
Park like Jack since the first time he saw him. He was his doctor, the only one Jack was comfortable showing his amputation to; he allowed Brendon to take care of his leg, to vent about his disability, and he never treated him differently for it.
“Over a donut? Really?” Jack laughed, patting his back. “Dude, she married you.”
“I know.” Shark looks at his wedding band.
“She gave you a daughter, and you freaked out over a fucking donut.”
“We had an amputation. The woman was in a car accident with her lover. I think I projected myself into this situation.”
“You should tell her that, not me.” Jack watched him. “Cmon man, you have some work to do. You’ll be fine.”
Shark stood there for more moments before he put his hard facade back on to do his job. To his happiness, he went back to the ER six times that night, a perfect number of times to see you being the best doctor he ever worked with.
Close to five in the morning, he found you at the break room, nursing a coffee and a croissant. You were too tired to fight him, so you made space for him to sit next to you. He held your hand, caressing it slowly. Taking his time to feel the smoothness of your skin, the smell of vanilla mixed with antiseptics, and the warmth of your body.
You hated being mad at him. You hated the feeling of having to prove yourself to someone who knows your worth. You married the man, you gave birth to his daughter, you pay the goddamn mortgage together.
“You degrade me by thinking I’m able to give myself to someone else, Park.” You whisper, leaning your head against his shoulder. “If you think about this one more time, I swear to God you’ll regret marrying me.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He kissed your temples, smiling softly.
Park the Shark x overprotective trope... i just wanna see him flash his teeth at a patient for being combative with y/n. 'Nobody can bully her except me' shtick hhhnnnggg
( gif credits to the lovely @parktheeshark for this crisp gifset ! )
☤ ─ PEARLS BEFORE SWINE
summ. Ortho is paged to the ED. Park the Shark fortifies his fierce reputation.
pairing. brendon 'shark' park / f!resident!Reader
w.count. 2.5k!
a/n. Implied power-imbalance , corrupted mentor/mentee dynamic if you squint , an annoying amount of eldritch maritime motifs . Apologies if Shark is ooc here given he had like 3 minutes of total screentime— I hope y'all enjoy nonetheless! & Thank you @lumissandbox for beta-reading this shipwreck of an imagine 🥀
UNCANNILY SHARP MOLARS are a common sight when Dr. Park snarls out and berates hapless surgical interns amid long procedures.
Anyone who’s ever worked with him— let alone heard of him, is aware of Park the Shark, who’s come around to be some cautionary, fantastical fable.
A mythological creature of PTMC’s Orthopaedics Department— some beastly, thalassic leviathan— who’s all jagged rows of endless teeth and killer instinct; Made out to be a divine, merciless warden of the sea responsible for piecing together centuries old bones buried five fathoms deep into bedrock.
A virtuoso of his field who you owe your knowledge to. Who’d taught you the fearlessness common of surgeons, but also instilled in you the fear of failure that’s needed to temper it.
What is it that Garcia and Walsh like to call you residents under his wing (or fin—), again?
Shark pups.
Left to fend for yourselves most of the time. Sink or swim. A dogfight of devouring each other alive in a desperate attempt to keep your head above water; to make it through this riptide of a Residency and be the best of the best.
Park the Shark stands on a mantlepiece of his own making. A faultless reputation sharp enough to cut, and the stringent attitude to match that’s a given considering his medical prowess and achievements. The other juniors— aw, these your shark pups, Park?— tenderfoot and wet behind the ears, worship the ground he walks on like suck-up remoras.
You admire him, yes. But most of the time you just… try to get by. Keep your head down and stay out of his way.
(Not that you never advocated for yourself, that is. Being a woman in a particularly male-dominated specialty has only drilled into you an extra layer of thick-skin from criticism and inherent misogyny. You don’t fawn to the quote-unquote Ortho-bros, and have enough clever sense to know when to be candid without crossing the line.)
Perhaps that’s why he’d quickly clamped his jaws around you.
Always seen as the ‘favourite’; the ‘Prodigal Daughter/Mentee’, even if it never remotely feels like you’re worth any of Park’s precious time.
Resentful, the other Residents eventually came to the conclusion that competition starts with you:
Always the one personally selected to assist in Park’s odd cases, always the one his shark-like gaze searches for first in a crowd, always the one getting teeth sunken into and then humiliatingly chewed out for the smallest, mindless things because You’re supposed to be the competent one out of all the others, for fuck’s sake.
They spin yarns of boyish rumors. Call you names that stick. Sharkbait, Catch, when they’re feeling particularly bitter. Or the Jewel of the Sea; Park’s prized (Mother-of-)Pearl, when they’re feeling particularly childish.
It’s fine. You can ignore those, and let your work do the talking. Besides, they never do address you that way around Dr. Park, anymore— not after he’d nearly bitten the head off of one of the R3’s after he’d overheard you openly be called Chum-dump in passing.
(“The fuck did you just say?”
“Uh… Nothing. I— It won't happen again. Sorry, Dr. Park.”
“The hell you apologising to me for and not her?”)
You tell yourself it’s just because Park doesn’t want to be associated with the likes of you; that it’s nothing to do with him being chivalrous— he’s just being professional. Doing his due duty as your Senior Attending to browbeat workplace misconduct.
(Don’t think too much of it. He doesn’t care. You’re not of value to him in any way you think.
How does the saying go? Never cast pearls before swine—)
You wonder if he’s aware of how much his implicit bias has you isolated in an already isolating field for a woman. A target on your back. How his apparent unspoken ambition for you and your capabilities alone have become somewhat of an albatross around your neck.
You’ve done the work to get here, you remember him muttering mid-procedure once. I might make a surgeon out of you yet.
Park is utilitarian; he doesn’t waste time on petty endeavours— he couldn’t possibly be doing it on purpose, could he? To keep you orbiting close to him whether you like it or not, lonely from the ostracism you receive from your fellow peers, all for the sake of imparting in you what’s best. Deliberately exploiting his influence into favouritism so you rely on him and only him for company; starved for kinship.
None of which he ever gives you, either way.
Just his stoic, brooding silence. A single hum of assent or curt nod when you answer his questions flawlessly during one of his rare moods of actual teaching (“Hm. You’ll close after I’m done, pup.”); Or his lingering presence over your shoulder in the breakroom when you’re brewing a fresh pot of coffee, shoulders brushing (“I take it black.”).
Feels more like bait, really. Dangling right in front of you; waiting for you to take the bite.
Or have you already bitten?
“ED’s paging. You don’t need me in here,” Park declares, over a traumatic pelvic crush injury slowly coming to its end. He nods to the surgeons in Vascular when they say they’ll finish up the rest of the procedure, and jerks his head at you to degown. “You. With me.”
The elevator sinks both of you all the way down to the bottom-dwellers. Emergency Medicine: a never-ending bustle of nervous energy and raucous commotion of sounds that grates at Park’s ears. When he sails into Trauma Bay 2 with you tailed close behind, medical staff part for him like the Red Sea; shoal of fish dispersing from an apex predator.
Robby greets him calmly despite the patient groaning his lungs out. Garcia is already rattling off an efficient presentation. …Crush injury to foot and ank… Compartment syndro… torn between salvaging the limb t… what do you think?
Meanwhile, a pair of impressionable Med Students observe, rapt, as you glove up and curiously round the writhing patient in the exact same way Dr. Park does— an unconscious habit you’ve picked up from him; circling calculatingly like a shark sniffing out blood in the water. (Do you hear that? quietly nudges one of the Residents, the JAWS theme?)
They watch as you shadow Park, comically insignificant against the hulking brawn of him, scrutinising the X-Ray of the patient’s shattered foot. It’s a unique case, alright: a complex multiple fracture of practically every bone in his foot up to his ankle from a freak accident.
Even Park reacts with a tiny, impressed snort that only you manage to catch by chance proximity.
“Give me something for the fucking pain already!” a voice lashes out, synchronising you and Park into sparing a narrow glance up from the bedside of the patient’s gurney.
“Mr. Aldrich, we’ve already given you more pain meds after the regional block,” soothes one of the ER nurses, “the ketamine will take a minute to kick in—”
“Screw you nurses!” he hisses, thrashing his head pointedly at you as he squirms in place. “Get me a real doctor!”
“You’ve got multiple in one room here to help you, Sir,” Garcia overrides, humorously, “take your pick.”
An exasperated growl. “Fucking, I don’t know, a bone doctor?!”
“Good news! You’ve got Orthopaedics to your left,” she gestures, shooting you an amused look.
Mr. Aldrich glares harshly at you. “Well? Move, bitch, and let me talk to the big guy behind you.”
Across the bay, Robby doesn’t get to snap at the verbal harassment in time. No, it’s—
—Dr. Park, pinning his tenebrous gaze at the patient as he cocks his head ominously.
“You’re gonna wanna speak respectfully to the ‘bone doctors’ responsible for getting you back on your feet, Sir,” he drawls, sangfroid as always before returning his attention completely to Robby.
(You don’t try to pick apart the notable undercurrent of… something in his tone. Chalk it off as non-negotiable decorum. If it isn’t Dr. Park who’d have said something, you’re sure someone else would have.)
Hell of a fracture, you ignore the patient, running a mental map of the potential procedures it’d take and what the prognosis would look like. Dr. Park busies himself with more details regarding the injury: mechanism, labs, drugs. Pokes and prods clinically at the patient’s numbed foot.
“We’re gonna need your consent, Sir,” comes everyone’s eventual finalised conclusion, where you keep your tone as calm as possible in a bid to deescalate the tension, “before we get you prepped for surgery.”
“You better fucking make sure I walk again,” he seethes. “My legs are my livelihood, you know that? Do you know who I am?”
“Mr. Aldrich,” you answer, patiently. “I’m taking that as a yes?”
“Oh, you think you’re fucking funny, do you—?”
An iron-grip stops the patient’s forearm short well before you even register it:
A swing at you. An attempt to snatch at you from the bedside to drag you like an undertow.
Sharks are a predatory species born with sixth sense. An innate electroreception that helps them zero in on the most sensitive of muscle movements within close-range. Top of the food chain. Evolutionarily driven by pure, lethal instinct leading them to their prey.
You wonder, idly, if Dr. Park has it too—
Bloodlust. Untamed animalism prowling somewhere behind his hunter eyes. His scrub sleeves are pulled tight from the flex of his biceps, tension of corded muscles in his forearms taut with brutal force from where he’s canceled out the threat in a whipcrack of a second: shackling the patient’s wrist effortlessly in a dizzyingly lightning-quick reflex.
Your heart stutters at the scene.
“Go on,” Park dares, voice glacially cold and sea-pelagic dark. “Take a swipe at my resident again, and I will break each and every single bone in your hand before resetting all 27 pieces of it back together.”
A beat.
You’d have been able to hear a pin drop in the trauma bay, somehow, from how suspended everything feels.
Akin to witnessing an abyssal leviathan come to breach ashore after being provoked.
It makes something treacherous take flight in your chest.
That for as much as a supercilious asshole Park is sometimes, he still keeps a controlled, watchful eye on those in his wake as a mentor. Utilises that intimidating, ubiquitous command of presence he carries to his unfair advantage when things go leeways into dangerous waters.
It’s not heart, per se. But it’s certainly something rare. Some abstract, omnipresent patina of his that surrounds your being like a levee and safely harbours you. Shoreline rock armour, almost: Feeling like the broad, muscled stonewall that is Dr. Park has become your own living, breathing, metaphorical breakwater.
You find yourself foolishly replaying his words like a broken record in your head.
My resident.
The patient visibly deflates, snatching his weak arm free from Park’s vice-like clutch as he rears back and loses all bravado. “I consent to the surgery,” he grits out, still turning his nose up against everybody. “After that I’ll sue all of you assholes for— for harassment. And you! For threatening me.”
Robby and Garcia bite back a laugh at the irony.
“Looking forward to it,” Park sneers, aggressively snapping his gloves off. He turns back to you and, uncharacteristically, nods at you to sidle past first and make headway towards the exit. “I’ll book an OR.”
Thanks, Shark, Robby calls out, gaze flickering curiously between you two before it lands as a side-eye to Garcia— who also seems to be trying to decipher something nameless as Park hovers close behind you.
The entire ordeal leaves a buzz under your skin.
My resident, you repeat again. His chum. His catch. His coveted pearl; his favourite pup—
The words are muffled in your memory. Underwater. The flash of canine-sharp teeth as he bit the threat out, cavalier, deceivingly calm. The unbidden warmth of safety blooming in your ribcage after he’d put himself between you and danger, and you’d essentially been tucked protectively behind the fabled Shark of PTMC’s Orthopaedics.
You should neither be allured nor girlishly thrilled at the idea of Park showing any semblance of anger at your behest— you’re in a hospital, for christ’s sake, not the cold open of a romance novel— But who doesn’t like to be defended at times? Let alone by the most notoriously unsympathetic surgeon you’ve ever come to know yet?
“Thank you,” you muster the courage, once both of you are taking the silent ride back up to the Ortho-wards, “for earlier.”
He scoffs. It’s delivered, surprisingly, with less bite than you steeled yourself for.
“How about you keep your head on a swivel,” he advises pointedly, glaring down at you with disapproval. “Should’ve just let him grab you. Might’ve learned a lesson or two.”
But you’ve worked alongside him long enough to catch the minutest of tidal shifts in his callous voice— an antsiness; the faux-calm of doldrums out at sea. Something hadal in you knows that had the patient actually managed to snatch you in that riptide grip of his, Park would have ensured the man left the hospital with no functioning hands at all.
Or perhaps it’s just a delusion. Feverish calenture. A self-indulgent desire to have secretly collared the terrifying Park the Shark to be your own proverbial seadog:
Bristling and snapping his serrated teeth at anyone that got too close; orbiting you like a predator possessively guarding their own claimed territory. Exclusively yours.
(“Only I get to call you pup,” he’d said, once upon a time. Out of context, it makes your head reel every time you recall it.)
“Yeah. Sorry,” you say, pathetically. A force of habit; defaulting into deference.
Only—
“Are you?” he narrows, shrewdly.
It feels like something’s buried itself right into its target. Harpoon to a siren’s heart.
“I—I…” you blink. Stumble your words. No, comes the candid instinct. You think of how he’d stepped in, how he’d handled the danger; All for you. I liked it.
“Don’t get used to me playing nice,” he continues at last, looking damningly straight into your soul.
It lights your body aflame. Feel a rush to your cheeks at the unintended (perhaps?) implication of his words. “That’s your nice, Dr. Park?”
The elevator dings through the charged air. He turns back forward lazily.
“For you,” he grunts dismissively. “Yeah.”
You blink. The doors slide open.
Park the Shark stalks off, and you don’t get to answer.
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