Kyle was used to being shorter. Simon and John easily towered over him, and Johnny was only a get inches taller. Those few inches were held over his head every single day, though he didn't mind the playful banter.
It wasn't until he met König that he ever felt truly small. The Austrian towered over him with ease, but there was an awkward energy about him. Not as stoic as Ghost, or as intimidating as Price, just big.
Kyle pounced on him within a few days.
"Fuck, you're fucking perfect." Kyle whines, mouthing at Königs tits as he bounces on his cock. "Gonna cum? Are you gonna cum for me?" He moans as he looks up at him, fiddling with the edges of his hood.
"Slow down... Kyle - slow down, please?" König whines pathetically, digging his nails into Kyle's hips. "I've already cum - I already -" König slams Kyle's hips down onto his cock, cumming dry as his third orgasm hits him like a train.
"You don't want me to stop -" Kyle moans, nosing at one of Königs nipples. "Just let me take you." He wraps his lips around his nipple, nibbling on the flesh to make the giant whine. König was in for a long night.
the 141 finding out reader isn't a guy behind their mask (fem reader x Simon) Part 2 Part 1
The first thing you felt was the pain, and then you heard the arguing. The pain rang through your entire torso, there wasn't a part of you that didn't ache. Slowly as you opened your eyes and saw the room around you, you remembered the attack, and you remembered that look Simon gave you. You could hear your teammate arguing through the door, you couldn't make out much other than your name, but then you heard Simon speak over all of them, clearly saying “could you guys fuckin’ stop?” it went very quiet before Price said “we're just trying to figure out where everyone is going” Price sounded thoroughly confused by Simon's outburst, but Simon didn't clarify, he just said “I’m stayin’ with them” he didn't let them argue he just entered your room.
It took a lot of effort but you called out to Simon, immediately he was up and holding your hand “it’s okay” he told you before he tried to go call the nurse but you stopped him “why are you mad” Simon was only looking at you with worry and care but you had heard him earlier and you wanted to know what made him so openly angry. He shook his head “it’s nothin’” but when you didn't let go he told you “it’s jus’ as soon as they learned ya were a trans guy, it’s like they stopped caring bout you, kept misgendering ya” he was so angry on your behalf, if you weren't in so much pain you would be smiling bright right now “Simon why do you think I’m trans”
Simon was quiet for a moment before he said “well, you' re always hidin’ your period, ya wear a binder, ya use he/him” he paused for a moment before continuing “and back when you first joined the team, I saw you when you were out runnin’ in jus’ a sports bra” you had no clue Simon paid so much attention to you, you never expected any of them to notice the consistency of you being sick, let alone be able to piece everything together. You smiled softly “I’m not trans Simon” he looked at you confused “ya don’t have to lie, I’ll support ya” you squeezed his hand “no really Simon. People often assume I’m a guy with the mask, and they don't look down on me as much so I go along with it because it’s easier, safer” Simon was quiet for a long while, clearly trying to understand everything, after a while he just pointed at you and said “so you're girl?” you just nodded before adding “but thank you for having my back Simon” how long had he thought that and had kept your secret, and was even arguing with his teammates about it.
Simon might not understand your exact reasons why you wear the mask, and he will never ask, he hopes one day you'll feel comfortable enough to tell him. But he knows why he puts on the mask everyday, he knows how he feels without it as a shield, how vulnerable he is, he can only imagine it’s something similar for you. Simon had always planned to keep your secret safe, and a part of him hated when Price took off your mask, no one should force you to take it off, force you out into the open, but he knew your life was more important, he just hopes you can forgive him for letting it happen.
Simon came back with a nurse not long after, and after she made sure you were okay and gave you some meds to help with the pain, you started thinking. Honestly you didn't know where you were, obviously a hospital but not in the uk, the nurse barely spoke English, and the walls were painted this pretty light pink, no bright fluorescent lights blinding you, and oddest of all, the hospital was eerily quiet. Simons must've seen your confusion because he said “we jus’ took ya to the nearest hospital, if you could call it a hospital. Very small, old building in a very small, old town. Price is callin’ Laswell and explainin’ everythin’ while Soap is tryin’ to get us back home.” you looked at him panic “what about Gaz?” “He's right outside, we’ll switch while I call Price. No need to worry”
You took a deep breath, if you had more strength you would've smacked Simon for making you worry like that. Gaz came in as soon as Simon left and he sat next to you. He was quiet for only a moment before asking “so are we going to talk about you lying” your eyes went wide, this is what you were worried about “I didn't lie, I just” you paused “ I didn't mean to” Gaz could see the worry in your eyes “I know you didn't mean to, but I think we deserve an explanation, sooner rather than later. But I know you need to time to think first, especial with your injuries” he said while listening to your body, and suddenly you felt all too exposed, you had never been in front of them with just this little “we still care about you, but we’re just confused” Gaz must've seen your worry growing because he grabbed your hand and added “it’s okay, I’m sure it's just a misunderstanding, no need to panic. We’re all still here to help you”
A pt2 to sergeant!reader [drunkenly confessing] to ghost....
Ghost had hardly been able to focus all night, not with you so close. Your warm side pressed to his own, heat added by the whiskey burning in his stomach. He could almost pretend you liked him.
Not that you actually did like ghost, not like that anyways. You are a spitfire of a sergeant, deadly and capable on the field. You blend into war like it's a second skin, slough it off in social situations and bond with near anyone. Ghost...respects you. More than that, he really wants to hold your hand or even kiss you.
Ever since you paired with him to take out an entire base of combatants he's had this weird stutter in his chest that he assumes is affection.
Then you lean in real close, hand squeezing his knee to keep balance and mumble "Yknow, si, I like you. I really like you."
And ghost responds in kind. Or. He thinks he does. But you're suddenly stumbling out to the back alley and gaz is hissing at him "go fix it, you ass. Apologize and kiss the poor sod."
Ghost nods slow, drunken. He smiles to himself at the thought of kissing you while he lumbers to the back alley. Ghost has been thinking about your lips on his. Has wondered if you kiss as well as you fight.
The alley is dingy, dirty. It smells like piss and old beer, a sour note of vomit, made worse by the light drizzle. No difference to ghost, he looks around and....and...you're not there.
He steps into the rain, check behind the dumpsters, around the corners.
That warm buzz of alcohol is replaces by sudden, cold dread. Ghost paces the alley, methodical, checking for any clues and—
The glint of clean metal amongst the trash.
Your knife, the one you told ghost you keep in your boots at all times just in case. There's blood on it.
You're missing and all ghost has is a bloody knife.
"World Gone Mad" by Bastill: Gaz is having a music video moment while listening to this on the way back from an op. The op was probably boring but everyone (Soap and Ghost) still drove him crazy (help him).
"I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For" by Scarlett Johansson & Bono: Soap lowkey loves the 'Sing' movies and the soundtrack. Is embarrassed by this, though, and gets flustered if someone asks what he's listening to.
"Eight" by Sleeping At Last: A part of Ghost's 'I want to be sad' playlists. He's in his sad hoodie, he's in a dark room (maybe his, maybe the lounge, maybe his office) and he's brooding. Most likely eating junkfood and definitely isn't actually sad about anything in particular.
"Already Gone" by Sleeping At Last: Price got this song from Ghost's playlist. Doesn't listen to it when he 'wants to be sad' but rather just listens when he's working or doing chores.
"Gone, Gone, Gone" by Phillip Phillips: Graves is speeding down some old backroad singing to this like a banshee. Has a whole playlist mixed with Phil Collins and Elton John.
"Finally Free" by Niall Horan: Laswell is playing this when she's on leave going home to her wife. She has everyone but her wife blocked, she's getting takeout and watching every romcom in her house with her wife.
"Square Hammer" by Ghost: Unironically one of Nik's favorites, absolutely started listening to Ghost the band just because of their name. Loves it when people ask what he's listening to so he can go 'Ghost' and watch the confusion and concern warp their face.
summary: prices personal information has been compromised.
contains: she/her pronouns. death. murder
bug speaks: why do i lowkey feel bad for making price worry.
masterlist
request/inbox open :)
-
seven.
laswell steps in, file in hand this time. no sunglasses. no pleasantries. “got what I could,” she says, moving straight to the table.
price straightens slightly. “go on.”
she flips the file open. “officially?” she starts. “clean drowning.”
soap exhales. “there it is then.”
laswell doesn’t look at him. “no cameras in the immediate area,” she continues. “no witnesses. no signs of struggle reported.”
gaz frowns. “nothing?”
“he had drugs and alcohol in his system. there saying it was voluntary.”
price’s jaw tightens. “unofficially?” he asks.
laswell glances up at him. “the victim had a history.” simon turns his full attention to her. “rumours,” she says. “assault. more than one incident. nothing that stuck in court, but-”
she doesn’t finish it. doesn’t need to.
“not a good man,” kyle concludes.
silence settles.
soap shifts in his chair, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “so what, someone finally got sick of him?”
gaz doesn’t answer. his gaze flicks to price. careful. measured. “what do we do?” he asks.
the door opens suddenly. hard enough that everyone turns.
a man rushes in, breathing a little too fast, eyes wide in that way that means something’s already gone wrong.
“sir-” he starts, voice tight. “we’ve got a problem.”
price straightens fully now. “speak.”
“security flagged an access breach.”
gaz sits forward. soap goes still. simon’s attention sharpens like a blade.
price’s voice drops. “what kind of breach.”
the man swallows. “…your files, sir.”
“specifically?” price presses.
hesitation. “…personal records.”
price doesn’t move. doesn’t blink. “who had access?”
“we’re still tracing it-”
“when?”
“last night.”
price hasn’t moved from where he stands. his mind races. potentially threats. threats that could happen.
laswell watches him. “call your family.”
price exhales through his nose, jaw tightening. he doesn’t like it. doesn’t like the implication. doesn’t like the timing. but he’s not stupid.
“get them out of the house,” laswell continues. “now. don’t wait to confirm anything.”
simon stands, hands already on his keys.
“i’ll call for a car to drop by. you should go. meet them halfway.”
soap sits forward. “we go with you.”
price’s grip tightens on his phone. then he dials.
Simon Riley x Doctor!Reader who specializes in scar treatment
Simon Riley x f!Reader
Notes: Okayyyyy so this may or may not turn into multiple installments, I have no idea :) but I just wrote this little thing on a whim, so if y'all want more, pls lemme know!!
Tags: Meet cute, banter, slight angst, discussion of past injury, hurt/comfort, platonic-not-yet-romantic relationship
-
"Doctor, another patient for you in room fifteen," the receptionist chirps from behind their desk, blindly handing you another clip board while they type away at their Microsoft spreadsheet.
"No rest for the wicked. Thanks, Julie," you huff, tugging your gloves off and throwing them into a bin before grabbing the clipboard. You thumb through the pages as you walk, relying on pure muscle memory to bring you to your destination. These days there was barely enough time between patients to grab a snack bar from the vending machine, let alone rest your legs. It paid to have patience in this line of work.
Patient: Simon Aaron Riley
Age: 45, DOB: 19 Dec 1980
Reason for visit: Consultation for traumatic injury scar minimization treatment on face, neck, and scalp. Patient reports that circumstances of injury occurred during military duty: caustic acid burns and non-penetrating blade wounds.
Caustic acid burns, you huff, flicking through the paperwork. You hadn't seen that since residency -- not to the extent reported, at least, and never on the face. Acid burns tended to be relatively rare, especially in comparison to other burn types. One of your friends who'd become an ER doctor had lamented about the uptick in acid attacks not too long ago.
Poor guy, your heart sympathizes. Lets see what we can do.
You breathe outwards before rapping on the door, barely hesitating before pushing inwards.
"Hi!" you greet enthusiastically, sparing the (hulking) man hardly more than a glance before you reach for the hand sanitizer dispenser, "Mr. Riley, is it?"
He clears his throat, "Yes."
His voice is much quieter than you'd expected, soft and muffled, like he hated the sound of it. You resist quirking a brow, turning around to study him while you rub the sanitizer in. He's...
God, he's big.
The stupid, rickety patient chair makes him look like a giant, bulging biceps heaped atop the arm rests like solid steel resting on bamboo scaffolding. If he stood, he'd probably hit his head on the doorway, but sitting there, his shoulders are hunched, his head hung low, the perfect picture of abject reticence. A black facial mask covers his jaw, matching the black baseball cap shielding his head.
Mysterious, your brain interjects.
Clinically self-concious, your (rather blunt) professional self deduces.
Inwardly, you think it's rather impressive, how such a large man manages to shrink himself down into something near invisible, but you keep that observation to yourself. You extend your hand in his direction when you introduce yourself.
"So what brings you in today?" you bounce onto your rolly-chair, scooting closer to the man, eager to hear his story.
He tsks.
"Read my chart, didn't you?" he scoffs, voice twinged with disdain...or is it amusement?
It takes a special type of person to walk the fine line between those two, your inner-world says, hardly offended.
"Yes, but I'd like to hear it in your own words. Better to let words speak rather than typing mistakes," you laugh.
"Hm," he acknowledges.
For a few seconds, you wait for a reply. However, after the awkwardness grows to a palpable level and nothing but the rusty hinges on your wheely-stool remain, it becomes apparent he isn't going to give one. Still, you don't make to interrupt the process.
His chest rises on an inhale, and slowly, his head lifts, just enough for you to see blue irises peek out from the shadow of the brim of his hat. When he finally meets your eye, vision settling across your face, the once stoic set of his brows loosens, pupils expanding to capture the light as best they can. He seems stuck there for a second, drinking you in from your forehead to the tip of your nose, until you cock your head in curiosity. The exhale is punched right out of him, and he hurriedly ducks his head, repositioning the brim of his hat.
Suddenly, he doesn't look so tough.
No, he just looks...shy, eyes darting around the room as if he'd rather stare anywhere else but at you.
He's quite cute, the chronically single part of you chimes in.
AMA Code 9.1.1, your white coat whispers.
Internally, you shake the thought off your back. Focus. This man is looking for your help.
Again, his voice is soft -- so contrastingly soft -- when he speaks.
"I've got scars," he blurts, obviously discomforted and too afraid to hold eye contact.
"Okay," you respond.
Another beat of silence. You hope that it conveys your assent to his control of the conversation.
"And..." he stutters, "And I want them gone."
"Okay," you nod, wheeling backwards to grab a pair of gloves, "And do you mind if I take a look at them? To see what treatments might be best?"
Again, he doesn't answer. You only look on patiently as you situate your gloves. He's not wearing a heart monitor on his fingertip, but if he were, you imagined it'd be racing right about now. He looks towards the closed door, Adam's apple bobbing with a harsh swallow.
"You gonna bring anyone else in? To look?" he mutters.
"It's just a quick exam, doesn't require any tools or assistance," you promise, "But if you'd be more comfortable with another person in the room with us -- or with another physician entirely -- we can certainly make that happen. It's your choice."
"No. It's not that."
He stares at the door for a few more seconds. His hands wring in his lap, and for the second time today, he manages to look you in the eye.
"Just...make it quick. Okay?" he says aloud, commanding.
Don't want anyone else to see, his fidgeting frame conveys.
"Of course," you say, standing from your chair. He reaches for the cap atop his head, shoulders taut, before he unhooks the mask from his ear. You can see it almost immediately despite the way he keeps his vision locked resolutely on the floor. Beneath buzzed blonde hair, you see the beginning of red raised lines, trailing down his neck and beneath the collar of his shirt. They're long, fluid, and reaching, starkly mottled with color against his pale white skin. When he finally raises his face, you can see that his right eye is drooping at the corner, obscured by a small waxy section of fused skin on his outer eyelid. The eye doesn't look damaged, though.
The scar extends down the entire right side of his face, and the skin is textured there, raised with bright red in every spot that the liquid touched. It recedes into the surface of his skin in some parts -- the flatter portions of his face -- where pools of the substance had time to eat away at his cells a bit longer. The skin is wrinkled and stretched in those parts, including the bit by his eye.
In medical school, you'd studied case photos before. It was quite a distinctive burn pattern due to the way liquid runoff caused scars in the shape of the running droplets themselves, diffused across the surface by gravity, spreading the agony by nature's hand.
You cannot begin to imagine how painful it must have been. Your heart aches imagining how it occurred.
Slowly, you raise your hand to touch the edges of the the marks, assessing their texture.
"How did the injury happen?" you ask between careful fingertip taps, taking mental measurements of the length and size of each mark.
"It's in my chart. They teach you how to read in medical school?" he huffs...almost pouting.
You giggle.
"It is in your chart -- which I can read, by the way. But I want to hear your perspective on it."
He tsks again, "Does that even matter?"
"It's the thing that matters most," you reply -- and rather seriously, too. You emphasize the sentence with a pointed glance at his face, before you return to your task.
The scars are winding, branching things, diffused across his cheek, forehead, nose, and neck, like interconnected constellations across the night sky.
Despite how much pain you know is embedded in them, you can't help but think that, in a way, they're beautiful. Like many of the scars you saw each day, they're part of the people you help. A part that, in many cases, is just as much a facet of them as their hair color or clothing choices. That, and like many other things, something that wasn't so easily removed or erased.
As always, you keep that opinion to yourself. You can't tell whether the idea stemmed from your own clinical interest in them as a specialist. Or maybe the smaller, softer side of you couldn't help but marvel at the way Mother Nature always stitched herself back together in the end, leaving her touch as a reminder that, once the blood had dried and the dust had settled, you would always be made whole again. Someday. Sometime.
Of course, maybe you'd just published too many papers on the topic not to find them interesting by now. Staring out at conference crowds ranting about it for hours tended to do that to a person.
But hey, at least you weren't, like, a podiatrist or something. Somehow, you doubt your friends would find you as cool as you are if you ranted about big toes with the same enthusiasm as you did talking about the mechanism of Lichtenberg figures.
"Acid. There. That good enough for you?"
"Yeah," you curve your head to track the scars through his hairline. He perks up at the feeling your hands brushing through his hair, "And how long ago were these marks made? They seem well-healed given the circumstances of the injury."
He takes a breath in, "I'd say it's been...almost two decades, minus a few years."
"Huh," you raise your brows when you step back, pulling your gloves off.
He latches onto that little sound for some reason.
"What?" his cracked, crooked lips curve into a smirk for the first time since he walked into your office, "You think m'old, doc?"
"What makes you say that, Mr. Riley?" you laugh, "I thought it was pretty nonchalant on my part...they teach us that in school, y'know."
Why are you making jokes with him?
Why are you making jokes with him?
Seriously, this is what happens when you don't have a boyfriend for five years straight. Yeah, maybe you needed to get through medical school, and yeah, maybe you're too busy for a relationship. But then, every time a man so much as looks in your direction your heart starts to lurch.
That, and this is what your last preceptor would call 'ethical bullshit that will bite you in the ass if you let it fester long enough.'
Offput by the combination of those thoughts, you busy yourself with typing your observations into his chart. But of course, that doesn't negate the form of him sitting in the edge of your vision.
(That, or his warm, rumbling laugh. Or his awkward half-smile. Or the way that, when you leant closer to him, his cologne wafted over you in waves.)
Yeah, you should revisit your ethics textbook.
Or maybe you should buy another vibrator.
(Maybe you should do both.)
"Never thought I'd live to see the day a lab-coat developed a sense o' humor," he huffs, still smiling, before he reaches out to grab ahold of your name tag. The reel of the tag snaps back into place with a teasing noise, "How long you been wearing that thing anyway, huh? A year? Maybe two? Or do they enroll into medical school straight out of daycare these days?"
"Hey!" you swat at his hand before it can pluck at your name tag again, and suddenly, he's anything but shy, "You sayin' I have a babyface?"
"Uh-huh," he chuckles, "Doesn't match the white coat, love. Hate to break it to you."
"Pot calling the kettle black."
At that, he balks. His confidence falters, and for a second, the syllables get caught in his mouth.
"What? You think I came outta the womb lookin' like this?"
He gestures to the myriad of scars across his face, disdain evident in his expression.
"What?" you plop back down on your rolly-stool, "No. Just sayin', if you're trying to get a discount on the botox, it's gonna take more convincing than that. You look pretty good for your age."
That last bring yanks a laugh out of his stiff frame.
"'For my age?' What am I, seventy-five?"
"Well, seeing as how my professors never taught me to read a chart, it's a possibility, I guess..."
"Fuck off," he huffs, laughing.
"Aww, c'mon, don't say that just yet," you rock back and forth on your stool, "We're just getting to the fun part."
"The fun part?" he mutters.
"Yeah," you swivel back towards the computer, clacking away once more, "The anti-smoking lecture I'm professionally obligated to give you. From your chart. Which I can read."
"Save it."
"You want lung cancer?"
"Save it."
"Then stop smoking."
"Done."
You giggle, shaking your head.
"What?" he snickers.
"Y'know, I can see the Marlboro package sticking out of your pocket, right?"
Behind you, he straightens up in his chair to glance down at his belt, below which is the red and white façade of that familiar package. He licks his lips.
"What, a man can't change his mind, love?"
Love. God, you nearly melt at the stupid little quip.
"Not sayin' that, it's just..." you cross your arms, giving him a long hard look, "You don't look like the type to go back on your own convictions."
"You callin' me stubborn?"
"Not at all," you roll your eyes, "You sure you're not projecting?"
At that, he's got no good response. He merely lets his smile widen, just enough to let his teeth show through, and for that alone, you figure you can forgive yourself for your own professional transgressions.
"Well, smoking aside..." you sigh, forcing yourself back to business. You hate the way Simon's smile falls at the sudden transition, "You're in good shape for treatment. We can discuss the intricacies in further appointments, but there are several options depending on your own preferences. For the contracture scars around the eyelid, that'd most likely require surgical correction, but if you're aiming for less invasive options, laser treatments and topical medications would work as well."
"Whichever works the fastest," he speaks, voice deepening into something serious. He looks back down at the floor. It strikes something within you, and you brace yourself to act as the bearer of bad news.
"Mr. Riley--"
"Simon," he interjects, "Call me Simon."
You nod.
"Simon," You scoot your stool closer, "Before we get any deeper into exploring your options, I just want to make sure that you have reasonable expectations for your treatment."
He balks, hands wringing again, "''Reasonable expectations?'"
"Yes," you inhale lowly, "Given the extent of your injuries, and given the nature of your other inujuries as well...It's unlikely that the appearance of your scars can be completely negated. They can be reduced, yes, but they can't be removed. Not in the sense that you may be thinking, at least."
"Why not?" he asks -- no, demands. It's wrought with emotion, verging on anger. You don't recoil, however, you only continue onwards.
"Well...when you sustain a burn, it doesn't just affect the surface or the appearance of your skin. Altogether, what you might call...'the architecture' of your skin has changed. Scar tissue isn't normal skin, and aside from that, the blood vessels and hair follicles may have been damaged, too. With chemical burns like yours, the thickness of the burns is difficult to counter. Chemical burns can be deep, speaking relatively, and even with treatment, it's often not possible--"
"Why not?" he demands again loudly, and this time, his voice strains around the exclamation. He leans forward in his seat, and you're pinned beneath his harsh glare.
Instead of launching into another explanation, you let him sit in the silence, in the anger and emotions. The longer you look onwards, empathy hardly wavering on your face, the faster his belligerent expression falls into something...deeply hurt.
His anger falls away, whether it be from remorse for shouting at you or grief for his own situation, he ducks down to bury his face in his hands. A far cry from the man you'd just been joking with.
For minutes, you sit in silence. Simon, repetitively running his hands over his face -- over those raised red scars he despised. And you, looking on, unable to promise anything more than you could give.
"Simon," you eventually speak, quieting your tone, "Why'd you come in today? I mean, after almost twenty years living with these scars...why now? What changed?"
You hear him sniffle beneath the cover of his hands.
God, is he crying?
If it were possible, your heart breaks even further. Slowly, you wheel backwards to grab a box of tissues out of the supply cabinet.
"Does it even matter?" his voice is muffled from the hands he hides behind, warbled with tears. He's determined not to let you see them. (Not to let himself have them).
"Yes, Simon," you pull a tissue from the box, holding it out in his direction, "It matters. I could give you a whole spiel about the health science behind resilience and purpose in recovery, but I'm not saying this because of the research. I'm saying this because I'm your doctor and I care about you."
For a few more seconds, he cries silently into his hands, sucking in every hitching breath, like maybe if he tried hard enough, you'd never notice the tearstains on his collar. It takes awhile, but eventually, he reaches out shakily to take the tissue.
You don't recoil, not even when he lifts his head, and exposes his swollen, reddened eyes. His words are shaky when he finally opens his mouth.
"My nephew..." he manages, nearly choking, "He's -- he turns three years old in a few weeks."
"Yeah?" You pull another tissue, "He's what makes you want to get rid of the scars?"
He nods his head, and for a split-second, that look of sadness on his face deepens into an aching look of sheer anguish.
"He's a sensitive lad, gets -- gets nightmares real easy," he looks down at his boots, "Last time I went over, he burst right into tears, and -- and my brother said he woke up cryin' for damn near the whole weekend."
A sob escapes his mouth before he can stop it. He swallows it and clears his throat.
"He's so scared of me he won't come near. Won't let me hold him. Won't let me talk to him," he shakes his head as more tears burst forth, "He's terrified of me. His own uncle. Because I look like this."
He gestures towards the smattering of scars across his face, tissue clutched in his balled up fist, "Because this is who I am."
"Simon, that's..." you reach forward to grab his fist, squeezing it between your warm hands.
"My brother says he'll grow out of it, that -- that it's not a big deal, but..." you hand him another tissue, "I know it's not easy for them. And -- and sometimes I wonder...if maybe they'd be better off if I stopped going to see them altogether."
Immediately, you shake your head, scooting your stool closer emphatically, "That's -- that's not the answer, Simon. I promise."
"Yeah?" he looks up at you, watery eyes unsteady, "Then what is? Because -- if you can't get rid of them, then what's even the point of trying?"
That strikes a chord within you. Seeing him there, looking to you for help, for comfort, for answers...Your preceptor told you not to get close to your patients, but after this...How could she expect you to put up walls?
You reach for the box of tissues, and lift one towards his face. He can't help but flinch backwards when you raise it words his injured cheek, but when you hold steady in the face of his reproach, he squeezes your hand in silent consent.
You dab around the corner of his injured eye, studying the contracture marks beneath your tissue. His fingers twine with yours, nervous and worked up, but you don't rush.
Already, it's hard to imagine his face different than what is already is, but if it's as important as he believes...
"Simon, I can't promise you more than what science has to give," you whisper, "But if there's anything I've learned in the past few years, it's that nature is more surprising than we give it credit for."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean..." you swipe across his jaw, where several tears hang, "Research might say one thing, but the results of treatment might surprise you. What you think is a small difference might be what changes everything. How your family thinks about your appearance...how your nephew thinks about your appearance..."
You squeeze his hand.
"How you think about yourself."
His brows draw tight when you say that.
"That's why it's worth trying. Because if that's what you think is best for yourself, then all of us should listen."
You let your eyes wash over his face, wash over his harsh cheekbones, sharp jaw, blonde hair, and white-red skin. The color looks like supernovas against his complexion, like something tended to, healed, and stitched back together with love in every thread.
"You think so?"
"I think so," you nod, "And I promise I'll do anything to help you get there."
He spends a few more seconds studying the conviction in your eyes, studying the way your hand fits against his own, but eventually, he manages a deep breath, and he gives a small but sure nod.
"Okay," you nod back, tapping your figures against his hand, before you turn your stool and grab a piece of paper from the supply cabinet. You don't waste a minute before starting to write.
"Here," you rip a section of the paper off, "It's my personal number."
"What for?" he suddenly straightens up, something...unreadable and confused overcoming his face.
"I'm booked out for months -- gotta love the efficiency of the healthcare system," you complain sardonically, "If I left you with Julie, she'd do her best to find you a place, but this is important, and I don't want you falling between the cracks."
You stand from your stool, "Whenever you get a chance, call me. I'll fit you in after hours, come up with a plan that's better than just 'wait and see.'"
At that, something akin to hope flickers in his eyes. He looks down at the small scrap of paper and the loopy handwriting thereon, before he gathers himself and finally stands.
For a split second, you're blinded by how tall he is. God, you nearly have to crane your neck just to maintain eye contact.
"Okay," he nods, tucking the baseball cap back over his head, "I will."
"Then..." you smile, sticking out your hand, "I look forward to it, Simon."
He looks down at the offered hand, at your starched white coat, and the irresistible glimmer in your eye.
He didn't know it then, but in the future, he'd come to realize that moment was just the beginning of it all. What followed was deeper than he could've thought. Deeper than seven layers of scar tissue. Deeper than a scalpel could cut. Deeper than he'd dared to let himself imagine.
Now, he knows its significance. But back then, it was only ten little numbers, written in sparkly pen ink, with the letters 'M.D.' left in signature.
"Or maybe the smaller, softer side of you couldn't help but marvel at the way Mother Nature always stitched herself back together in the end, leaving her touch as a reminder that, once the blood had dried and the dust had settled, you would always be made whole again. Someday. Sometime."
This is the most beautiful paragraph I've ever read
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